A Catered Mother's Day (22 page)

“Can we see Daisy?” Bernie asked Thelma.

Thelma shrugged. “I guess. I don't see why not. I did. It's not like she's on a locked ward or anything like that.” She looked at her watch. “Oh dear. I didn't realize how late it is. As fascinating as this conversation is, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you darling girls to leave. I'm Skyping with my friend in ten minutes and I need that time to powder my nose.”

“Of course,” Bernie said as she rose. “I don't suppose you know where Sandra is?”

Thelma shook her head. “Frankly, I have no idea. She comes and she goes as she pleases. However, now that you mention it, I did see her carting a big suitcase down to her car just before you arrived, so maybe she and her boyfriend are going on a trip. I can leave a message for her if you want.”

“That would be great,” Bernie said.

“Done,” Thelma replied, punctuating the air with her cigarette holder for emphasis as she walked over to her front door and opened it. “And now, my dears, I must really bid you an adieu and get to my toilette. At my advanced age, everything takes quite a bit longer. Please drop by anytime.”

“We will,” Bernie promised.

Thelma wagged a finger at them. “I'm going to hold you to that,” she told Libby and Bernie. Then she hugged them both and escorted them out the door.

“To Fannon's,” Libby said once she and Bernie were sitting in the van.

“To Fannon's,” Bernie repeated. She could taste the ice cream on her tongue already. Bernie decided that if ice cream were a religion she would join in a nanosecond.

Chapter 42

I
t was a little after two in the afternoon of the next day when Libby and Bernie arrived at the Pines, the place Thelma had told Libby and Bernie Daisy Stone was staying at.

“I think the main house is the oldest structure in the five-town area,” Bernie mentioned to Libby as they entered the grounds.

Libby gave a noncommittal grunt. She had other things on her mind at the moment—such as the ten pies they had to deliver to Greg Allen's house by five in the afternoon at the latest. Not that she was saying this to Bernie, but she really didn't care that the building encapsulated, to use Bernie's word, over one hundred years of history. She didn't care that it had originally been built as a workhouse back in the day, and when those fell out of fashion it had become a state-run charity hospital, after which it had metamorphosed into a psychiatric hospital.

She didn't care that twenty years ago, with the advent of community-based health care, New York State had closed Mercy and the patients had found other places to live, or that Mercy had remained empty for three years before a private company bought the building, gutted, remodeled it, and renamed it the Pines. The Pines, according to its ads, was a place where one could restore one's peace of mind, find balance, and free oneself from one's chemical dependencies, i.e. drugs.

“You have the basket, right?” Bernie asked Libby.

“You saw me take it,” she replied as Bernie looked out the window.

It was a nice view. Libby drove by two deer browsing on the forsythia, a carefully manicured lawn with strategically placed tables and chairs scattered under the shade trees, and flower beds full of pansies, marigolds, soon-to-bloom impatiens, as well as beds full of tulips and irises. There was even a small pond with a tiny stream wending its way through the grass.

Bernie decided that if one disregarded the institutional tenor of the building, which the owners had tried to soften with window awnings and flower boxes, one would think that one was on the grounds of a Catskill resort. How Thelma could have compared this place to
The Snake Pit
was something that Bernie couldn't even begin to fathom.

“Maybe we should have called ahead,” Libby said as the main building came into view. As she looked at the cluster of small white cottages scattered around the big building like ducklings around their mother, she wondered if Daisy lived in one of those or in the main house. As it turned out, Daisy lived in neither.

Bernie stopped watching the people strolling on the paths and sitting on lawn chairs and turned toward her sister. “Why?” she asked.

“Well, if they won't let us see her, then we could have saved ourselves the ride,” Libby observed. Considering what Thelma had said about Daisy's mental state, she was having second thoughts about the feasibility, let alone the usefulness, of the endeavor she and Bernie were about to embark on.

Bernie smiled. “Because you have places to go and people to see?”

“Because I have pies to bake and salads to make,” Libby retorted.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” responded Bernie.

“A penny earned is a penny saved,” Libby came back with.

