I had just finished cutting up Mom’s filet mignon when Lorraine Taylor shuddered violently and slumped over, her face smashing into her baked potato.
“Oh, my word!” exclaimed Verna Hanson, who had invited Mrs. Taylor to the monthly birthday luncheon at Laurel Grove Assisted Living and Nursing Care.
My daughter, Christine, shoved her chair back and knelt by Mrs. Taylor. Chris’s first-year medical school training kicked in as she felt for a pulse. She turned to me and shook her head, her eyes wide.
“Call nine-one-one!” She looked around wildly. “Can somebody get an AED?”
As Chris started chest compressions on Mrs. Taylor, the activities coordinator and our young waiter dashed to the table—notable in an environment where things usually moved at a measured pace. The man sitting to my left quickly wheeled his silent wife, Dorothy, away from all the commotion. Throughout the luncheon Harlan Stanton had spoken only to Dorothy, unfolding her napkin onto her lap, raising her food to her lips, and steadying her glass as she sipped her drink.
I heard the wail of sirens approaching Laurel Grove, where Mom had moved when her eyesight started to fail. EMTs were a recurrent presence in the community, but ordinarily they tended to the residents, not the guests.
Laurel Grove’s director, Nancy Brightwood, rushed from the coffee station where she had been instructing the waitstaff. She hustled us from our table as paramedics took over the chest compressions, hooked Mrs. Taylor up to an IV, and loaded her onto a gurney.
“What happened here?” The EMT directed her question to Chris, who still hovered by Mrs. Taylor.
“All of a sudden she appeared to convulse and then she fell forward,” Chris answered. “I tried to get a pulse but I couldn’t find one, so I started CPR. Somebody ran for the defibrillator, but you arrived before we got it going. The staff must have called nine-one-one.”
The diners at the other tables sat quietly, talking among themselves. Occasionally a particularly hard-of-hearing resident’s voice rose above the murmurs. A few diners took advantage of the lull to tuck into their meals. It wasn’t every day that Laurel Grove transformed the first-floor activities room into a classy restaurant serving steak, baked potato, green beans, salad, and rolls, as well as birthday cake.
As I mulled over how to pack up those tender filets, Ms. Brightwood announced that regrettably the luncheon was postponed, no one should continue eating or take any food home, and each resident could pick up a boxed lunch in the second-floor dining room. She didn’t have to add that Mrs. Taylor was in her fifties and had appeared healthy until a few minutes ago. The possibility of tainted food had to be considered.
Chris fetched Mom’s burgundy-colored rollator from the tangle of wheeled walkers parked inside the dining room door. She rolled it over to Mom and the three of us joined the line to leave the room. An atmosphere of concern spiced with the excitement of a novel medical emergency filled the air as residents filed out with their daughters, sons, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and friends. Here and there, printed invitations to the festive luncheon were left behind.
On our way out, I detoured past the activities coordinator.
“We were at the table with Mrs. Taylor,” I said. “Please call if you need any information. My name’s Ellen Walker. My mom, Margaret Madison, lives on the second floor.”
I picked up an abandoned invitation and scribbled my home and cell numbers on the back. Then Mom, Chris, and I made a beeline to the café, where we could all order sandwiches in place of our interrupted steak luncheon. Laurel Grove was one of fifteen buildings on the campus of Woodland Oaks Continuing Care Community. Most buildings were filled with independent-living apartments for residents who wanted the amenities of a senior-living locale but who could attend to their own daily needs. Scattered across campus were six dining rooms ranging from white-tablecloth formality to cafeteria casual.
It was the tail end of lunchtime for the other Woodland Oaks restaurants, but the café stayed open until two o’clock for staff and for residents who hadn’t transitioned to what Chris and her brother, Greg, referred to as old-person time. Eleven o’clock lunch, four thirty dinner, in bed by eight.
We rode up one floor in the slow Laurel Grove elevator and walked through the glass-walled overpass to Poplar Terrace, the independent-living building that housed the café. In the August heat, I appreciated the walkways that linked buildings throughout the community. Mom couldn’t see well anymore, but she was spry enough as long as she had her rollator to support her and a companion to guide the way.
Large windows on the south and west sides of the second-floor café framed a treetop-level view of green leaves against a clear blue sky, a perfect view as we sat down to eat. I devoured a quarter of my club sandwich before I asked Mom, “So, what do you know about Verna Hanson?”
