Chapter Eleven
Back in her car, headed for the office, Lucy struggled to sort out her emotions. What a horrible, horrible way to die. It was almost too much to bear, too hard to think about. But her mind wouldn’t let it go, as she realized she was approaching fifty on Telegraph Road, where the posted speed limit was twenty-five. She tapped the brakes a few times, resolving to get her emotions under control, and approaching the stop sign, braked hard. She sat there too long, resting her forehead on the steering wheel and taking deep, calming breaths. She was startled into alertness when she heard someone tap their horn; checking the rearview mirror she noticed she’d created quite a tie-up. She stuck her arm out the window in an apologetic wave and proceeded through the intersection, careful to observe the speed limit.
Determined as she was to concentrate on her driving, her mind insisted on straying back to Agnes’s death in the stairwell. As a girl she remembered how upset family members had been when a great-uncle was discovered, by the mailman, semiconscious at the bottom of the cellar stairs where he’d fallen. Uncle Chet was a retired farmer, living alone on the acre of land he’d reserved for his brand new Cape-style house when he sold his dairy farm. The mailman had noticed when he hadn’t picked up the previous day’s mail and went to investigate, saving Uncle Chet’s life. Lucy remembered her mother dragging her along as a reluctant teenager to visit him in the rest home where he lived out the remainder of his days, no longer able to fend for himself in the modern home that had been his pride and joy. Bits and pieces of his story came out, as her mother chatted with the nurses, and it seemed he’d been in and out of consciousness but unable to call for help. He’d sustained himself, they said, by gnawing on a loaf of bread; it seemed he may have been coming home with a bag of groceries and fell as he tried to carry them up the stairs.
Lucy wondered if something similar had happened to Agnes. Had she lain there in the stairwell, alive but injured and unable to call for help? Had she been in pain? Had she tried to pull herself to safety, crawling to one of the stairway doors and calling or knocking faintly, unheard by the people busy on the other side? So near to those who could help her, but unable to attract their attention. And if that was the case, how long did it take before she died? Thirst was supposed to be the usual cause in such situations, but she might have bled to death, if she’d had a severe injury like a broken bone that severed an artery. What would it be like to suffer an injury and, unable to summon help, watch your precious lifeblood spurting out of your body?
Lucy shook her head, determined to clear her mind and free herself from these disturbing images. She was on Main Street, she discovered with a bit of a shock, unable to remember how she’d actually got there. She pulled into a free parking spot near the office, grabbed her bag, and headed inside to write up the story.
“Is it true?” demanded Phyllis, looking up as the little bell on the door tinkled, announcing Lucy’s arrival. “Was Agnes Neal in that stairway all this time?”
Ted looked up from his desk, the antique rolltop he’d inherited from his grandfather, and offered a rare bit of sympathy. “Tough morning, hunh?”
Lucy stood there, arms hanging limply at her side, unable to think what to do next.
“Here, let me help you with your jacket,” offered Phyllis, levering herself up from her seat by pressing her hands on her desk. “You’ve had a shock. Would you like some tea? Coffee? How about a lollipop?”
“I’m sorry,” said Lucy. “I’ve covered a lot of bad stuff, but this is really getting to me.”
“Here, suck on this,” said Ted, unwrapping a cherry lollipop he’d taken from the supply kept on hand for young visitors.
Phyllis took her bag and set it on the desk, then eased Lucy out of her barn coat and led her to her desk, where she pulled out the chair and turned it so it faced the room. “I’ll make you some tea,” she said, bustling over to the beverage station.
“I’m okay, really,” Lucy protested weakly.
“No, no,” said Ted. “Take it easy. You’ve got all afternoon to write the story.”
“You’re all heart, Ted,” said Lucy, clearly beginning to recover. “What if I have a complete nervous breakdown? Do you still want the story?”
