Chapter Twenty

Heather’s lips twisted in an attempt at a smile. “I should have known you’d find out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She twined her fingers together. “Because it’s not relevant. But I can’t expect you to take my word on that.”

I waited.

“I’d better start from the beginning. You’d learn it anyway.” She sounded more resigned than resentful. “I came to Sunshine Haven almost four years ago as the memory care program coordinator. That’s the job Norman Mendelson has now. I focused on my own job, the patients, and their families. But after a while, I noticed problems.”

She pressed her hands on the desk, spreading her fingers wide. “Most of the employees were decent people, trying to do a good job, but they were understaffed and overworked. A few bad employees ruined the atmosphere for everyone else. One lazy person doesn’t do their job and the others take up the slack for a while, but eventually they burn out. They wonder why they’re doing more work for no more money, and why the bad employee isn’t disciplined or fired. Everything gets worse. Accidents start to happen.”

“I know what you mean. One manager who’s incompetent, or who manages based on favoritism and grudges, can spoil a whole department.”

“Right.” Heather pushed her hair back from her face. “In a place like this, patients get neglected when employees don’t do their job, and accidents can be deadly. I was making promises to patients’ families, promises in line with our official policies, but they weren’t being kept.”

“Such as?”

“Well, we claimed we had a nurse on duty at all times. In reality, we only had a registered nurse come in thirty hours a week, which wasn’t nearly enough. My boss said a nursing assistant counted, and while we technically didn’t promise an RN, when people hear ‘nurse,’ that’s what they assume.” She sighed. “I went through the official chain of command and got ignored, so I sent reports to the company that owns this place. I guess they simply sent them back to the director, because all that happened was I got in trouble. I was put on probation and threatened with dismissal.”

I tensed, my hand gripping the head of the cane so hard my fingers hurt. Her story was too familiar, and one that never stopped making me angry. I took a slow breath and commanded my muscles to relax. My thoughts could be angry, but I didn’t want to undo all the relaxation work Berta had done.

Heather licked her lips and studied me. She must have decided I wasn’t angry with her.

“I couldn’t let it go, not when patients were being mistreated.” Her eyes begged me to understand. “I was gathering evidence, preparing to go to the state licensing agencies, even the news if I needed to.”

“Good for you.”

“The director figured out what I was doing, or he’d already planned to get rid of me. He fired me, blamed me for every shortcoming, and hinted strongly that I’d been personally abusing patients.”

“He blamed you to protect himself.”

She nodded. “I was the sacrificial lamb.”

“And yet . . .” I gestured toward her desk and office.

“I have Henry to thank for this. He was on the board then, although it wasn’t too active. They met the minimum number of required times and basically took reports from the director, accepting whatever he said. When I got fired, I was . . . paralyzed. In shock. I thought my career was over. I could have wound up in jail.” Her face softened, and she seemed to be looking at something in her memory. “Henry asked for my side of the story. He believed me, at least enough to find the truth. He insisted on an outside audit. In the end, they cleared me and fired the other director.”

“And promoted you.”

“I still feel like I have to prove myself, but Henry gave me a chance. Can you see why I love him?”

“I can see why you owe him. That’s not quite the same thing.” I’d had my butt saved more than once by a bodyguard or soldier assigned to protect me while I worked on a story. The rush of gratitude could be powerful, especially if mixed with mutual attraction and the high of surviving a near-death experience. It had led to fooling around more often than I cared to admit, but I’d never pretended it was love.

“I do owe him,” Heather said. “But I don’t love him because he saved my career. I love him because he’s the type of person who would do that. He’s a good man.”

“Yet you’re hiding the relationship. What would the company say if they knew about the two of you?”

She glanced away. “As soon as his term on the board is up, he’ll step down. It’s only a couple more months. Until then, we want to keep our relationship quiet. You know how people are. Some of them would think we must have been dating before he helped me. It would bring everything into question.”

I finished my coffee and put the cup on her desk. “All right, I understand your explanation. I wish you’d told me earlier, but I see why you didn’t. I’m not concerned about your private life. But it’s pretty hard to keep secrets. You’d be better off either coming clean or putting the romance on hold until it’s safe.”

“It didn’t take you long to find out.” Heather’s brows drew together. “Is that the only reason you wanted to meet with me? When you told me to cancel my appointments today, I figured you had something major to report.”

“Right. Now that we’ve cleared the air, we can get down to serious business.”

The previous evening, I’d thought a lot about what I should share. I could skip the dead ends, such as the employees whose suspicious activities turned out to be innocent. Steven Hicks and Norman Mendelson were the important points. I started with Steven Hicks, my pick for the killer, since that was the problem requiring immediate outside help.

When I’d finished, Heather slumped back in her seat. “So I was right. Damn it.”

“It’s not definite, but it’s possible you’ve had at least one murder here. I don’t know how we’ll prove anything, but it’s time to call in the police.”

“If we can’t prove anything, what will they do?”

“Take over the investigation. They can do things I can’t.”

“Like what?”

