Chapter Twelve
After the morning’s excitement, Lucy found a somewhat eerie afternoon calm had settled on Heritage House where everyone seemed to have disappeared. There were no signs of life when she pulled into the driveway apart from a handful of official police vehicles that were parked in the circle out front, indicating that the investigation into Agnes’s death was already underway. Lucy parked in the side lot and made her way inside, wondering how extensive the investigation was going to be. At a bare minimum she guessed a forensic team would examine the stairwell in an attempt to discover evidence indicating the manner of Agnes’s death, and investigators would interview the residents for information about the days leading up to her disappearance. There was no indication that there was anything suggesting foul play, so Lucy figured the investigation would be rather perfunctory, a matter of dotting i’s and crossing t’s.
The sense of a deserted ghost town continued when she went inside and found the cozy chairs and sofas in the lobby, normally occupied by a handful of residents awaiting rides or greeting visitors, were unoccupied. Security had been stepped up, however, and the receptionist apologized but insisted on checking her ID and making a note of her arrival before allowing her to enter. Continuing on through the hall to the skilled nursing section she didn’t see a single soul, everyone seemed to have holed up in their own private units and shut the doors tightly behind them. Finally reaching the skilled nursing unit, Lucy presented herself at the nurses’ station where two aides were whispering together.
“Hi, I’m Lucy Stone, here to see Miss Tilley,” she said, startling them. They suddenly pulled apart, staring at her wide-eyed. “Can you tell me which room is hers?”
“Oh, certainly,” said one, checking a list. “I don’t see her here,” she confessed. “Are you sure you’ve got the right section? This is skilled nursing.”
“You must know her,” said Lucy, puzzled. “She was here on this floor until just a few days ago. She was transferred to assisted living but had a fall and came back here, maybe an hour or so ago. . . .”
“We’re both new, we’re still trying to learn the ropes,” explained one CNA. “We do have a new arrival, but I guess her paperwork hasn’t come through. She’s just down the hall, in two-oh-five.”
Lucy trotted off and found the room, the door closed like all the others. Weird, she thought, remembering how the doors were usually left open for the convenience of caregivers and to welcome visitors. Faced with the blank expanse of blond wood, Lucy knocked.
“Come in,” someone invited, and Lucy cautiously pushed the door open, unsure what she would find. “We’re just getting settled,” announced Juliana Gutierrez, tucking a blanket around Miss Tilley, who was reclining in the bed. She turned to greet Lucy, revealing a growing bruise on the right side of her face and another on her right arm.
“My goodness,” exclaimed Lucy, shocked at the extent of the ugly purple bruising. “What happened to you?”
“I slipped in my bathroom,” said Miss Tilley, speaking with some difficulty. “One moment I was reaching for my toothbrush and next thing I knew I was smack flat on the floor.”
“If you ask me,” observed Juliana, “you had no business being in assisted living. Not when you’re having spells of vertigo.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. “Is that true? You’ve been having dizzy spells?”
“Only now and then,” said Miss Tilley defensively, with a wave of a similarly bruised hand. “Nothing to worry about.”
Juliana shook her head. “Listen to her. She was supposed to ask for assistance when she needed the bathroom, it’s right here in her file,” she insisted, pointing to her e-notebook. “She’s not supposed to move about without help.”
“Pish-tosh,” protested Miss Tilley. “I rang but nobody came and I knew I could manage just fine. . . .”
“Except you didn’t,” said Juliana. “You need to be patient. Sometimes it can take a while before someone has a minute to answer your ring.”
Lucy sat down in the visitor’s chair next to the bed and reached for Miss Tilley’s good hand, giving it a squeeze. “What I don’t understand is what she was doing in assisted living if she was having dizzy spells and wasn’t supposed to move about on her own.”
This got a snort from Juliana, who was hanging Miss Tilley’s clothes in the closet. “It’s money, they only get Medicare rates for the rehab patients, the ones who are over sixty-five anyway. As soon as they can, they move them into the temporary assisted living apartments which are private pay.”
From time to time Lucy had written about health care for the paper, but was aware that she had only scratched the surface of a very complicated subject. The tangle of private insurance, Medicare, and Medicaid, all providing different coverages with varying deductibles, co-pays, and coinsurance, whatever that was, had been beyond her. She couldn’t even decipher her own family plan, which cost a lot but didn’t cover much thanks to the high deductible that made it almost affordable. “You mean her expenses are covered in skilled nursing, but not in assisted living?”
