Chapter Ten
First to come through the door, so typical, thought Lucy, was Bitsy. She was supported on either side by her two friends Bev and Dorothy, and seemed ready to collapse. “Oh, my, oh, my,” she kept repeating, rolling her eyes dramatically and gasping for breath. Seeing Lucy snapping photos, she found the strength to utter a few words. “The stench, oh, dear me, the stench! It was awful.”
“What happened?” Lucy directed her question to Dorothy, who seemed the most composed member of the group.
“Keep moving, keep moving,” urged the firefighter, and Lucy realized the three friends were causing a bottleneck, as other residents behind them were anxiously waiting to make their way through the door.
“This way,” she said, relieving Bev, who seemed a bit unsteady on her feet, and taking Bitsy by the elbow. Together, they all made their way to the decorative stone wall that bordered the walkway and sat down. Bitsy began fanning herself with her hand, Bev’s chest was rising and falling with her struggle to breathe, and Dorothy had closed her eyes, perhaps resting them, or even, thought Lucy, praying.
Other residents were straggling out in a rather disorderly way, looking about nervously like deer caught in headlights, and were directed to also seat themselves on the wall. A few were ushered to the ambulance, and Lucy could hear sirens in the distance that indicated mutual aid had been requested from neighboring towns.
“Is there a fire? A real fire?” asked Lucy, thinking that perhaps the planned demonstration had become an actual alarm.
“No,” said Dorothy, patting Bitsy’s hand. “There is no fire. There was an announcement saying the bells would ring and it was only a drill, and we should follow the directions of the employees, who would help us exit the building safely through the emergency stairs.”
“That’s when it happened,” interjected Bitsy, eyes round as saucers. “They unlocked the fire door. . . .”
“Hold on,” said Lucy. “They keep the fire doors locked? Isn’t that odd?”
“It’s because of the wanderers, that’s what I call them. The ones with Alzheimer’s, you know. So they don’t wander off outside and get lost,” explained Dorothy. “The lock is activated by a keypad and all the employees know the code.”
“So they opened the door . . .” prompted Lucy.
“Right,” said Bev, speaking up. “The door opened . . .”
“. . . and there was this simply awful smell. So strong, it just knocked you over,” said Bitsy, rolling her eyes and fanning herself with her hand. “I was quite overcome.”
Lucy looked to the others, who confirmed her report. “It was the worst thing I ever smelled,” said Bev, wrinkling her nose.
“I think,” offered Dorothy, in a speculative tone of voice, “there was something dead in there.”
“That’s what it must be,” agreed Lucy. As a countrywoman, she was familiar with the scent of death, and knew only too well that the body of a tiny little gray house mouse could cause a terrible stink, and that stink could linger for days if said mouse happened to meet its mousey maker inside a wall from which it was impossible to be removed. Larger animals, like raccoons and skunks, created even worse smells, which for some reason Libby found terribly attractive. Many times Lucy had come home from a walk in the woods with a very stinky dog who had found some dead animal and proceeded to roll around in its horrible malodorous remains.
“I think it must be something fairly large,” suggested Dorothy. “Though I don’t understand how a wild animal could get in that stairwell. It’s always locked.”
“Maybe someone forgot a bag of garbage,” said Lucy, who also was familiar with what happened when Bill forgot to take the household trash to the town disposal area and it sat in the back of his truck for a week or two. “Even the recycling stuff can get pretty ripe if it’s warm.”
“I think that must be what happened,” said Bev, trying to offer reassurance but not sounding quite convinced.
Spotting Miss Tilley and Howard exiting the building, Lucy made her apologies and trotted across the grass circle to meet them. “Are you all right?” she asked, noticing that Miss Tilley was a bit unsteady and was leaning heavily on Howard’s arm.
“Fine, I’m fine,” insisted Miss Tilley as they headed for the chairs that staff had begun setting out on the lawn area. She chose a cushioned Windsor armchair borrowed from the lobby, and Howard perched beside her on a wheeled office chair.
“Tell me what happened,” said Lucy.
“I’m not at all sure,” said Miss Tilley, making a rare admission. “Howard and I were at the back of the line. All I know is there was some sort of commotion when they opened the door to the emergency stairs.”
“I was told they keep those doors locked, is that correct?” Lucy directed her question to Howard, who nodded in reply.
“I know it seems counterintuitive,” said Howard, rubbing his chin. “It has to be that way because of the folks with dementia. There’s a keypad on a lot of the doors around here, but they all operate on the same code, and those of us who can remember four digits know what it is. And, of course, it’s the first thing new staff members learn.”