Mom was still shaken by the incident, but she would never turn down an opportunity to serve as community chronicler. According to Mom, Verna Hanson arrived at Laurel Grove last winter. Unlike Mom and many other residents in their mid- to late eighties, Verna didn’t come over from an independent-living apartment. Originally she lived in Pennsylvania close to her son, but he transferred to Chicago for a job, so she moved here to be near her sister. Unfortunately, her sister died not long afterward, leaving Verna without any nearby relatives.
“That’s a lot of upheaval for an elderly lady,” Chris said.
“It sure is,” I said. “Who helped her move to Laurel Grove? And who is Lorraine Taylor?”
“I wondered about that myself, because Lorraine isn’t a resident but she’s always hanging around,” Mom said. “So I asked our neighbor Charmaine. She’s pretty savvy about what’s happening on our floor. Verna told her that she met Lorraine at church and that Lorraine is like the daughter she never had. Lorraine goes with her to doctor appointments and to the bank, takes her shopping, and things like that.”
“Does that seem at all fishy to you, Mom?”
Years earlier, before Mom moved from Minneapolis to Northern Virginia, one of her young friends had asked to borrow her Dayton’s department store credit card. Mom had declined the request, thank goodness, but it was a wake-up call. From halfway across the country, I couldn’t oversee Mom’s financial and medical security. There were apparently too many calculating women eager to serve as surrogate daughters, even when there was a real daughter available.
Memories of that incident flashed through my mind as Mom described Verna’s relationship with Lorraine. I had recently retired from the Justice Department, where I had seen several cases involving friends, relatives, or trusted advisers who cheated elderly victims out of their life savings. I probably had an overactive antenna for fraudulent behavior, but I thought there was nothing wrong with being alert.
“Well, I suppose it could be suspicious,” Mom agreed.
“Maybe someone should talk with Verna’s social worker.” Chris knew the story of the Dayton’s credit card and how it culminated in Mom’s move to Virginia. “Just to make sure the social worker is aware of the friendship. And maybe someone should talk to Verna’s son. It’s probably hard for him to keep tabs on her from Chicago, and most likely he assumes she’s fine. But if he had a hint otherwise, he might make an effort to call more often. Visit more often. Be more involved.”
“That’s a good idea,” Mom said. “I could ask the social worker if she knows about Verna and Lorraine. She can watch to see if anything unusual pops up, although of course she won’t tell me anything that’s confidential.”
I detected a tinge of irritation at the social worker’s adherence to professional standards.
Chris glanced at me over her turkey sandwich. Her mouth was full but there was no need for her to speak. She didn’t think Lorraine would return from her ambulance ride.
We finished our lunches and walked back to Mom’s building, riding the elevator to the first floor so Mom could check her mail. As the door creaked open and Mom maneuvered her rollator into the lobby sitting room, we saw Verna surrounded by a cluster of ladies.
I steered Mom from the bank of locked mailboxes, and we approached the group.
“Is Lorraine going to be all right?” Mom asked.
Verna stared at Mom. Another resident answered her question.
“Our dear Verna received some dreadful news. Mrs. Taylor has passed away.”
* * * *
The next morning, I drove back to Woodland Oaks so Mom and I could pay a sympathy call on Verna. Her hallway was painted the same pale sage green as Mom’s, which was around the corner. The built-in niche next to Verna’s door held a framed photograph of a man in his fifties with a woman and three children—most likely her son and his family—and a needlework embroidered with “Make New Friends, But Keep the Old.”
We rapped on Verna’s door.
“Just a minute!” she called.
Verna pulled the door open with one hand, supporting herself on her rollator with the other. Her snap-front blouse and pull-on pants fit neatly on her wiry frame. She was only about five feet tall, but not bent over like many of the residents.
“Verna, we’re so sorry about Lorraine’s passing,” Mom said. “Ellen and I wanted to pay our condolences and leave a little something for you. Is now a good time?”
Mom held out a small party-favor bag of her legendary chocolate peanut clusters. The recipe was simple—dry-roasted peanuts stirred into milk-chocolate chips that Mom melted in the microwave—but the results were addictive.
“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you,” Verna responded weakly. “This has been such a horrible ordeal.”