“Darn tootin’,” he replied. “You were right there on the scene, an eyewitness. And believe me, this is going to be a big story. Body of resident missing for ten days discovered in stairs at top-rated senior living facility. It doesn’t get better than this . . .” he continued, then realized how callous he sounded and added, “from a news standpoint, I mean.”
“Do you think Heritage House can survive this?” asked Phyllis, bringing Lucy a cup of hot, sugary tea. “If my mom was there, instead of neatly tucked into her grave beside the Community Church, God bless her, I’d be moving her out as fast as I could.”
“It does seem irresponsible, at the very least,” ventured Lucy, licking her lollipop. “They searched, right, when she was discovered missing? It’s hard to believe they didn’t check the stairs.”
“I suppose they were locked, because of the folks with dementia,” suggested Ted.
“That’s crazy,” observed Phyllis, settling herself back at her desk and smoothing her favorite spring-themed sweatshirt over her ample bosom. “An emergency stairway shouldn’t be locked, it doesn’t make sense.”
“The doors have keypads and all the employees know the code and are trained to open the doors in case of an emergency. However, from what my sources tell me, most everybody in the place knows the code. It’s four digits and anybody familiar with a keypad could figure it out just by watching someone use it.”
“Well, that’s pretty sloppy security,” said Ted. “I’m with Phyllis. I wouldn’t keep my mom or dad there for one more minute.” He scratched his chin. “And at those rates . . . any idea what they’re charging?”
“No, but I’m definitely going to find out,” promised Lucy, sipping her tea. She turned her chair around to face the desk and fired up her computer, trying to decide how to approach the story. She was tempted to begin with Geri, but hesitated, deciding her reaction deserved more than a quote or two. She thought Geri deserved an entire story, and decided to interview her in person rather than over the phone. But not right away, even if Ted was pressuring her. She wanted to give Geri time to get past the initial shock, time for her complicated flood of emotions to settle into the resolute demand for answers that she needed and deserved. Answers that Agnes would have insisted upon. And as for herself, she didn’t want Heritage House to wiggle off the hook, she was determined to ask the difficult questions and to get answers. She wasn’t going to let Felicity spin Agnes’s death as an unfortunate accident, and she knew Geri’s voice would be a powerful force demanding accountability.
And she didn’t want to get the usual PR pablum from Felicity, either. Nope, she decided, remembering Peter Novak’s appearance at the Easter bonnet workshop, she was going straight to the top. And if he didn’t have anything to say, well, a “no comment” or, even worse, a failure to respond to a request for a comment, would speak volumes. Dialing, she didn’t really expect Novak to take her call, but the automated system informed her that if she wanted to speak to Peter Novak she should press two and when she did she was surprised that he picked right up.
“Lucy Stone at the Courier,” she began, identifying herself. “I’m obviously calling about the discovery of the body in the stairwell. Do you have any idea how such a thing could happen?”
“Thanks for calling, Lucy. I appreciate the opportunity to express my deepest sympathy to Agnes Neal’s family. . . .”
“I wasn’t aware that the body has been officially identified.. . .”
“True, not officially, but the staff members who discovered the body were quite certain it is indeed that of Agnes Neal. They recognized her clothing and certain belongings that were discovered with her.”
“Would it be possible for me to talk with the staff members who discovered Agnes’s body?”
“Perhaps at a future date. They are very upset, as you can no doubt imagine. But I do want to make it quite clear that we at Heritage House are cooperating with investigators; no one wants to get to the bottom of this more than I do.”
“That’s quite understandable. Something like this could be a devastating blow to Heritage House’s reputation.. . . ”
Novak was quick to respond. “Absolutely. We are very proud of our four-star rating which reflects the excellent level of care we provide to our valued senior residents. At this point all I can assume is that Agnes’s death was a tragic accident, and I want to make sure that if there is some flaw in our system, it is corrected so that nothing like this ever happens again.”
