Deadly Descent (10 page)

Chapter Twenty

The next morning, still haunted by the visit, I dabbed a bit of concealer under my eyes and headed to the office. Herman Swenson was not nearly as out of it as people thought he was. He could hear, react. He had been angry with me. What could I have said or done that set him off? For once, my preoccupation with body language was invaluable. It was the only way the miserable old man had of communicating.

I closed my eyes, pictured him in that wheelchair again, remembered his pleasure when I had talked about football. He wasn’t angry over my choice of subject, I was sure of that. He had been frustrated because he couldn’t make me understand. But understand what? He responded immediately to my simple question. Were they able to field an eleven-man team. I thought about his hands again. The one extended. The other curled into a claw with a finger extended. Suddenly, I knew what he had been trying to tell me.

I hurried to the shelves containing back issues of
Kansas History.
I located an article I had read years earlier. In 1934, in Kansas, an alternative to eleven-man football had been developed. Six-man football. Six. The number of fingers Herman had extended. No wonder he had been upset. I was the first person in fifty years wanting to talk about something other than the most painful episode of his life, and he couldn’t make me understand.

I quickly read through the article, memorized all the main points, and breezed back to Sunny Rest. The old man was still stationed by his window.

“Mr. Swenson, I owe you an apology. I realized after our visit yesterday that you were trying to tell me that Carlton County switched to six-man football.”

He sat perfectly still but his rheumy old eyes brimmed with tears.

“The switch was made because schools lost so many students during the depression. It cut down expenses, too. I understand it was a marvelous game for spectators.”

He nodded. I chatted, stifling all the questions that would dredge up painful memories. Questions like: Did you go to these games after you graduated? Could you afford to go? Did you take your darling wife? Your son? Did you meet old friends there? Did you have to sacrifice even this small pleasure while you were losing the farm? I knew I would ruin our rapport if I asked any of these questions.

He was tied into his wheel chair. Lop-sided, now. Through Bettina I knew restraints were better than tumbling out of the chair and spending years in pain. Hands trembling, because I did not want to offend him, I reached under his shoulders, pulled him up. Made him right.

I patted his hand. With enormous effort, he moved his left hand over mine, let it rest there for a moment. I looked away.

He closed his eyes, opened them and looked at me. He opened his mouth and made a strangled perverted sound. Like an half-formed N. It made no sense whatsoever. But the shape of the mouth, the placement of the tongue was unmistakable. He was trying to say something.

“Mr. Swenson, I can’t understand you yet, but I will. Give me a little time. Let me look at some videos used by speech pathologists. So I’ll understand your lips, your mouth, even if you can’t use your voice.”

There was a sound at the doorway and I turned and looked at the aide.

“Well, I’ll swan,” she said. “Looks like you’ve hit pay dirt, honey. First time I’ve ever seen Old Herman the German open his murdering mouth.”

Furious, I wanted to deck her. Bettina, who’s big on dignity, would have fired her on the spot. There’s no place for mean people in a nursing home, and no amount of training will change a mean soul. I turned to look at Herman. Wanted to see his reaction. Grief, not anger. I barely trusted myself to speak to the aide, but I wanted Herman to know I was on his side.

“Please leave. Mr. Swenson and I would like our privacy.”

“She’s history,” I said to Herman after she clomped off down the hall. “Count on it. I’ll have her job.”

I was rewarded by his triumphant smile. Suddenly we both were laughing. Me outright, he with a gruff little heave of breath and the shaking of his chest.

“I’ll be back,” I said. “You can count on that too.”

***

I walked down the hallway to the office of the administrator. Connie Simmons had been at Sunny Rest for fifteen years. Like all heads of nursing homes she was buried in paperwork. Even on the good days her life was a kind of lukewarm purgatory between mad families and government compliance. She had the neat dark hair and soft brown eyes of an old workhorse. She always dressed professionally, for success, and to assure anxious families.

Although she was the administrator, she had come up through the ranks, starting as a Certified Nurse’ s Aide. She knew the business from the bottom up.

“Morning, Lottie.”

“You have a problem, Connie.” I quickly told her about the aide’s thoughtless remarks. “I’m willing to make this an official complaint. I’ll sign anything you need me to sign.”

“Good. Most folks chicken out. This isn’t the first time her mouth has gotten her in trouble. She’s already received two verbal warnings, and one written. Yours is the last one in the chain I need to let her go.”

I asked for a piece of paper, wrote out a complaint and passed it to her.

“I’m intrigued that you got through to Mr. Swenson,” she said. “That’s wonderful.”

“Have other people tried?”

“Not when they should have. His first stroke came when he was in prison. It’s crucial to have rehabilitation right off the bat and he didn’t get it.”

***

On the way back to the office I kept thinking about the sound Herman had tried to make. The hopelessness of his condition. His family had been killed before there were Miranda laws in place. Everyone had assumed he had done it. He had not had a good lawyer. I remembered his reaction to the aide’s words. Not anger, not rage, but profound despair. Helplessness in the face of injustice.