Verna ushered us into her apartment, backing up her rollator in the narrow entranceway so Mom could wheel in.
Like most of the other assisted-living units, Verna’s contained her own furniture. We sat down in a cozy area arranged for reading or visiting, with a loveseat, a compact recliner, and a small coffee table. A maple bed and bureau were pushed against the opposite wall. One side of the entry hallway was fitted with kitchen cabinets, a half-size sink, and a microwave so Verna could fix coffee, cereal, or a snack on her own.
“Have you received any more information about Lorraine?” Mom asked as she settled onto the loveseat. “Do they know what happened, and has her family been informed?”
“I haven’t heard a thing,” Verna said. “Her passing is such a shock that I can hardly talk about it. We hadn’t known one another very long, but she was like the daughter I never had.”
Verna struggled to her feet and reached for a pill bottle, her hand trembling.
“Excuse me, but it’s important that I take this medicine right on time.”
She unscrewed the cap and unsteadily tried to shake a tablet into her hand. Two pills slid too quickly from the bottle and fell on the carpet.
“Goodness, I’m such a bumbler,” Verna said. “Ellen, could you be a dear and retrieve those for me? Between the tremor and the arthritis, I can’t stoop down or pick things up like I used to.”
“Sure, let me do that for you.”
“Lorraine was so helpful about organizing my medications. Every week she laid them out in my pill box to make sure I took each one at the right time. I suppose I’ll have the nurses do that now. I certainly can’t manage it alone.”
“That’s what the nurses are here for,” Mom reassured her. “It’s important to monitor your medications, especially with some of these crazy side effects.”
“You’re absolutely right about that,” Verna said.
Mom and Verna continued discussing their various pharmaceuticals, a topic that could keep Mom engrossed for the rest of the day as well as divert Verna’s thoughts from Lorraine. I tapped a clean pill out of the bottle and gave it to Verna. Then I picked up the two white tablets that Verna dropped earlier and, favoring my bursitis-prone left hip, got on my hands and knees to search for other fallen items. Mom tended to drop things, so I was surprised that there weren’t any other stray meds on Verna’s carpet. Maybe Lorraine came to collect Verna for yesterday’s party and did some quick tidying before they went downstairs.
I waited as the two ladies rated the doctors, nurses, social workers, dieticians, and other health providers on campus. If they moved on to review the visiting neurologist, audiologist, podiatrist, and dentist, as well as the restaurant managers, activities coordinators, chaplains, shuttle bus drivers, and security guards, we could be here into the afternoon because Mom knew them all and had firm opinions. While they chatted, I looked around Verna’s room, figuring I’d step in to wrap things up after fifteen or twenty minutes.
Verna’s display shelves contained more framed photographs than I expected, given her apparent reliance on Lorraine. She must have enjoyed an active social life in Pennsylvania before her son moved away. In several photos she posed with women a generation younger. They were gardening or shopping or enjoying a home-cooked meal. Other surrogate daughters? Maybe, like Mom, she made friends across all generations.
“You have so many lovely pictures,” I said to Verna. “Do you keep up with most of these folks?” I was asking to be polite, but I was also curious whether she had someone looking out for her.
“Oh, not so much anymore. I used to have so many friends, but over the years… ” Verna lowered her eyes and her voice trailed off.
Mom reached over and patted her hand. “We all know the sadness of losing old friends. And it’s doubly hard when a young person passes away, like Lorraine.”
Lorraine was hardly young, but I spent enough time at Woodland Oaks to know that any visitor under sixty-five was considered to be brimming with energy and eager to run errands.
“She was in the prime of life, and such a shoulder to lean on,” Verna said. “I know the nurses can arrange my pills every week, but who will help me with my banking and shopping and all those other chores?”
Mom smiled at me. I threw her what I hoped was a tactful yet convincing glare so she wouldn’t volunteer my services. We were sitting close enough that I knew she could see me fine.
“The social workers are great at helping residents figure out how to handle those tasks,” I said as I stood up. “We’re so sorry about Lorraine, but we don’t want to overstay our welcome. We’ll say our goodbyes so Mom can lie down for a little while before lunch.”
“And be sure to let us know about any funeral arrangements,” Mom said.
As we left, Verna’s hand rested on a snapshot of her friend Lorraine.
