Chapter Nine

I shook my head and returned to the sunroom. Joe Washington was chatting with the nurse and her table of patients. Mom, seated next to Marty Washington, looked in my direction. Could she see me from there? Did she know who I was?

I needed to sit. My leg trembled with fatigue. I headed toward my family.

Marty rose. “Take my seat, honey. I’m going to find the ladies’ room.” She winked as she passed by.

Dad got up as well. “I’ll show you the way.”

I sat next to Mom. “Have you been having a good visit, Mom?”

“Oh yes. She’s a very nice lady.”

Did she actually recognize Mrs. Washington, or did she think she’d met a nice stranger? “I guess you’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Since our husbands were in service together.” She looked vaguely around the room. “So long ago.”

At least she remembered that. Didn’t patients with Alzheimer’s or dementia often have much clearer memories of their pasts than of what had happened recently? I’d done some research when I first got the news of Mom’s diagnosis, but that had been a couple months ago, and more recent events had knocked it out of my mind. More detailed research on Alzheimer’s was another item for my to-do list.

In the meantime, how could I talk to my mother? I couldn’t tell her most of what I’d been doing, and I doubted she’d been doing much of interest. News and current events weren’t good topics either. I glanced at Jen, who simply crossed her arms and gave me a challenging look. No help there.

I mentally searched for an appropriate topic, until Mom said, “I’m scared.”

Jen and I exchanged startled glances.

“What are you afraid of?” I asked.

“What if I don’t have enough money? I don’t want to tell your father. He’d worry.”

“You don’t need to think about money,” I said. “Everything’s taken care of.”

In truth, I had only a vague understanding of the financial situation. I hadn’t been involved with that from overseas. My meager savings wouldn’t support me, let alone my parents.

But we’d care for Mom one way or another.

Mom leaned close and whispered, “But what if he wants more?”

When I raised my eyebrows at Jen, she shrugged and shook her head. I put my arm around my mother.

“Who, Mom? Tell me exactly what’s bothering you.” Maybe it was nothing, her imagination or some memory from the distant past.

She blinked at me. “The lady in my hall, Mrs. . . . I’m not sure. She said that man told her she had to pay more, or she’d be kicked out.”

“Kicked out of where?”

“Here, of course. Where else?” She squinted at me as if I was the one not making sense.

“Okay, one of your neighbors here at Sunshine Haven”—I waved a hand around the room—“one of the other people living here said this?”

Mom nodded. “The man told her he needed more money. Five hundred dollars!”

“Who is this man?”

Five hundred dollars was a relatively small amount. Maybe someone was late on her payments or had special costs. But surely, any employee would talk to the family, not the Alzheimer’s patient, about financial problems.

“Oh, what’s his name? Mr. . . . Mr. Brown? No, Rogers. That’s it. I think.”

I didn’t remember either Brown or Rogers on the employee list. I’d have to take another look. Had Mom given me a clue to something shady at Sunshine Haven? Or was she merely confused? Even if Mom was relaying things accurately, the neighbor might have been mistaken or paranoid, or she might have really owed some money.

“Don’t worry, Mom. If anyone says you need to pay more, you tell us. All right? We’ll take care of everything.”

She patted my hand. “You’re a good girl. We were so worried about you.”

Worried about my recent injury, or something else, maybe my entire career? She hadn’t liked me being so far away in a dangerous job. I hugged her gently.

“I’m here now. No more worrying.” Funny, my voice sounded odd as I said it. I blinked a few times and avoided looking at Jen.

Joe Washington wandered back over and entertained us with stories from the “old days.” Mom was lively and laughing, and she seemed to remember the stories she’d heard before, as well as the events where she’d been present. Maybe when talking with her I should ignore today and reminisce about the past. That might help me connect with my mother now.

Of course, our past together was . . . complicated. We loved each other, but we hadn’t always gotten along, and I’d spent most of my life working thousands of miles away in part so Mom couldn’t nag and meddle as much.

