I SIPPED MY TEPID Lipton’s and swallowed. He was fishing. He couldn’t possibly know anything. No one, including me, knew with absolute certainty what had killed Katherine. I would force him to say whatever he was thinking, plainly and out loud. “What in the world are you are implying?”
He faced me, again with the intense level gaze. He would have been a hell of an interrogator. “I’m wondering why you seem so miserable and look so haunted. It isn’t simply grief at losing a friend. Did you find something out? Do you know something?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I think you know more than you’re letting on. Even maybe had something to do with it … though I’m not sure why.”
“That’s absurd! Katherine was my friend. She was sick, she was old—like all of us here. What makes you think it was anything other that?” I summoned all my self-righteousness. “How arrogant can a person possibly be? Or—are you having some sort of delusion? Losing your mind?”
I peered into his face, performing concern. I knew all too well how charged my suggestion was for people our age. How all of us live in fear of that very possibility.
He barely blinked.
I gestured toward the door. “I think you should leave. I can’t imagine you would want to stay anyway, given the sort of person you apparently think I am. Aren’t you afraid I will do something to you? Slip some medication into your tea?”
He pushed himself up. He was quite tall, and his uneven tufts of curly silver hair made him look a little crazed. “That’s an interesting comment.”
“What comment?”
“I never said you slipped anybody anything.” He tilted his head thoughtfully.
I exhaled shakily. “You implied it.”
“Really?” He shrugged. “Okay, I’ll leave. But I want you to know …”
“What? That you think I am capable of hurting my friend? Please go.” I crossed my arms and stared at him. “In fact, I honestly think you should see a doctor.”
He flushed bright pink, which surprised me. I watched his Adam’s apple bob. “I obviously misjudged the situation.” The look he gave me was complicated, weighted with significance. It left me chilled. He limped stiffly to the door, leaning on his cane. He pulled it open awkwardly and walked out without closing it or looking back. I got up, shut the door, and let out a shaky breath.
I brought his mug back to the kitchen. He hadn’t touched it. Good. Maybe it meant he was afraid of me. I stood at the sink for a time, letting warm water run over my hands.
What did he suspect? And more to the point, whom would he tell?
I lay down on the couch, wrapped myself in a blanket that Iris had knitted, and stared at the woods where his brother-in-law had revealed a secret.
The knock brought me out of my reverie. I heard a muffled voice. “Hello? Mrs. Greene?”
“Graciela?” I had completely forgotten about my lunch. I pushed over and opened the door.
Graciela shifted from one leg to the other, looking nervous. “I’m so sorry. I forget your sandwich.” She held out a Styrofoam container. “But I made them add some French fries.”
“Thank you.” I took the container. “To tell you the truth, I forgot about it myself. It wouldn’t hurt me to skip lunch one day.”
She inhaled sharply and looked panicked. “No! Please don’t say that. I’m sorry. I won’t forget again.”
Her tone caught my attention. I studied her face. She was drawn and looked distressed.
“Graciela? What is it?” I stepped back and gestured her inside. “Would you like to come in and sit down?”
“Oh no! I can’t. I mean, thank you, but I better not. I’m on duty. Just … I hope it’s okay about your lunch.”
“Of course. Are you sure you’re all right? “
She glanced quickly down the hall. “I’m …” She stopped and gave me a brief smile that didn’t cancel the worry in her eyes. “Everything is fine. I’m just tired.”
I wondered what, or who, she was looking out for. I said, “You know you can tell me if you need something, right?” She nodded, but there was apprehension there. She attempted a reassuring glance before hurrying away.
I reheated the French fries in the microwave while I chewed the turkey sandwich, unsettled by the whole ridiculous morning and rattled by Graciela’s puzzling behavior. She was nervous about something. Afraid, almost. Again, my stomach knotted.
Graciela had been on duty the night of “my intervention.” The thought chilled me.
I realized I didn’t really know anything about her. I saw her character, that’s true enough. She was clearly an empathetic person. It was obvious from the patience she showed Mrs. Collier and the other kindnesses she routinely performed—like bringing me French fries, even though she probably had to convince the cook to do them special.
But the details of her life? I was pretty sure she was from Mexico. I knew she spoke Spanish anyway. And that she had a child. Did she wear a wedding ring? I couldn’t remember. It was disconcerting to realize how little I knew. I suppose it is always that way—workers always know more about the bosses. It behooves them to pick up on the preferences and desires of those who have power over them. To know where the bodies are buried. So to speak.
No—she couldn’t possibly know anything.
I was too tired to think.
I went back to my favorite chair and closed my eyes.
When I opened them, the sun was gone from the windows, and late afternoon shadows were slanting through the nature preserve. Disoriented, I shifted, feeling what the chair had done with my arthritis. Thank goodness my walker was still nearby. I pulled myself up and hurried, as much as I could with that contraption, to the bathroom. It was when I emerged after taking care of business that I saw it. An envelope had been slipped under my door. I grunted as I picked it up.
I assumed it was one of the newsletters the Ridgewood staff periodically put out, or a notice of a menu change or special event they’d added to the schedule. But when I turned it over, I saw “Francine Greene” neatly printed in green ballpoint pen. Someone’s idea of humor. My mouth went dry. I opened the flap and found a note written in the same green ink:
Dear Francine,
Please forgive me for imposing on you earlier. I was not trying to be mysterious.
I guess an explanation is in order.
I mentioned my work, and how I started the investigation into the crooked attorneys, and how we almost got Kearney. Like I said, I helped put one of the lawyers away. The bigger truth—and one that I should probably feel great shame over but that I can’t honestly summon any for—is that I goosed the evidence.
Mazinski was without a doubt guilty. That much I know. We had enough on him to indict, and probably enough to convict, but I didn’t want to take any chances. So I decided to make sure. I located a guy who used to booze it up with Stinson. The drinking buddy said that maybe he remembered Stinson talking about the deal with the lawyer. Then again, maybe not. But it was easy enough to coach him on what to say. I found him a decent apartment for a couple of months, cleared up some minor trouble he had with his ex, and made sure he would testify on how Stinson had bragged that Mazinski had an inside track with the judge, and with the right amount of money, could get him off.
We hoped Mazinski would help us against Kearney, but I’m convinced Kearney pulled strings to make sure Mazinski was tried before a lenient fellow judge. He refused to flip. After the trial, a large sum suddenly appeared in Mazinski’s wife’s bank account. Untraceable. He got a light sentence and is probably kicking back on some Caribbean beach by now. We never could get enough evidence on Kearney for an indictment to stick.
There’s more I could add, but I’ve said enough. Now you have it. In writing, an admission that I tampered with a witness. What you do with this information is up to you. But I hope you will believe me when I say, I know the difference between guilt and innocence. What I’m trying to tell you is, I am an ally. Whatever is troubling you, I am on your side.
Evan Landrum