* * * *
That afternoon I was at home reading the instructions for my new Instant Pot, which I bought shortly after I retired. I had successfully prepared several varieties of beans and mastered the yogurt setting, and now I was contemplating my next experiment. The kitchen phone rang. I ignored it because only telemarketers call our landline, but when the answering machine clicked on I heard a police officer identify herself. I put down the Instant Pot instructions and grabbed the receiver.
“Hi, this is Ellen Walker.”
“Ms. Walker, thank you for picking up. This is Detective Alisha Robinson from the Braddock County Police Department. The activities coordinator at Laurel Grove told me that you and your daughter, Christine, were present when Lorraine Taylor suffered her medical emergency and that Christine was the first person to assist Mrs. Taylor. Is that accurate?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Can you come to the West Summerfield Station? I would like to ask you both a few questions—simply routine, I assure you. When would it be convenient for you?”
“Now is fine, actually. Chris is here at home, and we could be there in fifteen minutes.”
I had been to the West Summerfield police station twice—once for early voting and once to dispose of some oral-surgery pain meds at a prescription drug drop-off event. Alisha Robinson was a tall, fit African-American woman who looked to be in her late thirties. She was dressed in the same sort of efficient outfit I used to wear to work: navy blazer, white shirt, black pants, low-heeled shoes. After greeting us and making a few general inquiries, she asked us exactly when Mrs. Taylor fell ill.
I explained that the waiter had just cleared the salad plates and replaced them with the dinner plates loaded with steak, baked potato, and green beans when Lorraine fell onto her plate.
Detective Robinson turned to Christine.
“Do I correctly understand that you’re in medical school? Perhaps I misunderstood what the EMTs told me.”
Chris and I exchanged glances, and I stifled a grin. It was a running joke in the family that with her long, curly hair and petite frame she was often mistaken for a student in college or even high school. She hated it; I told her to wait fifteen years and she would be grateful.
“Yes, I’m twenty-five, but I know I look younger. I’m home right now, getting ready to start my second year of medical school. And between college and med school I worked as a medical scribe in a hospital ER, so I’m somewhat familiar with emergency protocols.”
“I see. What did you find when you assisted Mrs. Taylor?”
“She wasn’t moving. I checked for vital signs and couldn’t find any. No pulse, no breathing. I was really nervous, though. I’ve never been in a situation like that.”
“What had she consumed at that point? Did she eat her salad? Any drinks?”
Chris frowned as she thought over the questions.
“I’m not sure what she ate or drank. There was absolutely no warning before she convulsed and slumped forward.”
I spoke up.
“I do remember that she drank her coffee, because we had a conversation with the waiter about decaf versus caf. Lorraine and I asked for caffeinated coffee and Verna requested decaf, which is pretty common among the residents. Chris doesn’t drink coffee or tea, and the Stantons and Mom ordered extra sparkling cider instead of coffee.”
“Mrs. Taylor requested caffeinated coffee?” Detective Robinson asked.
“Yes, I’m sure of that,” I replied. “Is that significant?”
“You may have heard on the news this afternoon that the medical examiner released his report,” the detective said. “Mrs. Taylor’s death resulted from poison in the decaffeinated coffee she consumed.”
“Decaf? But she ordered… Oh my gosh, I don’t believe it!” I said.
“Poison,” Chris repeated, barely above a whisper. “Does that mean someone tried to murder Verna and killed Lorraine instead?”
We sat silently, stunned at the thought that we had witnessed a murder—and apparently a botched one.
I was tempted to ask whether the police interviewed the teenaged waiter, but I knew Detective Robinson wouldn’t reveal details that weren’t already public. I had encountered many of the young servers, especially those who staffed the Sunday brunches, when Mom lived in Independent Living. They were unfailingly courteous but sometimes forgetful, and there was hell to pay when a grouchy resident received the wrong order.
“Has anyone inquired into the relationship between Verna and Lorraine?” I asked.
“Do you know anything about it?” Detective Robinson said.
“Only what Mom told me yesterday, and that’s based on secondhand gossip. Verna moved here from Pennsylvania and met Lorraine at church—off-campus, I guess. There are shuttle buses every Sunday to various churches in the area. Anyway, Lorraine started taking Verna to doctor appointments, going shopping with her, accompanying her to the bank, all the things that Verna’s son can’t do because he lives in Chicago.”
“I see.”
