Chapter Two
“You, you seem much improved,” stammered Rachel, rushing to Miss Tilley’s bedside and taking her hand. “How do you feel?”
“Just dandy and I want out of here, now!”
“We’ll have to see what the doctor says,” replied Rachel cautiously. “You’ve been very sick, you know.”
Miss Tilley fixed her gaze on Lucy. “And what have you got to say for yourself?”
Lucy closed her mouth, which had been hanging open. “It’s wonderful to see you looking so well. . . .”
“I don’t look well. I look like hell and I know it. I’ve been flat on my back, tortured by these sadists for weeks. It’s a miracle I survived.”
“There, there,” said a nurse, entering the room and pushing along a portable computer on a wheeled stand. “You are one of our success stories.”
“Against your best efforts,” muttered Miss Tilley as the nurse checked her temperature with a hand-held scanner, then turned away to enter it in the computer.
“Well, what is it?” demanded her patient.
“Ninety-eight.”
“Hmpf.” Miss Tilley snorted her approval, and Lucy and Rachel shared a bemused glance.
The nurse busied herself wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Miss Tilley’s withered arm and began pumping it up. “Her fever broke in the night and she’s been complaining nonstop ever since,” she said, as the cuff began to deflate. “One-fifty over one-ten,” she announced, in a rather disapproving tone. “We’ll have to take a look at that.”
“You should take a look at that breakfast tray,” countered her patient. “That’s something that deserves investigation.”
“I see you didn’t like the oatmeal,” observed the nurse, lifting the plastic cover and peering at the gluey mass beneath.
“I had a bite of soggy toast, that was all I could manage.”
“I see you drank the orange juice.”
“Is that what it was?” Miss T patted the sheet covering her thighs. “I wasn’t sure but I drank it anyway. And the coffee was truly unspeakable.”
The nurse approached with a little plastic jigger full of pills and much to Lucy’s surprise, Miss Tilley obediently swallowed them. “There’s a good girl,” said the nurse, getting a murderous glare in response.
“She’s terrible,” said the nurse, smiling at Lucy and Rachel. “But we don’t mind a bit. We like the fighters, they’re the ones who get better.” She turned to Miss Tilley. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you. And I don’t want to see you getting out of bed. If you need something, just ring.”
Miss T shrugged her bony shoulders and bared her yellowed teeth at the nurse in what was either a smile or a sneer, depending on one’s interpretation. Then the nurse and her computer departed and a white-coated doctor marched in. She was a small, dark-haired woman with glasses and was peering at a computer notepad.
“So you are Julia, I suppose your friends call you Julie?” she began, in a brisk, heavily accented voice, not raising her eyes from the tiny computer. Lucy was trying to place the accent, possibly Indian, or perhaps Czech, and waiting with amusement for Miss Tilley’s inevitable reaction.
“My friends are nearly all dead,” snapped Miss Tilley. “Younger people properly address me respectfully as Miss Tilley, and that”—she pointed a crooked finger at the doctor—“most definitely includes you.”
“Ah, Julie,” continued the doctor, ignoring her patient in favor of the computer notepad, “I see you have been quite ill but are now recovering.”
“I’ve always had an iron constitution,” insisted the patient, scowling at the doctor.
“Well, we are going to have to adjust your medications.. . .”
“I don’t—”
“And you are going to need a couple of weeks of rehab before you go home.”
“No. Not negotiable.” Miss Tilley gave her head a little shake.
“We are already making the arrangements—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Now, Julie,” began the doctor, “you have been here in the hospital for, umm, let me see here . . .”
“Eight days.”
“Umm. Yes. That’s right.” She glanced at Miss Tilley, recalibrating her original opinion. She took a deep breath and began again. “You are clearly a very intelligent, capable woman. . . .”
“I am. And I have an excellent helper.” She pointed to Rachel. “My lovely young friend and companion, Rachel Goodman, who is also a trained home health aide.”
“That is wonderful, Julie, you’re very fortunate,” agreed the doctor. “However, you are going to need physical and occupational therapy, and we also need to monitor that blood pressure of yours. It’s clearly much higher than we like to see.”
