Chapter Eighteen
When Lucy was driving back to the office her cell phone rang. She pulled off the road to answer, expecting it was Bob, but discovered the caller was Assistant AG John Williams. She really hadn’t expected him to follow up and was very interested to learn what he had to report.
“Thanks for calling,” she began, “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve got for me.”
“Not a whole lot,” he said. “I think you knew that Heritage House is owned by TaraCare and I was able to find out that the principals of that corporation are Peter Novak and Vesna Varga.”
Lucy was stunned. “Are you sure? Vesna is this little old lady who makes fancy Easter eggs.”
“I would guess that she’s a very rich old lady who makes fancy Easter eggs,” said Williams. “TaraCare is comprised of three senior care facilities in the state and is valued at over twenty million dollars.”
“That’s a lot of eggs,” said Lucy, still struggling to process this information. Of course she’d been struck by Vesna’s luxurious seaside home; now it made sense. Sort of. “What exactly is a principal of a corporation?” she asked.
“It varies. It can simply be a name on a paper, or it can be an active manager. The whole purpose of a corporation is to limit personal liability, so depending on her arrangement with Peter Novak, she is likely raking in quite a bit of dough.”
“Peter Novak is the CEO of Heritage House, I wonder if he’s related to Vesna.”
“Could be. Or it could be a partnership. That information wasn’t in the paperwork I saw. She might even be the principal owner.”
Thinking back to the interview, and Vesna’s pride in “all this,” Lucy thought that was entirely possible. “Well, thanks so much for following up. I really appreciate it.”
“No big deal. I’ve got an inquiring mind and these senior care places are kind of the Wild West of the health care industry. Hospitals are strictly regulated but there’s not much regulation or oversight in senior living outfits, or even nursing homes. Most of them are privately owned and there’s a lot of money to be made.”
Lucy laughed. “So I’m discovering. Thanks again.”
Lucy was thoughtful as she returned her phone to her bag and got back on the road. She really wanted to have a nice, long chat with Vesna but didn’t quite see a way to do that. She hadn’t exactly been forthcoming when Lucy interviewed her. While she’d had plenty to say about the eggs, she’d been quite closemouthed about her life before coming to America. So Lucy could hardly believe her luck when she got to the office and Phyllis presented her with two pink “While You Were Out” notes. One informed her that Vesna Varga had called, the other indicated Bob had.
“I can’t believe this, I was just thinking about Vesna,” said Lucy, grinning broadly as she noted the phone number.
“Well, I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you,” cautioned Phyllis. “She didn’t sound very happy. In fact, I’d say she was loaded for bear.”
“Well,” said Lucy, unzipping her jacket, “this bear has a thick skin.”
As soon as she was settled at her desk, Lucy called Bob, aware that he rarely wasted any time on chatty phone calls. True to form, he got right down to business and told her the lease was watertight and he personally wouldn’t advise Zoe to sign it unless she had a trust fund to fall back on.
“I wish,” confessed Lucy, laughing and thanking him. She didn’t look forward to sharing his advice with Zoe, and promptly shelved the matter for later since she had the more pressing business of returning Vesna’s call.
Like Bob, Vesna didn’t bother with pleasantries but immediately voiced her complaint. “What is this about pysanky? Not pysanky! Pisanica! I should know, I make them! Everyone in my little town knows, pisanica!
“Sorry about the confusion,” said Lucy, doing what she should have done originally and googling the term. Pisanica, she soon discovered, were the Croatian, not Russian version of the decorated eggs that were made throughout Eastern Europe. “My mistake,” admitted Lucy as the wheels began turning in her head. “I assumed you were Russian.”
“No!” snapped Vesna. “I’m not Russian. I don’t like Russia. I’ve never been to Russia. Where did you get that idea?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Lucy, who was not prepared to throw her source under the bus. “It was a careless mistake and I will be sure to correct it in the next issue. So tell me about your home village in Croatia. . . .”
“That was very, very long time ago,” said Vesna. “It has all changed now.”
“Was it affected by the war?” asked Lucy. “Or did you leave before that?”