I shrugged. “Exhume bodies to check for poison? Interview Hicks in the police station instead of a bar? It’s either drop this and hope no one ever finds out, and Hicks is done now that his ex-girlfriend’s mother is dead, or call the police.” I wasn’t willing to drop it and forget it, but I wanted to know if she was.

She groaned. “We have to find out for sure. I’ll need to notify the board of directors. I really should do that first, but it might take all day to reach everyone, and if they want to meet in person before approving anything . . . I think this is one time it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission. You’ll help me explain things to the police?”

“Absolutely.”

She reached for the phone. “I guess we’d better get started.”

Heather was on the phone for about ten minutes, getting passed around to two or three different people. Finally, she hung up. “They’ll send a detective over. It’ll be at least half an hour, maybe an hour. I’ll start calling the board.”

I hadn’t yet told Heather about Mendelson possibly giving patients the wrong amounts of drugs and/or extorting money from patients, but she seemed to have as much as she could handle at the moment.

I got to my feet. “I’ll visit my mother. If I’m not back when they come, send someone for me.”

Heather nodded. “Do we have to tell the police about Mrs. Gregorian and Mrs. Valentine? In retrospect, those may have been natural, and only Mrs. Egland’s death . . . questionable.”

“Maybe, but you wouldn’t want the police to uncover something suspicious later and then wonder why you hadn’t said anything.”

I could practically see her internal battle, wanting to do what was right, but also wanting to do damage control, to protect Sunshine Haven’s reputation—and her own.

“I suppose you’re right. Besides, it’ll be hard to explain why we started looking at Brit Egland’s death in the first place without mentioning the other problems.”

“You’ve gotten through worse before. Trust that you can get through this.” I glanced back from the door.

Heather sagged forward with her head in her hands. Being proved right isn’t always satisfying. Sometimes it stinks.

I found Mom and Dad in the sunroom.

When I joined them, Dad asked, “You here for a while?”

“Sure. I’ve got at least half an hour.”

He kissed Mom’s cheek and got up. “I need to stretch my legs.”

Mom asked about my cane again. I said I’d had a minor injury but would be fine soon. We chatted, but I felt like we were having two parallel conversations, and I couldn’t figure out what hers was about. Maybe it was my fault. It wasn’t easy to focus on Mom’s words when I had so much on my mind, especially with the rumble of another conversation nearby.

I fished around for a topic of interest. Alzheimer’s patients often did better when discussing the past. “Hey, Mom, tell me about when you and Dad fell in love.”

Her expression softened as she reminisced. After half a minute, I pulled out my phone and started recording. Stories like this would be great to share with Jen’s kids, to let them know who their grandmother used to be. And one day, when I could no longer hear Mom’s voice in real life, I’d have it here.

Mom shared stories for about fifteen minutes. Then she searched for something in her purse, but she wouldn’t explain what she wanted. My patience ran thin.

“Keep your temper. It’s not her fault.” Jen stood over us.

She was right, but her comment didn’t help my mood. I grabbed my cane and shoved myself to my feet. “I need to get going anyway.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Busy schedule?”

“Actually, yes. I have to help Heather with something.” I wouldn’t explain about the police, not then and there.

Jen gestured toward the door. “Fine. Hang out with your friend. I’ll help Mom.”

I tried not to grind my teeth. “Do you know Mendelson?”

Her brows drew together. “The composer?”

“Ha, no. The guy who works here.”

“Oh, right. Dad and I met with him about Mom’s care. Several times.”

“What did you think of him?”

She shrugged. “Not someone I’d hang out with socially, but he was knowledgeable and clear about what the place could offer. He seemed to care about patients with Alzheimer’s. Why?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Dad controlled the joint bank account now, so Jen wouldn’t know of any problems. I brushed past her, trying not to limp, although the positive effects of the morning’s PT had faded. I swung through the doorway without glancing back. Why did Jen push my buttons so much? She thought she was in charge of everything, that she was the only one who cared about and took care of Mom. She didn’t even suspect the problems at Sunshine Haven.

I stopped in the middle of the hallway. She didn’t know anything because I hadn’t told her anything. My initial reasoning had been sound—the fewer people who knew, the better, and Jen would have wanted to take control, do things her way, call in the police right away . . .

Or would she? She knew better than I how hard it had been to find this place for Mom. Jen was annoying, but she was also smart and practical. I’d eventually trusted Mackenzie, Joe and Marty, and Simon with the truth. But not my own sister. It hadn’t even occurred to me to include Jen in our surveillance the night before.

I sighed and kept walking. Jen and I had been close, once, a long time ago. How had we gotten so far apart, and would we ever be able to bridge that gap? I didn’t even know why she was so cranky with me.

Of course, I hadn’t actually asked her.

And I wasn’t about to do it then and there, in Mom’s presence, and with a police detective coming any minute. My sister could wait until I’d dealt with murder.

I found Heather pacing the lobby, straightening chairs and restocking the sugar packets at the coffee station.

“Hard to sit still,” I said.

She nodded. “I wish they’d show up. I want to get this over with.”