“Right,” said Juliana with a curt nod. “Medicare covers a certain number of days following a hospitalization.”
“Did you know that?” she asked Miss Tilley. “Did they explain to you that assisted living isn’t covered?”
“Someone might have mentioned something, I really don’t remember,” said Miss T, looking confused and anxious.
Lucy reached for her hand again and patted it, struck with her old friend’s uncharacteristic behavior. Was old age really catching up with her? “Well, you’re in the right place now. You can relax and concentrate on getting well.”
“That’s right,” added Juliana. “Can I get you something? Some juice maybe? Or ice water?”
“Water will be fine,” said Miss T, covering a yawn with her bruised hand.
“You’re tired. I’ll let you rest,” said Lucy, standing up. “And I’ll give Rachel a full report.”
Miss Tilley didn’t speak, simply nodded as her eyelids drooped to half-mast. Lucy followed Juliana out of the room, turning to her in the hallway. “What’s going on here?” she asked. “Are there a lot of accidents?”
“Too many,” said Juliana, with a sharp nod. “There’s not enough staff, and they want everybody to work overtime, lots of overtime. So there’s too much work, and people are tired. I’m tired all the time. I hate it, I want to take good care of my people, they’re old and they deserve respect and care, but sometimes I’m just so tired.”
“I did see some new faces at the nurses’ station,” said Lucy.
Juliana rolled her eyes. “Temps. They’re almost more trouble than they’re worth. We’ve got to train them and that takes time away from the patients.” She sighed. “But after Agnes Neal’s incident, that’s what we’re supposed to call it, Novak and Hostens knew they had to do something fast so they quickly brought in a few people from an agency, and I heard they’re going to increase overtime, too. That means I’ll be working even longer hours.”
“Can’t you turn it down?”
Juliana shook her head wearily. “No. If I don’t work the patients will suffer. They’ll be neglected, especially the very sick ones, the ones too weak to complain and who don’t have family visiting. They’re the ones who suffer the most, they don’t get washed, their meals get delivered but they don’t get help to eat them, it’s terrible.”
“Well, I’ll be back tomorrow,” promised Lucy. “I’m going to make sure my friend is okay.”
“Good,” said Juliana, with an approving smile. “She needs you.”
Back in her car, Lucy began to fire off a furious text to Rachel about the deplorable situation at Heritage House and detailing Miss Tilley’s condition, then had second thoughts about worrying Rachel. She erased the furious tirade and wrote instead that she’s resting comfortably, the situation is under control but bears watching.
Rachel quickly replied, Thanks, Lucy. I gotta run!
Somewhat amused by Rachel’s abrupt dash for the bathroom, Lucy headed to the office to finish writing her account of the fire drill and the discovery of Agnes’s body. Phyllis greeted her with news that Ted had left the building and gone to the Gilead office, which he claimed he preferred due to its spacious modern interior and a fake rubber tree plant he seemed to think connoted an uptick in status. “I dunno,” speculated Phyllis. “Do you think he likes the people there better than he likes us?”
Lucy was thoughtful, considering this new idea as she shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the coat stand. “Why would he like them better?” she asked, thinking of her colleagues at the former Gilead Gabber, now incorporated into the county-wide Courier. They were all solid, small-town journalists but in her estimation they lacked a certain inquiring set of mind.
“Well, admit it, you and I are kind of mean to Ted sometimes. Do you think we pick on him?”
“Why do you say that?” asked Lucy.
Phyllis fidgeted with the chain that held her reading glasses. “I wanted to watch this show about the Me Too movement last night and Wilf,” she said, referring to her husband, “said he was sick of screaming women in pink hats. So we watched The Guns of Navarone instead.” Phyllis shrugged. “Well, he did. I gave up after about twenty minutes and took a bath and went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking that maybe I have become too menopausal or something. I don’t want to be one of those bitchy women.”
