There Was an Old Woman (21 page)

Chapter Fifty-four

When Mina finally woke up, it was dark in her bedroom, but bright strips of sunlight bled from between the window shades and sills. Her clock ticked quietly, but she couldn't see the time. She put her hand out, feeling for Ivory. But the spot where the cat liked to sleep was cool and empty.

She had no idea how long she'd been out. She struggled to turn over, but it was as if her muscles didn't want to respond, and to make matters worse, the sheets were twisted around her legs. She reached down to free her legs and realized she wasn't caught up in sheets but rather a long nightgown. Light cotton. She felt the neck. A lace collar. It had to be Annabelle's. While she'd been asleep, Dora must have gotten her up and changed her clothes. Her face burned with shame at the very idea of it.

She had to get out of bed.
Now.
She couldn't let herself fade the way Annabelle had, so rapidly once she was installed in that nursing home and no longer had to do for herself. All that lying in bed—meals being brought to her, a bedpan if she wanted and diapers if she didn't—had quickly atrophied Annabelle's muscles until her arms and legs were nothing more than twigs, and she couldn't even stand on her own. Just a few weeks later, ghastly raw areas formed on her backside, bedsores that eventually oozed and wept infection. She'd been too weak to even cough, so when she'd gotten a cold, it had quickly turned into pneumonia, the illness that doctors called “the old person's friend” because at least it pulled the plug. Now there was an expression Mina detested.

Even after all that, Mina hadn't been ready for Annabelle to go. And she was tortured by the likelihood that Annabelle's slide would have been more gradual had she been able to keep her at home. Kept her active. But there'd been no choice.

Mina pushed back the covers and sat up. She was stiff and achy, and her mouth tasted like old rubber tires. Her head felt like a big empty metal drum that was being hammered at from the inside. And she had to go to the bathroom.

She edged herself to the side of the bed, expecting the walker to be there waiting for her. But it wasn't. She stretched out her toes and felt around for her slippers but she couldn't find those, either. Never mind that. She pushed herself to her feet. Leaning against the wall, she felt her way to the door to the downstairs hall. The minute she opened it, Ivory slipped in, meowing and rubbing against her.

“Shoo,” Mina said. The last thing she needed was to trip over the cat.

She paused, listening. The house was quiet. No more construction going on upstairs. The hall was dark, and she shouldn't have had any trouble navigating the few steps to the bathroom, but soon after she started inching her way along, she hit a roadblock. Stacks of bundled papers and bulging garbage bags lined the hallway.

What in heaven's name was going on? “Brian!” she called. No answer. Was Brian even there? And what about Dora?

Mina squeezed past the debris. At least the bathroom door wasn't blocked. It wasn't until she was sitting that she noticed the smell. She gagged. Her bathroom had never smelled this bad before. Had Ivory's litter box had been moved in here? Why hadn't Dora taken care of it? Wasn't that part of what Brian was paying her to do?

That's when Mina heard
scritch-scratch
from behind the shower curtain. Sounded as if the litter box was not only there, but in use. How had Ivory managed to slip past her? She'd have to tell Dora that the bathtub was no place for the cat box. It didn't take much cat litter to clog a drain. It solidified in there like cement.

She washed her hands, then pushed back the shower curtain. Sure enough, the litter box was a dark rectangle against the white of the tub. Ivory's white fur looked like quicksilver as she did a figure eight and then settled. But—Mina squinted, not sure if she was imagining things without her glasses—was that another Ivory perched motionless in the corner? And could that quick movement be another alongside the litter box in the tub?

A knock on the bathroom door startled her. “Wilhelmina?” Mina actually felt relieved to hear Dora's voice. “Are you in there? Are you all right? You were supposed to ring the bell I left for you.”

Bell?
Mina opened the door. “Why are there so many cats?”

“Cats?”

“There are at least three of them in here.” Mina pointed to the tub.

“Of course there are.” Dora tugged the shower curtain closed before taking Mina's arm and leading her from the bathroom. “And they're all white just like Ivory, aren't they?”

Mina knew all about that strategy—she'd seen it used plenty with Annabelle. Her caretakers called it entering into the delusion. “I suppose you're going to tell me that I'm seeing double. And that all this junk stacked out here”—she jabbed a finger toward the piles as they sidled past—“is a figment of my imagination, too.”