I didn’t point out that it probably wouldn’t be “over with” for some time. Weeks, maybe months, or even years, if the police ever found enough to arrest Hicks and go to trial. Telling Heather about Mendelson would be a distraction but not one that would make her feel better.

“When we’re done with the police, I’ll take you to lunch,” I said.

“Let’s hope we’re done by lunchtime.”

The main doors opened. Heather stiffened and swung toward them. A thirtyish Hispanic woman entered the room. Heather’s shoulders dropped and she turned back to me. The woman crossed to the reception desk and spoke to June, who pointed in our direction.

“I think your detective is here,” I said.

The woman wore dark slacks and a white shirt. “Ms. Garcia? I’m Detective Yaquelin Padilla.”

Heather managed a sickly smile. “Let’s go into my office.”

Once there, with the door closed, Heather introduced me and let me take the lead in explaining the situation. I spoke for a long time, even focusing only on Hicks.

Detective Padilla took notes and asked questions. Finally, she said, “Let me make sure I have this straight. You suspect that this patient, Brit Egland, may have been murdered—perhaps poisoned—although the doctor who signed the death certificate didn’t suspect anything, and no autopsy was done. The suspect, Steven Hicks, had a motive because he might have thought his girlfriend would inherit. In the end, that’s all you have.”

Heather and I looked at each other.

I said, “There’s my shattered window and the bullet in my wall, but I can’t prove that was Hicks.”

Padilla’s eyebrows went up. “You piss off a lot of people?”

“Lately, it seems that way. I don’t think my sister would use a gun, though.”

Mendelson, maybe, but mentioning him would only confuse the situation. Explaining my reasoning to the detective made our case seem a lot weaker than it had sounded in my mind, or when I’d described it to Heather, who was already suspicious. That was the problem with being accurate and honest. Exaggeration was often so much more effective.

I said, “Look. I know we don’t have enough to go to court, but surely, you can do something.”

Padilla stood. “It’s enough to make me want to question this guy. Who knows, he may panic and admit everything.” She grinned. “If we’re really lucky, maybe he’ll get physical and give us an excuse to arrest him and search him.”

I slumped back in my chair with a sigh. She hadn’t dismissed our concerns after all. “I realize that’s a long shot. Can we do anything else?”

“We can try for an autopsy, if the body is still available.”

“I know what funeral home she went to. I can check,” Heather said. “I haven’t heard of any burial yet, but she might’ve been cremated.”

“Then we’re out of luck unless it’s a type of poison that can be detected in the cremains, and they haven’t scattered the ashes,” Padilla said. “It’s nearly impossible to convict someone of murder if you can’t prove a murder happened. Find out if they still have the body. Get the family’s permission for the autopsy. Makes things easier.”

“What about Penelope Valentine and Mrs. Gregorian?” I asked. “Hicks might have been practicing on them.”

“I know Mrs. Valentine was buried locally,” Heather said. “I doubt her family would want her exhumed without a pretty solid reason, though.”

“Most families don’t,” Padilla said. “Hard to make it happen when we don’t have a real good case against this guy. I don’t want to tell a judge we want to dig up this woman’s body, upset her family, without evidence.”

“Mrs. Gregorian is still alive,” I said. “Maybe the poison left some residue in her tissues or something.”

Padilla frowned. “It’s been what, three weeks? Lotta stuff will be gone by now but not everything. It would help if we knew what kind of poison we were talking about. Most tests will only find what you’re looking for. You can’t simply run a test for everything. It’s odd, though. Poison is usually a woman’s crime. Your Hicks sounds like a macho guy, the kind that would use a gun or knife, or his fists.”

“Not if he wanted to keep it secret,” Heather said.

“Smothering then. It leaves signs a doctor might notice, but not everyone realizes that.”

“This might give us a clue to the poison,” I said. “I’ll bet Hicks didn’t do a lot of research. More likely he used something he had on hand.”

“You said he works at an auto shop?” Padilla grinned. “Probably lots of deadly chemicals there.”

I shivered. The idea of somebody dosing elderly women with brake fluid or motor oil or whatever was sickening. We had to stop this guy.

Heather stood and offered her hand to Yaquelin Padilla. “Thank you for believing us.”

“Can’t see why you’d make up a story like this. It’s only going to cause problems for you. I’ll warn you, though, if we don’t find something fast, this won’t make our priority list. Too much else to do.” She strode out of the room.

Heather collapsed in her chair. “She’s so right about causing problems.”

I leaned over the desk to get Heather’s attention. “Listen to me. We’re doing the right thing. That’s what’s important.”

Her laugh edged toward hysteria. “Yeah, that worked out so well for me last time.”

“It did. Remember that part. Doing the right thing got you this job and Henry Wilson.”

“You’re right. Of course, you’re right. And it wouldn’t matter. We can’t let this guy get away with murder.” She stretched and groaned. “I think you promised me lunch. I’m ready for some stress eating, and it’s going to be a busy afternoon.”

She only knew the half of it. Maybe I’d wait until after lunch to tell her my suspicions about Norman Mendelson. If Heather tried to stress eat her way through everything, we’d have another dead body on our hands.