Now I wished she could keep meddling for decades.

Marty Washington and Dad finally came back, but if either of them had been in the bathroom that whole time, they needed to increase their fiber intake. Mom seemed tired, so Dad escorted her to her room with the Washingtons trailing behind them.

Jen blocked my path.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“The money thing? I have no idea. I take it you don’t know of any financial problems.”

She tossed her head. “We’re fine. I studied the paperwork thoroughly. No, I’m talking about the fact that you come to visit Mom and spend half the time wandering around talking to other people.”

I drew back. “I think that’s an exaggeration.”

I’d been with Heather five minutes or so, and I’d certainly spent much more time sitting with Mom than talking to the Gregorians. Granted, I hadn’t talked a lot with Mom, but I’d been present.

Jen sighed. “I just think that if you’re going to visit Mom, you should visit Mom. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Well, no, not entirely. Unfortunately, I couldn’t explain to Jen why I’d been interested in other patients. Secrecy was a lot harder with family around.

I tried to think of an explanation she might accept. “Look, you had a chance to check out this place before Mom got here. I didn’t.”

“Whose fault was that?”

I pried my clenched jaws apart. “So if I want to talk to some of the staff, or other patients, to make sure this is a good place for Mom, I’m going to do that, okay?”

“Now you don’t trust my judgment.”

I resisted the urge to pull out my hair—or hers.

“You want me to be involved. You don’t want me to ask questions. Frankly, I’m getting a bit tired of what you want.” I brushed past her and tried to stomp out of the room. It turns out stomping is hard when you have a cane and a weak leg.

The Washingtons headed down the hallway toward the front doors. I followed them. I should have said goodbye to Mom, but I needed to cool down before I saw Jen again. Plus, I wanted to find out what they had learned.

They waited in the parking lot until I caught up with them.

“Anything to report?” I asked.

“The woman I talked to is named Olivia,” Joe said. “She wasn’t on our list. She’s not a nurse. They call them ‘attendants.’ She’s worked here six months. Seems to like it okay. She worked at another nursing home before this and it was a lot worse. Too many patients, not enough employees, so they could barely keep up with the patients’ physical needs, let alone treat them like human beings. She thought she’d have to find another line of work, but this place is better. Strict standards for employees, but she thinks that’s good. Less turnover than the last place. She seems to respect Heather Garcia, though she doesn’t see much of her.”

“You learned a lot.”

Norman Mendelson, the guy who didn’t like gossip, probably wouldn’t be happy to hear that. You’d think someone in charge of training staff and supervising patient care would have more important things to do than nag visitors. You’d also think he’d have a better way with people.

Marty took her husband’s arm. “Joe’s a charmer. But I actually found Felicity Carver.”

“The nurse without a past?” Shoot, I’d forgotten to ask Heather about her.

She nodded. “I only managed to speak to her for a minute. As one of two RNs on the whole staff, she’ll have a full workload in a place this size. But I have a theory about her.”

“Oh?”

“I’m saving it until I’m sure.” Marty gave a mischievous smile.

“Is that really necessary?” I asked.

Her husband frowned and shook his head. “Baby, you know what happens when someone says, ‘I know whodunit and I’ll tell you later.’ That person always gets it next.” He drew his finger across his throat.

Marty patted his arm. “Don’t worry. This secret won’t get someone killed. But if I’m right, it’s something private, and I wouldn’t want to embarrass the poor woman needlessly.”

So far, our best guess about Felicity Carver had been witness protection, but that wasn’t something I would have called “embarrassing.”

“When do you think you’ll know for sure?” I asked.

“I’ll ask Mackenzie to check on something for me. I might have an answer tomorrow.”

“Fine. We’ll discuss it when we meet tomorrow. Until then, please be careful.”

