Chapter Fourteen
The day continued bright and clear, though the chilly temperature and the brisk breeze coming off the cove were proof that winter wasn’t quite done. Lucy was cheered by the sunny day, and also was looking forward to spending the afternoon conducting an interview. She loved interviewing local people about their various and sometimes surprising pastimes and today she was going to meet Vesna Varga, an older woman who crafted elaborately decorated Easter eggs called pisanica. She’d learned about Vesna from Pam, who met her when she signed up for the yoga class Pam taught at the senior center. “She’s remarkably flexible for someone her age,” Pam had reported, noting that “she must be eighty if she’s a day.”
Lucy wasn’t sure whether she was more interested in Vesna’s Easter eggs or her remarkable youthfulness, but suspected it was the latter. Maybe she had some secrets to share about fighting the aging process, which Lucy had noticed was beginning to take its toll. She’d been dismayed lately when one of her knees began to ache after a long walk, and there were those crow’s feet around her eyes, and worst of all, gray hairs appearing in her brunette pixie hairdo that necessitated a monthly touch-up at the Kut’n’Kurl salon.
She felt a bit as if she were on holiday when she drove along Shore Road, where the breakers crashed on the rocks below, and parked in the driveway at Vesna Varga’s house. She had a fleeting suspicion that perhaps Vesna’s reported youthfulness was one result of a well-padded bank account; the house was one of the huge McMansions that were now a feature of the pricey coast road, popping up among the older shingled cottages. She paused a moment after getting out of the car, noting the driveway was made of expensive Belgian pavers, and admiring the million-dollar water view. Studying the overblown brick house, with its entrance hall designated by a huge window that revealed a showy chandelier, she doubted she was worthy of entering through the front door. Spotting a side door with a decorative WELCOME sign, she chose that more modest entrance. She had no sooner rung the bell than the door was opened by a tiny, but very well-preserved woman who was dressed in an oversized white shirt and slim black pants. There were no gray hairs on her head, dyed in a merlot shade that Lucy knew, thanks to Laurie at the Kut’n’Kurl, had enjoyed a brief popularity a few years ago. “Ah, so you are Lucy. Do come in,” invited Vesna, speaking with a charming European accent.
Entering the kitchen, she was first impressed by its size, then took in the elaborate chrome-bedecked French stove, gorgeous custom cabinets, and a massive island topped with an enormous piece of natural stone. A basket filled with the decorated eggs sat in the middle of a round table tucked into the windowed breakfast nook. Vesna asked if she could take Lucy’s jacket, which she hung up in a handy coat closet, and then invited Lucy to seat herself at the table. Lucy slipped into the custom-upholstered banquette, and took her reporter’s notebook out of her bag, which she then tucked beside her. Noticing her phone in the bag, she turned it off so she wouldn’t be interrupted during the interview.
“These eggs are simply gorgeous,” she began, amazed at the complex designs and rich colors, which shamed the homemade eggs she had dyed every year with the kids when they were young. While they had scrawled their names in crayon before dipping the eggs, or double- and triple-dipped them in various cups of dye resulting in muddy colors, these eggs were works of art with sharply delineated geometric designs worked in amazing deep shades of purple, green, and red.
“Ah, yes,” said Vesna, “these pisanica are a tradition in my old country. The mothers make them at night, when the children are asleep, so they have a surprise on Easter morning.”
Lucy studied the eggs, marveling at the skill required to create the intricate designs. “How do you make them?” asked Lucy.
“First, we make a tiny hole and empty the eggshell, we blow out the yolk and white, but”—she raised a cautionary finger—“we don’t throw it away. No. We make an omelet or cake, something like that. Then we use many colors, we make dye from onion skins, beets, flowers . . .”
Lucy’s jaw dropped. “No kit from the grocery store?”
Vesna’s delicately arched brows were raised in shock. “Absolutely not. I make the dye myself.”
“And how do you create these magnificent designs?”
“With wax. I have special tools, some I made from feathers, and I use them to apply the wax. Not too much, not too little, just right. Then I dip the eggs in the dye. The wax preserves the color below. And so on. Many times. Until I’m happy with the design.”
“Are the designs traditional?” asked Lucy. “Do they have meaning?”
Vesna considered the question. “I don’t really know. I make the same designs that my mother made, and my grandmother. Some of these eggs are very old, we treasure them.”
“Like Christmas ornaments that we bring out every year,” offered Lucy.
“Yes. Some of the eggs are gifts, we always give the best one to the village priest. Some we take to the graves of family members, especially if the person died since last Easter.” She smiled, revealing a perfect set of very white teeth. “And if a girl likes a certain boy, she might give him an egg.”
“I suppose it’s sort of a fertility thing,” ventured Lucy.