In spite of herself, Lucy found herself warming to the sincere tone of his voice, and his slight accent, perhaps Swiss, which gave his statements a certain weight. It seemed to betoken a sort of European sophistication and worldliness which was not commonly found in a small coastal village like Tinker’s Cove. Recalling her determination to put Novak on the spot, and to get real answers about Agnes’s death, she resolved not to be seduced by this smooth talker and reached for the printout she’d made of the findings from the recent state evaluation.
“Heritage House does have an enviable reputation,” she began, flipping through the pages, “but the state inspectors found several violations as recently as last month. Staffing, for example, is below the expected level, and several accidents were noted that resulted in injuries to residents in the skilled nursing section. One lady was actually ejected from a wheelchair, fell on the floor, and was severely bruised. I understand that accidents will happen, but taken with Agnes’ death—”
“I am aware of that particular incident,” said Novak, cutting her off. “The staff member involved was a new hire and hadn’t completed training. Like most similar facilities in the state we have difficulty finding enough qualified staff members. We conduct extensive in-house training and have co-op agreements with the community college, but it’s a constant struggle. The population is aging in this state and there are not enough young people to fill the available jobs.”
Lucy knew there was some truth to what he was saying, but she also wondered if perhaps offering higher wages and better benefits might attract the needed workers.
“I can assure you,” continued Novak, “that all the deficiencies in the recent inspection were corrected.”
“Nevertheless,” said Lucy, “that didn’t prevent Agnes Neal from suffering a terrible accident.”
“True, and we’re going to conduct a thorough internal investigation and do everything we can to make sure it never happens again.” Novak sounded genuinely sorrowful.
Lucy’s mind was following another track, however, wondering about the state of Heritage House’s finances. The place charged a small fortune, but was known as a stingy employer, paying little more than minimum wage. Where was the money going? “I wonder if you could clear something up for me. I’m not sure of your actual position. Are you the manager? The owner?”
“No mystery. I am the CEO.”
“Who actually owns Heritage House? A corporation? An LLC?”
“It’s privately owned,” said Novak, sounding the slightest bit defensive. “I’m afraid I cannot disclose further details, it’s a question of privacy.”
“It seems to me that your clients, customers, whatever you want to call them, are entitled to that information.. . . ”
“I am so sorry, Lucy, it’s been lovely talking to you, but I’m afraid there’s another call that I must take. If you need more information, please feel free to contact Felicity Corcoran.”
“I just have one more question,” said Lucy, aware that she was getting the brush-off.
His voice was firm. “Really, I have to go.”
Lucy knew when she was beaten. “Thanks for your time,” she said.
“No problem. Have a nice day.”
Well, well, well, thought Lucy. Peter Novak didn’t mind discussing the results of the state inspection or staffing problems, but he wasn’t about to divulge who actually owned Heritage House. That information must be available, businesses had to pay taxes and file for permits, all of which involved statements of ownership. But how could she access that information, which was probably filed away in some obscure state office?
“Hey, Phyllis,” she began, as the wheels began to turn and produced a dim memory. “Didn’t Elfrida work at Heritage House a while ago?”
Elfrida, Phyllis’s knock-out gorgeous niece, was the single mother of a lively brood of five children, all apparently the result of her inability to say no at critical moments. It was the accepted view in town that Elfrida was simply too kind and generous with her favors, for which she could certainly not be faulted, especially since the kids were well cared for and invariably polite.
“Briefly,” said Phyllis. “She worked in the kitchen. She took the job because she wanted something year-round, but said in the end she could make more waitressing for a couple of months in the summer at the Lobster Pound.”
“What did she think of Peter Novak?” asked Lucy, wondering if he’d put any moves on her.
“Count Dracula? That’s what she called him.”
“Did he try to bite her?” inquired Ted, suddenly interested in the conversation.
“No. It was just the accent, I think.”
Lucy found herself chuckling. She found Novak’s accent sophisticated and charming, but to Elfrida, he was a blood-sucking creature from Transylvania. It was easy to attribute Elfrida’s reaction to xenophobia, but maybe it was worth further investigation. Maybe it wasn’t only his accent, maybe Peter Novak’s behavior had inspired Elfrida’s name-calling.