Joe gave me a salute. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

They headed to their car arm in arm. I watched with a pang of loneliness. Serious relationships had been impractical in my career. I didn’t mind. It meant I had complete freedom to make my own choices, and I’d never wanted kids. I’d had “friends with benefits” over the years. Near-death experiences tended to rev up the libido, and in my line of work, you ran into the same journalists and photographers in war-torn countries and disaster areas around the world. But I didn’t have anyone who would be with me into old age, up to the end.

My thoughts flitted to Todd Paradise, now mayor and a father. How old were his kids? What was his wife like? Or husband, if he’d come out after I knew him. My high school classmates had thirty years to marry, have kids, divorce, remarry—some might even have grandchildren by now. The mind boggled. In fact, it staggered and collapsed in a dazed heap. We could not possibly have gotten that old.

I sighed and headed to the car to wait for Dad. Of course, my parents were a reminder that even if you found someone you wanted to marry and managed to stay married to them for decades, you didn’t typically get to die peacefully in your bed at the same time. Was it worse to be alone from the start or worse to watch someone you love fade away?

No point in making choices I didn’t have. I sat in the car with the door open, letting out some of the heat. I pulled a notebook from my shoulder bag and noted what we’d learned.

The information from the Gregorians seemed the most relevant. The strange illness was puzzling and potentially suspicious. She’d improved after dialysis. I looked that up on my phone to make sure I understood what it did. According to the all-knowing internet, dialysis purified the blood in patients who had kidney disease. It could remove waste products and chemicals. Had Mrs. Gregorian gotten some kind of poison or an overdose of a drug? Had the dialysis, by pure luck, removed the toxin?

If so, and if someone trying to kill her had administered the substance intentionally, the killer had not yet bothered to try again. He or she had, potentially, moved on to new targets with more success. That seemed to remove suspicion from her family members, who wouldn’t benefit from the deaths of other patients. On the other hand, an “angel of mercy,” or someone who thought God was commanding them to kill, might take the recovery as a sign to let Mrs. Gregorian live.

Dad joined me. “I figured you must have come out here.”

“Yeah, sorry. I hope Mom wasn’t upset that I slipped out.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure she noticed.” After a moment of silence, he asked, “Fighting with your sister?”

I sighed. “It’s not like I want to. But she has this huge chip on her shoulder.” More like an entire tree. A giant redwood, maybe.

He nodded. I didn’t want to put Dad in the middle of this, so I resisted the burning urge to complain at length.

“Oh, Heather gave me this.” He squirmed in the seat until he could pull an envelope out of his back pocket. “She came out when we were taking your mother back to her room, slipped this to me, and said it was for you.”

I opened the envelope and found two sheets of paper. They had obituaries printed from online sources.

“These must be the women who died,” I said.

Heather had come through with the information I needed, while maintaining a rather sketchy plausible deniability to support confidentiality rules. She’d said she thought she could get official permission for me to interview the family members, albeit under the guise of researching an article. Maybe she hadn’t been able to reach anyone yet and she was anxious to move forward before someone else died. Was her willingness to bend the rules simply a sign of how important this was to her? Or did it suggest a suspicious moral flexibility?

I leaned toward Dad and held the pages between us. He tipped his head up and squinted through the bottom of his bifocals. I had thus far avoided reading glasses, but it was a good thing the font wasn’t any smaller.

One obituary was short, only about a column inch, and appeared to be from a smaller local paper. Brit Egland, a retired teacher, had died the week before at sixty-eight. At one time, I would have thought that old, but now, it seemed tragically young. I wondered how long she had been in nursing care before her death. She was survived by her daughter, Lisa Delacruz, and grandson, Ryan.

The other obituary, from the Arizona Republic, was longer, more detailed, and included a photo of a smiling face framed by tight curls. It stated that Penelope Valentine had passed away at age eighty-six, at sunrise, “joining her beloved husband in Heaven.” She had a dozen descendants. Someone had made a mark in blue pen—casual enough to look accidental—under the name of her daughter Kellie Armstrong, who lived in nearby Chandler.

