Twisted Reason (7 page)

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

The porch light burned bright by the front door when Lucinda pulled to a stop in front of the old Victorian home. Joan flung the door open before the detective reached the top step. “Good evening, Lieutenant. Come on in. I’ve put on a pot of coffee and made some herbal tea. Your choice. I’m going with the tea, although in my state of mind, I think caffeine is the least of my worries. But, then, oh dear me . . . Unfortunately, I probably could prattle on about coffee and tea for an hour to avoid talking about the reason you’re here. So, just tell me what you want and I promise I won’t say another word.”

Might not be the easiest interview, Lucinda thought. “Coffee would be wonderful, ma’am.”

“I’ve got half and half. Oh dear, I said something else about coffee.”

Lucinda laughed. “Not a problem, I’d love some real cream in my cup.”

“Sugar?” Joan asked and slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Relax, Mrs. Culpepper. No thanks, no sugar.”

In less than two minutes she returned with two mugs in hand. Lucinda took a sip and was delighted. “Oh, this is good.”

“I make it a bit strong. That’s how my husband always liked it and I got used to it that way. Hope that’s okay.”

“It’s how I like it, too,” Lucinda answered with a smile. “I understand that the last time you saw your mother was December 8. Is that right?”

“Actually, it was December 7. I went out to church and when I came back, she was gone. I was away from the house no more than an hour and a half. I thought she’d be fine. I should have known better. I should have asked Miss Jenkins to come in that morning – she was starting the next day. I’m sure she would have come. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

“Why did you choose Miss Jenkins?”

“She needed work and the Humphries said she was terrific with Edgar. And she wasn’t there when he disappeared – I asked about that, of course. I just needed her to be here when I was out – I have a lot of commitments: I’m on the executive committee of the Women’s Mission League, then there’s the Garden Club, lunch with friends at least twice a week, I visit sick church members in the hospital and shut-ins at home, and I volunteer for a couple of charitable organizations. Honestly, I am busier since I retired than I ever was when I going to a job each day. Ironic, isn’t it? Anyway, I just left her long enough to go to the morning service and then Miss Jenkins would start on the Monday and I’d never leave her alone again. And I already had her on waiting lists for assisted living facilities, although she seemed to be going downhill so fast, she might not have been able to handle that much independence by the time something opened up.”

Interesting.
“Could you make a list of the places you were considering for your mother?”

“I have it right here,” Joan said, pulling out a drawer in the end table and extracting a piece of paper. “You’re welcome to it.”

Lucinda scanned the list of facilities and saw some overlap with the list she’d gotten from Vicki Humphries.
Was it significant?
“How old is your mother?”

“She’s eighty-five. And the funny thing is that I thought we were immune from this Alzheimer’s type stuff. Friends of mine had parents that showed signs of dementia in their late sixties or early to mid-seventies. But not Mom. She was still quick with a witty retort, still driving her car, still leading an active social life. Then, came the winter after her seventy-eighth birthday. She had a bad fight with a bout of pneumonia. She was in the hospital for a while – I thought I was going to lose her. But then she snapped right back – physically, at least. But, mentally, she never was the same. I don’t know if it was her illness, the medication she took – one of them was contraindicated with one of her regular prescriptions – or just being in the hospital itself that caused the downturn in her mental capabilities, but it was dramatic.

“She began having hallucinations in the hospital and they continued to trouble her when she came home. I didn’t take her driver’s license away – I didn’t need to. She was suddenly, inexplicably afraid of driving. In fact, she didn’t even like riding in the car. And the witty retorts were gone – replaced by inexplicable bouts of angry mumbling. Most of the time she looked puzzled as if she weren’t capable of understanding conversation. She no longer communicated her feelings well so I had no idea of what she was thinking. I just knew that watching her decline was depressing and painful and imagined it must be even worse for her.”

“Before your mother disappeared, did you see anyone that looked out of place in the neighborhood? Any loiterers? Any parked vehicles that didn’t seem to belong here?”

“No. I can’t say that I noticed anything. To be honest, I don’t think I was paying attention. I should have been better at that considering my mother’s state. But I wasn’t.”

“The facilities you visited, did everyone you talk with seem appropriate? Did anyone express an interest in your mother that seemed a bit off?”

“No. Of course, they all acted interested in her. That’s part of their sales training, I’d imagine. But, no, nothing struck me as unusual.”

“Did you ever entertain any suspicions of Miss Jenkins?”

“Oh, good heavens no!”

“Really?” Lucinda asked.

“Okay. okay. Yes, I did. Not very charitable of me but I did. It seemed too much of a coincidence. But I talked to Vicki and talked to the pastor and even to that missing person’s investigator from the police department – I don’t recall his name.”

“Detective Butler? Jumbo Butler?”

“Yes, that’s it,” she tittered. “How could I forget? He even has his nickname in quotes on the business card he gave me. It made me smile – he’s such a little leprechaun of a man.”

“We think alike, Mrs. Culpepper,” Lucinda said with a smile. “Back to your suspicions of Miss Jenkins?”

“I dropped them – they seemed groundless. No one else was concerned about her.”

“You haven’t seen or heard from your mother since December 7?”

Joan sighed. “Not a word, not a note, not a message. I kept hoping that one day I’d come home and there she’d be, sitting on the porch smiling. Or down on the ground with the pink flowered knee-pad she used, pulling weeds from the flower beds.” A wistful smile spread across Joan’s mouth but faded away as quickly as it appeared. “Now, I am afraid I’ll find her on the porch or in the flower bed, flat on her back, cold as ice. It’s not a pretty thought.”

