Dying Wishes (13 page)

We
said goodnight, and I looked at Jasmine more closely. I rubbed the top of her
head between her ears the way she liked, and she stretched and purred. She was
old and deaf as a post, but she ate well and got around fine with the help of
the pet stairs we had placed next to the double recliner in the family room and
my bed, her preferred napping places. She slept most of the time, but at her
age, that was hardly surprising.

I
looked at my watch and got up to prepare her bedtime snack, a dish of cottage
cheese. When I returned and waved it under her nose, she awoke immediately and
followed me to the bedroom with her usual eagerness.

Relieved
not to have to add Jasmine to my growing list of age-related worries just yet,
I got ready for bed and called Armando to say goodnight.

Ten

On
Sunday morning I occupied myself with the domestic chores I had neglected the
previous day,
then
persuaded Emma to join me for a
brisk walk around the Wethersfield Green. The work situation at Mack Realty had
been so unsettled over the past couple of years that Emma and I had fallen out
of our habit of before-work constitutionals, so it wasn’t long before I was
huffing and puffing in Emma’s wake on this occasion.

“Slow
down and give an old woman a break,” I begged her with what little breath I had
left.

She
looked over her shoulder and paused just long enough for me to pull even with
her. “Wow, you’re going downhill fast. It won’t be long before Armando has to
tie your shoes for you.”

We
completed our circuit of the green, which began and ended at the Nathanial
Foote marker, the home site of an original settler who had died in the
mid-1600s, but Emma steamed forward toward the pond near the intersection of
Spring Street. “Come on, I want to visit the swans.”

To
our delight the pair of swans that had summered for years on the pond, but were
dislodged by necessary repairs to the earthen dam at one end, had returned this
year. Armando and I had watched George and Laura, as we had dubbed
them,
raise half a dozen families among the reeds and marsh
grasses. In tandem they had nurtured up to seven scrawny cygnets in a season,
protecting them from predatory snapping turtles and territorial geese
who
occasionally encroached on the family’s established
snoozing patch on the grassy bank. No one who had ever witnessed George in full
hiss on those occasions ever doubted that he would prevail.

Until
last spring, it had been two years since we had seen them, but here they were,
paddling serenely in the pale sunshine. The record-breaking eight little ones
they had raised this season, now sleek young adults, foraged among the drooping
branches at one side of the pond. Soon the youngsters would depart, as would George
and Laura, for winter quarters on the Connecticut River, where the water
remained open and food would be available.

“To
everything there is a season,” I murmured, “and this is a sure sign of autumn.”

“A
stangely
biblical reference coming from you,” Emma
teased me.

“Just
because I consider the Bible to be a work of fiction doesn’t make it any less
pithy,” I pointed out. “Sometimes those old boys got it right.
Birth, death, the cycle of life, dust to dust and all that.”

Emma
chewed on that for a while. “So what do you think Jasmine will come back as
after she dies?”

I
kept my face straight as I considered my reply. Jasmine was nearly twenty-two
years old. She couldn’t live forever, but I didn’t want to exacerbate Emma’s
obvious worry about her. “I don’t have a clue.” I watched George settle into a
nap, his long neck curled back on
itself
to lie
against his body.
“Maybe a very feisty earthworm or a bulldog
or the prime minister of Israel.”
I shrugged. “We all come out of the
energy pool, and we all go back into it—even mothers.” I smiled at her kindly. “Speaking
of motherhood,” I segued none too gracefully, “how is your thinking on that
issue progressing?”

“It’s
progressing but not very quickly, she said tersely. I took the hint and didn’t
press her. A few yards from us, an old lady climbed out of a Volvo sedan that
looked even more ancient than she and shuffled up to the embankment where a few
ducks were sunning themselves. She carried a plastic bag full of white bread,
which she began tearing into pieces and tossing onto the grass. I didn’t have
the heart to tell her how bad bread, crackers and chips are for the birds and
how sick that stuff can make them.

Emma
followed my glance. “The Town should educate people about why they shouldn’t
feed the water fowl, not just put up a little sign saying they shouldn’t do it.
She means well. She just doesn’t know any better.”

I
nodded absently. “I did the same thing when I was a little girl. I had no idea
that I was doing a bad thing. Today’s kids learn all about that in elementary
school, thank goodness, and cracked corn is available in just about every
supermarket now.”

“Joey
and I were lucky to have you and Daddy.” She cut her eyes at me. “I’m beginning
to realize what a big job parenting is.”

I
smiled. “That’s because you’re taking the time to think about it and make an
educated choice. Most people just roll the dice, and if it happens, it happens.
I’m afraid your father and I fell into that category, too, years ago.”

“But
look at how lucky you got,” Emma sassed. I laughed out loud, and she joined in.
Emma in her teen years had been a handful and a half.

“Lucky now, for sure, but when you were in high school,
not so much.”

“It’s
not as if Joey was a teenage paragon, you know. He was just sneakier.”

How
well I remembered. “Despite how clueless you may think your parents were, we
didn’t miss too much,
Em
. We were well aware of your
brother’s activities. We just handled them differently. All young people need
to break away sooner or later.” I pointed to the swans. Where earlier in the
summer the family had swum, foraged and napped as a unit, now the cygnets were
venturing away from their parents in twos and threes to feed on their own.
George and Laura maintained their watchfulness but at a discreet distance. “The
kids will be leaving soon, and mom and pop will be on their own again by
Thanksgiving.”

“Eight
in one season,” Emma murmured. “Can you imagine?”

“I
don’t even want to try,” I shuddered. “Shall we head back?”

~

On
Monday morning I received a call from
Ada
Henstock
 
to
ask if she and
Lavinia
could take me up on my offer of a tour of Vista View. Though my heart wasn’t
fully committed to the idea of the sisters living there, I could hardly refuse
without raising an alarm. We agreed to meet at eleven o’clock Wednesday morning
at the sales desk.

