"T" is for Trespass (11 page)

“Why did she leave?”

She glanced back down at the file. “She apparently decided to go to graduate school. Must not have suited her if she's already applying for private-duty work.”

“Is there anyone here who knew her? I was hoping for someone who'd worked with her on a day-to-day basis. The guy she'll be caring for is a contrarian, and his niece wants someone with patience and tact.”

“I understand,” she said, and checked Solana's file again. “It looks like she worked on One West, the post-surgery floor. Maybe we can find you someone who knows or remembers her.”

“That would be great.”

I followed her down the hall, not entirely optimistic about my chances. In doing a background check, fishing for personal data can be a tricky proposition. If you're talking to a friend of the subject's, you have to get a feel for the nature of the relationship. If the two are close buddies or confidantes, there's probably a treasure trove of intimate information, but your chances of retrieving it are dim. By definition, good friends are loyal and, therefore, quizzing them on the down-and-dirty details about a pal seldom yields much of use. On the other hand, if you're talking to a work mate or casual acquaintance, you have a better shot at the truth. Who, after all, can resist the invitation to trash someone else? An interpersonal rivalry can be exploited for potential bombshells. Bad blood, including overt conflicts, jealousies, petty grievances, or an inequity in pay or social status, can produce unexpected riches. For maximum success in prying, what you need is time and privacy so the person you're talking to will feel free to blab to her heart's content. The post-surgery floor wasn't likely to yield the proper atmosphere.

Here I encountered a tiny stroke of luck.

Lana Sherman, the LVN who'd worked with Solana for the better part of a year, was just leaving the nurse's station for a coffee break and she suggested I tag along.

On our way down the hall to the staff lounge, I asked her a few questions, trying to get a feel for the kind of person she was. She told me she was born and raised in Santa Teresa, that she'd been at Sunrise House for three years, and she liked it okay. “Effusive” was not an adjective I'd have been tempted to apply. Her dark hair was thin, with layers of drooping ringlets that looked dispirited. Already I wanted her to fire her “stylist” and try someone new. Her eyes were dark and the whites were bloodshot, as though she were trying her first contact lenses without much success.

The staff lounge was small but attractively furnished. There was a table with chairs drawn up to it, a modern couch, and two upholstered love seats arranged around a coffee table. A microwave oven, a toaster, a toaster oven, and a coffeemaker sat on the counter. The refrigerator was decorated with stern warnings about the sanctity of other employees' food. I took a seat at the table while Lana poured coffee in a mug and added two packs of Cremora and two of Sweet 'N Low. “You want coffee?”

“No, thanks. I'm fine.”

She picked up a tray and carried it to the vending machine, where she put numerous coins in the slot. She punched a button and I watched her selection tumble into the bin below. She brought her tray to the table and off-loaded her coffee mug, her spoon, and a package of miniature chocolate-covered doughnuts.

I waited until she was seated before I went on. “How long have you known Solana?”

She broke the first doughnut in two and popped half in her mouth. “What's the job?”

The question was a bit abrupt, but in the interest of priming the pump, I filled her in. “My next-door neighbor fell and dislocated his shoulder. He's eighty-nine and needs home care while he recuperates.”

“So what's she make?”

The doughnut looked dense and dry, and the dark chocolate frosting had the gloss of wax. For ten cents I'd have knocked her down and eaten one myself. I knew now that the many fruits and vegetables I'd consumed over the past few days had only made me hostile—not good in my line of work.

For an instant I'd completely lost my place in the conversation. “What?”

“What's the pay?”

“I don't know. I was asked to talk to people who've worked with her. I'm interested in a character reference.”

“In the neighborhood.”

“I won't be talking to her neighbors unless I bomb out every place else.”

“I'm talking salary. Ballpark. What's the hourly wage?”

“No one's mentioned it. Are you thinking about changing jobs?”

“I might be.”

The second doughnut was gone though I'd hardly noticed, distracted as I was by the opening I saw. “If things don't work out for her, I'd be happy to throw your name in the hat.”

“I'd consider it,” she said. “Remind me before you leave and I'll give you my résumé. I have a copy in my purse.”

“Great. I'll pass it along,” I said, and then shifted the conversation. “Were you and Solana friends?”

“I wouldn't say we were friends, but we worked together for close to a year and we got along all right.”

“What's she like?”

She shrugged. “So-so.”

“So-so?”

“I guess she's nice enough. If you like that kind.”

“Ah. And what kind is that?”

“Fussy. If anyone was even two minutes late, she made a big deal of it.”