“I was concerned when Mom told me about this because it sounded like Lorraine could be preparing to take advantage of Verna,” I continued. “You know, getting her to open a joint account, change her will, or some such thing. On the other hand, we visited Verna yesterday and she appears to have plenty of friends, just not here in Northern Virginia.”
“Poison,” Chris said again. “That’s really scary. Do you know what poison was used?”
“That information has not been released.” Pivoting back to her line of questioning, she said, “We will be taking statements from other luncheon guests. Have you spoken with your tablemates?”
I ignored the intimation that we conspired with the other guests to get our stories straight. It was a routine question, after all.
“We spoke briefly with Verna when we returned from the café yesterday, and we visited her this morning, but that’s it. Yesterday she was with several ladies in the lobby and one of them told us Lorraine had passed away. The other couple at our table, Harlan and Dorothy Stanton, left before the EMTs arrived. I’m not sure if Dorothy is aware of her surroundings or can communicate. I think she may have had a stroke.”
“Well, I appreciate your coming by,” Detective Robinson said, holding out her business card as she escorted us to the door. “If you think of any information that might be useful, please call me. I expect there will be misinformation circulating in the community, and I hope we can determine the facts before long.”
She was right that theories about Lorraine’s death would be simmering across Woodland Oaks. How on earth did poison end up in the coffee Lorraine drank—the coffee meant for Verna? Even if Lorraine wanted to get her hands on Verna’s finances, surely she wouldn’t try to murder her. Or would she?
* * * *
The following Sunday, Chris, Greg, and I took Mom to brunch in the Willow Springs building while my husband, Al, caught up with paperwork at home. The activities coordinator hadn’t yet rescheduled the August birthday luncheon, and we wanted to treat Mom to some sort of celebration.
Mom lived in Willow Springs before she moved into Assisted Living, so we knew the buffet menu well. After we settled in at a table for eight, I headed straight to the eggs Benedict station, where two young servers prepared orders on request. I added a small helping of fried potatoes and a mound of fresh cantaloupe, pineapple, and strawberries to my plate. Meanwhile, Chris made sure Mom got plenty of bacon and eggs, and Greg nabbed a slice of her favorite no-sugar cherry pie the moment it appeared on the dessert table.
“Good morning, Margaret, it’s nice to see you again,” a man said to Mom from across the table. “Weren’t you at the birthday luncheon in Laurel Grove the other day?”
“Is that you, Walter?” Mom replied. “I can’t always see who’s who anymore, but I know your voice. Yes, we were at the table where Mrs. Taylor took ill. It was very frightening, although my friend Verna seems to be holding up.”
Mom turned to me. “Ellen, this is Walter Moore. He lived down the hall when I was in my independent-living apartment. He’s always got his finger on the pulse here at Woodland Oaks.”
She looked toward Walter as she chewed on a piece of bacon. “Have you learned any more about what happened?”
“I haven’t heard anything official, but I dug up some information on the internet,” he said, putting down his knife and fork. “Two years ago, Lorraine Taylor’s brother was acquitted on federal charges of investment fraud right here in Northern Virginia. He was accused of defrauding elderly clients.”
“Uh-oh, that’s not a good sign,” Chris said.
“They were mostly older women whom he met at church, and several of them lived here,” Walter said. “One passed away before the trial, one or two suffered health problems and couldn’t testify, and a couple of others wouldn’t testify even though they were encouraged to by the management—Nancy Brightwood, to be specific. It was the classic situation where they felt foolish about being gullible and wanted to put it behind them.”
“Affinity fraud,” I said. “When folks use a common bond, like church membership, to defraud people who trust them. I’ll bet Nancy Brightwood was furious that someone would prey upon her residents. Not to mention deplete the funds they needed to pay Woodland Oaks.”
“Of course, the refusal to testify opened the door for him to defraud the next victim,” Walter said. “We don’t know if Mrs. Taylor was involved in her brother’s scheme, but it’s possible that she wasn’t as good a friend as Verna thought.”
“Has anyone asked Verna whether Lorraine suggested that she change her will or execute a power of attorney?” I asked. “Or make investments like Lorraine’s brother persuaded his church friends to do? I hope the police are following up with Verna’s social worker and anybody who might know about Verna’s financial affairs.”
“I asked the social worker about that, but she wouldn’t tell me a darn thing,” Mom said.