“More about rebirth, I think. A reminder of Christ rising, and the promise of immortal life in heaven,” she corrected Lucy, raising her eyes to the glorious firmament high above the ceiling and the second story and the roof.
“Oh, of course,” said Lucy, somewhat chagrined. “So I know you’re not native to Tinker’s Cove, but your English is very good. Have you been in the States for long?”
“Ah, yes. I love America. I came here about twenty years ago, I think.”
“Why did you leave . . . ?” asked Lucy, fishing for the identity of Vesna’s native country.
Vesna merely smiled. “Like everyone who comes to America, I wanted a better life.”
“And have you found it?” asked Lucy.
Vesna waved her arm, sweeping it like a model revealing the prize on a game show. “Oh, I think so. No mud, no smoky woodstove, no chickens in the house; instead I have all this.”
Indeed, thought Lucy, “all this” seemed to be rather a lot. Those diamonds in the many rings on Vesna’s fingers were huge, she was wearing a heavy gold necklace and matching earrings, and that designer white shirt reminded her of one she’d once seen in the window of an expensive boutique on Newbury Street in Boston. Remembering the purpose of the interview, Lucy asked, “Is a photo okay? Perhaps you could hold the eggs?”
“Just the eggs, I think,” said Vesna, smiling coyly. “I’m not at my best today.”
“You look great,” coaxed Lucy. “Not a wrinkle. I can’t help wonder what your secret is?”
Vesna smiled. “American face products not very good, lots of advertising but don’t work. I make my own creams.”
“You wouldn’t want to share the recipe?”
“No. Big family secret.”
“I understand,” said Lucy, smiling. “But how about that photo?”
“No, no.” Vesna was not about to be flattered into posing. “Just the eggs.”
“Of course,” said Lucy, producing her phone and snapping a couple of photos. “It’s been lovely meeting you. Thank you so much for your time.”
“I’ve enjoyed our talk,” said Vesna, handing her an egg. “For you.”
The egg was light, it weighed nothing at all and Lucy was afraid it would be crushed if she tucked it in her purse. Instead, she carried it in her hand and set it carefully on the passenger seat in her car. For the briefest moment, she imagined seat-belting it in. Then, smiling to herself, she drove very carefully to the office and carefully carried the little treasure inside.
“Ah, there you are!” exclaimed Phyllis, when she arrived. “You’ve got a distress call from Miss Tilley.”
Lucy stared at Phyllis, relieved to see she’d abandoned her flirtation with beige and was wearing a colorful sweatshirt trimmed with a sequined design of a brimming Easter basket. “A distress call?”
“Yeah.” Phyllis nodded. “She sounded really upset. I tried to call but you didn’t answer. Where were you?”
“Interviewing this lady who does fancy European Easter eggs.” She held up the egg. “See?”
“Ah, one of those Russian ones?” Phyllis held out her hand and Lucy gently passed the egg to her. “Yeah,” said Lucy, as the missing puzzle piece slipped into place. “Russian.”
“My gosh, she makes these?” asked Phyllis, impressed by the intricate design.
“Yeah. You can read all about it when I write the story.” She held out her hand for the egg, which Phyllis returned to her.
“Well, you better give Miss T a call. Something’s upset her and she said you’re the only one who can help.”
“I’m on it,” said Lucy, taking the egg over to her desk and placing it among the paper clips she kept in a little china bowl. Then she plopped into her desk chair and reached for her phone.
“About time,” snarled Miss Tilley when she got Lucy’s call.
“I was interviewing someone,” explained Lucy. “What’s the matter? Are you well?”
“Never better, but my bank account is going to expire.”
“How so?” Lucy knew Miss Tilley relied on her monthly Social Security check, supplemented by some investments in railroad and lumber stocks her father had made years ago. Rachel had complained she’d tried to convince her to update her portfolio but Miss T had stubbornly refused, insisting that her father would not rest easy in his grave if she made any changes.
“I can’t afford to stay here, Heritage House is going to ruin me. You’ve got to come and take me home.”
“Have you called Rachel?” asked Lucy, aware that her deadlines were fast approaching and she was behind in her work.
“No answer there, either,” fretted Miss Tilley. “When you need people, that’s when they disappear on you.”
“Okay, okay. I’m on my way.”
“I’ll start packing,” said Miss T.
“No. Don’t do anything rash,” cautioned Lucy. “I’m sure we can sort this out.”
When she reached Miss Tilley’s room, she found her pulling clothing out of her closet and throwing it on her bed, all the while muttering to herself.
Lucy took her by the hands and led her to her big chair, saying, “Now. Calm down and tell me all about it.”
“It’s this bill! I can’t possibly pay it,” she exclaimed angrily. Then her face crumpled in confusion. “I don’t know what I did with it.”