“Is Elfrida working these days?” she asked Phyllis.
“Yup. She’s a lunch lady at the elementary school.” Phyllis adjusted her reading glasses. “She started at the high school but it seemed her presence there got the boys a bit too excited, teen hormones and all, so they transferred her to the elementary school.”
Lucy smiled, checking the time, which was almost two, and decided Elfrida was probably done for the day and would have time to chat before her kids got home from school. “Do you have her number?”
“Sure, same as it’s always been,” replied Phyllis, rattling off the digits while Lucy punched them in.
“Hi, it’s me, Lucy,” she began when Elfrida answered. “Do you have a minute? I just have a quick question.”
“Uh-oh, you’re not going to put me in the paper, are you?”
“No. This is kind of a background thing. Phyllis told me you worked at Heritage House for a while. . . .”
“I just heard about the body! I can’t believe it!”
“It was awful,” said Lucy. “Everybody’s pretty shaken.”
“Poor dears,” cooed Elfrida. “Those old folks must be beside themselves. I suppose they’ll be handing out extra tranqs tonight.”
Lucy was shocked. “Is that what they do? Dope the old folks?”
“Don’t quote me, I don’t really know. I worked in the kitchen, but there were rumors. . . .”
“What about Peter Novak?” asked Lucy. “What did the rumor mill have to say about him?”
“Not much, but I have to say he gave me the willies.”
“What do you mean? Did he put any moves on you? Anything inappropriate?”
Elfrida laughed. “No. That was the weird part. He’s not married, you know, an older single man who lives with his mother. I would’ve expected him to notice me, chat me up, maybe ask me out. Most men do. But he never did, which was fine with me, because I really thought he talked like the Count, you know, that Sesame Street puppet. Weird.”
“So the puppet, not the blood-sucking vampire Count Dracula who sleeps in a coffin?”
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” said Elfrida. “He’s definitely got something going on, some secret, I think.” She paused. “Maybe he’s gay, though I don’t know why that would be a big secret.”
“It would explain his lack of interest in you,” suggested Lucy.
“I suppose,” admitted Elfrida, but not sounding convinced. It was a simple fact of life to her that no man, gay or straight, was immune to her charms. “Well, gotta run, I see the school bus coming down the street,” she said, ending the call.
Lucy sat at her desk, phone in hand, wondering what it would be like to be Elfrida. She thought of herself as fairly attractive in a wholesome, all-American sort of way. Good teeth, freshly shampooed hair, clean nails. She’d had boyfriends, but she’d never attracted the sort of male attention that Elfrida did. She was trying to decide if she’d like to be a curvaceous sex kitten, maybe just for one day, when her phone started its cheery little ringtone. A glance at the screen told her that the caller was Rachel.
“What’s up?” she asked, by way of greeting.
“Bad news,” began Rachel. “It’s Miss T.”
Once again, Lucy’s heart sank like a stone, and she felt as if the breath was knocked out of her. “Oh, no. Is she okay?”
“She took a tumble. She collapsed in her apartment. I think that whole mess with the fire drill was too much for her.”
“Did she break anything?”
“I don’t think so. She’s back in skilled nursing, under observation but resting comfortably. That’s the official line anyway.”
“Have you seen her?”
“I can’t, that’s why I called you. I’m prepping for my colonoscopy tomorrow and have to stay close to my bathroom. I was hoping you could check on her for me.”
“Will do,” promised Lucy, standing up and gathering up her things. “Good luck with the um . . . procedure?”
“They say the drugs are good, if you survive the prep,” said Rachel, sounding resigned to her fate.
“Where are you off to?” asked Ted, observing her departure.
“Heritage House. Miss T took a tumble.”
“Things really seem to be going south there,” mused Ted. “What’s going on?”
“I dunno, but I’m going to do my best to find out,” vowed Lucy, grabbing her jacket and heading for the door.