My reaction to cruelty is to go for the jugular, despite the fact mine takes an incredibly civilized form. And I did people in all by myself. I didn’t ask others to do my dirty work for me. I hadn’t gone home and bawled over that aide’s remarks or written Connie an anonymous letter.

I got her fired like a Roman and a man.

Chapter Twenty-One

Back at the office, Josie called just as I opened the third anonymous letter. Sent from Michigan, with no return address, and no signature as usual.

“What’s up, Lottie?”

“What do you mean, what’s up?” I cradled the receiver between my cheek and my shoulder to free my hands. “Let me put you on speaker. I don’t want to mess up this envelope.” She tells me that forwarding my cell to my office landline so I can keep on multitasking is neurotic, but I think Josie is bossy as hell.

“You’re not making sense.”

I laughed at her wariness, punched the button, and replaced the receiver on the cradle.

“I got a call from Keith yesterday and he’s very worried about you.”

“You what?” I laid down the letter without reading it. “You tell me what’s up. Why would Keith call you without talking to me first? Directly. Like husbands are supposed to.”

“He didn’t know how to talk to you. That’s why. He told me about the new job. He’s afraid you’re working too hard and…”

“Let me guess. He doesn’t like the nature of my work. Is that it?”

“Yup, that’s basically it, kiddo. He’s afraid you’ll get…”

“Killed, maimed, or raped.”

“That’s about the size of it.” Josie said, “He didn’t want you to think he was trying to…”

“Control me. He thinks he should be a sensitive twenty-first century sort of guy instead of his true Arthurian self. He hates to tell me what to do, but he would love to tell me what to do.”

Josie laughed. “There now. I’m so glad I called. I’ll call him right back and let him know we had a little chat just like I promised and you understand perfectly. Any message you would like me to convey to him?”

“Yes. Please assure him this is basically a desk job I’ve taken on for Sam Abbot. Tell him I’ll leave the shoot ‘em up stuff to the big guys. Tell him that as my sister and my psychologist you think I’m doing splendidly.”

As she was speaking, I removed the letter from the envelope, then caught my breath.

“Lottie, are you still there?”

“Hold on a minute while I finish reading this.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“Lottie?”

“Sorry. I’m reading the strangest letter. It’s just now dawned on me something might be wrong with the sender.” I told her about the other two. The use of mail drops. The attempts to conceal the sender’s identity. Then I read her the one I had just received.

“How strange.”

“Isn’t it? Keith should worry more about me working here than working for Sam.”

If the sender was concealing something terrible, I needed to address the issue in my column. These stories shouldn’t be incriminating or obscene or humiliate family members. I would discuss libel, and cover territory I hadn’t considered before.

“Any luck on finding Zelda’s killer?”

Judy came, stood in the doorway and listened to my sister. Embarrassed that Josie had no way of knowing another person was hearing our conversation, I looked at Judy in apology, picked up the receiver and switched off the speaker.

“None. In fact, I’ve been very preoccupied with another murder.”

Aware of Judy’s disapproving glance, I quickly outlined the circumstances of the Swenson murder, then hung up.

Why should Judy be upset over my telling Josie about the Swensons? “So out with it. What’s bothering you?”

“Everything,” she said. “Mom’s death. Dad’s health. And you.”

“Me?”

“I don’t understand why you’re not spending more time trying to figure out who killed Mom. That was the whole idea of your taking the job with Sam.”

I started to tell her Fiona had an iron-clad alibi for that night, then stopped. I had not checked with Sam to see if this information needed to be kept private.

“Why are you so preoccupied with the Swenson murders? Everyone is talking about it. Margaret is furious with you.”

“Margaret? Why would she be mad?”

“She says you were hired to write these county history books, not run a murder investigation out of the historical society.”

“The books are right on schedule.”

“Tell that to her, not me. I want to know what you’re doing about Mom. You promised you would do your best, and you’ve spent hours and hours on something else.” She dissolved into tears.

“What’s happened, Judy?” Clearly, something had set her off.

“I got this call from Fiona last night. She wants to come over and collect all the Rubidoux’s things that Mom had stored.”

“She can’t do that.” I reached for Judy’s hand and squeezed it. “Under Kansas law, all your mother’s possession belong to your father. Unless there’s a will stating otherwise.”

“I told Fiona off, again. Said I’d have her arrested if she sets foot on the place. But I need to start going through all of Mom’s things, and just the thought of it hurts. I wish there was someone besides me. Dad can’t. I thought with me home he would start coping. But he’s not. Now I’m worried that Fiona will come sneaking around when I’m not there.”

Heartsick, I knew she was right. “I’m not going to let her,” I said. “Not because of what you suspect, Judy, but because Fiona has so little regard for other person’s feelings. What is thrown away, sold, or kept should be Max’s decision, not her’s. She would go through your place like Sherman through Atlanta. I have a hard time standing up to the woman. Max wouldn’t have a chance.”

“He’s not well, Lottie. I’m worried sick.”

“I would love to help you sort if you’ll have me.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“I know a little bit about antiques, rare books, vintage clothes. Things that might bring your father some money if he chooses to sell them.”