At
ten I joined Bert Rosenthal for a cup of coffee in the dining room. It had
become customary on my days there, and I looked forward to our visits. His
determined optimism in the face of some serious health challenges inspired me
to stop whining—okay, to whine less—about my own little aches and pains.
Besides, Bert was an absolute hoot.

“You
know what they say, Gorgeous. If you’re over fifty and nothing hurts when you
wake up, don’t bother trying to find your slippers. You’re dead,” he cackled
today.

I
made a face at him. “It’s always good news with you, isn’t it, Bert?”

“My
devilish sense of humor is part of my charm. The ladies love it.” He winked at
me behind his thick lenses and brushed crumpet crumbs from his tie. It was
mid-morning on a weekday, and he was perfectly turned out, as always.

“So
what’s your take so far on Margaret Butler’s demise?” he asked as serenely as
if he were asking my opinion on the weather. I choked on my coffee so badly I
had to blow my nose and wipe my eyes.
Subtle.

“Sorry
about that, but it’s the hot topic of conversation around here this week. You
and La Preston behind closed doors on Friday, the cousins showing up here an
hour later, Garcia going all tight-lipped.” He nodded at Tommy, who was going about
his morning duties wearing an uncharacteristically dour expression. “People
notice these things, and when you get involved, conclusions inevitably are
drawn.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “So what’s up, Toots?”

“When
I get involved?” I repeated, stalling for time.

“Yeah,
you, Miss
Marple
. You have quite the reputation as an
amateur sleuth around here.”

I
was appalled but not entirely surprised. The grapevine in a small community
transmits information more efficiently than
Facebook
.
I wondered if Margo had booked a massage yet with Tommy, and if so, how many
people knew about it, as well as my own appointment with Gerald
MacRae
later today. Well, no use bothering to deny it. I
tried a little damage control instead.

“My
partners and I have helped clear up a couple of matters for our clients, quite
unofficially, of course; but Ginny Preston and I have been friends for a long
time. If we choose to put our feet up over lunch in her office, I don’t see why
that should concern anyone. She mentioned that the
Hendersons
were arriving, but only in passing. I think the people here need more to occupy
their very creative minds.
Perhaps a drama club?”

Bert’s
lips twitched. “Look who’s talking. If anyone is looking for drama where none
exists, it’s you. There wasn’t any food in evidence in Preston’s office, just
files, lots of ‘
em
.”

Now
I was annoyed. Drat these busybodies anyway. “The reason for having
glass-walled offices is to create an atmosphere of openness and trust.
Everything gets done in plain sight, no secrets. Residents’ paperwork is kept
strictly private, however, and when it’s out of the file cabinets, the office
door gets closed.” I shrugged.
“HIPPA regulations and all
that.”

Bert’s
expression was skeptical and still amused. “You’re not an employee of Vista View,
so I wonder why you would be perusing residents’ personal records.”

I
felt as if I were engaged in a conversational tennis match.
Advantage,
Rosenthal.

“My
company is under contract here, so it’s the same thing. We just don’t get
benefits,” I quipped, but it just hung up on the net before falling clumsily to
the clay. “There was a little discrepancy in the billing, and we were simply
confirming the dates on a couple of sales.” I buried my nose in my coffee mug.
Why had I ever thought this man was funny? He would have been a star during the
Inquisition.

Bert
waited for me to surface, then said quietly, “There’s nothing going on here for
you and Ginny Preston to worry yourselves about, Kate. Take it from me. I
know.”

Looking
into his wizened, elfin face, I very much wanted to believe him. Then I
remembered Margo’s and my odd brunch conversation with Bitsy and Janet. Too
many people were going to a lot of trouble to get me to back off, which only
strengthened my resolve to dig deeper. I patted Bert’s hand.

“I
have a couple of prospects coming in on Wednesday morning to look the place
over, good friends who are considering moving in. Care to help me give them the
grand tour? You can provide the insider’s perspective.”

He
accepted the change in topic with good humor. “You bet, Gorgeous.”

~

Ginny
and I made it a point to have our lunch in full view of the dining room,
although we took the precaution of choosing a table out of earshot of the other
staff members. We laughed and smiled a lot, just two carefree ladies lunching.

“Making
any progress?” she asked in a low voice. Then, louder, “
Rog
and I saw
Jersey Boys
at the Bushnell
Saturday night. It was incredible, like being transported back to 1960 and
actually watching the Four Seasons perform.” She pulled a program out of her
purse and slid it across the table. On it was written, “
Hendersons
met with GM. No surprises in will. Seemed reassured, flew back to K yesterday.”

“Looks
great,” I enthused, pulling a pencil out of my own purse. “How long will the
show be in Hartford? Maybe we can still get tickets.”

I
turned over the program and jotted, “Margo sees TG later today. I have appt
with GM. Doc more difficult.” I slid the program back to her.

“I’m
sure Armando would love it as much as you would. When will he be back from San
Diego, by the way?” She read what I had written and nodded.

“Late
Wednesday, so maybe I can get tickets for the weekend. I’ll call tomorrow.” My
emphasis on the last three words let Ginny know I would be telephoning her, not
the Bushnell, tomorrow to report our findings, if any. She nodded again and
tucked the program safely back into her purse.

Feeling
inquisitive eyes upon us despite our subterfuge, we chatted audibly about other
shows we had seen,
then
exchanged news about our
respective offspring.
After half an hour or so of this
superficial conversation, it was a relief to get back to the relative privacy
of the sales desk.
I was pleased to see an obvious mother-daughter duo
browsing through some sales literature and hurried to make them welcome.