“The expression is ‘a penny saved is a penny earned,' ” Bernie told her, “and what does that have to do with anything ?”

“I'm just saying that we need to prioritize and this might not be the best use of our time. According to Thelma, Daisy is off somewhere in la-la land.”

“Do you have any other suggestions?”

“We could talk to Ellen.”

“We could, if we could get hold of her.” Bernie's friend wasn't returning phone calls at the moment.

“True,” Libby said. She'd run out of suggestions, and besides, they were almost at the building.

 

The receptionist sitting behind the desk smiled as Bernie explained why they were there. “Just don't bring up the topic of babies,” she advised as she wrote out their visitor passes and explained how to get to cottage three.

“Why not?” Bernie asked, while she peeled off the backing and pressed the pass onto her wraparound dress.

The woman shrugged the kind of shrug that conveyed she'd seen it all and none of it made any sense, and said, “Not a clue. It just sets her off, that's all I know.” Then she turned to the man and woman standing in back of Bernie and asked if she could help them. The woman started to cry.

Libby and Bernie beat a hasty retreat back to their van. Cottage three took longer to find than it should have. Despite the receptionist's directions, Libby took two wrong turns before they ended up on the right road. It turned out that the compound was bigger than it looked and the cottages, all grouped in clusters of five, were scattered in a seemingly random fashion over the property. The fact that all the cottages looked exactly the same, that the numbers on the houses were small and hard to read, and that there was no one out to give directions made the task harder than it should have been.

Once they got to cottage number three, which turned out to be located near a tennis court, Libby realized that the place was actually less than a quarter of a mile away from the main building as the crow flies. She could have gone straight to it, but that was impossible given the way the roads were laid out.

Definitely very annoying
, Bernie thought as she studied the tennis court. The lines were blindingly white, the packed clay immaculate. No tennis balls hid in the corners.

It looked as if it was never used, in contrast to the cottages, lined up like soldiers on parade, which looked as if they'd seen too much use. Paint was flaking off spots under the dormers, moss was growing on the roofs, and the lawn in front and around the cottages was overrun with speedwell and needed to be mowed. It was obvious to Bernie that the owners of the Pines had concentrated their efforts on the spots visitors would see and left the rest of the complex to its own devices.

“It's very quiet here,” Libby noted as she parked in the designated parking lot. Mathilda was the only vehicle in it.

“Maybe the people in these cottages don't have visitors,” Bernie said.

She didn't see chairs or tables set out, or people walking about. The only sign of life she observed were two squirrels chittering at each other in the pine tree behind the next cottage over and a turkey vulture circling in the sky. She decided that the compound reminded her of a stage. The road up to the main house and the main house and cottages were the front of the stage, whereas she and Libby were backstage, which was where the real business, whatever that was, was conducted.

“Maybe they don't,” Libby said to Bernie. She grabbed the gift basket she'd made up for Daisy and got out. “Not a particularly promising sign if you ask me.”

“Let's try to be a little less negative,” Bernie automatically said over her shoulder as she started to walk toward the cottage, although in this case she had a feeling that Libby was correct.

“I'm not negative,” Libby told her. “I'm just prepared for disappointment. Anyway,” she said, changing the subject, “I hope she likes what we brought her.”

“Of course she will,” Bernie replied. “Everyone likes chocolate chip cookies and brownies.”

At which point she and Libby were standing in front of the door. Bernie looked around for a doorbell to ring, but there wasn't one, so she knocked instead. A moment later, the door opened. The woman standing in the doorway didn't look at all the way Bernie or Libby had pictured Daisy. They had thought they'd be talking to someone with wild hair and mismatched clothes, but the woman who stood in front of them looked, if anything, prim and proper.
Or maybe
, Bernie thought,
bland is a better word
.

Bernie estimated she was about five foot four, on the slender side, with short blond hair cut in no particular style, and fine features. She was wearing a white camp shirt and a pair of pressed khakis. The thing that both Libby and Bernie found disconcerting though, was the lack of expression on her face.