“The front door is always open,” said Lucy.
“True enough, but the memory care wing has a keypad, and all the emergency exits, too. There’s usually someone stationed in the lobby except at night, and then the doors leading to the lobby are locked and can only be opened with the code.”
“Right,” said Lucy, who had been writing this all down in her reporter’s notebook. “So you didn’t get a whiff of the smell?”
“Oh, yes, we did, didn’t we?” said Howard, with a nod to Miss Tilley. “Even at the back of the line.”
“Any ideas what it might be?” asked Lucy.
“Bigger than a mouse,” said Miss Tilley. “I’m guessing a raccoon, maybe even a bear cub, something like that.”
“Or a human,” said Howard bluntly. “I don’t see how a bear cub could get in there. I think it had to be someone with fingers who could remember five-three-seven-nine.”
“Show-off,” teased Miss Tilley. “Are you sure it’s not seven-three-nine-five?”
“Don’t try to confuse me,” retorted Howard. He smiled at Lucy. “She’s such a minx.”
“I’m sticking with the forgotten bag of trash theory,” said Lucy, unwilling to consider the possibility that some animal, or even worse, some person, could have become trapped in the staircase. Those emergency doors all had panic bars and opened outward to avoid just such an eventuality; you needed the code to get into the staircase but not to get out. But she did wonder how many people could have known the emergency code. “Do they tell you the code? Or do you have to get a staff member to tell you.”
“You mean ‘loose lips sink ships’?” asked Howard, going on to explain. “It’s not exactly a state secret, but the numbers do get around. It’s easy enough to watch one of the staff members punch it in, anyone familiar with a keypad can figure it out.”
True enough, thought Lucy, who remembered taking Elizabeth to her summer job as a mother’s helper in a nearby gated community. She and Elizabeth had joked at the time, laughing at the ridiculous simplicity of the one-two-three-four code, which Lucy declared anyone could have figured out.
“No, Mom,” Elizabeth had said, giggling as she corrected her. “My boss actually forgot it and had to call me to ask for the code.”
Lucy remembered laughing and observing that money didn’t necessarily equal brains, to which Elizabeth had solemnly replied, “I don’t think Doug married her for her brains, she’s thirty years younger than he is and was a Miss Florida runner-up. She has a giant photo of herself in her sash and swimsuit on the living room wall.”
Lucy realized how much she missed her oldest daughter and decided she really ought to give Elizabeth a call since she hadn’t spoken with her in quite a while, when Felicity stepped outside, megaphone in hand.
“Thank you all for your cooperation and your patience,” began Felicity in a booming, amplified voice. “Unfortunately, we’ve had an unforeseen problem that requires calling off the fire drill. I’m going to ask you all to return to your living quarters, staff members will assist you.” Hearing this a few impatient residents began moving toward the entrance, and Felicity quickly cautioned them, holding up a hand. “Remember, no pushing or shoving, we want a safe, orderly transition.”
She might have saved her breath, Lucy decided, as the group surged forward as if rows twenty and above had just been called at an airport gate, some residents even using their walkers to clear their path. A large, uniformed orderly leapt into the fray to restore order, and once the ambulatory residents had made their way inside, staff members began the slow process of moving the frailer folks in wheelchairs and gurneys. Soon all the residents were back inside but the rescue vehicles remained, which indicated to Lucy that Howard’s suspicion might indeed be correct. That was confirmed moments later when the state medical examiner’s van arrived, along with state police. It wasn’t a forgotten bag of trash, or an animal that had been discovered in the stairwell, it was a person. Once Lucy had reached that conclusion she took the next logical step. Could it be Agnes’s body?
No, she told herself. No, no, no. By all reports Agnes was smart and physically fit, there was no way she could have become trapped in an emergency staircase. But what if she fell, wondered Lucy, her mind running away along dark pathways she didn’t want to follow. What if she was in the habit of using the staircase because it was handier, for example, when she went out early in the morning to bird-watch? Maybe she didn’t want to disturb other residents and preferred to slip away quietly, speculated Lucy. And what if she fell and couldn’t call for help, or maybe she slipped and broke her neck, or hit her head, sustaining a fatal injury? She stood there, watching, as the ME’s assistants unloaded a gurney and wheeled it into the building, and came to an inescapable conclusion: whatever had happened, it didn’t look good for Heritage House. The fire drill designed to showcase the facility’s expert elder care had become a public relations nightmare.
No sooner had that thought occurred to Lucy than she noticed a white satellite van from the Portland TV news pulling into the parking lot. Of course, she realized, the mutual aid call had gone out on the regional emergency network which was constantly monitored by media, and reporters eager to get the story were already arriving. She was well known by her colleagues and a small knot of eager newshounds soon surrounded her.