“Certainly not. It's just part of the construction work.” Mina was about to ask how stacks of newspapers constituted construction, but Dora was too quick for her. “They'll have them out of there in a day or two, and you'll be able to move upstairs to the new room. You'll see. It's so much nicer. And the new bathroom is lovely.”

Distraction, Mina recalled, was another strategy for dealing with a demented old woman.

“Upstairs,” Dora went on. “With plenty of space to move around in a wheelchair.”

“But I don't have a—”

“You know, you slept right through lunch.”
Lunch?
How had it gotten to be lunchtime already? “I'm not surprised you're feeling peckish. Come on. Back to bed and I'll bring you a nice tray. There's butterscotch pudding. You like butterscotch pudding, don't you?”

Mina did like butterscotch pudding, but she'd be damned if she'd say so. “I want to go outside.”

“Come on now. Back to bed. I've made a lovely lunch for you.”

Mina was hungry. Very hungry, in fact. She let Dora shepherd her from the dark hall and back to the equally dark bedroom.

“Why are the shades drawn?”

“My, my. We do have a lot of issues today, don't we?”

“And when will my glasses be here? I hate not being able to see.”

All she got for that were a few tut-tuts. Mina caught a whiff of ginger and tangerine as Dora bent over and tucked her firmly into bed and plumped pillows behind her. The familiar smell conjured an image of plastic forsythia. Now she remembered—the woman who'd showed her around Pelham Manor had been wearing that scent. But her name hadn't been Dora, and she wasn't a brunette, Mina thought when Dora returned with a bed tray. Tomato soup. Mina could tell by the smell.

“Mustn't forget to take your pill,” Dora said. She handed Mina a pill and a glass. “Careful. The glass is full.”

Mina could feel the pill between her fingers. “What's this?” she asked. Did Dora think she wouldn't notice that the pill was twice the size of the ones she'd been taking for years?

“The doctor prescribed a new compound, Lipitor and Fosamax. To keep your bones strong.”

“Why didn't he tell me about the change?”

“Don't you remember? You saw him this morning.”

This morning?
Mina thought it still was this morning.

“Poor dear. You don't remember, do you? No wonder. You're exhausted. You slept all day yesterday, too.”

Thoroughly rattled, Mina put the pill in her mouth and choked it down with a swallow of water. She was afraid to ask, but she did. “What day is it?”

“Why, it's Friday, of course.”

But how could that be? Could she have lost two entire days?

Chapter Fifty-five

By the next morning, Evie could barely hold up her head. Tense and jittery, unable to sleep, she'd spent most of the night up and cleaning the house. Sergeant Corday showed up, as promised, at eight. The younger of the two cops who'd come to investigate the earlier break-in, he had another officer with him this time. A slender African American woman with straight black hair framing her wide-set eyes, she introduced herself as Detective Leslie Johnson. Evie poured them both coffee and sat across the kitchen table from them. The kitchen was still the only room in the house that was back to normal.

“So these are what you found outside in the trash?” Johnson asked, indicating the pill bottles that Evie had left on the table. “Why don't you start at the beginning. Tell us about your mother's illness.”

The beginning. What was the beginning? Evie took a breath. “My mother is an alcoholic. Has been for years, so we weren't surprised when she was rushed to the hospital last Friday.”

“We?” Corday asked.

“My sister, Ginger, and I. We've been through this so many times before. My mother falls. Or she collapses. Or she acts like a crazy person. She dries out, goes in for treatment. Says she'll stop drinking but she never does. But this time it was different. Turns out that on top of excessive drinking, she'd taken an overdose of acetaminophen. I thought it was accidental, because it wouldn't have taken much with her liver already so compromised. Then I found these.” She pointed to the NaturaPharm containers.

“Vitamins?” Corday said.

“Only they're not. Both containers have the same pills. Acetaminophen. When you asked me if something more was missing after the break-in, I'd only checked for valuables. But someone took these bottles and more like them from the bathroom and threw them in the trash.”

“How many more?” Detective Johnson asked.

“There was a whole row of them in her medicine cabinet.” Evie tried to visualize it. “Six or seven.”

