Farmed and Dangerous (12 page)

“I
'm in the lobby with Felicity. Where are you?” Pete's voice coming out of her cell phone a minute later rasped harshly in Cam's ear.

“I'm heading down the stairs. Be right there.” She disconnected. He had a lot of nerve to be short with her. True, Cam had said she'd be available at two o'clock, but she was only a few minutes late.

She clattered down the stairway. He stood with Felicity in the hallway leading away from the lobby. Felicity wore the same silk jacket with Japanese styling she'd had on at the memorial service.

“Oh, good. There you are, Cam,” Felicity said with a smile. “We're going to go into the Neighborhood. Come along.”

Pete didn't smile at Cam, although she thought she caught a glimpse of a message in his face. Longing returned? Asking forgiveness? Sorrow? She couldn't tell. He gestured with his hand for her to precede him while they followed Felicity through a wide doorway. The door clicked shut behind them.

“You need to use a code on that keypad to get out,” Felicity said. “It's so the dementia residents don't try to make a break for it.” She laughed, leading the way at a brisk pace.

Two women sat slumped in wheelchairs in a small sitting room. A man shuffled toward Felicity and asked if she had a deck of cards. Felicity greeted him and said she didn't have any.

The man saluted. “Yes, ma'am.” He moved past them.

“I think it's best not to tell Dad that you're with the police, Detective,” Felicity said, gazing at Pete. “If you don't mind. I don't want to upset him.”

“No problem,” Pete answered.

In a spacious room at the end of the hall, a large-screen television blared. The aroma of freshly baked cookies mixed with a faint smell of urine. Several residents sat in chairs facing the TV. A caregiver sat opposite a woman in a wheelchair, feeding her pudding from a little cup. Another woman sat next to Nicholas and sang “Silent Night” in a clear voice. She and Nicholas held hands.

Felicity said hello to her father and kissed the top of his head. She also greeted the woman next to him.

“I brought visitors to see you,” Felicity said, gently disengaging her father's hand from the woman's. “Let's go somewhere a little quieter and talk.”

He nodded, and she turned his wheelchair around. After pushing it to the far end of the room, she positioned him at a table.

“Come sit down.” She waved Pete and Cam toward chairs and sat. “Dad, this is my friend Cam. You met her the other day. She's the farmer.”

“The farmer. Nice to see you again.” He smiled at Cam.

“And this is Pete Pappas.”

Pete extended his hand across the table to Nicholas. The two men shook.

“Any friend of Felicity's is a friend of mine,” Nicholas said. His voice quavered, and his eyes were rheumy, but he looked at Pete straight on.

“Dad, tell Cam and Pete what you told me. What you saw on Sunday.”

Nicholas's face took on a lost look. “What happened on Sunday?”

“Remember? The day our friend Bev Montgomery died. You told me you saw somebody go into her room.”

“When I was looking at the pictures.” He nodded slowly.

“What pictures were those, Dad?” Felicity asked.

“The music ones.”

“And you saw someone enter Mrs. Montgomery's room.” Felicity's soft voice was full of caring.

“That I did. But I don't quite recall who I saw now.”

Pete cleared his throat. “Man or woman?”

“Somebody in trousers. I'm sure of that.” Nicholas's gaze drifted to the action on the big screen. “It was an Indian.”

“An Indian?” Pete said. He tapped a finger on the table.

Pete's habitual tapping didn't distract Nicholas. Cam glanced at the screen. Fred Astaire was twirling Ginger Rogers in black and white. Nicholas hummed the tune they danced to as he swayed with the music in his chair.

“Dad?” Felicity touched his shoulder. “Daddy, we're still here.”

“That's lovely, dear.” He kept his eyes on the movie.

“What did you mean by ‘an Indian'?” Felicity asked.

“An Indian?” He kept watching the screen.

“What was the person's hair like?” Cam asked Nicholas.

He kept humming and then asked in a faint voice, “What person?”

 

The three stood in the lobby a few minutes later. Felicity spread her palms.

“I'm sorry. I guess that wasn't very helpful. Trousers, right? Who doesn't wear pants these days?” She glanced down at her own denim skirt. “Well, besides me.”

“What do you think he meant by the pictures?” Cam asked.

“He played classical violin in the North Shore Symphony for many years. He loves those pictures on the second floor, the ones of the orchestras and such. And the cutouts of instruments.”

“Bev's room was on the second floor.” Pete scratched his head. “What would your father be doing on that floor? Is that even possible?”

“An aide wheels him around the residence sometimes, you know, for a change in scenery.”

“If a caregiver was taking him around, she must have seen the same thing he did,” Pete said. “I'll get an interview with her. Or him. This could be the break we need.”

“I have to run. Good luck, Detective.” Felicity shook his hand. “Bye, Cam. Let me know if you need any help on the farm.”

Cam said she would. Pete also turned away. Cam reached out and caught his sleeve. He paused, facing her.

“I have something to tell you,” she said. She glanced around the lobby. A woman about her age was signing in with her two young children. A caregiver held the outer door open for a stooped resident who was moving at tortoise pace with her walker toward a van waiting outside.