“C’mon, Lucy, what’s up?” demanded Bob Mayes, the stringer for the Boston Globe, not hesitating to impose on their long acquaintance.
“Did some old dear take a tumble during the fire drill?” asked Phil Arnold, familiar from the evening news.
“Nah, I heard they found a body,” insisted Bob. “That’s why the ME is here, right?”
Lucy, who wasn’t about to give away information she’d gathered while on the scene, simply shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t know any more than you guys,” she said. “The fire drill was going according to plan but was suddenly called off and the ME showed up.”
“I dunno,” speculated Bob, “these old folks probably pop off pretty regularly, right? I mean, is this really a story?”
“Don’t forget the fire drill angle,” cautioned Jackie Jones, who was on the Portland news station’s I-Team of investigative reporters. “It might be worth looking into what the state regs are and how often these places are supposed to have fire drills.”
“I bet this place isn’t cheap,” opined Jared Katz, who was a cub reporter for the Portland Press Herald and whose starter salary probably made him eligible for food stamps. “This sort of thing can’t be good for their reputation.”
“Yeah,” offered Bob cynically. “We’re talking thousands of dollars a month to take care of Granny and something like this happens, it makes you wonder.”
“What I wonder is what really happened,” fumed the I-Team reporter. “I don’t have all day, I’m working on that state police overtime scandal.”
“Hold on, hold on, it looks like somebody official is about to make a statement,” said the I-Team cameraman, pointing to Felicity Corcoran, who had appeared in the doorway along with the police chief.
That set off a small stampede as the reporters all dashed across the drive to meet them, shouting questions as they went. Jim Kirwan planted his feet firmly and stood his ground, stepping protectively in front of Felicity. He held up his hands in a cautionary gesture and waited for the media scrum to settle down.
“I have an announcement,” he began. “I’m Tinker’s Cove police chief Jim Kirwan, and I am accompanied by Felicity Corcoran, who handles PR for Heritage House, who will make a brief statement. We will not take questions at this time.”
Good luck, thought Lucy, who knew the reporters would continue to demand answers despite Kirwan’s warning. For the moment, however, the group was quiet, anticipating the chief’s announcement.
“This morning, at approximately eleven-fifteen, while a fire drill was in progress, a body was discovered in an emergency staircase. Pending a positive ID by the medical examiner, we believe it to be the body of Agnes Neal, who was last seen ten days ago.”
Hearing this, Lucy found herself reeling and grabbed Bob’s elbow for support. “Easy now,” he whispered as the chief continued, saying that Felicity Corcoran would make a statement. They waited attentively, along with the others, for her to begin.
After taking a few steadying breaths, she began speaking in a shaky voice: “On behalf of the management and staff at Heritage House, I want to extend our deepest sympathy to the family of Agnes Neal.” Clearly upset, she was determined to maintain a professional demeanor and continued, saying, “All of us here at Heritage House take great pride in the high-quality care we offer our senior residents and we will be cooperating fully with local authorities to investigate this tragic development.”
No sooner had she folded the little piece of paper she’d been reading from than the reporters began pelting her with questions. “Is the body definitely Agnes Neal?” “How come it took so long for it to be discovered—she disappeared over a week ago, right?” “What systems do you have for keeping track of your patients?” “Have you spoken to Agnes’s family members? How do they feel?” “How are the residents reacting? Are they shocked? Upset?” “Yeah, are they talking about moving out to other facilities?”
Felicity quailed under the onslaught and began to step backward under the pressure of the advancing crowd, and Jim Kirwan took her arm, offering support. “Back off, guys,” he ordered. “That’s all for now. We’ll keep you posted as the investigation proceeds.”
A couple of officers from the department came forward and neatly inserted themselves in front of the chief and Felicity, blocking the crowd’s access. The two hastily disappeared inside the building, while the two cops guarded the door.
Like the others, Lucy stood a moment, studying the faux-Colonial red-brick building with its classic portico and neatly manicured plantings. It’s very appearance promised safety and security, a worry-free, gracious lifestyle that offered comfort and care to the seniors entering the last phase of their lives. Turning and heading to her car, she wondered how much of that promise was actually true. “Something,” she suspected, recalling a line in one of her girls’ favorite childhood books, Madeline, spoken by Miss Clavel, “something is not right.”
Indeed, she decided, something was very wrong at Heritage House and she was determined to find out what was going on. What negligence, or even worse, what criminal act, could possibly have caused Agnes Neal’s death?