Chapter Three
After she’d spoken to the business manager, who gave her the information she needed, she quickly finished up the school budget story. With ten minutes to go before the noon deadline for the print edition, she opened up the photo file Geri Mazzone had sent her.
Agnes Neal’s direct gaze looked right at her out of the monitor screen; her face was that of a confident, self-assured, mature woman. Not beautiful, but undeniably attractive, a face that radiated confidence and self-assurance. Self-worth. A face that said, I am powerful, I am a serious person, do not underestimate me. It was also, Lucy realized, the face of the woman she’d seen at Heritage House when she visited there a week ago. Agnes Neal was the woman she’d seen trailing Bitsy, Bev, and Dorothy, the three women she thought of as Howard White’s fan club. She was the woman who she’d thought at first was with the group, but wasn’t. She had soon realized that Agnes simply exchanged a few words with them while passing through the room, on her way to spot a pink-footed goose.
She wrote up the brief announcement as she’d promised Geri, and sent it to Ted, her editor, who was working out of the Gilead office. Then she stood up and started to gather up her things, preparing to leave.
“Done for the day?” asked Phyllis, the receptionist who also handled the events listings and the classified ads.
“It’s noon,” said Lucy.
Phyllis looked up at the clock, peering over the reading glasses that were perched on her nose. “Already? My word. Where does the time go?” She dressed according to the season and today was celebrating the coming of spring with a bright green sweatshirt printed with flowers. Her hair was dyed pink, to match her pull-on pants. Even her duck boots, a necessity this time of year, were printed with pink and yellow flowers.
“It goes, it just goes,” said Lucy, who had a lot of errands she planned to cross off her to-do list this afternoon. She leaned over her chair to shut down her computer, which was still displaying Agnes Neal’s face. She paused, her hand poised above the mouse. “Do you know this woman?” she asked, tilting the screen so Phyllis could see it. “Have you seen her?”
Phyllis shook her head. “No. Can’t say I have. Who is she?”
“Her name’s Agnes Neal. Her daughter says she’s disappeared from Heritage House.”
Phyllis shook her head. “Poor old dear, probably Alzheimer’s. They do tend to wander off.”
“No. Not Agnes, not according to her daughter. She’s sharp.”
“Denial is not a river in Egypt,” observed Phyllis skeptically.
“I promised the daughter, Geri Mazzone’s her name, that I’d look into it. She sent me a photo and I wrote up a brief announcement that I sent to Ted.”
“Well, he’ll run it in the paper and the online edition, too. What more can you do?”
Lucy thought of the oil change, the dry cleaning, the package to her grandson in Alaska waiting to be mailed, and the shopping she’d planned to do. She sighed and sat back down at her desk, reaching for her phone. It wouldn’t hurt to make just a few phone calls, she decided. How long could it take? So she dialed Heritage House and asked to speak to the nursing supervisor, Elvira Hostens, whom she’d profiled for the “Good Neighbors” column a few weeks earlier. She’d been impressed then by Elvira’s professionalism; in her mind’s eye she pictured Elvira in a starched white uniform and nurse’s cap despite the fact she had actually been wearing a light gray turtleneck sweater and tailored black pants.
“Hi, Lucy!” Elvira’s voice was surprisingly warm and friendly when she answered the call. “People are still congratulating me on that story you wrote. Felicity posted it on the bulletin board and the residents think I’m some sort of celebrity.”
“I guess you’ve beat the average fifteen minutes of fame.”
“Thanks to you, Lucy. So what can I do for you?”
“I hope you can help me. Geri Mazzone called, she’s worried about her mother, Agnes Neal, who she says has disappeared from Heritage House. She’s asked me to run a photo in the paper—”
Elvira cut her off, alarmed, and her voice was no longer warm and fuzzy but had grown sharp. “Are you going to do that? Run the photo?”
“Well, yeah. If my editor has space it will be in tomorrow’s edition. And it’s probably already online.”
“You should have checked with me first,” said Elvira, scolding Lucy. “Agnes is an independent woman, she’s free to come and go as she wishes. She’s probably just gone to visit a friend and didn’t bother to tell her daughter.”
“But doesn’t Heritage House have a certain responsibility to keep track of the residents?”
“That depends on the level of care the resident is receiving. Agnes is in the senior living section, in her own apartment. We offer housecleaning services, optional gourmet meals, and a menu of activities for those who choose to participate. The residents are mostly single women who don’t want to be bothered with lawn mowing and house maintenance and enjoy the twenty-four-hour security we provide. It’s carefree living,” she added, which happened to be the promise that appeared in the ad Heritage House ran in the Courier every week.
“You should be in the sales department,” observed Lucy.
“Well, it happens to be true,” countered Elvira. “As nursing supervisor I am responsible for the other two levels of accommodation we provide, assisted living and skilled nursing. The folks in those sections require varying levels of assistance, ranging from meal preparation and supervision of medications all the way on up to skilled rehab or sadly, end-of-life care.”
“And Agnes doesn’t require any of those services?”
