Elizabeth C. Main - Jane Serrano 02 - No Rest for the Wicked (16 page)

Chapter 16

Quilts formed a colorful kaleidoscope on every wall of the Prairie Home Retirement Living reception area. A crackling fire in the freestanding fireplace augmented the cozy atmosphere, though the warmth of the late afternoon didn’t call for additional heat. A replica of a frontier cabin on an oak table drew my immediate attention.

“
Welcome.
”

I whirled to face a receptionist seated at a vintage roll-top desk.
“
I didn’t see you there. I was just admiring . .
.
”

“
Incredible, isn’t it?
”
The young woman rose to greet me, her fresh-scrubbed face lighting with pleasure at the chance to explain.
“
Made by a wonderful retired engineer who’s one of our guests. He got everything exactly right. Look.
”
She lifted the log roof. The interior décor continued the perfect simplicity of the outside. Miniature pine planks formed the floor. A plain table rested on a rag rug and sturdy bunk beds hugged one wall. In front of the tiny fireplace, complete with a miniscule cast iron kettle on an iron rod, sat an exquisitely carved rocking chair.

“
It’s like peeking into perfect tranquility.
”
I straightened and glanced around me.
“
This room has the same feel.
”

She nodded with satisfaction.
“
That’s exactly the message we want to convey. See? It’s even on our business cards: ‘Prairie Home Retirement Living … our home, your home.’ We want our guests to feel like family.
”

On a sudden hunch, I checked her name tag and asked,
“
You’re not just an employee, are you, Marcy?
”

Marcy’s wide brown eyes shone with amusement.
“
My family owns Prairie Home. How’d you guess?
”

“
I suppose because you seem so upbeat . .
.
”

“
Well, I hope all our employees feel that way, but you’re right that our family tries extra hard to make this a home people want to share. In fact, my own grandparents live here. That’s how we got started.
”

“
From what I’ve seen so far, you and your family should be proud.
”

“
Thank you. Were you thinking of—
”

“
Actually, I’m here to see one of your residents. Irene Cook?
”

As Marcy twisted to look through an archway, her straight hair cascaded across the collar of her plain shirtwaist. It was as though I’d stumbled onto the set of the
Little House on the Prairie
TV series.

Marcy turned back with a happy smile.
“
Oh, good. She’s playing cards. That’s an improvement.
”
She hesitated.
“
I guess you’ve heard about her grandson. I mean, it’s none of my business . .
.
”

In my preoccupation with helping Alix, I’d hardly given a thought to how Irene Cook must feel at the loss of her grandson.
“
It’s … it’s good of you to care, Marcy. I’ll do my best not to upset her.
”

“
She’s been so sad, but today she’s wearing that beautiful turquoise outfit again, so I hope she’s feeling better. She usually wins at cards, too. That ought to help.
”

“
Gin!
”
The triumphant
word echoed from the next room.

“
Told you.
”
Marcy patted me on the arm and returned to her desk.

I smiled my thanks and
made my way to the next room.

“
You won again, Irene!
”
A huge woman swathed in a scarlet muumuu glared across the card table.

I couldn’t help noticing, with total irrelevance, that she bore an unfortunate resemblance to George Washington. Life couldn’t have been easy for her, whether she won or lost at cards, but at least she fit nicely into the historic motif of Prairie Home.

“
How do you do that?
”
A stick-thin lady spoke from her wheelchair at the
table. A
black sweat suit hung on her frame, and the chalky tones of her hands and face indicated an ongoing battle against serious illness. She was smiling though, perhaps in simple appreciation of being alive.

“
That’s two million you owe me.
”

Of medium height and weight, Irene Cook fit neatly between her larger and smaller opponents at the card table. I guessed her age at a well-preserved eighty.

“
Tomorrow … double or nothing,
”
demanded the scarlet muumuu.

“
Fine with me.
”
Irene shuffled the deck with practiced ease and slapped it down on the table.

I hovered nearby until she looked up.

Her eyes showed the telltale redness that followed the shedding of tears, but her voice betrayed no emotion.
“
Want to play?
”

“
Be careful if you do,
”
muttered the George Washington clone.
“
She’ll rob you blind and smile the whole time.
”

“
She’s a shark all right,
”
the thin woman agreed in cheerful tones
.
“
But
she’s fun. Join us?
”

“
Thanks, but I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Cook, if she’s available.
”

Irene Cook’s quick glance at her tablemates told me she anticipated the subject matter and didn’t want to talk in front of an audience.
“
Let’s go to my room.
”

She used a handsome ebony cane to lever herself to her feet. With her back straight, she led the way past a group of arm chairs with crocheted afghans slung over their backs. Bouquets of fresh yellow and white daisies adorned nearby end tables. Noting the high quality of everything I saw, I surmised it wouldn’t be cheap to live here. Had some of Hunter’s schemes helped to pay for his grandmother’s comfort, or did it all come from Alix?

When we reached Irene’s room, she opened the door and turned to face me.
“
Are you from Sheriff Kraft’s office?
”
As I’d feared, they’d already talked to her, making my
difficult job just that much harder.
“
I hope you’ve come to tell me you’ve made an arrest.
”

After a
tussle with my conscience, I stifled the impulse to lie. Posing as a deputy
might net
information, but would
likely
cause more trouble than I needed.
“
Sorry,
I’m not, bu
t I don’t think there’s been an arrest
.
”
At least I hoped Alix was still
free. I’d be
celebrating
with Irene
myself
if Arnie had
arrested anyone else
.

