Vultures at Twilight (7 page)

‘A ballpark,' prompted Ada.

‘Don't quote me, but when I last checked, this was five hundred thousand.'

Ada didn't flinch. ‘Everything included?'

‘Yes and no. There is a monthly fee.'

‘How much?'

‘Three thousand.'

‘So, let me get this straight.' Ada looked at the ceiling as she figured the math. ‘I'd have to pay five hundred thousand to buy in, plus three grand a month. I have to tell you, Delia –' she looked straight at the director – ‘that seems high.'

‘Well,' Ms Preston backpedaled. ‘If you wanted to see something less expensive, like a studio, or one of our new convenience units . . .'

‘Let me ask you,' Ada continued. ‘There was someone else living in this unit. Will she get anything from the sale? That is, of course, if she's still alive. But even if she passed away, does her estate get the proceeds?'

Delia's jaw clenched while her mouth stayed fixed in a smile. ‘The units go back to the Nillewaug Corporation.'

‘So the estate gets nothing,' Ada said.

‘If you want to think about it that way.'

‘I don't mean to give offense,' said Ada. ‘I just need to know what I'd be getting in to. Who makes the decision to send someone to the nursing home?'

‘That's a question many prospective residents ask,' said Delia, clearly relieved to be on safer ground. ‘At Nillewaug we make every effort, up to and including twenty-four-hour in-home companions, to keep our residents in their own units. We have in-home oxygen and intravenous therapy capabilities, and every other type of therapy: physical, occupational, even massage can be delivered within the campus.'

‘That doesn't answer my question,' Ada persisted. ‘Who makes the decision?'

‘It varies,' admitted the director. ‘Obviously, we take into account the preferences of the resident. But sometimes, if it's advanced dementia, or severe post-stroke paralysis, that may not be possible.'

‘In which case?' Ada prompted.

‘Then it's the families that help us decide, typically with the input of their physician and our medical director.'

‘Who's your medical director?' I asked, remembering Bradley's veiled comments as to why he'd left the position.

‘Dr Stanley. Gordon Stanley.'

The name was familiar but I couldn't place him. It bothered me.
Gordon Stanley, where do I know him from?

‘Well, I've seen enough,' Ada said as she moved into her I'm ready-to-leave-now mode.

I followed her lead and we edged toward the door.

Delia, sensing her prey was about to escape, launched the hard sell. ‘If you're seriously considering this for your mother, and from everything you've told me about Rose, we'd love to have her. But you need to know that we have very limited inventory. The unit you just saw is our only open deluxe model.'

Ada shot her a look. ‘Delia, we're talking about my mother and a tremendous amount of money. I will take all the time I need, and if you don't have a unit that suits, there are other facilities in this area.'

‘Yes, but, you need to compare apples and—'

Ada interrupted, ‘We'll be leaving now, but what you could get me is a copy of your standard contract that I'll have my attorney review.'

‘As a practice, we don't release the Promise Agreement unless someone's actually buying in. It's proprietary and we—'

‘Ms Preston, I don't enter into any business deal blind. If you want my business you'll fax me a copy of the tenant agreement, or promise whatever.'

‘I assure you,' Delia said, ‘there's nothing out of the ordinary. It's quite straightforward.'

‘Then good, I'll take a look at it, and see if this is something that would work.'

‘But I can't—'

‘Then neither can I,' Ada said.

Delia's lower lip curled, and her forehead would have furrowed had it been possible. Her frustration was palpable as she tried to find a way around Ada's resistance. ‘I'll have to speak with our CEO.'

‘Who's that?' I asked.

‘Mr Warren,' she said, clearly unhappy with the direction this was going.

‘Jim Warren?' I asked. ‘The attorney?'

‘Yes,' Delia admitted. ‘I'll have to check with him.'

‘Then good,' Ada said, and she pulled out a card with her numbers. ‘If you could either email or fax that would be great.'