“No. Most definitely not, as she would be the first to tell you.” Elvira paused. “A funny thing happens, sometimes, with daughters. When their moms get older, the daughters start behaving like their mothers’ mother. The roles get reversed. I think that’s what’s happened with Geri, and I suspect that Agnes doesn’t like it. She probably feels her daughter is too controlling and interferes in her life.”
“So the mom becomes like a rebellious teenage daughter,” said Lucy, thinking of Elizabeth, Sara, and Zoe and how they resisted parental control as they struggled to establish their own identities and separate lives. Elizabeth had gone so far as to move to Paris, where she worked as a concierge in a fancy hotel. Sara was now living in Boston, working at the Museum of Science, and Zoe was still trying her wings from the safety of the family nest as she finished up her bachelor’s degree and began job-hunting.
“We have a saying here we use when we train staff: ‘The older they get, the younger they get.’ We don’t want staff to treat them like children, but they need to adjust their expectations and react accordingly. Some residents might need little reminders about meals and meds, but it needs to be done tactfully; others just need a friendly smile.”
“And Agnes is in the friendly smile category?” asked Lucy.
“At most. Agnes is fiercely independent and always on the move.” Elvira sounded as if she didn’t quite approve of Agnes’s attitude. “It’s like that song, she insists on doing things her way and she doesn’t appreciate any attempts to limit her freedom. She’s perfectly able to care for herself, and she’d be the first to tell you.”
“Well, I’m sure she’ll turn up then,” said Lucy, “and we’ll be sure to print an update.”
“Good. I’ll be looking for it.”
Lucy hung up, not quite as confident as Elvira that Agnes Neal was simply enjoying her right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Perhaps Elvira should be looking for Agnes instead of a correction in the paper, maybe casually chatting up staff and residents who might have seen her leave. But Lucy suspected she was looking at the situation through her mom-glasses, the attitude that began to color her thinking the moment her first baby, Toby, was placed in her arms. That overwhelming sense that from now on she was responsible for this precious, tiny life, and which continued to this day even though Toby was an established professional, a married man, and the father of her adored grandson, Patrick.
She reached for her purse and tossed her phone in, preparing to leave, but then had a second thought and pulled it out. She punched in the number she knew by heart, the Tinker’s Cove Police Department, and asked for Officer Sally Kirwan. Officer Sally was the newest member of the force and a member of the Kirwan clan that filled many positions in the fire and police departments and was making inroads into other town departments. As the only female in the department, she was expected to handle matters that weren’t necessarily criminal but involved mental health and family issues.
She was also one of the few officers who maintained friendly relations with the media and could be counted on for a comment and even inside information, strictly off the record. Today was no different, she answered Lucy’s call with a cheerful “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I had a call from Geri Mazzone. . . .”
“I know, she told me. She called here, too. Her mother is missing from Heritage House.”
So Geri was covering all the bases, thought Lucy. “So are you taking her seriously? Are you looking for Agnes?”
“Not officially, but all units have been notified to keep an eye out, if you know what I mean.”
“Why not officially?” asked Lucy.
“Well, you know we have to wait twenty-four hours before opening a missing person case.”
“Even for an elderly person like Agnes?”
“That’s why it’s unofficial,” explained Sally. “We’re a small-town department, we know most everyone in town, and if we see her we can tell her that her daughter is looking for her. That sort of thing. But we can’t start checking out phone and credit card records, that would be an invasion of privacy.”
“I see,” said Lucy. “So has she been spotted?”
“Not so far, but remember, she’s an adult and is free to come and go as she likes. I understand why her daughter is concerned, but I’m confident Agnes will turn up in time for dinner and wonder what the fuss was all about.”
“I hope so. Let me know if she does, okay?”
“Will do. Have a nice day, Lucy.”
Lucy had spent a busy afternoon crossing errands off her to-do list and was on her way to the IGA to do her weekly grocery shopping when her phone rang; she couldn’t use it while she was driving but as soon as she arrived at the store and parked she dug it out of her purse. There was a voice mail requesting a call from Geri Mazzone and, hoping for good news, she returned the call.
The moment she heard Geri’s voice, however, she knew there was no good news. “I’m just wondering if you’ve turned up anything,” she asked.
“No. I spoke to Sally Kirwan at the police department but she said it’s too soon to open a missing person case but that all the officers have been given your mother’s photo and will keep their eyes open.”
“Yeah, that’s what she told me, too.” Geri didn’t sound very hopeful.
“And I spoke to Elvira Hostens at Heritage House—”
“That woman is useless,” declared Geri, cutting her off. “She’s a lot more interested in covering her ass, pardon my French, and protecting Heritage House.”
“Well, I’m sure liability is a big issue for them.”
“It should be! That place is not as wonderful as they’d like everyone to think.”
“What do you mean?” asked Lucy, who knew Heritage House had an absolutely sterling reputation.