“It’s good that you mentioned it, so at least she’s on notice,” I said. “She can contact Detective Robinson if she learns about any questionable activities.”
“But Mom,” Greg said, looking up from his waffle. “Lorraine is the one who’s dead! And the only reason you suspect her is that she was drinking decaf coffee supposedly meant for Verna.”
We all fell silent. Greg was right. And it didn’t make sense.
* * * *
As we escorted Mom back to her unit, we ran into Verna outside the small, cheerful Assisted Living dining room in Laurel Grove.
“Margaret, I hope you’re having a pleasant morning with your family,” Verna said.
“Yes, Ellen and the kids took me to a delicious Sunday brunch over at Willow Springs,” Mom said. “I always eat way too much, and now I’m ready for a good nap.”
Ordinarily Mom would have added that this was a birthday brunch intended to replace her interrupted birthday luncheon, but I could tell that, given the circumstances, she held back.
“I know just how you feel,” Verna said as Dorothy Stanton was wheeled out of the dining room by her husband. As they passed by, Dorothy’s serene gaze slid over Verna, who complimented Dorothy on her colorful scarf.
A few seconds later Dorothy turned, craning her head to look back while Harlan continued to push his wife down the hall, bending forward and speaking to her softly.
“I’ve never seen Dorothy react to anything before,” I said. “Maybe she’s becoming more aware of her surroundings. Do you know what happened to her?”
“She had a stroke a couple of years ago,” Mom said, leaning on her rollator. “She lives upstairs in Nursing Care, and Harlan lives here in Assisted Living. He could have stayed in Independent Living after her stroke, but he moved here to be closer to her. He’s a wonderful man. He and Dorothy owned a plant nursery, and he knows everything about growing flowers and vegetables.”
“That would be quite a shift—from an outdoor lifestyle, and probably a home with a yard and garden, to an apartment in Woodland Oaks,” I said.
“I think they were ready for an easier life, although Harlan keeps a hand in the garden,” Mom said. “When I had my patio in Independent Living, he always told me what to put on my annuals to keep them healthy in these humid summers. Now he spends hours a day sitting with Dorothy even though she doesn’t seem to realize who he is. He’s convinced that she does, and that’s all that matters. My neighbor said the only time he leaves Dorothy’s side this time of year is to tend their community garden plot from ten to eleven every morning.”
“Maybe Harlan is right about what she understands,” Greg said, turning toward Verna. “It seemed like Dorothy recognized you.”
“Oh dear, I hope that’s not because she was alarmed by Lorraine’s accident and remembers that Lorraine was my guest,” Verna replied.
“Well, she may have some memory of that,” Chris said. “Depending on where a stroke occurs in the brain, different brain functions can be knocked out. Some stroke victims lose their ability to understand what’s going on around them. Others remain as sharp as ever on the inside but have problems moving their muscles or communicating.”
“Interesting, I didn’t know that,” I said.
“And with some forms of stroke, the family members learn how to communicate at least to an extent,” Chris added. “So it’s conceivable that Harlan has a sense of what Dorothy wants and tries to express.”
“I certainly have a feeling that he does,” Mom said.
“You’ve got such a good sense for people, Margaret, and you’re always so positive,” Verna said as we headed off to Mom’s apartment.
* * * *
Two days later I was back in Mom’s building, donating magazines to the beauty shop on her floor. Even as a kid I loved flipping through magazines, and now that I was retired I actually had the time to read everything I received. I kept the knitting, gardening, and writing publications for future reference. I bagged up the others and brought them to Laurel Grove for residents who might want to peruse Smithsonian, Real Simple, or the Minnesota State Bar Association’s Bench and Bar.
Free of my magazine burden, I walked toward the elevator instead of turning the corner to Mom’s room. If Mom’s campus intel was right, Harlan Stanton would be puttering in the community garden right now. Dorothy might appreciate a brief hello even if she didn’t recognize me.
I always tried to be upbeat when I visited Woodland Oaks, but thoughts of Lorraine’s death gnawed at me as I strolled down the hall. Who would want Verna dead? Mom didn’t know enough about Verna for us to even speculate.