“Thanks. Again. You’ve done so much already.”

“I’ll come to your house tomorrow. We’ll get William or Margaret to fill in here.”

Again, I was able to work both sides of the streets. As Judy’s friend, and at her request, I would be able to examine anything and everything, but as a sheriff’s deputy I would have needed a search warrant and probable cause just to walk through the door. I was in an ideal investigative position. This part-time Deputy Dogg jazz worked like a charm.

***

It rained the next morning. Rain on the plains was rarely Liza Doolittle gentle. It usually came with thunderstorms and ranged from fiercely throbbing to torrential. A rare treat, this steady, peaceful rain softened the outlines of buildings and blurred the blisters of peeling paint on the St. Johns’ house.

Judy answered the door on the first ring. “Is this a good day for attic work, or what?”

“Perfect. Do I smell bread?”

“Cinnamon rolls. I baked them myself. I’ve rounded up some boxes and markers and made a fresh pot of coffee. We should be able to carry everything upstairs in one trip.”

I steadied a stack under my chin and climbed the stairs, following Judy’s lead. She switched on the lights.

“Oh my,” I said, setting down my load. “Oh my.” Seeing a pile of Wonder Woman comics and a box of “little big” books, and an old Barbie, still in the cellophane windowed box, I knew at once the St. John’s attic was a gold mine.

There were racks of vintage clothes, old trunks galore, stacks of old books and magazines, two dressmaker’s dummies, old tables, lamps. There were stacks and stacks of picture frames. I saw five open boxes of dishes. We saw three boxes labeled “to be sorted.”

Judy and I looked at each other and laughed.

“I didn’t know it was this bad.”

“Judy, honey, it’s not bad. It’s good. Some of these things are worth a lot of money. But we’re going to do this right. Use proper techniques instead of running around yelling ‘Eureka’ like two crazed miners. It’s going to take more than one day. Weeks in fact. Whew!”

“Where do we start?”

“By putting everything in groups of like types before we open anything,” I said. “All the trunks together, all the boxes of old books together, all the old clothes together. Then we’ll begin the real work. I don’t want you to discard anything until I’ve looked at it first.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. In fact, you’re going to be getting a crash course in assessing historical artifacts. We mustn’t throw anything away that would bring your father some money. Nevertheless, I don’t want a professional appraiser in here until we go through everything first ourselves.”

It took us a couple of hours to do the preliminary grouping.

“This does make a little more sense,” Judy said. “Now, what?”

“Dishes, first,” I said. “They’re easier, for one thing. I’ll look at them for commercial value, then I want you to see if they have some sentimental value for your family.”

I opened the first box and held up three old white coffee mugs. “These mean anything to you?”

She shook her head.

“Garage sale then.”

Judy put them aside, then put some plates in the same place.

“Hold it. Those plates are depression glass. Worth at least $60.00 a piece. If I’m not mistaken, that little sugar bowl is Czechoslovakian glass. It will bring around $200.00.”

“Wow. I had no idea.”

“Most people don’t.” Then with growing wonder, I realized the box held over a thousand dollars worth of dishes.

After we finished with the glassware, cooking items, and old cutlery, we moved on to old newspapers and magazines.

“Judy, I don’t want to rush this process. You’ve got the general idea of how to go about this now. We must be careful. I’ll give you some reference books, and you can look up everything as you sort. Okay?”

She pushed her fist against her mouth, blinked back tears. “My dad. All this money. I’ll be able to get help for Daddy.”

“Why don’t you take a couple of weeks off. I’ll stay at the office. It will make William and Margaret happy to see me with my nose to the grindstone.”

“I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t. I won’t let you. With a good reference book, you can do a great job. While I’m here today, we’ll move onto the trunks, because the information in there is harder to assess.”

Trunks take the most time, but I also knew they might contain things that were important to Zelda.

“We’ll start here,” I said, spying one trunk as less dusty than the others. I opened it with a feeling of reverence. I would be looking into another person’s life. It was indeed Zelda’s own personal trunk. A sectioned jewelry tray contained her high school class ring, her old sorority pin, and medals for various musical activities. Mostly vocal, I noticed.

I picked up a little enamel clown from an assortment of costume jewelry. “See this? It looks like pure D junk, but it’s a fine piece of early art deco. It’s a good example of things people pitch unaware.”

A faint scent of lavender wafted from dried flowers scattered in lace-edged linens. Packets of letters from Max rested beside gold frames cradling miniatures of ancient Rubidoux.

“Paper Direct®. This isn’t old,” Judy said removing a shallow box. “It comes from a computer company. They make supplies for laser printers.” She pulled off the lid. Inside were blank sheets of cheap white paper.

“Twenty pages here,” she said, quickly counting them. “Not a word on any of them. Why would Mom keep plain typing paper in this trunk?”

“Hard telling.”

“Lottie, look here.” Judy held a single piece of paper up toward the light. “Look. There’s that rose again. Reversed.”

I scrambled to my feet and stared at the paper. “You’re right.”

“There’s a connection with this rose and the story Mom wrote. I know there is.”