Lucy thought Wilf was indulging in pretty typical male behavior, but Phyllis seemed so upset she offered some comforting advice. “You couldn’t be bitchy if you tried, Phyllis. Wilf’s probably just going through a phase, he probably just needs some extra TLC,” she said. “Maybe Ted does, too. Come to think of it, you and I have been working with Ted for eons, I guess we do kind of boss him around, and he probably thought I was a bit too emotional this morning. There’s a lot more guys over in the Gilead office, I can see why he likes to hang out there.” Lucy sat down at her desk and fired up her computer. “But except for high school sports, which I admit the Gilead guys kind of have a lock on, I’m the one who wins the press association awards every year.” The computer began its slow routine of pings and groans and Lucy turned to Phyllis. “So what are you going to do about Wilf?”
“I’ve got a pot roast in the slow cooker,” said Phyllis. “And I’ll pick up an apple pie for dessert.”
“Don’t forget the ice cream,” advised Lucy.
Phyllis laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
That reminded Lucy that she needed to come up with something for dinner. It had been a tough day, she decided, a day that called for pizza, and plenty of chianti!
* * *
Lucy woke with a headache on Saturday morning, she had definitely gone a bit overboard with the chianti. But at least she had all day to recover, until she got a message from Ted informing her that the ME’s report had come through and he wanted her to post it online as breaking news. Somewhat doubtfully she checked her emails and found the autopsy had been completed much sooner than usual. Somebody had definitely been putting the pressure on, she thought, eagerly opening the file. It proved disappointing, however, when she checked the space provided for cause of death only to discover it had been filled with the word inconclusive.
She grabbed the phone, which was quickly answered by Suzie Zapata, the state pathologist’s assistant. “What took you so long?” inquired Suzie sarcastically. “I’ve been sitting here, drumming my fingers on the desk, waiting for your call.”
“I just saw your email. What gives?”
“Advanced decomposition, that’s what.”
“What about her bones? Were any broken?”
“Oh, yeah. Her hip, smashed. And an arm. Consistent with her age and a fall. But survivable, not enough to cause her death if she’d received prompt medical care.”
“Which she didn’t.”
“Right. And the heat in that staircase was extreme, some problem with the system, they said. So she kind of cooked and bubbled and liquefied. . . .”
“No need to go into details,” said Lucy, feeling rather queasy. “Do you think she was conscious?”
“The skull was intact but she could have suffered a concussion that rendered her unconscious. Maybe a cerebral hemorrhage, that could’ve actually caused the fall and death, as well. Or a heart attack. Doc says there wasn’t enough physical evidence to make a determination.”
“Not like TV,” said Lucy. “Those guys always come up with a broken hyoid bone.”
“Real life’s a lot more complicated,” said Suzie.
A series of chimes on her computer announced the arrival of another new email from Ted, marked urgent. Lucy sighed, it was Saturday and she had been hoping he’d be satisfied with a quick recap, but Ted had other plans for her; he wanted her to write Agnes Neal’s obituary. She didn’t want to bother Geri so soon after the discovery of her mother’s body, but she did need some basic information. She put in a quick call to Geri, apologizing profusely and promising only a few quick questions, but Geri surprised her by promptly suggesting an interview. “The sooner the better,” she said, and Lucy agreed to come right over.
Lucy knew that friends and relatives tended to gather after a death, but she found only Geri’s car parked in the driveway of her tidy ranch house on the outskirts of town. After ringing the bell she noticed that a small clump of daffodils by the front door was the only planting on the otherwise barren yard; Geri clearly didn’t share her mother’s enthusiasm for all things natural.
“I’m so sorry,” began Lucy when Geri opened the door.
“Thanks. Come on in.” Geri stepped aside and led the way to an extremely neat living room where a number of photos and newspaper clippings were piled on the coffee table. “I’ve been looking through some stuff about Mom—you might find some of it useful,” explained Geri, indicating that Lucy should seat herself on the couch. “Do you mind if I sit beside you?”
“No, no. Then we can go through these together.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Geri, sighing and seating herself.
“This must be very hard for you,” offered Lucy in a sympathetic voice as she opened her reporter’s notebook. “Let me know if you want to take a break, or stop altogether.”
Geri exhaled. “I was expecting this, right from the start. Mom wasn’t one to wander off like everybody said, and as for disappearing to start a new life, well, she’d already sort of done that. She’d made a conscious choice to give up working as a foreign correspondent. She was happy with her life here in Tinker’s Cove.”
“Okay, I have a difficult question so let’s get it over with,” began Lucy. “Do you blame Heritage House for your mother’s death?”