“I think the doctor is right,” said Rachel, in a gentle, coaxing voice. “At this stage I think you need more care than I can realistically provide. I can’t stay through the night, for example.”
Miss Tilley bent her head, sulking like a schoolgirl who’d been caught copying her neighbor’s answers.
“Well, that’s settled,” said the doctor briskly. “We will arrange a transfer to Heritage House as soon as a bed becomes available.”
“When some poor old dear croaks is more like it,” snapped Miss Tilley. “I know about those places, they’re waiting rooms for the hereafter, that’s what they are.”
“For your information, Julie, Heritage House has a very high discharge rate,” said the doctor. “People actually get better there and go home.”
“I’ll believe it when I walk through my front door,” grumbled Miss Tilley. “And you can call me MISS TILLEY!”
“Take care, Julie,” replied the doctor, who was already on her way out the door, eyes fixed on that computer notepad.
“Traitor!” hissed Miss Tilley, pointing a crooked finger at Rachel. “Et tu, Brute?”
“If I remember my ancient history correctly, unlike the Ides of March when the Roman senators murdered Caesar, no blood has been shed here,” countered Rachel placidly. “On the contrary, everybody is trying to help you get back on your feet and home to your own house.” She paused. “Maybe it’s time for you to adjust your attitude.”
Lucy bit her tongue, amused and amazed by this exchange which revealed a twist in the power dynamic between the two women. In the past, Lucy had assumed that Miss Tilley was the boss, but now it seemed that Rachel was taking charge, as a mother might correct a difficult child.
Miss Tilley raised her head. “Of course, you’re right.” She sighed. “I forgot about the nights.” She shook her head. “I never thought I’d be one of those sad pusses in the Old Ladies’ Home, that’s for sure.”
“Heritage House is very nice, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” offered Lucy. “I’m there a lot, covering events for the paper, and I have to say I’ve been impressed. The staff is very caring, the activities director works hard and comes up with lots of clever ideas. It’s really more like a four-star hotel than a nursing home.”
“Not five-star?” inquired Miss Tilley with a raised eyebrow.
“I give up,” laughed Rachel, picking up her bag. “I’ll stay in touch, meanwhile, try to get some rest.”
“I’ll be back,” promised Lucy, following Rachel toward the door, pausing to smile and give a little wave. “See you later, alligator.”
“Not if I see you first,” quipped Miss Tilley, stubbornly determined to remain her contrary self.
* * *
It was a week later to the day when Lucy went to Heritage House to visit her old friend. Miss Tilley had been moved a few days earlier and Lucy had wanted to give her time to settle in. It had been a couple of months since her last visit to the retirement facility and Lucy was surprised to see that there had been some changes.
The large entry foyer, decorated as a large living room, had been refreshed with a lovely Chinese-style wallpaper featuring flowering branches dotted with colorful birds, the huge brass chandelier had been replaced with sparkling crystal, and the wall-to-wall carpet was gone and the hardwood floor now sported a huge coral and blue Oriental rug. The couches and chairs had been re-covered in muted Regency stripes, with a scattering of jewel-toned cushions. Real plants, including a large arrangement of blooming orchids in a blue and white Canton bowl, brought a healthful dash of life and freshness to the room’s atmosphere.
Lucy paused by the reception desk, which was empty, taking in all the carefully thought-out details: informational pamphlets in a basket rather than an institutional Lucite holder, a handwritten board on a gilt easel announcing the day’s activities rather than an ugly bulletin board, a couple of wicker waste baskets rather than the former plastic bins. There was no sign of the receptionist at the French Country–style fruitwood desk, but a little group of three women came bustling in, trailed by a fourth who wasn’t quite with the others and was dressed for the outdoors in a jacket and hiking boots. She wandered off to study the whiteboard listing the day’s activities while the three, recognizing Lucy from earlier visits, quickly took charge of her.
“You’re Lucy Stone, the reporter, aren’t you?” asked the tiniest and most vivacious member of the group. She was barely five feet tall, had a carefully coiffed head of white hair and a broad, freshly lipsticked smile that matched her bright pink tracksuit. “I’m Bitsy, you interviewed me . . . dear me, when was it?”