“Well, for one thing,” began Geri, “they’re really short-staffed and there’s an awful lot of turnover. Mom said she never knew who was going to turn up to clean her unit, weekly housekeeping is supposed to be part of the deal, but she said sometimes all she got was about fifteen minutes, nothing more than a quick lick and a polish she called it.” Geri lowered her voice. “And she started hiding her valuables because a ring she left in a little dish on her dresser disappeared.”
“Did she report it?”
“No, and that’s what bothered me most. She said she didn’t want to make a fuss. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t even valuable, just a trinket she picked up in her travels.”
Lucy was puzzled. “Why on earth not report it? I’m sure the management would want to know if they had a dishonest employee who was stealing from residents.”
“She seemed to feel there’d be repercussions, that they’d get back at her.”
“Who’s they?” asked Lucy. “The staff, or the management?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Geri. “When I pressed her about it she brushed it off. Nothing she couldn’t handle, that’s what she said. And I know she felt kind of alienated there. I was hoping she’d make some friends, have a social life, but she said the other residents were either gaga or stuck up.”
Lucy chuckled, thinking of Howard’s description of the various cliques. “I guess that’s par for the course in those places.”
“She didn’t mind, she’s very independent, and she didn’t want to be bothered with what she called ‘domestic trivia.’ She just wanted a roof over her head, she didn’t want to have to think about it. . . .” Geri’s voice caught and Lucy heard her sniffling. “That’s the thing, Lucy. It’s getting late, it’ll be dark soon, and Mom’s never been gone like this. Where could she be?”
Geri’s question was still in Lucy’s mind the next morning when she went to her usual Thursday morning breakfast with her friends at Jake’s Donut Shack. The four women, Sue Finch, Rachel Goodman, Pam Stillings, and Lucy, began their weekly gathering when their kids grew older and they no longer encountered one another at sports practices and school events. The breakfast had soon become a fixture in their lives, offering a regular dose of friendship, advice, and emotional support.
Lucy called out a hello to Jake’s veteran waitress, Norine, and headed for the usual table in the corner where her three friends were already sitting and sipping coffee. She’d no sooner joined them when Norine arrived with a fresh pot to fill her mug and top off the others. “Usual all round?” inquired Norine, getting nods from them all.
“Just black coffee for me,” said Sue, quite unnecessarily, teasing Norine, who disapproved of her stubborn refusal to order anything more.
“A donut, a piece of toast wouldn’t kill you,” muttered Norine, unable to resist rising to Sue’s bait.
“She’s right, you know,” offered Pam, watching Norine stomp off to the kitchen. “Black coffee and white wine is not a terribly healthy diet.”
Lucy and Rachel shared a glance, acknowledging that Pam was venturing into dangerous territory. Sue, however, remained unruffled. “I take my multivitamin every day,” she said, tucking a lock of glossy black hair behind her ear with a perfectly manicured hand. She shrugged. “I’m a medical marvel, according to my doctor.”
Then Rachel jumped in and quickly changed the subject. “I have news about Miss Tilley. It seems she’s the medical marvel, they say she’s recovering more quickly than expected and will soon no longer require skilled nursing care. Just to be on the safe side, however, they’re suggesting she move into assisted living for a few weeks before going home.”
“How does that work?” asked Lucy. “I thought those assisted living units were unfurnished, so people could bring their own bits and pieces.”
“They have several furnished units, for temporary stays,” said Rachel. “I saw one and it’s very nice. Really quite luxurious.”
“It’s all about the money,” insisted Pam. “Medicare covers her rehab, but they don’t pay much. I bet she’ll have to pay an arm and a leg for this assisted living.”
“No. I was there when she spoke with the social worker,” said Rachel. “It’s quite reasonable and she can easily afford it.”
“Probably a sales gimmick, like those cheap stays they offer at time-shares,” said Sue, who had taken advantage of several such invitations at luxury resorts and bragged about her ability to resist the required sixty minutes of strong-arm sales tactics in order to enjoy three nights and four days of five-star pampering at bargain rates.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” confessed Rachel, furrowing her brow. “They’re trying to get her to move in, to stay permanently.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” said Lucy, covering Rachel’s hand with her own. “Miss Tilley loves her little house, and she loves you. I’m sure she wants to get home as soon as possible.”
“I don’t know,” fretted Rachel. “They have a fancy chef and twenty-four-hour security and panic buttons in every room in case there’s an emergency. . . .” Her voice trailed off as Norine arrived with a heavily laden tray.
“Here we go,” declared Norine, thumping down hash and eggs for Lucy, a sunshine muffin for Rachel, and a granola-yogurt parfait for Pam. “I’ll be back with more coffee, madame,” she added, glaring at Sue, before tucking the empty tray under her arm and marching off.
“I love helping Miss T,” continued Rachel, breaking off a bit of muffin. “I really do, but I can’t compete with Heritage House. I can’t help but think she’d be better off there.”
Lucy thought of Geri’s concerns for her mother and shook her head. “No, Rachel, that’s not true.” She picked up a toast triangle and poked an egg yolk, breaking it. “Definitely not. The sooner she’s home, the better.”