“Yes,” she said in a voice that echoed the lack of expression on her face. “What can I do for you?”

Bernie and Libby exchanged glances.

“Are you Daisy Stone?” Bernie asked.

After thinking about it for a few seconds, the woman nodded.

Bernie introduced herself and her sister, while Libby held out the basket of treats.

“Thank you,” Daisy said, taking the basket but not looking at it.

“May we come in?” Bernie asked. “We'd like to talk to you for a moment.”

Daisy nodded and Libby and Bernie followed her in. Daisy moved slowly, as if she had to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other. When she got to the sofa she slowly turned around and told Bernie and Libby to sit. She followed suit, first carefully putting the basket Libby and Bernie had given her on the coffee table, then lowering herself down.

“Nice place you've got here,” Bernie observed, even though it wasn't, unless you considered everything beige a style choice.

“It is nice,” Daisy said. She'd folded her hands and placed them on her lap like a little girl would. She frowned as she spoke.

Watching her, Bernie had the feeling that Daisy had to concentrate hard on enunciating each word. As she was thinking about that she caught her sister's I-told-you-so look, but Bernie ignored her. So what if whatever Daisy was taking was slowing her down a little. That didn't mean she couldn't answer their questions. Anyway, even if she couldn't, at least they'd tried. Bernie was wondering what kind of meds Daisy was on when she realized that Daisy was speaking.

“What do you want to talk to me about?” she asked.

So Bernie told her. “We'd like to talk to you about Manny, Manny Roget. We were wondering if you knew—”

Which was as far as Bernie got because Daisy let out a moan, put her head in her hands, and started rocking back and forth.

“Daisy,” Bernie said.

The moaning grew in volume.

“This is not good,” Libby said to no one in particular.

“No kidding,” Bernie observed. Then she realized that Daisy was saying something, possibly a word. Maybe a phrase. But Bernie couldn't tell what it was.

“I'm calling the front desk and getting someone over here,” Libby announced.

Bernie held up her hand. “Give me a minute.” She knelt next to Daisy and put her arm around Daisy's waist. “What is it?” she asked. “Tell me. My sister and I can help.”

Daisy rocked harder.

“Please,” Bernie begged.

“No . . . no . . . no.” Each
no
was louder than the last.

Libby had just taken out her cell and was looking up the Pines' number so she could call someone when the front door slammed against the wall and Jeremy Stone barreled in.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “What are you doing to my sister?”

Chapter 43

B
ernie could feel herself flush. “We aren't doing anything,” she stammered.

“Well, it sure doesn't look like nothing to me,” Jeremy snarled as he ran toward Daisy.

“We were just asking about Manny,” she explained lamely.

“What is wrong with you?” Jeremy demanded of Bernie. “You can tell just by looking at my sister that she's in no condition to answer anything.” He shook his finger at Bernie. “I want you and your sister out of here. I want you out of here now. Otherwise, I'm calling the police.”

Daisy's moaning filled the room. Bernie felt terrible. She lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I'm sorry. I didn't think—”

“That's exactly the problem,” Jeremy replied, turning his back on her. “You don't think.”

“If you had told me about Daisy in the first place, this wouldn't have happened,” Bernie protested.

Jeremy didn't reply. By now he'd reached his sister and was cradling her in his arms like you would a small child, stroking her hair, and telling her it would be all right.

“Why did you lie about her?” Bernie asked him.

Jeremy looked up, shooting death ray stares at Bernie. “You want to know why? I'll tell you why. This is why. My sister has had enough bad things happen to her. She doesn't need you talking to her to make things worse. ” Jeremy pointed to the basket on the table. “And take that stuff with you. My sister is a diabetic. Do you want to kill her?”

“Sorry,” Bernie said again as she retrieved the basket. Now she felt even worse—if that were possible.

“Well, that didn't go too well, did it?” Libby observed once she and her sister were outside. She noted that Daisy's moans seemed to be subsiding or maybe the cottage walls were absorbing them. Libby wasn't sure.

“She could have eaten the brownies,” Bernie replied.