Detective Johnson picked up a paper napkin and used it to turn over one of the containers. “No price sticker, but there's a bar code. We may be able to find out what store they came from.” She unscrewed the top and shook a tablet into her palm. “So you're saying someone was trying to kill her.”

“She was doing a fine job of that all by herself. I think someone was trying to speed up the process. And sabotage her car. And make it look like she's one of those crazy cat ladies. I've thrown out dozens of empty cans of cat food. My mother doesn't even like cats, and she's certainly never owned one.” Evie went on, telling them about the money her mother was getting, and that she suspected someone had gotten her to sign away her house.

“Did you find this agreement that you think she signed?” Johnson asked.

Evie admitted she hadn't. “But Mrs. Yetner—she lives next door—her nephew has been trying to get her to sign away her house, too. I have that agreement.” Then she remembered she'd given the life estate deed to Finn. “I mean, I know where it is. I gave it to someone to look into.”

“But you have the cash?” Corday asked. “There might be prints.”

“I'm sorry, no. I deposited it all in the bank yesterday. That much cash made me very nervous, especially after the break-in.”

“What about the envelopes that the money came in?” Johnson asked.

Evie sank lower in her chair. “I threw them away as I was leaving the bank. There was nothing written on them. Just twenty brand-new one-hundred-dollar bills in each one.”

“Seems like it would have to be someone she knew and trusted,” Johnson said. “Any idea who?”

“My mother's burned through most of her friends. But the man across the street, Frank Cutler, he's been spending time with her. He tried to visit her in the hospital, only she'd already been moved to intensive care.” Johnson and Corday exchanged a look, and Evie felt her face flush. “Sounds crazy, I know.”

“These”—Johnson pointed a long, manicured nail at the vitamin containers—“are not figments of your imagination.”

“You said you found these in the garbage bag outside?” Corday asked. “I'll go see if there's more out there.” He pushed himself up from the table and went out, closing the front door quietly behind him.

“Why don't you show me the medicine cabinet these were in,” Johnson said. Evie led her to the bathroom and pointed out the empty bottom shelf. Johnson looked around, speculatively. “We're investigating another case. Another house—”

“The one that was bulldozed a few days ago?”

“It's been bulldozed?”

“We're probably not talking about the same house.” Evie took Johnson back to the kitchen. She took out the map that she'd printed at work and unfolded it on the table. “There,” she said, pointing to the lot where the little house with bright red trim had once stood. “That house is gone.”

“That's not the one we're investigating.”

Evie pointed a few doors up. “The house on this lot has been leveled, too.”

“That's the one,” Johnson said. “An older woman lived there. A widow. Alone. She had emphysema.” She looked up at Evie, as if she was deciding whether to say more. “But that's not what killed her.”

“Don't tell me. Acetaminophen overdose,” Evie said as she started to put away the map.

“I can't say,” Johnson said, “but it's urgent that we talk to your mother.”

“I'm afraid you can't. No one can. She's in a coma at Bronx Metropolitan Hospital.”

Johnson frowned. “Can I see that map again?” Evie pushed it across the table at her.

“Why are those other properties flagged?” Johnson asked.

“They're all owned by the same company. Soundview Management.” Evie watched as Johnson traced her long finger from one flagged property to the next. Most of them were on the water, including the lot next to Mrs. Yetner on the side opposite Evie's mother's house. Frank Cutler's house was flagged, too. He was young and healthy enough that a life estate deed at least made some financial sense.

“You mind if I take a picture of this map?” Johnson asked. Evie shook her head and Johnson snapped two quick shots with her cell phone.

Corday came back in. He had more vitamin containers, each sealed in its own baggie. He and Johnson exchanged a look.

“Thank you,” Johnson said to Evie, offering her a card. “We'll be in touch. What's the best way to reach you?”

Evie gave them her cell-phone number.

She felt dazed as she let them out. Her mother really had been poisoned, and whoever had done it was trying to cover his tracks. She watched from the kitchen window as Detective Johnson and Officer Corday stood in front of the house, their heads bent, talking. The pair split up. Johnson walked up to Mrs. Yetner's door, Corday to Frank Cutler's.