“It was some time ago,” said her friend, a rather tall, stern-looking woman with short, steel gray hair, dressed in a beige cardigan, checked shirt, and brown polyester pants.
“That’s right, Dorothy,” said the third member of the group, a chubby woman with a double chin and a pair of reading glasses on a string that rested on her ample, gingham-covered bosom. “It was at Christmas, I think.”
“No, Bev. I was at my daughter’s at Christmas, remember? I was gone all month because Susie had her knee replaced.”
“It was in February, for Valentine’s Day, remember?” said the fourth woman, who was now on her way to the door and had overheard the conversation. “You took pictures of us all, making Valentines for Vets,” she offered.
“Oh, Agnes is right!” exclaimed Bev. “What a memory!”
“I suppose you’re heading out to bird-watch?” asked Dorothy.
“Sure thing,” said the woman, not missing a step. “I’ve heard there’s a pink-footed goose out at Salt Bay.”
“Well, good hunting,” said Bitsy.
“Maybe I’ll get a photo,” said Agnes rather tartly.
“I didn’t actually mean shooting the creature,” retorted Bitsy, speaking to Agnes’s departing back.
Dorothy deftly turned the conversation to the earlier topic. “It’s so important to remember the veterans, especially the Greatest Generation, and now so many are fading away over at the VA hospital,” offered Dorothy piously.
“You took a photo of the three of us,” reported Bitsy, smiling happily. “It was in color, right on the front page. I liked it so much I bought a bunch of copies and sent them to my kids and grandkids. . . .”
“You could’ve just photographed the paper and emailed it,” advised Dorothy.
“I never thought of that. Aren’t you clever?” She turned to Lucy. “Isn’t she amazing? She knows all about computers and things.”
“It’s a new world,” offered Lucy, looking about for a rescuer and seeing the activities director, Felicity Corcoran, entering with an armful of papers.
“Ah, Lucy!” she called out merrily. “You’ve saved me a trip!”
“Super. Always happy to help.”
“It’s about our Easter bonnet contest, we have it every year,” said Felicity, joining the group. She was a tall, capable-looking woman, who tended toward brightly colored sweaters, trim black slacks, and sensible shoes. She wore her hair in a neat pageboy and had a ready smile.
“I love the Easter parade!” declared Bitsy. “Everyone looks so lovely in their hats! Don’t you wish women still wore hats? I remember as a little girl, we always had our hats and our white gloves when we went to church.”
“I hated those gloves,” recalled Dorothy.
“I had a boater with a big black ribbon, I loved it but the wind caught it and, well, no more hat,” laughed Beverly.
“Now, now, ladies, it’s lovely taking this little walk down memory lane, but I need to talk to our friend Lucy, and give her all the details.” She fingered the pile of printed announcements she was holding. “And I know you don’t want to miss the morning pick-me-up, today it’s cranberry muffins and apple juice.”
“Muffins!” declared Bitsy, leading the charge to the elegant floating stairway that was such a feature of the room, and provided graceful access to the second floor where the activity and dining rooms were located.
“Honestly,” whispered Felicity, “they’re like children. Easily distracted, thank goodness.”
“They’re a cute little group,” said Lucy. “I’ve met them before, they love seeing their pictures in the paper.”
“Well, they’ll be front and center at the Easter bonnet competition, believe me. It’s cutthroat, mind you, because the winner not only gets her photo in the paper but there’s also a giant chocolate bunny.” Felicity grinned mischievously as she handed over one of the announcements. “Here’s all the information. I hope you’ll cover it. . . .”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” promised Lucy. “Now, I’ve got a favor. I’m here to visit Miss Tilley, a new arrival. . . .”
“She’s over in skilled nursing, you know the way?”
“Indeed I do,” said Lucy, carefully tucking the announcement in her purse and heading for the bank of elevators.