“This isn't a good place to talk about us, Cam.” The lines around Pete's eyes held care and sorrow.

“It's not about us.” She lowered her voice. “I asked a member of the housekeeping staff if she'd seen anybody near Uncle Albert's room yesterday morning.”

“You just happened to ask her?” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Cameron, you know you shouldn't be doing that. Asking around could be dangerous.”

Cam waved a hand. “Relax, Pete. I was only asking a few questions. I wondered if a resident saw the person who pushed him. I'm curious, okay? And he's my dear old uncle.” Her throat thickened for the second time that day. She hadn't planned on that. She cleared her throat and glanced away.

“I know how much you care for him. And this might be connected to the murder.” He rested his hand on her arm for a few seconds. “Tell me what the maid said.”

“Well, she said she hadn't seen anything or anybody. But she looked and sounded alarmed.”

“What was her name?”

“I didn't see a name tag. But she looked Russian. Or Slavic. You know, blond, high cheekbones. Younger than me.”

“We'll find her. We couldn't interview every single employee here or every resident. And, tough as this sounds, our focus has to be on finding Bev's murderer. We're not even sure someone attacked Albert. The doctor said the nature of his injury was inconclusive.”

“And Albert says he doesn't remember. He was reading, and after that his memory is gone. I'm going downstairs now to see him again. I'll keep asking him.”

“Let me know if he remembers anything.”

Cam nodded. “How's Dasha doing?” She surprised herself by asking.

“He's fine. A bit lonely.” He sighed. “Not a great week for me to be on a new case.”

“I suppose I'm still technically a suspect?” She supposed she was since he hadn't said otherwise.

Jim Cooper chose that moment to pop out of his office. He walked by them right when Cam said the word
suspect.
Jim frowned and pursed his lips. He glanced at her and Pete out of the side of his eyes and hurried past.

“I suppose you are. But let's not talk about it here. For obvious reasons,” Pete said, tilting his head in the direction Jim had gone. “I'm still on the clock, and my to-do list is huge. I'll be in touch.”

Cam said good-bye and headed downstairs. When she got to Albert's room, he was sleeping in the bed, the red plaid blanket now pulled up under his chin. Marilyn sat reading in a chair next to the bed.

“I came down to say good-bye,” Cam said. “Good that he's sleeping, though.”

“Can you stay for a minute?” Marilyn asked.

“Sure. Thanks for keeping him company.” Cam leaned against the bureau.

Marilyn smiled. “I'm getting quite fond of him. I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all. I'm glad to see you both happy.” Cam smiled at her. “So was he still talking about the cats in the bag after I left?”

“I'm afraid so. The same thing happened to my late husband when they hospitalized him once for pneumonia. I'm sure Albert will be fine once he has returned to his own room. Don't worry, dear. It's part of being old.”

“Have you heard when he'll get out of here?”

“A doctor stopped by in the last hour and said Albert should be able to go back upstairs tomorrow.”

“Great news.” Cam frowned. “I guess. But what if he isn't safe in his room? What if he's still . . .”
In danger.
She clamped her mouth shut. She wanted to add that she was worried. Whoever had whacked him on the head might appear again and finish him off. But she didn't want to alarm Marilyn and kept it to herself.

“Oh, dear. Do you think he wouldn't be safe up there?” Marilyn asked. “I suppose he could fall again.”

Cam realized that Marilyn was giving
safe
a different meaning than she had. “I could have him stay at the farm with me. I could take care of him there. At least until we clear this up.”
Oops.
“I mean, until he improves.”

“But would he be able to get around with his chair and his crutches? Is your house handicapped accessible? Do you have a ramp?”

“No, of course not. It used to be Albert's house, but that was before he lost his foot.”

“Something to consider, dear.” Marilyn glanced at the snoring Albert with a fond smile. “He gets very good care here, you know.”

“I'll go home and check the house from his perspective. He might not want to come, anyway.” She pushed her hair off her forehead. “Did he tell you anything else about his fall?”

“No. But if he does, I'll give you a ring. What's your number, Cameron?” Marilyn pulled an iPhone out of her handbag.

“You're up on the latest technology. I'm impressed.”

“You know, I can enlarge the numbers and the print on it so it's easier to read and type. And this way I can text with my great-grandchildren. We really enjoy our little shortcuts. Like
lol.
”

“You mean ‘laugh out loud'?”

“No, no. It means “lots of love.” Isn't that cute?” Marilyn poised a finger bent from arthritis over the phone and looked up expectantly. “Now, give me your number.”

C
am held the pen above the sign-out book and then paused. She glanced at the clock on the wall behind the receptionist's desk. It read three o'clock. She didn't need to get home to the chickens yet. There had to be someone who knew what had happened to Albert. Pete's priorities were with the murder case, as he'd made clear. If anybody was going to figure it out, Cam would have to be the one.