“What do you intend to do with this information?” Dad asked.

“Talk to the families. These women each had a daughter in the area.”

“Will you schedule appointments or just stop by their houses?”

“If I call, they can say no, so I’ll stop by. Even if they won’t talk to me, you can sometimes learn a lot by getting a look at a person and their house. But of course, we risk them not being home.”

“At least it’s Saturday.”

Was it? I didn’t normally worry too much about the weekend, since warlords, terrorists, and military personnel didn’t stick to a five-day workweek, and the days designated as the weekend varied in the Middle East. But here, most people would work a regular schedule with a Saturday-Sunday weekend.

“No time like the present,” I said. “Do you mind if I take the car this afternoon?”

“Of course I mind. I’ll be going with you. Don’t worry. I’ll let you handle the interviews, but I can drive and be there in case you need me.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I chuckled. “You know, sometimes when I travel in risky areas, I have a fixer, a guy who speaks the language, knows who to bribe, knows the safest routes and so forth. Here, I guess you’re my fixer.”

“Works for me. It’s a father’s job to fix things for his daughter when he can.” He smiled as he started the car.

I’d been right to bring Dad into this. I hadn’t realized how much he still needed to feel useful, and how much I still needed my dad.

“I’ll see if I can find addresses.” I searched on my phone. “Here’s Kellie Armstrong in Chandler.”

Dad punched the address into the GPS as I read it aloud. Then I found the second address, for Lisa Delacruz.

“Let’s do Chandler first,” he said. “Then, depending on how long that takes, I know a good place to have lunch, and we can swing by the second address on the way home.”

“Perfect.” My stomach grumbled at the mention of food. I hadn’t had much appetite since my injury, and food had tasted bland. Maybe that had been another side effect of the prescription painkillers, or maybe my body simply wanted more food now that I was back in action.

As Dad drove, I explained what the Washingtons and I had found. “Do you have anything to add?”

“I’m not sure who told you not to talk to people, but I noticed a fellow watching us all from the doorway before you left the room.”

“Medium height and build, brown hair, dressy clothes?”

Dad nodded. “I don’t recall his name, but we met with him before moving your mother in. He talked to Jen as if I wasn’t even there.”

“What a jerk.”

“It happens a lot now. You get old, and people assume you can’t see, hear, or think. I suppose he has some reason, working in a place like that, but other doctors do the same thing.”

I’d witnessed women being treated that way, as if they had no brains. I hadn’t realized it happened to elderly people as well.

“Does Jen usually go to doctors’ visits with you?”

“She insists. She says it’s good to have someone else along to take notes, and your mother can’t do that anymore. Jen isn’t wrong about having an extra pair of ears, but I don’t understand why the doctors assume that person is in charge.”

I tried to think of a reason that wasn’t offensive to the patient. I couldn’t. “Did anything else happen when you were, uh, showing Mrs. Washington the way to the bathroom?”

“Not really. I took a good look around the place. Didn’t find much security. It’s designed to keep patients from going out unattended, not to keep people from coming in. Besides the front door, there’s a loading dock in the back. The door says it’s alarmed, so I didn’t try it. No one stopped me from wandering around. I could have walked into any of the patients’ rooms. Of course, I probably look like a patient myself, so I blend in.”

“No, Dad.” Although, in truth, I’d have trouble telling the patients from some visitors.

More relevant to our investigation, it appeared that anyone—patient, staff, or visitor—had a good chance of wandering into a patient’s room without being noticed. On the surface, that made sense. The home didn’t want patients to feel like prisoners. The whole place had the look of a hotel or furnished apartment building rather than a hospital. But if someone was killing patients, it left the field wide open.

“There’s something else we should maybe talk about,” Dad said.

“Oh? What now?”

“I think we’re being followed.”