When she found Miss Tilley’s room up on the third floor, she was surprised to see the patient had a visitor: Howard White. Lucy knew Howard well, she had interviewed him extensively while covering an earlier story. He reminded her a bit of a rooster with his thick thatch of white hair, his stiff-legged strut, and his usual flock of admirers: Bitsy, Beverly, and Dorothy. The trio followed him constantly and Lucy was impressed that he’d managed to escape them to visit with Miss Tilley.
“Ah, Howard, I just saw your fan club downstairs,” she said, smiling.
He gave her a rueful grin. “They are lovely ladies all, but sometimes it’s nice to get away and visit an old friend like Julia.”
“I’ve known Howard for years and years,” said Miss Tilley. “I remember when he was fresh out of law school. . . .”
“And your father was the judge for my very first trial. They teach you a lot in law school but most of it is useless. Judge Tilley taught me the really important stuff, the way the law actually operates.” He paused, thinking. “Our justice system has its flaws, for sure, but Judge Tilley was absolutely incorruptible.”
“He was a stubborn old bird,” said Miss Tilley. “I think of him as the last Victorian, and he expected me to be a proper Victorian maiden.”
“He didn’t encourage you to go to college?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, no. That was a battle royal.”
“A battle you won,” said Howard, “unlike mine. I lost most of my trials before Judge Tilley.”
“Valuable learning experiences, nonetheless,” said Lucy.
“Fortunately for me he moved on to the state’s Supreme Court early in my career and I went on to be more successful with other judges and juries.”
“Weak, lily-livered judges no doubt,” said Miss Tilley, folding her hands in her lap.
“No doubt,” agreed Howard, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, I have to say you look much improved since I last saw you in the hospital,” said Lucy, taking a seat. Miss Tilley’s hair had been washed and styled, her cheeks were once again rosy, and she was wearing a lovely blue bed jacket that matched her bright eyes.
“I’m almost feeling like myself, but I will be glad to get home,” she admitted.
“How’s the food?” asked Lucy.
“Not up to Rachel’s standard but quite good,” she admitted. “And they do keep me busy with physical therapy.”
“What about activities? I understand there’s going to be an Easter bonnet contest.”
“I find I resent very much being treated like a child. That sort of thing is fine for kindergarten, but I am an intelligent woman not inclined to snip and glue and gossip.”
Hearing this, Howard laughed heartily. “Some of the ladies take this contest very seriously,” he said.
“Felicity told me it can be cutthroat,” offered Lucy.
“Ah, well, it’s the battle of the clans, or rather cliques,” said Howard.
“Cliques? Like high school?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, you have no idea,” said Miss Tilley. “Various representatives have been trying to recruit me. There are the popular girls who follow Howard around, the crafty ones who knit and sew and glue like crazy, and the card players.”
“Always pestering me to be a fourth for bridge,” confessed Howard, in the resigned tone of a man who had grown weary of his popularity.
“My goodness. I had no idea,” said Lucy.
“It’s quite a hierarchy, maybe more like a caste system. Pity the poor soul who sits at the wrong table at dinner,” said Howard.
“I’ve been insulated here, I’m not considered ambulatory so they bring me my meals in my room. But I’ve heard that the loners have a hard time,” said Miss Tilley.
“Loners?” asked Lucy.
“The poor dears whose faculties are slipping,” said Howard, with a knowing nod. “It’s probably because of fear, nobody likes to think they could be next, but those early Alzheimer’s folks are shunned, they might as well have leprosy. And, of course, there are a few brave, independent souls like Julia here and one or two others who prefer to follow their own pursuits.” He paused, and Lucy thought of the woman she’d seen following the group of three in the lobby, clearly separate from their tight little club.
“Which reminds me,” he said, using his cane for assistance to stand up, “I think my New York Times may be downstairs, so I’ll leave you two ladies to catch up.”
“Save the crossword for me,” asked Miss Tilley.
“It’s yours,” he said, turning to Lucy. “She’s a demon, you know, she polishes it off in five minutes. Takes ten for the Sunday version.” Then he nodded a courtly farewell and, using his cane, made his way to the door with his odd, birdlike gait.