“So she was punctual,” I suggested.

“Well, yeah, if that's what you want to call it.”

“What about personal traits?”

“Like what?”

“Was she patient, compassionate? Honest? Good-natured? That's the kind of thing I'm looking for. You must have had many opportunities to observe her firsthand.”

She stirred her coffee, then licked the spoon clean before she laid it on her tray. She put the next doughnut in her mouth whole and chewed while she considered her reply. “You want my honest opinion?”

“I would love it.”

“Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against the woman, but she had no sense of humor and she wasn't that good a conversationalist. I mean, you say something to her and maybe she'd answer and maybe not, depending on what suited her. She was all the time sitting with her nose in a chart or out on the floor checking on the patients. It wasn't even her responsibility. She took it on herself.”

I said, “Wow. I had no idea. On paper she looks good.”

“That's seldom the whole story.”

“And that's exactly why I'm here, to fill in the blanks. Did you see her outside work?”

“Hardly. The rest of us, sometimes on Friday nights? We'd go out together, kind of letting our hair down at the end of the week. Solana went straight home. After a while, we didn't even ask her to join us because we figured she'd say no.”

“She didn't drink?”

“Nuh-uhn. Are you kidding? She was too uptight. Plus, she was always watching her weight. And on her breaks, she read books. Anything to make the rest of us look bad. Does that help?”

“Enormously.”

“You think she'll be hired?”

“It's not up to me, but I'm certainly going to make a note of what you've said.”

 

I left the place at 1:00
P.M
. with Lana Sherman's résumé in hand. Walking back to the office, I passed a sandwich shop and realized I hadn't had lunch. In the press of work, I've been known to skip meals, but seldom when I was this hungry. I noticed that eating properly was antithetical to feeling full. A QP with Cheese and a large serving of fries will leave you close to comatose. The sudden onslaught of carbohydrates and fat makes you long for a nap, which means a gap of ten or fifteen minutes before you start thinking about your next meal. I did an about-face and veered into the sandwich shop. What I ordered is none of your business, but it was really good. I ate at my desk while I reviewed the Fredrickson file.

At 2:00, clipboard in hand, I arrived for my appointment with Gladys Fredrickson. She and her husband lived in a modest house near the beach on a street being overtaken by much grander homes. Given the exaggerated prices of local real estate, it made sense for buyers to snap up any house for sale and do extensive remodeling on the existing residence or raze the entire structure and start from scratch.

The Fredricksons' one-story frame house fit the latter category, not so much a fixer-upper as something you'd bulldoze, pile in a heap, and burn. There was a shabbiness about the place that suggested years of deferred maintenance. Along the side of the house, I could see that a strip of aluminum gutter had come loose. Below the gap a clump of rotting leaves lay fallen in a makeshift compost heap. I suspected the carpet would smell damp and the grout between the shower tiles would be black with mildew.

In addition to the wooden porch stairs, there was a long wooden ramp that extended from the drive to the porch to allow wheelchair access. The ramp itself was mottled with dark green algae and doubtless became as slick as glass whenever it rained. I stood on the porch looking down at the ivy beds interspersed with the yellow blooms of oxalis. Inside, the dog was yapping at a rate that would probably net him a swat on his butt. Across the side yard, through a chicken wire fence, I caught sight of an elderly neighbor lady setting out what were probably the annual Christmas decorations on her lawn. These consisted of seven hollow plastic Santa's helpers that could be lighted from inside. Also, nine plastic reindeer, one of which had a big red nose. She paused to stare at me and my quick wave was rewarded with a smile laced with sweetness and pain. There had once been little ones—children or grandchildren—whose memory she celebrated with this steadfast display of hope.

I'd already knocked twice and I was on the verge of knocking again when Gladys opened the door, leaning heavily on a walker, her neck encircled by a six-inch foam collar. She was tall and thick, the buttons of her plaid blouse gaping open across her ample breasts. The elastic waist on her rayon pants had given way and she'd used two large safety pins to affix the trousers to her shirt, thus preventing them from dropping and pooling around her ankles. She wore a pair of off-brand running shoes, though it was clear she wouldn't be running any time soon. On her left foot, a half-moon of leather had been cut away to provide relief for her bunion. “Yes?”

“I'm Kinsey Millhone, Mrs. Fredrickson. We have an appointment to talk about the accident.”

“You're with the insurance company?”

“Not yours. I'm working with California Fidelity Insurance. I was hired by Lisa Ray's attorney.”

“Accident was her fault.”

“So I've been told. I'm here to verify the information she gave us.”