“We were lucky, we got out just in time. My son Peter and me.”
Just as she’d suspected, thought Lucy. Peter Novak was Vesna’s son. “And you came to America and started TaraCare?” suggested Lucy.
“That’s my Peter, he’s the genius.” Vesna’s tone was definitely growing warmer; Peter was clearly a favorite subject. “He was the one who came up with the name Tara because it is a famous river in Bosnia, but he says also the name of a plantation in a famous American book. Very clever, no?”
“Absolutely,” said Lucy. “But why senior housing? Did he have a background in that in Croatia?”
“No. But is natural choice for him. In Croatia, we always honored the old ones. And my Peter, he takes very good care of the old folks.”
He certainly didn’t take very good care of Agnes Neal, thought Lucy, keeping that thought to herself. “So he does,” she said, hoping to encourage more confidences from Vesna. That, however, was not to be.
“So you will print correction?” she demanded, clearly ready to end the call.
“Absolutely,” promised Lucy, who had no sooner spoken than the line went dead.
As she typed up the second correction, she tried not to think about Ted’s reaction. She should have done a bit of fact-checking, but hadn’t thought it necessary. It was far too easy to take people at their word and Lucy feared she’d grown lazy and maybe even somewhat gullible lately. Maybe it was because she’d been dealing with all these old folks. She’d been raised to respect the elderly; she remembered long Sunday afternoons when her aged great-aunt Etta visited. She’d always been delegated to run outside and greet Aunt Etta’s taxi, giving the stout and arthritic old lady her arm and helping her into the house. She’d also been expected to pass the chocolates and chat with her, uncomfortably aware that her time would be better spent studying for the upcoming week’s exams than listening to Aunt Etta’s reminiscences about her work as a bookkeeper for her adored employer, the very wealthy Mr. Hanselbach. Then retired, Aunt Etta had nothing but pleasant memories of Mr. Hanselbach’s quirks and sometimes Lucy thought she knew more about Mr. Hanselbach than she did about her own grandfather.
That old-fashioned upbringing had had a huge influence on her, she realized, thinking how she had fallen so easily into a friendship with Miss Tilley, who was much older than her. She’d been close to retiring from her job as librarian at the Broadbrooks Free Library when they first met, but they had immediately become friends. Miss Tilley had managed to remain young in attitude, if not in body, thanks to her interest in younger people and her intense curiosity about the world. She often said she couldn’t even think of dying because she wanted to know what was going to happen next. But now Lucy was worried about her oldest and very dear friend. It was more than her concern about the bill for assisted living; now she wasn’t convinced that Heritage House was a safe place for her, especially since she’d learned of George Waterman’s mother’s concerns.
Something was definitely amiss at Heritage House and she was afraid that she might have put Miss Tilley and Howard White in danger by encouraging them to investigate. She’d finished the correction some time ago and was staring at it, remembering Colon’s photos from the Bosnian War, and she thought of poor Agnes, who’d also died in a stairwell. Different circumstances, surely. But was it a coincidence? And what about Bev Waterman? She was a member of the Gang of Three, as Miss Tilley called them, which put her at the top of the Heritage House social ladder. Her son had dismissed her concerns, citing her age, but Lucy wasn’t convinced. The gang members seemed pretty sharp and she feared that if they were worried, there was probably a good reason.
It was probably irrational, but she had the strongest urge to get herself over to Heritage House, just to make sure everything was okay. She knew she wouldn’t be able to get any work done until she’d quieted her fears, so she sent the correction to Ted, then powered off and got up. It wasn’t just that she didn’t want to be around to hear Ted’s angry reaction to the second correction, not at all, she told herself. Maybe it was intuition, or something rumbling around in her subconscious, but she felt she had to get over to Heritage House and she’d learned through the years that she should trust her instincts.
She was just parking her car when she noticed George Waterman in the parking lot, shaking his head as he made his way to his truck. She quickly hopped out and hailed him. “Long time no see,” she began, getting a grin. “How’s your mom?”
“I don’t know,” he said, scratching his chin. “She had some story about that lady who died in the stairwell, but I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.”