“No, ma’am, I know it’s not. I am hoping the Humphries investigation will somehow lead us to your mother and we’ll be able to bring her home to you.”

“But, how, Lieutenant?” Tears streamed down Joan’s face. “She certainly won’t be the woman she once was. Will she even remember me? Will she know my name? Or even worse, will you bring her home in a pine box?” Joan hugged herself tight. “Whatever, Lieutenant, whatever – I just want to know. It’s the not knowing that makes me die a little more every day.”

Lucinda wrapped her arms around the woman and held her while her body shook. Lucinda knew this was a pain she’d never experience; her parents never made it to old age. But, still, she could feel it. It reverberated in the well of pain that lived inside her ever since the day her parents left her. She struggled to contain her own tears and smother an overwhelming sensation of anguish.

Eleven

Back at her apartment, Lucinda fed her gray cat Chester and went into the bedroom to pull off her work clothes and slide into a T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. Chester was cleaning his whiskers with his paws when she returned to the kitchen. She scooped him up and cuddled him – but he wasn’t as affectionate as usual. He planted his paws on her chest and pushed away. She set him down with a sigh.

She plopped on the sofa and invited him to snuggle with her but he was not the least bit interested in that, either. It was almost midnight, she should be sleeping. She needed some sleep before the 6 a.m. autopsy. That cup of coffee was a big mistake. She tried to interest Chester in playing with a jingly catnip-stuffed mouse but he just yawned at her.

She picked up the phone to call Jake but hung up before she finished punching in the numbers. She grabbed a book and tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. “Oh the hell with it,” she said. “So what if I wake him up.” She could tell by his mumbled response that she had. “Hey, Jake. Sorry if I woke you.”

“Lucinda? Is that you? Is something wrong?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“So you’re not going to let me sleep, either? I think that might be a positive step forward in our relationship, in an odd way.”

“I’m sorry, Jake,” she laughed. “I was hoping you’d be awake. I wanted someone to talk to about a new case. Sorry I bothered you. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m awake now. And I’m curious. What’s the problem with your case?”

“Jake, I’m not even sure I have a case.”

“Do you have a dead body?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re investigating it?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds like a case to me, Lucinda. No matter the outcome.”

“When you put it that way, sure. But I’m not certain it’s a murder.”

“You thinking suicide?”

“Not hardly. Most people don’t get dressed, stretch out on their son’s front porch and quietly kill themselves without leaving a mess. And it’s a little bizarre for a natural death since he’d been missing for months.”

“You got that right. What else is eating at you?”

“The missing person guy seems to think there’s been an uptick in elderly disappearances. Are you seeing anything like that on a national level?”

“Not that I’d know but I could ask in the morning.”

“Thanks. That would be great, Jake. I’m also wondering if it has anything to do with the victim’s Alzheimer’s. There was another woman in the neighborhood with dementia and she disappeared a couple of weeks after my guy did.”

“Could be a coincidence. But before you say a word, I could feel your wince through the phone line.”

Lucinda laughed. “You know me. My least favorite word in the English language.” Chester chose that moment to jump up in Lucinda’s lap and rub his jowl on her face, his purr volume set on high.

“What is that noise?” Jake asked.

“Chester.”

“Ah, how’s the old boy doing?”

“He was a bit stand-offish earlier but now that I’m giving my attention to someone else, he’s all lovey-dovey.”

“He should be a woman.”

“Jake . . .”

“Okay, okay, you’re right. He’s definitely male. About this case, what are you thinking? Where do you think it might be going? Abduction? Patricide for profit? Caregiver rage? What?”

“I’ve talked to two caregivers. Both were planning on putting their parents in a facility. Both had obviously been stressed by the situation. But it seemed like they were dealing with it all okay.”

“If we scratch the caregiver motive, that still leaves us with the same perpetrators in patricide for profit. Most kids are their parents’ heirs – and that means it’s always a good possibility for motive.”

“Just doesn’t seem to fit here.”

“Don’t blind yourself to the possibility, Lucinda. Some of the nicest seeming people are hiding a lot of narcissistic darkness inside. But you don’t need me to tell you that. I get the feeling, though, that something else is bothering you about this case. What is it?”

“It’s me.”

“You?”

“Yes. My reaction to it – it’s not as professional as it should be.”

“Not professional? Lucinda, you’re always professional. What are you talking about?”

“I can’t get my parents out of my mind. They keep creeping into my thoughts.”

“You probably never will get them out of your mind. That was a traumatic event and you were only a teenager.”

“Exactly. It was a long time ago. Ancient history, Jake. I should be able to let it go. It shouldn’t be bothering me now – at least not in the middle of a case.”

“Ease up. You saw your mother shot to death. You heard the gun fire when your father committed suicide. And now you’re talking to people about their parents. What do you expect?”

“I expect myself to be professional at all times – just like you expect the same of yourself.”

“Lucinda, I’ve worked with you on more than one case. I’ve never seen you be anything but a professional. This last year has brought your past to the surface – two deaths in the family, the problems with your sister. Thinking of your parents now just means you’re human – it doesn’t mean you are any less professional.”

“If you say so, Jake.”

“Oh, blow me off one time. Jeez! I don’t hear an ounce of conviction in your voice.”

“You’re too easy on me, Jake.”

“And you’re too hard on yourself.”

“I have to be.”

Jake signed. “Listen, I’ll see if I can get some information together for you tomorrow about the elderly, dementia and disappearances. But while I got you on the phone, when are we going to get together again?”