Lucy noticed a sheet of paper poking out of the nightstand drawer and pulled it out. “Here it is.” She shoved the pile of clothes aside and perched on the foot of the bed, studying the invoice. “Well, this is for the days you spent in assisted living,” said Lucy, noting the hefty sum at the bottom of the page. “Medicare doesn’t cover that.”
“Well, that’s very odd because this woman, wearing a lot of heavy perfume, came in and told me that they’re billing Medicare, too, because I went into assisted living and I wouldn’t be eligible for coverage now that I’ve returned to skilled nursing because Medicare only pays for care after a hospitalization, that’s what she said. So they’re going to pretend I was in skilled nursing the whole time, but the Medicare payment doesn’t cover the whole cost of assisted living which is why I got this outrageous bill. I don’t believe a word of it, I think it’s fraud.” She set her chin stubbornly. “If Medicare is paying I don’t see why I have to pay, too.”
“That does sound like double billing,” said Lucy. “I think you should call Medicare.”
“Of course. That’s the first thing I did, but they said the wait time was one hour and fifty minutes. Can you imagine?”
“Actually, I can,” admitted Lucy. She noticed that her old friend was hyperventilating, struggling to catch her breath, and took both her hands. “Calm down. It’s just a piece of paper. For now, your priority is to get better. You need to relax and rest, okay?”
“I’ll try,” said Miss Tilley, seeming to shrink into the big recliner.
“Put your feet up,” said Lucy. “I’ll put these things away.” She began to replace the clothes in the closet, all the while chattering to distract Miss Tilley. “You know, I interviewed this Russian lady today, she makes gorgeous Easter eggs. It’s some sort of old country tradition. Did you dye eggs when you were a little girl?”
“No.” Miss Tilley shook her head. “My mother would never have done anything so frivolous, wasting good eggs. Papa wouldn’t have approved.”
Miss Tilley seemed to be relaxing a bit so Lucy continued to ask her about her childhood. “Did the Easter Bunny bring you a basket of candy?”
“Oh, no. No candy. But I did have new clothes for church on Easter morning, and maybe a fresh ribbon for my hat.”
A different world, thought Lucy, putting the last shirt on a hanger. “Are you planning to attend the Easter bonnet contest? Maybe you should make one?”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” claimed Miss Tilley, recovering her normal, independent attitude. “I was a librarian, not a milliner.”
“I bet some of the other ladies would help you, what about Howard’s fan club? They seem nice enough.”
Miss Tilley’s eyebrows shot up. “The Gang of Three?”
“You still call them that?”
“Why not?” Miss T shrugged. “They’re always together.”
Lucy closed the closet door and went back to her spot on the foot of the bed. “They’re not friendly?”
“If they want something, they can be nice,” said Miss Tilley. “They were sticking very close to Agnes until she disappeared. I think they were trying to get her to reveal her design for the hat contest. You know she won last year? A bird’s nest I think it was.”
“But Howard said Agnes wasn’t planning to enter the contest this year, didn’t he?”
“He did, but they didn’t believe it. She did seem to be onto something, but Howard doesn’t think it was the contest. Now that I’ve got this bill, I wonder if she had discovered something sinister.”
“Here at Heritage House?” asked Lucy, thinking that this was a theme she’d been hearing a lot lately.
“Well, she was an investigative reporter, you know. It’s like me being a librarian. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks and I confess all my books at home are organized according to the Dewey system.” She sighed. “I’m getting distracted. We were talking about Agnes, and I suspect she was trying to show that these Heritage House people are crooked, which they absolutely are.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” cautioned Lucy. “And I wouldn’t go about making claims that might not turn out to be true, if I were you.”
“Or claims that turn out to be true,” insisted Miss Tilley. “I bet that’s what happened to Agnes. She uncovered something nefarious. . . .”
And ended up dead, thought Lucy, quickly interrupting Miss Tilley. “You don’t know that for sure. Medicare’s very complicated with all sorts of rules and we don’t know what’s covered and what isn’t. I’m going to take this bill and check it out. Now, I don’t want you to worry, I want you to rest and get strong so you can go home. Okay?”
“I’ll rest after I sort out that mess you made in my closet. I like to have like with like, light to dark.”
“So do I,” confessed Lucy, realizing that in her hurry she’d hung up the clothes willy-nilly. “Never you mind, I’ll fix it.” Lucy spent a few minutes sorting out the clothes and when she turned to get Miss Tilley’s okay, she discovered the old woman had dozed off in her chair. Lucy pulled a flannel blanket from the bed and covered her, then quietly tiptoed out.
