Dying Wishes (6 page)

“You
said something about yesterday morning. What happened then?”

Ginny
reached behind her for her purse, which hung on the back of her chair. She took
out her billfold and removed a small piece of paper, which she slid across the
table to me.

“I
probably read too many mystery novels, but see what you make of this.”

I
accepted it gingerly. This really was like something out of a crime novel.
Unfortunately, I had experienced one or two situations in the last couple of
years which confirmed that crime fiction was often based on real life.

“The
senior administrator called me early Sunday to tell me what had happened. Since
there was no immediate family to contact in the area, she got permission from
the Midwestern cousins listed on Margaret’s intake paperwork and asked me to
supervise the packing up of Margaret’s furniture and personal belongings. She
didn’t want to waste a minute getting the place ready to re-rent.” She made a
face. “I found this in Margaret’s study.”

I
pulled what appeared to be a page torn from a small, spiral-bound notebook
toward me. “Thursday 10 p.m. TG” was scrawled on it in a large, masculine hand.
I pushed it back to Ginny.

“Is
TG an abbreviation for the title of the travelogue Margaret intended to watch?”
I took another bite of my quiche, which was fantastic.

“That’s
what I thought at first, but something about this kept bugging me. For one
thing, this isn’t Margaret’s handwriting. I’ve seen hers many times, and it’s
totally ladylike, very good Catholic school.”

I
shrugged. “So someone jotted it down as a recommendation of a show she might
enjoy, since everyone knew Margaret loved to travel.”

“
Mmm
, I thought of that, so I checked the television
listings for Thursday night. There
were
no travel
shows scheduled on PBS or any other station. In fact, both the Hartford and
Springfield PBS stations on the cable were running those doo-wop music shows
they recycle endlessly during their fundraising periods. And Margaret wasn’t
acting like herself. She was much more withdrawn lately, kept to herself a lot.
I hardly saw her anymore. A couple of people commented on it.”

I
put down my fork and looked at Ginny closely. Her hair needed combing, and
there were dark smudges under her eyes. Something about this situation really
had her in a
swivet
. “So what do you think the note
means, Gin? You must have a theory, if you’re taking the trouble to show it to
me.”

Instead
of answering right away, Ginny gazed around the room, her eyes seeking someone
or something in particular. She nodded toward a handsome young Latino who was
just entering from the kitchen. He began clearing tables, chatting easily with
the residents seated nearby.

“I
think Margaret had a late date on Thursday with Tommy Garcia for a massage.”
She jerked her head in the kitchen worker’s direction once again.

“The busboy?”

“He’s
studying to become a licensed massage therapist, and rumor has it he’s
practicing on a lot of our female residents. At least, I think that’s what he’s
practicing.”

My
mouth sagged open, and I snapped it shut.

“I
know that must sound odd to you, but you’d be amazed at what goes on around
here, Katie, my girl.
 
It’s not all
afternoon tea and senior aerobics. You’re pretty well buffered from most it,
sitting at your desk out there in the lobby, but trust me. It wouldn’t be the
first time one of the old dears got a yen for our Tommy, not by a long shot.
You’d be amazed at how randy some of these dames can be when confronted with a
willing young buck in his prime, especially when their husbands have passed on
or have simply lost interest. Let’s face
it,
Tommy
Garcia is quite a hunk.”

I
paused with my fork halfway to my mouth. “Is he now?”

Ginny
grinned easily at me over her teacup. “I’m old, not dead, my dear. Fortunately,
Rog
has plenty of life in him, too, or I might be tempted
to break my own rule about employee fraternization. I’m not saying Tommy
doesn’t do a lot of legitimate massages. I’m just saying I’ll bet he gets paid
extra for a happy ending now and again.”

I
appraised Tommy more thoroughly as he weaved among the tables, muscular arms
flexing, doling out smiles and jokes to the obviously appreciative women among
the diners. More than one lady’s eyes lingered on his form-fitting uniform
trousers, I noticed. Apparently, I wasn’t the only woman in the room who appreciated
Latin men.

“Earth
to Kate,” Ginny teased. “See what I mean?”

I
felt myself coloring. “Okay, I’m busted. I can see the attraction from the
women’s point of view, but what about Tommy? I can’t believe this collection of
aging hens holds any allure for him.”

Ginny
shrugged and cut her eyes toward a table by the window, where the tennis
foursome I had seen the previous week were getting up to go. All four had a fit
youthfulness about them, no doubt due to all that healthful exercise. The
ladies, though very different from one another, were particularly attractive.

“The
Grants and the
MacRaes
I was telling you about,
Margaret’s closest pals here.
Careful diets, impeccable
grooming, regular exercise, and pots of money to keep it all going.
It’s
the Vista View lifestyle, remember the brochures? Not everyone here is ready
for the rocker.”

I
looked around more carefully as I finished my coffee. Ginny had a point. Bert
Rosenthal and his aged harem certainly comprised a good percentage of the
population but not all of it. There were more than a few trim, attractive women
scattered throughout the room, with and without husbands in attendance. I put
down my cup.

“Okay,
I see what you mean. There may be sufficient motivation for a flirtatious
conversation here and there, but honest-to-god sex? Why on earth would the
hunk, as you call him, need to go that far?”

Ginny
glanced at her watch and crumpled her napkin into her plate. “Did I mention the
part about pots of money? Close your mouth, Kate. It
happens
all the time out here in the real world.” She hummed a few bars of “Love for
Sale” just in case I hadn’t caught her meaning. “If I was telling you a story
about one of the old fellows and a pretty young waitress with an interest in
augmenting her income, you wouldn’t think anything of it.”