She made an impatient gesture.
“
If you’re
a reporter
, you’re wasting your time. I told the others that I don’t know anything about what happened.
”
The old lady’s words were abrupt, but her hands, so steady while shuffling the cards, now trembled as they rested on the cane.

I fumbled for the proper response.
“
My name is Jane Serrano. Mrs. Cook, if I might have just a minute of your time—
”

“
You
are
a
reporter. Can’t you leave my Marty alone?
”

Hunter had started life as Martin Selway, and Marty he’d remained to his grieving grandmother. Her eyes, so bright while she played cards with her friends, now filled with tears. She entered her room and closed the door in my face.

I retraced my steps to the reception area. Marcy wasn’t at the desk, but her replacement
—I glanced at the name tag
—
Cyndi, was delighted to answer my questions about the facility. As I’d expected, even the lowest-priced units weren’t cheap
.

She
echoed Marcy’s hope that Irene was feeling better today.
“
Having company ought to do her good.
”

I nodded noncommittally and thanked her for her time, tucking a business card inside my bag as I turned to leave.

Cyndi
’s words
stopped me.
“
Poor Irene was so proud of her grandson, introduced him to all of us.
”

My breath caught in my throat.
“
He was here?
”

She nodded.
“
Monday afternoon. He was real friendly. Handsome, too. It was a real shame, him getting killed and all.
”

“
Yes, a real shame.
”
I answered automatically while my mind raced. So Hunter had seen his grandmother on the day he was murdered. Why? Feigning annoyance at a forgotten task, I said,
“
Oops. I meant to give Irene a … a letter I brought.
”

“
I’ll take it to her,
”
Cyndi o
ffered.

Marcy would be pleased that her employee was extra-helpful, but that didn’t suit my purpose at all.
“
That’s okay.
”

I escaped before she could renew her kindly offer. As I waited for Irene to answer my knock, I had plenty of time to admire the calligraphy spelling out her name on the door plaque. About the time I concluded that she wasn’t going to come to the door, it opened a crack.

“
You again.
”
I couldn’t see much of her face through the narrow opening, but her scowl was clear enough.

“
I’m sorry about your loss.
”

“
Huh.
”
The single syllable was accompanied by the closing of the door.

“
I can’t imagine the pain of losing one of my grandchildren.
”
I was speaking to the door plaque.

As I stood there, unsure what else I could do to reach her, whispered words floated through the closed door.
“
You got grandkids?
”

“
Yes, two. They’re wonderful.
”
I waited.

The door swung open, and Irene and I looked at each other, one grandmother to another. Whatever she saw on my face apparently tipped the balance in my favor. Wearily, she stood aside. I hurried past her into the room before she could change her mind.

She made her way to a recliner and moved a burgundy afghan aside so she could sit down. A framed studio portrait of a much younger Hunter Blackburn rested amid the clutter of pill bottles, a magnifying glass, and
a
box
of tissues
on a nearby table. The front section of yesterday’s
Juniper Journal
lay on the floor.
Irene probably had been reading—no doubt for the umpteenth time—the latest article about Hunter’s death.

She saw the direction of my gaze.
“
They’re saying such terrible things about Marty. Maybe he wasn’t perfect, but he was the sweetest little boy.
”

“
Of course you loved him.
”
I sank onto a loveseat opposite Irene’s chair.

“
Yes.
”
She looked up gratefully.
“
I did.
”
Once released, her words flowed like water down a hillside.
“
Always quick with a smile or a joke. Just a little scamp, really.
”
Her expression softened as she sorted through memories of her grandchild.

I felt an occasional pang of guilt at pumping her for information, but she obviously needed to talk to someone, and I couldn’t see what harm I was doing. If anything, I was doing her a kindness by listening, regardless of my original purpose in coming here. Irene seemed to have lost all interest in asking why this stranger was sitting in her room. She simply accepted me as a grandmother who understood her loss.

“
This was a gift.
”
Irene caressed the cane by her side.
“
Ebony. Mar
t
y always sent interesting things from his travels.
”
She smiled at the handsome picture that stood in the place of honor. I was glad the newspaper had featured a different photo with the article about his murder.
“
Why, I wouldn’t even be able to live here if not for Marty.
”

Irene apparently had no suspicion of Alix’s involvement in financing her stay at Prairie Home, but I saw no percentage in bringing that up at the moment.
“
Was Marty able to see what a wonderful place this is?
”

“
Just once.
He had the bank transfer money directly into my account—he traveled so much, you know
.
”
Ah, now I understood.
“
B
ut then he came to see me that last day, just before . .
.
”
The animation faded from her face, and she struggled for control of her voice.
“
It was wonderful to see him again, introduce him to everyone. He was so handsome. The others just crowded around. You can’t imagine the excitement. I wanted him to stay for dinner, but he couldn’t. And then, he was gone.
”

At length, Irene returned to the present and recalled that she was talking to a stranger. Her nostalgic tone was gone when she next addressed me.
“
You want to know
how he made a living
, don’t you? That’s what
everyone
keep
s
asking. Marty earned
lots of money
because h
e was a fabulous salesman. I already told Sheriff Kraft everything I know.
”

I allowed myself a small measure of hope since Irene hadn’t yet mentioned Alix.

“
We’re simply trying to cover all bases, to find out who might have held a grudge against him.
”
I didn’t define
“
we.
”