Geri stared out the picture window that was opposite the couch, watching as a pickup truck made its way down the road. “I find it inconceivable that she apparently fell in the stairway and lay there for at least nine days, maybe ten, and was only discovered because of a fire drill. I think it indicates a shocking level of neglect that does not meet the expected standard of care.” She shook her head. “But on the other hand, Mom loved it there. She was one of the first to move in after it opened and was thrilled with her apartment and all the amenities. She said it was like living in a real fancy hotel.”
“Why was that such a big deal for her?”
Geri shrugged. “I guess she’d done a lot of roughing it as a correspondent and enjoyed being pampered. She went on and on about the convenience.” Geri paused. “She loved that big grand staircase, said it made her feel like Scarlett O’Hara every time she went down.” Geri paused. “I don’t really know, but I suspect she was a bit claustrophobic. Hated elevators, any sort of small, enclosed spaces.” She bit her lip. “Just a quirk, I guess.”
“So you think she would have avoided the emergency staircase?”
Geri was surprised by the question and took time to think it over. “Come to think of it, it does seem odd. There must have been some reason she went there.” She snorted. “Maybe avoiding one of those chatty old crones. She had no patience for most of the other residents.”
“What else can you tell me about her?” asked Lucy. “What kind of mother was she?”
Geri snorted. “Not much of a mom at all, in fact. She left me as a baby to be raised by an aunt and uncle while she went gallivanting all over the world, covering wars and disasters. For most of my childhood I only knew her from newspaper stories she wrote and pins we put on a map, to track her travels.”
That explained a lot, thought Lucy, who didn’t like to judge but had been struck by Geri’s unemotional attitude. She would have expected a few tears and maybe a sniffle or two. “Did that change when she took the job in Portland?”
“Not really. Mom was in bad shape emotionally then, very withdrawn. She kind of had PTSD, at least that’s how it seems to me now. I was in college then, pretty much on my own because my aunt had died and my uncle, sweetheart that he was, didn’t have the foggiest idea what to do with a difficult teen. And like I said, Mom was dealing with her own troubles. I ended up taking classes in the summer and even with spending a year abroad managed to graduate in three years. I really felt like I was on my own, I needed to get a job and take control of my life.”
Lucy thought of her own kids, and their somewhat paradoxical need for emotional and sometimes financial support when they began to establish their independence. “That must have been a tough time for you. So when did you grow closer to your mother? Or did you?”
“Not until a few years ago, really, when she retired and moved into Heritage House. She said she knew she couldn’t make up for lost time, but said she wanted a relationship with me before it was too late.” Geri picked up a recent photo of herself and her mother smiling and standing arm in arm at the Quissett Point lighthouse and studied it. “I wasn’t terribly excited, to tell the truth. I figured she was just getting old and didn’t want to be all alone anymore. But looking back, it was a good thing. I got to know her and understand the choices she made, and really, I didn’t have much to complain about. Aunt Sally and Uncle Mort were great to me, they were childless and thrilled to bits to have a little girl. I have lots of happy memories.”
“So tell me what you can about your mother’s life, starting with the basics. Parents, education, surviving relatives. . .”
Geri obliged, describing her mother’s childhood in Akron, Ohio, and her education at Ohio State. Influenced by the civil rights movement she began working for alternative media in the 1970s which eventually developed into her notable career as an international journalist. As she spoke, she showed Lucy various photos of Agnes receiving prizes, including a Pulitzer for her coverage of the end of apartheid in South Africa, as well as reports she’d filed from hotspots like Iraq, Bosnia, and Northern Ireland.
“As for survivors, there’s just me and Uncle Mort,” she said, putting down the most recent clipping. “She was a newsmaker, I’ve got to give her that. Even in death.”
“You’re right about that,” said Lucy, noticing that a white TV van was rolling slowly down the road. “This is a big story, I hope you’re ready for what’s coming.”
“Maybe I’ll do a Mom,” said Geri with a mischievous smile. “I can always pack my bags and head for parts unknown.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Lucy. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.”
“No problem. You were out there with me in your duck boots, helping me look for Mom. I won’t forget that. I’m really grateful.”
“I had an ulterior motive,” admitted Lucy. “If we found her it would have been a big story.”
“It seems you’re just like Mom,” said Geri.
“Not a bad way to be,” said Lucy, ending the interview.