“That would have been worse,” Libby agreed.

“So much worse that I don't even want to think about it.”

“See,” Libby said. “I told you we shouldn't come here.”

“And you were right,” Bernie told her. “Does that make you feel good?”

“Not particularly,” Libby informed her as they got in the van. “Frankly, I wish I hadn't been.”

Libby started up Mathilda and drove out of the parking lot. She couldn't get out of there fast enough as far as she was concerned. They were going past the main building when Bernie yelled at her to stop.

“What now?” Libby asked.

“I have an idea,” her sister replied.

Libby snorted. “Haven't you had enough of those for one day?”

“I'm serious. I think I might have gone about this the wrong way.”

“No kidding.” But Libby turned into the lot and slammed on the brakes. “I'm waiting here though,” she told Bernie. “I'm done.”

“Fine with me.” Bernie got out of Mathilda and went inside. The same receptionist was sitting behind the desk. Bernie read her name off her ID tag pinned to her chest while she summoned up her most charming smile. “Evie, I have an odd question for you,” she said.

The receptionist cocked her head and smiled back. “Honey,” she exclaimed, “that's all I get. Let's hear it.”

Bernie folded her hands and leaned on the counter. “Daisy Stone in cottage three.”

Evie nodded. “What about her?”

“Does her brother come to visit her often?”

“Once, sometimes twice a week. I gather you ran into him.”

“We sure did,” Bernie said.

“He was surprised to hear Daisy had visitors.”

“Nobody usually comes to see her?”

Evie shook her head. “There was a big guy who used to drop by once in a while. I was told Daisy really looked forward to his coming. And then he stopped coming, which was really too bad because Daisy didn't take it well. At all. As they say out in the world, ‘she flipped.' ”

“Was the guy's name Manny?” Bernie asked.

Evie thought for a moment. “I'm afraid I really don't remember. So many people come and go, I just remember the regulars.”

“I don't suppose I could look at the sign-in sheets?” Bernie asked, even though she was pretty sure she knew what the answer would be. After all, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Evie stiffened and Bernie apologized. “That was out of line.”

“It was,” Evie replied. “There's no way I can do that.”

“I know.” Bernie looked contrite. Then she explained why she'd asked. As she talked, she could see Evie softening.

“Oh my,” Evie said, her face creasing with concern when Bernie was done.

“Maybe you could tell me whether or not Daisy's visitor had a beard,” Bernie suggested softly.

“A big full one,” Evie replied. “And he was wearing an earring too. Does that help?”

“More than you know,” Bernie assured her. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“So?” Libby asked her sister when she got back in the van.

“So Manny definitely visited Daisy.” Bernie was in the middle of telling Libby what the receptionist had told her when Sandra called.

“Thelma told me you wanted to speak to me,” she said.

Bernie switched her cell to her other ear. “That's right. We wanted to talk to you about Manny and Daisy.”

There was a short pause, then Sandra said, “What makes you think I know anything?”

“Well, I know you went to visit Daisy with Thelma. I have to assume you went to see her because you cared about her welfare.”

Another pause. Then Sandra said, “I'm getting ready to leave Longely.”

“Please,” Bernie begged. “Anything you can tell us, anything at all, will help me help my friend Ellen.”

“Ellen's your friend?”

“Yes. For forever.”

This time Sandra's pause was longer. Bernie could hear her talking to someone in the background. She was back on the line a minute later. “Okay,” she said. “Can you meet me at the playground at Skylar at seven-thirty?”

“We'll be there with bells on,” Bernie said.

“Bells?” Sandra repeated.

“It's an expression,” Bernie said.

“I never heard it.”

Sandra clicked off her cell and Bernie did likewise.

Libby clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I'm surprised she'll talk to us.”

“Me too,” Bernie allowed.

“I wonder why.”

“I guess we're going to find out.” Bernie turned to Libby as Libby put the key in the ignition.

“I certainly hope so,” Libby replied absentmindedly. She wasn't thinking about Sandra or Ellen or Manny or Daisy. She was back to thinking about pies.