When we finally freed ourselves from Delia, and were heading toward the car, Ada stopped. She turned and faced the towering Georgian brick façade of Nillewaug's central residential building. She ran a hand through her hair and took a slow turn. I stood at her side, taking in the stately outer buildings like spokes on a wheel, where the six hundred unit residential building formed the massive hub. All around lush and perfectly maintained landscaping with rustic stone walls, woods with walking paths and benches and the built to impress man-made lake and waterfall, where giant koi flashed beneath flowering lilies.

‘It's nice enough.' Her tone was less than enthusiastic. ‘Did you see how quiet everyone was? And why was she so squirrelly about letting us see the agreement? I don't know . . .' She sighed. ‘I just don't know.'

SIX

A
s Mildred Potts punched in the security code for her shop, Taffy ran excited circles around her ankles. It had been a long day with a lot of
Lookyloos
, but no buyers. The end of the month was approaching, and even with her robust markups, if things didn't improve . . . Well, she wouldn't think about that. The down economy had hurt everything and the antique business was no exception.

She slid the deadbolt as Taffy started to yip. Mildred looked up and saw a lone figure at the end of the alley that separated Aunt Millie's Attic from the Grenville Historical Society.

She smiled. ‘You came back to look at the cameo? Well . . .' She quickly disarmed the security system and unlocked the door. Normally she wouldn't have done this, but the cameo in mention was a spectacular Victorian lapis lazuli set in fourteen carat gold with large rose-cut sapphire and diamond accents. At ten grand it could go a long way toward pulling the month out of the crapper.

She ushered her late-afternoon customer into the showroom with its outstanding collection of antique jewelry and expensive bibelots, all purchased at a fraction of their value. Mildred Potts prided herself on never paying more than ten cents on the dollar. It had given her a reputation, but this was a tough business and considering how many of her colleagues had recently closed shop, or were in jeopardy of doing so, only the shrewd survived.

With Taffy under her arm, Mildred gushed, ‘Now, I've been dealing in jewelry for . . . well, for more years than I care to say, but this piece is outstanding. You have a sophisticated eye.'

She unlocked the display case and lifted the jewel from its velvet-lined box. As she slid it toward the customer, her index finger lifted up the tag, letting her see the asking price, as well as her carefully encrypted code that told her what she had paid for it. The latter information she rarely needed. This piece in particular had been part of a major score. It was included in a liquidation she'd gotten on a low-ball bid, with heirs who were both eager and ignorant, a delicious combination. All said and done, the brooch had cost her less than a hundred dollars.

‘Of course,' she offered, watching as the customer fondled the pin, ‘I could do a
little
better on the price.'

‘How much better?'

Mildred rechecked the price and inhaled deeply, as if experiencing sharp pain. ‘I could go nine even, but I have a lot of money in that piece. I know I shouldn't have paid what I did for it, but sometimes you have to if you want quality.'

‘Of course,' the customer said, and then uttered the one small sentence that was music to Mildred's ears, ‘I'll take it.'

Taffy squealed excitedly, sensing his mistress' elation.

‘Such a sweet dog,' the customer commented as Mildred wrote up the sale.

‘Yes,' she replied, while figuring the six and a quarter percent sales tax. ‘She's my little Taffy-waffy.'

‘I'm sure she is.' And with that the customer pulled out a delicately engraved, Lady Beretta 21A and shot Mildred Potts at close range between the eyes.

As Mildred crumpled to the floor, still clutching a terrified Taffy, the customer snapped on disposable cream-colored latex gloves, grabbed Mildred's keys that dangled from the case where she'd retrieved the cameo, and systematically went through the shop liberating the jewels.

SEVEN

T
olliver waited numb and stiff on a scarred oak chair as the police conferred behind the soundproof glass of the interrogation room. Born and raised in Grenville, he'd only been inside the red-brick nineteen-twenties police station as part of a third-grade field trip. He felt unreal and disconnected, and in his chest a hollowness as if some vital part of him had just been ripped out.