“He’s had knees and hips replaced,” said Miss Tilley, when he’d left. Her tone of voice implied there was something dishonorable about the surgery, as if Howard had failed to keep his joints in working order, like someone who neglected to follow the recommended service schedule for a car.
“And how are your joints?” asked Lucy naughtily.
“Just fine,” snapped Miss Tilley. “And I’ve got all my original teeth, too. Never even had a cavity.”
Lucy chuckled. “I’m not surprised. I’d expect no less.”
* * *
It was a week or so later, on a day when Lucy was scrambling to finish a complicated school budget story by deadline, when her phone rang. Thinking it was the school district’s business manager returning her call, she snatched it up. “Hi!” she began. “Thank goodness. Is it a two percent raise, or does that figure include increased health insurance costs?”
“Uh, is this the Courier?” inquired the caller. “I’m trying to reach Lucy Stone.”
Oops, thought Lucy, identifying herself, and hoping this call wouldn’t take too much time. “I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”
“The thing is, I’m very worried about my mother,” began the caller.
Not really my problem, thought Lucy, flipping through the budget packet. “Umm, maybe you should call Elder Services.”
“Maybe I should. I don’t really know what to do. The thing is, my mother has disappeared from Heritage House.”
“Whuh?” asked Lucy, shoving the budget packet aside and focusing on the call. “What do you mean, she’s disappeared?”
“She’s vanished, disappeared, that’s what’s happened. I went to visit her like I always do on Wednesdays, we go out to lunch and do a bit of shopping, that sort of thing. Anyway, I got there right on time and she wasn’t waiting for me in the lobby like she always does, so I went to her little apartment, and she wasn’t there, either. I talked to her neighbors but didn’t get any sense from them, and I went to the administration offices and nobody there knew anything about her. . . .”
“What did they say?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, that I shouldn’t worry. She’d probably just forgotten I was coming and went out, they said she’d probably show up in time for dinner. And it’s true, she does spend a lot of time outdoors, bird-watching, but she’s never done anything like this before.”
“Is she, uh, you know, mentally sharp?”
“Oh, yes. She’s in her seventies, a young seventy. She’s healthy and has her wits about her. I tried calling her, she has a cell phone, you know, but she didn’t answer and that’s when I began to worry.”
“Well, this sounds more like a matter for the police. . . .” said Lucy.
“I tried them but they said she has to be missing for twenty-four hours before they can do anything.”
“Well, I’m not sure what I can do,” said Lucy, fingering the budget packet.
“You’re an investigative reporter, aren’t you?”
“That may be a bit of an exaggeration. . . .”
“Well, you could put something on the website, right?” The voice was frustrated. “With a photo maybe? Ask if anyone’s seen her?”
“I guess I could do that,” admitted Lucy. “So tell me: What’s your name?”
“I’m Geri. Geri Mazzone. And my mother is Agnes Neal, age seventy-one, five feet six, weighs a hundred forty pounds or thereabouts. She’s got short gray hair, brown eyes, drives a Mini Cooper.”
“Is the car there? At Heritage House?”
“Yeah. It’s there, in her assigned spot.”
“Can you send me a photo of her? A nice, clear headshot would be best.”
“No problem. I’ll do it right away.”
“I’ll post a notice as soon as I get the photo,” promised Lucy.
“Thanks. Thanks so much. I really appreciate it. And Lucy, if she doesn’t turn up, you’ll keep at it, won’t you? I really think there’s something weird going on at Heritage House.”
Lucy glanced at the budget packet, with its blue cover and fifty-seven pages of finely printed columns of numbers. It sat on her desk, seeming to reproach her, as the clock on the wall above her head ticked toward the noon deadline.
“Okay, okay. I’ll do what I can,” agreed Lucy, desperate to end the call. “I’m on deadline right now, but give me your number, just in case.”
“Oh, thanks,” sighed Geri, rattling off the number. “I can’t tell you—”
“I’m sorry, but I really have to go.” Lucy hung up and immediately called the business manager, mindful of Ted’s frequently expressed admonition: “It’s not a guideline, it’s a deadline.”