Making her way to the lobby, Lucy noticed a sign pointing the way to the social worker’s office and impulsively decided to make good her promise to Miss Tilley and pay her a visit. The placard on the door read JOYCE ZIMMER, LSW, and as soon as she opened the door she was assailed by the heavy fragrance Miss Tilley had complained about. Joyce Zimmer was seated at a large gray steel desk and looked up with interest as Lucy entered. “How can I help you?” she asked. Lucy noticed that Ms. Zimmer was wearing a maroon polyester suit, a dotted blouse that had a bow instead of a collar, and had thick, dark hair pulled back in a messy chignon. She was wearing a lot of make-up, including an unflattering mauve lipstick outlined with contrasting lip liner that Lucy itched to wipe away.
“I’m here for my friend, Julia Ward Howe Tilley. She’s upset about a bill that she just received.”
“Oh, Miss Tilley, she’s a character, isn’t she?” said Joyce, throwing in an indulgent chuckle for effect.
“She’s quite old-fashioned,” admitted Lucy, “and pays her bills the day she gets them. Unfortunately this one exceeded her current assets and she’s quite upset. Perhaps you could explain it to me so I can help her devise a payment plan.”
“Are you by chance her next of kin?” inquired Joyce.
“Just a friend, but she asked me to check on this matter for her.”
“Perhaps you have a POA?” Seeing Lucy’s confused expression she hastened to clarify. “A power of attorney?”
“No,” admitted Lucy, who was beginning to understand where this was leading.
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Joyce, shaking her head sadly. “We have strict privacy policies, I’m sure you understand. I’ll pay Julia another visit and see if I can’t clear things up for her.”
Lucy was beginning to feel a bit nauseous from the heavy scent that filled the small office, and, aware that she wasn’t going to make any headway with Joyce, decided to save her energy. She wasn’t about to give up the fight, however, as she thought it might be worth investigating further for a possible story. “Thanks for your time,” she said, beating a hasty retreat. Once outside the office, she took a deep breath of what she hoped would be fresh air, only to discover that whatever the stuff was that Joyce doused herself with, it was now clinging to her. As soon as she got home she was going to head straight for the shower.
After giving herself a good scrub, and putting on fresh clothing, she threw all her scented clothes into the washer. This load called for hot water and heavy-duty agitation which caused her to laugh, thinking that Joyce’s perfume should be called Hot and Heavy. Feeling somewhat giddy, she set up her laptop on the kitchen table and pulled up the state attorney general’s website. There she found a phone number for health insurance inquiries and dialed it.
“Assistant AG John Williams,” said the young voice of the person on the other end. “How can I help you?”
“I have a theoretical question,” began Lucy. “My old friend is currently in a nursing home and she’s received a very odd bill. She claims the social worker insists she owes a balance, even though they’re also billing Medicare.”
“Perhaps she misunderstood?” asked Williams. “Dementia perhaps?”
“No chance. She’s smart as a whip.” Lucy paused, remembering what Miss Tilley had told her. “According to this social worker, she’s being charged for assisted living at the same time they’re billing Medicare for skilled nursing. The reason is supposedly that Medicare only pays for continuous care and since the skilled nursing was interrupted by a few days in assisted living, they have to pretend she was in skilled nursing the entire time. Do you understand?”
“If this is actually the case, it sounds pretty fishy to me. What nursing home is this?”
“Heritage House in Tinker’s Cove.” Lucy heard the sound of a keyboard clicking. “Any chance you can tell me who owns Heritage House?”
“Sure. That’s public record,” said Williams. “I’ve got it here. TaraCare Holdings.”
“Like in Gone with the Wind?”
“Maybe.” He chuckled. “Maybe they want to imply that Heritage House is like living in a fancy Southern plantation house.”
“It is pretty upscale, including the prices,” said Lucy. “Do you have the names of the principal shareholders?”
“Sorry. I think you’d have to get that from the secretary of state’s office.”
“But it’s public record?”
“Should be,” said Williams. “I’ll poke around a bit and see what I can turn up. Want to give me your name and number?”
Lucy obliged, thanking him for his interest. “Sorry to say, I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” he cautioned her. “If I were you, I’d start with Medicare. They have a strong fraud department.”
“Thanks, again. I’ll do that,” said Lucy, hanging up. She pulled up the Medicare website and dialed the 800 number, learning as Miss Tilley had that the wait time was presently one hour and forty-six minutes. It seemed she’d have to pin her hopes on Assistant AG John Williams.
It was better than nothing, however, and she called Miss Tilley to let her know that she’d spoken to a helpful official in the AG’s office who had promised to look into the matter.
“Well,” said Miss T with a sigh, “I suppose that’s better than nothing.”
“And I’m going to stay on it, too,” promised Lucy. She knew from previous investigations that it was often some insignificant bit of information that turned out to be an important clue that led to the truth. Perhaps this was the loose thread that, if pulled, would unravel and reveal what had really happened to Agnes.