Yesterday, at the Medical Examiner's office in Farmington, he had been shown a body and told that it was Philip's. He needed to be told, because the bloated and mangled remains in the refrigerated drawer bore little trace of the man who had shared his life for nearly two decades. Hours later, he still smelled the stench that had flooded over him as they'd unzipped the shiny black bag. He could still see his face, or what remained of it after three days in the Nillewaug river, the flesh ripped away in places, one eye puckered and closed, the other a hollow socket from where some animal –
fish, raccoon, crow?
– had dined.

Nothing made sense, but connections had emerged. It was now clear that the human finger found at McElroy's auction had been Philip's. They'd taken a print from the severed digit; it matched.

One day later and Tolliver still had to fight back waves of nausea. Who did this? Had Philip suffered? The coroner had assured him that the finger had been severed after he was dead. But why? And why plant it in an auction where any one of a hundred dealers could have discovered it? Nothing made sense.

‘Tolliver?' Officer Kevin Simpson opened the door. ‘You can come in.'

The small town irony was that Tolliver and the heavyset and balding Kevin had grown up together, classmates at different ends of the academic spectrum. Where Tolliver was second in the class, Kevin, with his even nature and dogged determination, had struggled to graduate.

Already in the small, windowless interview room was Detective Mattie Perez with the state's Major Crime Squad. Kevin made the introductions, and Tolliver felt the intensity of the detective's dark brown eyes as they shook hands. She was a squarely built early-forties woman with tightly curled black hair shot through with silver. She wore no makeup and her boxy navy suit and button-down oxford gave her a masculine feel. As soon as Tolliver sat, her questions began.

‘Mr Jacobs, while you are not officially a suspect, you may have an attorney present.'

‘I understand,' said Tolliver, noting the digital recorder on the table. ‘I also understand that if I choose not to answer specific questions, that's within my rights.'

‘Of course,' she replied, keeping eye contact. ‘If you could start by telling me the nature of your relationship with Mr Conroy?'

‘He was my husband.' The word was still new, after years of being
partners
and
significant others
.

‘I see. Now when did you last see your husband?'

He didn't hesitate. ‘Last Friday.'

‘You're certain of that?'

‘He didn't come home, or at least I don't think he did.'

‘Wouldn't you know?'

‘Generally, yes. But there was an auction that night and he had been out looking at an estate and hadn't come home. So rather than wait and miss the preview, I went to the auction myself.'

‘The one where the finger was found?'

‘Yes.'

‘And if that finger belonged to your husband,' she continued, ‘then I think it's safe to say he did not make it home, but in fact, was already dead.'

‘Yes,' said Tolliver dully. ‘That must be right.' He felt the room swim as memories of Philip – his first and only love – flooded his brain.

Kevin Simpson's pale blue eyes looked at his old classmate. ‘You all right, man?'

‘A little dizzy.'

‘I'll get you some water,' Kevin said and left him alone with Detective Perez.

She eyed him coldly and silently jotted down questions.

As soon as Kevin returned with a cup of water, she proceeded.

‘The Friday of the auction . . . You're sure you saw him that day?'

‘We had breakfast together.'

‘That would make it October the first?'

‘Yes.'

‘Forgive me for sounding confused, but today's the sixth. Didn't you wonder what had become of your husband, who had gone to look at an estate?'

‘Of course.' He looked down at his hands.

‘Well?' she prodded. ‘Where did you think he was?'

‘I wasn't sure.' Tears welled; he didn't want to cry in front of this woman. He hated that stereotype of the weepy gay man. ‘We were having problems. I thought . . .'

‘You thought what?' she prompted.

‘I thought he might have gone away.'

‘Was that something he did?'

‘No.'

‘Then why would this be different?'

‘We were having problems,' he repeated. ‘At least Philip was.'

‘You said that before,' she commented tersely. ‘Please be less vague.'

‘He said he might go to the Cape. He wanted some time alone.' He looked up and met the dark-eyed gaze of the intense detective. And it hit him; he was a suspect. He looked at Kevin, who seemed sympathetic, but ineffectual in the face of this woman who had already tried and convicted him.