Alternatively, what if Lorraine’s death wasn’t a mistake, the unfortunate result of a mixed-up beverage order? Nancy Brightwood urged the victims of Lorraine’s brother to testify when he was charged with investment fraud, but, once they refused, I hardly thought Nancy would mete out frontier justice from the coffee station. What about the Stantons? Dorothy could be one of the victims whose medical situation prevented her from testifying. What if Lorraine’s brother stole money that Harlan and Dorothy set aside for a comfortable retirement at Woodland Oaks? Mom relied on Harlan for his knowledge of herbicides and pesticides. Would he use his gardening arsenal to avenge the loss?
I shook these notions from my mind. Clearly I had been reading too many murder mysteries since I retired.
Down the hall Verna waited at the elevator. Her rollator was nowhere to be seen, and she was carrying a foil pie plate piled with candy, sealed in red plastic wrap, and topped with a red-and-white bow. She shifted the plate to one hand, fishing a Kleenex out of her pocket with the other. A second Kleenex escaped her pocket and drifted to the floor. Verna knelt and snatched it up while holding the pie plate level in her other hand. She rose, the elevator door opened, and she stepped in.
“Ellen, could you be a dear and retrieve those for me? Between the tremor and the arthritis, I can’t stoop down or pick things up like I used to.” The memory of Verna’s words jolted like an electric shock.
Then I recalled Greg’s comment to Verna: “It seemed like Dorothy recognized you.”
In that instant I realized Lorraine was indeed the intended victim, and Verna was the killer. Dorothy must have seen her swap the coffee cups. And Verna knew it.
Hobbling a little from the bursitis, I made it halfway down the hall before the elevator door closed. I had to beat Verna to Nursing Care on the fourth floor, where I guessed she was heading with a homemade treat. If she would poison one friend, why not two?
I rounded the corner to the stairwell, punched 4432 on the access-code box, and shoved open the door to the stairway. Pulling myself with my right hand on the banister, I climbed up to the first landing and around, up to the next landing and around again, and emerged into the fourth-floor hallway, panting. The elevator door opened as I came back around the corner. Verna stepped out.
“Verna, where are you headed?” I called, trying to catch my breath.
Verna snapped her head around and glared at me over her shoulder. Almost immediately, she pasted a smile on her face.
“Dear me, what floor am I on?” she said. “I was going to my unit and must have pushed the wrong button.”
I nearly rolled my eyes. “I saw you getting into the elevator on your floor. And you’re heading toward Dorothy Stanton’s room right now.”
Truth be told, I wasn’t positive that I was right, but I couldn’t risk letting Verna get away with two murders. I fumbled through my purse for my phone and hit the emergency call button.
“I’m calling from the Laurel Grove Assisted Living and Nursing Care Center in the Woodland Oaks Continuing Care Community,” I told the dispatcher. “We need the police now. I think Lorraine Taylor’s murderer is here on the fourth floor of Nursing Care.”
Verna dropped the pie plate full of lethal candy and started to back down the corridor. But she wasn’t giving up without a fight.
“You’ve got the wrong person, young lady,” she said, shaking her finger at me. “Just because your mother thinks she knows everything that goes on in Woodland Hills. Why, I’ve half a mind to report you for false—”
Suddenly, Detective Robinson and her partner sprinted around the corner from the stairwell.
“Detective Robinson!” I lowered my voice in the quiet Nursing Care hallway. “I think Verna killed Lorraine Taylor. And she was planning to poison Dorothy Stanton.” I nodded at the pie plate on the floor.
Alisha Robinson strode past me and walked straight to Verna.
“Mrs. Hanson, we were just looking for you on the second floor. We have some questions to ask you.”
Detective Robinson’s partner picked up the pie plate from the floor, pausing first to put on latex gloves he pulled from his duty belt.
Meanwhile, Verna recovered her frail-old-lady routine.
“I was confused,” she said, her voice quavering. “I never meant to hurt dear Lorraine. The coffee, you know. I’m sure I can explain it all.”
“The station would be the best place for that, Mrs. Hanson,” Detective Robinson said.
The detective motioned to her partner to accompany Verna in the elevator. Then she led the way to the stairwell, and I walked down with her.
“Mrs. Walker, I appreciate your fast action. Fortunately, we were in the building to interview Mrs. Hanson and several other people. Tell me what happened here.”
“I saw Verna from down the hall, but she didn’t see me. She was waiting for the elevator, and I noticed she didn’t have her rollator. Then she accidentally dropped a Kleenex, and when she picked it up without any problem something clicked in my head. I realized she had been putting on a wounded victim act for all of us to see, and there was one obvious reason why. She’s the murderer.”