“Oh. Well, I guess you better come on in,” she said, already turning her walker so she could hump her way back to the La-Z-Boy where she'd been sitting.

As I closed the front door, I noticed a collapsible wheelchair propped up against the wall. I'd been wrong about the carpet. Theirs had been removed, revealing narrow-plank hardwood floors. Staples that once held the padding in place were still embedded in the wood, and I could see a line of dark holes where the tack strips had been nailed.

The interior of the house was so dense with heat that the air smelled scorched. A small brightly colored bird was fanning its way like a moth from one drapery panel to the next while the dog pranced across the sofa cushions, toppling the stacks of magazines, junk mail, bills, and newspapers piled along the length. The dog had a small face, bright black eyes, and a poufy cravat of hair spilling across its chest. The bird had left two white poker chips of poop on the floor between the end table and the chair. Gladys hollered, “Millard? I told you to get that dog out of here! Dixie's up on the couch and I can't be responsible for what she does next.”

“Goddamn it. I'm coming. Quit your hollering,” Millard called from somewhere down the narrow transverse hall. Dixie was still barking, dancing on her hind legs with her dainty front feet pawing the air, her eyes fixed on the parakeet, hopeful that she would be rewarded for her trick by getting to eat the bird.

A moment later Millard appeared, propelling his wheelchair into view. Like Gladys, I judged him to be in his early sixties, though he was aging better than she. He was a heavyset man with a ruddy face, a thick black mustache, and a head of curly gray hair. He whistled sharply for the dog and she hopped off the sofa, crossed the room rapidly, and leaped onto his lap. He did a rolling pivot and disappeared down the hall, grumbling as he went.

“How long has your husband used a chair?”

“Eight years. We had to have the carpet taken up so he could manage from room to room.”

“I'm hoping he's made time for me today. As long as I'm here, I can talk to him as well.”

“No, now he said it didn't suit him. You'll have to come back another time if you want to talk to him.” Gladys shoved aside a pile of papers. “Make a space for yourself if you care to sit.”

I perched gingerly in the clearing she'd made. I set my shoulder bag on the floor and removed my tape recorder, which I placed on the coffee table in front of me. A tower of manila envelopes tilted against my thigh, most by way of a courier service called Fleet Feat. I waited while she maneuvered herself into position and then eased into the recliner with a grunt. During that brief delay, purely in the interest of securing the avalanche of bills, I did fan out the first five or six envelopes. Two had red rims and a hoary warning that read
URGENT!! FINAL NOTICE!
One was for a gasoline credit card, the other from a department-store chain.

Once Gladys was settled, I tried on my visiting-nurse voice. “I'll be recording this with your permission. Is that agreeable to you?”

“I suppose.”

After I pressed the Record button, I recited my name, her name, the date, and the case number. “Just for the record, you're giving this information voluntarily without threats or coercion. Is that correct?”

“I said I would.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. In answering my questions, please respond only with the facts within your knowledge. I'd ask you to avoid opinions, judgments, or conclusions.”

“Well, I've got my opinions like everyone else.”

“I understand that, Mrs. Fredrickson, but I have to limit my report to information as accurate as you can make it. If I ask a question and you don't know or don't remember, just say so. Please don't guess or speculate. Are you ready to proceed?”

“I've been ready since I sat down. You're the one dragging it out. I didn't expect all this claptrap and folderol.”

“I appreciate your patience.”

She nodded in response, but before I could formulate the first question, she launched into an account of her own. “Oh hon, I'm a wreck. No pun intended. I can't hardly get around without my walker. I got numbness and tingling in this foot. Feels like it's fell asleep, like I've been laying on it wrong…”

She went on describing the pains in her leg while I sat and took notes, doing a proper job of it. “Anything else?” I asked.

“Well, headaches, of course, and my neck's all froze up. Look at this—I can't hardly turn my head. That's why I got this collar here to help give support.”

“Any other pain?”

“Honey, pain's all I've got.”

“May I ask what medications you're taking?”

“I got a pill for everything.” She reached over to the end table, where a number of prescription bottles had been assembled along with a water glass. She picked up the vials one by one, holding them out so I could write down the names. “These two are pain pills. This one's a muscle relaxant, and this here's for depression…”

I was scribbling away but looked up with interest. “Depression?”

“I got chronic depression. I can't remember when I've ever felt so low. Dr. Goldfarb, the orthopedic specialist, he sent me to see this psychiatrist who put me on these new pills. I guess the other ones don't do much once you've taken them awhile.”