Lucy felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, and pressed him for more information. “What exactly did she say?”
“It’s not worth repeating, she gets confused these days.”
“I’m sure they’re all somewhat upset,” said Lucy. “It was a terrible thing to happen and it must make them all wonder if they’re safe.”
Waterman bit his lip. “That’s not the feeling I got. It wasn’t that she was afraid, it was more like she felt guilty.”
“Guilty? What on earth has she got to feel guilty about?”
“Well, last thing she mentioned was the time she borrowed her sister’s dress and ruined it and that all happened fifty-some years ago, but she keeps bringing it up.” He screwed his mouth into a grimace. “I did some research and it’s one of the signs of dementia. They remember stuff from long ago. And sometimes she mixes up dreams and reality.”
Lucy’s first impulse was to disagree. She’d never got that impression about Bev, but then again she didn’t know her as well as her son. “That’s too bad,” she said. “Maybe she’s just having a bad day.”
“Ever the optimist, hunh, Lucy?”
“I guess I am,” admitted Lucy. “My mother used to say there was no sense worrying about things you can’t change.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Waterman, giving a little salute and continuing on his way. Eager to reassure herself that Miss Tilley was all right, Lucy hurried into the senior residence and went straight to her room, only to find it empty. Somewhat shocked, she tracked down a nurse’s aide to find out what was going on.
“Oh, her friend Howard took her for a little change of scene, they’re probably in the common area on the mezzanine,” said the aide.
“Thanks.” Lucy made her way through the corridors to the mezzanine, but there was no sign of Howard and Miss Tilley. The Gang of Three were there, however, engaged in an absorbing conversation. They were huddled so closely together, and so intent on their discussion, that they didn’t notice Lucy. She spotted a nearby chair and decided to sit down and wait a bit, in case Howard and Miss Tilley showed up. In the meantime, she busied herself poking in her handbag while straining to hear what the women were talking about.
It wasn’t easy to catch the drift of the conversation; for one thing, staff were busy in the adjoining dining room, setting the tables for dinner. She could hear them chattering and laughing, occasionally exclaiming when someone dropped something. She could also hear the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner being operated out in the hallway. But every now and then, she’d catch a word.
“Not your fault,” proclaimed Bev, only to be quickly shushed by Dorothy.
They must be talking to Bitsy, concluded Lucy, struggling mightily to resist the urge to turn her head. Instead, she bent a little closer to her handbag, plumbing its depths as if searching for some elusive object.
She heard a sob, followed by the sound of someone blowing their nose, and guessed that whatever was bothering Bitsy had reduced her to tears. Certainly not, she thought, some ancient misdeed like spoiling a sister’s borrowed dress or fibbing to a parent. No-nonsense Dorothy certainly wouldn’t waste any time consoling her for such a trivial matter. No, whatever was under discussion was taking place in the here and now.
That hypothesis was confirmed when Dorothy spoke up quite firmly. “I think we should make a clean breast of it and tell the truth,” she declared.
“To who? The police?” inquired Bitsy, horrified.
“I’m not sure it’s a matter for the police, it’s really a matter of conscience,” said Dorothy. “What about Reverend Marge? We could ask her to pay a pastoral visit and tell her. See what she has to say.”
“But what if she tells the police?” asked Bitsy in a quavery voice.
“Clergy have some sort of confidentiality thing, like lawyers,” said Dorothy.
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Bev. “Remember that movie Doubt they showed the other day? Meryl Streep was convinced of Philip Seymour Hoffman’s guilt. She was going right after him.”
“But she didn’t get him. It was called Doubt, after all,” said Dorothy. “I’m sure Reverend Marge would—”
“She might not tell the police, but what if she went to Peter? Or one of the others, like Elvira or that social worker woman? I might get kicked out! We all might! What’ll we do then?”
“Shush,” urged Dorothy. “You need to get a grip. Nobody’s going to kick us out. We’re not in any trouble.”
“I guess the best thing is simply to sit tight,” sighed Bev.
It was then that Lucy’s phone rang and all three heads turned in her direction. “What are you doing here?” demanded Dorothy.