“How do you think she poisoned Lorraine?” Detective Robinson asked.
“Well, I think I figured that out. Nancy Brightwood welcomed us all to the luncheon after everyone settled in. The guests were sitting at those round tables, and we turned toward the front of the room to listen to Nancy. But Verna was seated at the back of our table, already facing toward the front of the room, and Dorothy was across from her with her back to Nancy. Dorothy didn’t turn around to the front or acknowledge that Nancy was speaking.”
I gestured to indicate the seating arrangement.
“That must be when Verna put poison in her own coffee and then slid her cup in front of Lorraine,” I said.
“And no one noticed because everyone was focused on Nancy?” Detective Robinson asked.
“I think so. It wouldn’t be hard to do if you were brazen enough, especially if the poison had been dressed up in a packet of Splenda or whatever. Residents carry those around in their purses all the time. Dorothy must have seen her make the switch, but Verna probably didn’t care, figuring Dorothy’s stroke had left her too debilitated—either Dorothy didn’t understand what she’d seen or she couldn’t communicate it to anyone even if she did. I had the same impression about Dorothy, until two days ago. That’s when Mom, my kids, Verna, and I were talking outside the Assisted Living dining room.”
“What happened then?”
“Harlan pushed Dorothy past us and Dorothy turned her head. It seemed like she was staring right at Verna. Later in the conversation, Mom mentioned that Dorothy’s husband was away from her from ten to eleven every morning. And Chris explained how stroke victims may be more cognizant than they appear and may be able to communicate with folks who know them well. Verna must have realized she’d be in big trouble if Dorothy told Harlan what she knew.”
“What about the candy?” the detective asked. “What made you suspect that Verna made it and intended to poison Dorothy with it?”
“When we visited Verna the day after Lorraine died, Mom brought a bag of her famous chocolate peanut clusters. She gives them away to her friends, and they’re always a big hit. I think Verna picked up on the idea and concocted her own candy in her kitchenette, lacing it with whatever poison she put in Lorraine’s coffee. I don’t know what that is, but I hope the medical examiner has identified it by now. She gift-wrapped her candy in plastic wrap and a bow and headed upstairs to silence a possible witness! I can’t believe it took me so long to see this. I had Lorraine pegged as a fraudster and Verna as an innocent elderly victim.”
“That was perfectly reasonable,” Detective Robinson said. “We were following the same trail of Lorraine’s conduct, but we had also learned some troubling information about Verna, which is why we were seeking to interview her.”
“I’m sure you were ahead of me,” I said.
“We found evidence that Lorraine did play a role in her brother’s investment scheme, helping to recruit victims. But we also discovered that when Verna lived in Pennsylvania she was involved in a health-insurance scam where patients falsely claimed disability in order to receive benefits. There were even a few claims made using the identities of deceased persons.”
“That’s creepy,” I said. “So Verna suspected Lorraine’s motives and decided to take preemptive action—way out of proportion to whatever Lorraine was up to. I guess nobody was going to take advantage of Verna.”
Detective Robinson and I reached the entrance of Laurel Grove as her partner was approaching with Verna.
“You know, Verna has several photos in her room of old friends from Pennsylvania,” I said. “Do you think any of them were in on her schemes?”
“It’s certainly possible. We’ll reach out to the Pennsylvania authorities to pass this information on to them. Maybe they’ll be able to identify the people in the photographs.”
Detective Robinson’s partner eased Verna into the back seat of the cruiser. As he prepared to shut the door, Verna looked up at him, squinting against the bright sun. “I used to have so many friends. And now they’re all gone. Every one.”
Detective Robinson and I locked eyes. It was August in Virginia, but I felt a sudden chill.
Jane Limprecht started writing mysteries in 2018 after retiring from a thirty-five-year career in legal journalism and public information as a Department of Justice spokeswoman in Washington, DC, a legal reporter for BNA Inc. (now Bloomberg Industry Group), and a legislative attorney in Madison, Wisconsin. A native Nebraskan, Jane received her undergraduate and law degrees from the University of Wisconsin. She has two grown children and lives in Northern Virginia with her husband and their black dog, Spottie. https://janelimprecht.wordpress.com/