Oh,
yes, I would, I thought to myself, but I kept quiet. “
Eeuuww
,
but okay, bearing in mind we’re speculating wildly here, let’s say you’re
right, and Margaret was getting it on with the busboy. What does that have to
do with her death? We don’t have any evidence of foul play with or without
Tommy Garcia’s involvement. As a matter of fact, we don’t even know exactly
when she died within that period of nearly two days. Why are you tying that
note to her death? Whatever she was doing, it was as a consenting adult, and
it’s really none of our darn business.”

Ginny
drummed her fingers on the table. “I’ve gone this far,” she said almost to
herself. “I may as well get it all out. Oh, the hell with it. The thing is
,
I have reason to believe that Angela
Roncaro
was also, um, involved with Tommy Garcia. She died recently under very similar
circumstances, and no one questioned it. Now Margaret’s gone, and here’s this
note with Tommy’s initials on it. That’s kind of a lot of coincidences, don’t
you think?”

I
chewed on that for a minute. “It is a lot of coincidences, Ginny, but they’re
based on supposition. For instance, we don’t really know that T.G. stands for
Tommy Garcia. Even if it does, what would be his motivation to do either one of
those women in? Was he in their wills or something?” I joked in an attempt to
lighten the atmosphere, but Ginny remained thin lipped and grim.

“If
I’m right, Angela and Margaret probably weren’t Tommy’s only clients, Kate. Who
knows how many other women he was servicing here?”

“Still
none of our business,” I insisted.

Her
eyes followed Tommy’s continuing circuit of the residents’ tables. “Sex is a
slippery slope for most women. When you’re needy and lonely and hear that clock
ticking, it’s especially easy to mistake it for genuine affection, even when
you’re paying a masseur for it.” Her eyes returned to mine. “Look around you.
This place is filled with vulnerable women, and hell hath no fury like a woman
scorned. Think about it. Keep your eyes open. Then tell me what you think.”

~

When
I arrived home late that afternoon, I was surprised to find Armando’s car
already in the garage. He didn’t usually roll in from work until seven-thirty
or eight in the evening.

“Where’s
your friend?” I asked Gracie, who appeared in the kitchen to greet me. Not
surprisingly, she didn’t answer me, so I went to investigate. I found Armando
sprawled in a chair on the back
deck,
a mug of tea
propped on his chest, and brought my glass of Pinot
Grigio
outside to join him.

“Here,”
I said, dropping a windbreaker over his knees. “It will be too cool without
this in another ten minutes.” I pulled over a second chair and propped my bare
feet companionably next to his on the deck railing. “Playing hooky? Fight with
the boss?” He looked perfectly peaceful, but you never knew.

He
took a pull on his tea and grunted. “I had an afternoon seminar, one of those
estúpido
sessions
HR insists that we sit through twice a year. They are invariably scheduled on
the busiest day of the week or when all hell has broken loose with one of our
international affiliates, but we must abandon everything to listen to some
porky twelve-year-old tell us how to be more effective managers.”

Porky?
“Perky,” I
corrected him automatically. Armando’s English is very good but not perfect.
“Ah, yes, I remember those seminars. What was the subject of today’s
unnecessary and annoying gathering?”

“How
to use our time more productively,” he deadpanned, and we both howled. Once
again I congratulated myself on having gone into business with Margo and
Strutter
. I didn’t miss corporate employment at all.

“Did
you enjoy your time at the Vista View today, or did it make you dwell more upon
the old age that is creeping up on you so fast?” he twitted me.

“It
turns out that old age isn’t quite the carefree time of life it appears to be
on the surface,” I told him. “Ginny Preston really opened my eyes.” I filled
him in on my lunchtime conversation. “She may be exaggerating, of course, but I
have to tell you, I was shocked.” I looked over at him.” Aren’t you?”

He
patted my knee. “I am not,
Cara
, no.
Americans have strangely conflicting views about sex. It seems that it
either must be romantic and sacred and
occur only between
married people, or it must be wicked and dirty and occur in dark corners. In
other cultures the hunger for sex is just a healthy appetite to be enjoyed and
satisfied like the hunger for food. Sometimes you do that at home with a person
you love, and sometimes you buy a sandwich.”

“A sandwich?
I’ve never heard
it called that before,” I scoffed. I thought about his frequent business trips.
“Is that what you do when you’re traveling, Armando? Buy a sandwich?”

He
smiled at me. “When I was a young man my appetites were, shall we say, more
far-
ranging.
Now I am more discerning.”

It
wasn’t a very satisfactory answer. “You mean tied down,” I pouted, fishing for
reassurance.

He
looked at me for a moment as he considered how best to reply. “An American
actor, I think it was the appealing fellow with the very blue eyes, once said
he had no desire to eat hamburger when he had steak at home.” His eyes
twinkled, and I released the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Paul
Newman talking about Joanne Woodward,” I confirmed.

“Still,
we must not judge others. If these ladies still have the hunger and are not so
fortunate to have steak at home, we cannot expect them to resist a tasty Latino
hamburger when it is offered to them, eh?”

I
finished my wine and poked his leg with my toes. “Strangely enough, steak is
just what I was thinking of for dinner,” I told him.

“I
think that can be arranged.”

Five

Business
had improved to the point where
Strutter
decided to
rejoin us in the office on a part-time basis. At a little after two on Tuesday
Margo and I left the office in her capable hands and walked down Old Main
Street to The Cove Deli. The casual ambience and fresh, homemade offerings made
it a popular spot for lunch. Even at this late hour we were lucky to snag a
table at the edge of the outdoor seating area, out of earshot of the other
patrons.

A
dark blue Ford sedan slid into one of the few vacant parking spaces on the
street, and Lt. John
Harkness
of the Wethersfield
Police Department ambled over to where we sat. He was his usual spiffy self in
a navy blue blazer and white shirt that set off his summer tan, graying blond
hair and blue eyes to perfection.