She had never paid much attention to the caregiver staff beyond Albert's and didn't know whom she could ask. The high school kids, including Ellie, wouldn't have been around in the mornings. The housekeeper had been unhelpful to the point of hostility.

“Heading home?” The man behind the desk smiled brightly at Cam.

Oscar walked down the hall, pushing an empty wheelchair.

“Not quite yet.” Cam laid down the pen and set out after him.

“Oh, Oscar,” she called.

He looked over his shoulder with a quick glance, then disappeared around a corner.

Cam hurried after him. She rounded the same corner. The wheelchair sat abandoned. A door swung back and forth with a quiet swish at the end of the hall. The kitchen door. Cam hurried down and pushed it open.

The stainless-steel counters sparkled, the floor shone, and an enormous Dutch oven simmered on the ten-burner industrial stove, but the room was empty. Cam sniffed. Mixed with the aroma of dinner was the scent of fresh air. She navigated through to the rear door, which was propped open a few inches.

Oscar stood on a covered open-air porch with arms folded, a lit cigarette between the fingers of one hand. He saw her, then took a drag.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Flaherty.” His breath mingled with the exhaled smoke and seemed to hang in the frigid air.

“Call me Cam.” She joined him, then hugged her own arms around her, which was feeble protection from the cold. The porch consisted of a roof over a concrete deck with a wide apron and three stairs leading down to a parking area.

“Cigarette, Cam?” he asked, his tone as cold as the icicles hanging from the eaves.

“No, thank you.” Cam remembered his temper from the first day she'd met him. Maybe this wasn't a good idea, after all. But she should be fine. They stood right by the kitchen, and the door was propped open.

“Are you chasing me down or something?”

“I wanted to ask you a question.”

“I seem to be very popular for being asked questions these days. I'm getting a little tired of it. Tall black man who delivered the poisoned dinner is everybody's favorite suspect.” His mouth pulled down in displeasure.

“I'm actually trying to find out something different. And I don't suspect you of anything.” He'd never talk to her if she let on that she considered him an attacker.

“All right. Let's have it.” He took another long drag. He dropped the butt, ground it out with his heel, and then slipped it into a sandwich bag he drew out of his pocket. He glanced at Cam. “Not supposed to smoke anywhere on the grounds. Good thing there's no camera out here.”

“You know my great-uncle had an accident yesterday morning. I wonder if someone might have pushed him or hit him on the head. Did you happen to be in the hall where his room is? Did you see anybody go in or out of his room? I mean, somebody who didn't belong there?”

He gazed out over the snow-covered field beyond the parking area. “No. Didn't see anyone. I was on the second floor, collecting breakfast trays, too.” His voice grew more gentle. He gazed at Cam. “You know, he's old, and he's missing a foot. He probably fell.”

She sighed. “I suppose. I'd hate to think he's still in danger, though. If someone hit him once, perhaps hoping he'd die, they could come after him again once he's back in his room.”

“I'll try to keep an eye on him. Listen, I've got to get back to work. The gentleman who needs a chair will be wondering where I am.” He popped a breath mint, then held the door open and followed her through.

Jim Cooper stood in the kitchen, speaking with Rosemary, whose hands disappeared into a deep bowl full of dozens of carrots submerged in water. She made scrubbing motions.

Jim frowned at Cam. “What were you two doing out there?”

“Just having a chat, Jim. No worries,” Oscar said. He disappeared into the hallway.

“And you, Cam? I'm not sure I want you hanging around here. The residents are nervous enough as it is.”

“I'm trying to figure out if somebody hit my great-uncle on the head or if he fell. Nobody else seems to be looking into—”

“Certainly he simply fell,” Jim said.

Cam frowned at his interruption. “How can you say that? We don't know what happened in his room.”

“Perhaps he had a TIA.”

“TIA?”

“Transient ischemic attack. A ministroke.”

Cam glanced at Rosemary, who now chopped the carrots with a gleaming knife and quick motions.

“The doctor didn't say anything about that.” Cam looked at Jim.

Jim pressed several fingers on his left eyebrow. “Well, from now on, when you come here, please try simply to visit Albert and then go home, or I'll consider revoking your visitation privileges.” He bustled out of the kitchen.

Cam stared at the door, shaking her head. “What a . . .”

“Not the easiest man in the world,” Rosemary said.

“Can I ask you a question?” Cam leaned a shoulder against the wall and watched the cook at work.

“You just did.” Rosemary didn't look up from her cutting board.

She ignored the jab. “You know I brought over clean organic produce for the dinner. Would you put in a word with Detective Pappas that the food I delivered couldn't possibly have had toxins in it? I'm still considered a person of interest, and it's ridiculous.”

Rosemary snorted. “You're not the only one. He's suspicious of me, as well. You think my word would carry any weight with him?”

“He suspects you?” Cam asked.

“I didn't have a reason in the world to knock off that poor lady, cranky though she was. But I made the dinner.” She glanced up from the growing pile of orange-colored bits. “And how do I know what was in your produce? No, I won't be putting in a word for you. Let them catch the real killer and we'll all be off the hook.”