Darned if You Do (4 page)

V
ALENTINA
Shipp was beyond tired. But her cousin, Tommy, was in deep doo-doo and needed her help. As in
now
. She pressed the accelerator down just a little bit more and glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure no state trooper was coming up behind her.

She was a tall woman in her early fifties, slat thin, with straight brown hair that had become mixed with gray of late, large, dark, intelligent eyes, a wide mouth under a proud nose, and lots of dark freckles. She wore a shapeless dark blue cardigan under a thin black Windbreaker, brown wool slacks, and tan desert boots. Her car was a fifteen-year-old compact with a barely functioning muffler and windshield wipers that needed replacement.

She was on the last leg of the journey, heading northwest on I-94, nearly done with Wisconsin, the Minnesota border less than ten minutes away if she didn't get stopped for speeding.

She had driven all night; the sun was giving pink warning of its rising into a clear sky. In a field near the highway a huge tree was lying on its side, its roots making cartoon-octopus silhouettes against the glowing horizon.

That's right
, she told herself. There had been a big windstorm, with lots of rain, last week. That's why the tree had fallen on Tommy's house.

Dear old Tommy, the only cousin left. The only cousin that she knew of, at least. Her family members had a habit of dropping off the vine, either by moving away and not letting her know where they went, or by dying.

In a little less than ten minutes, Valentina found herself at the top of a great hill, with a broad river at the bottom. The river was, she knew, the Saint Croix, and marked the border between Wisconsin and Minnesota. Minneapolis and Saint Paul were just up the way. In Minneapolis there was a hospital called Hennepin County Medical Center, and in the hospital was her cousin, Tommy, poor thing.

She had a reservation at a cheap motel on the north edge of downtown in what she suspected was a rough neighborhood. But she was not afraid of rough neighborhoods; her house, without changing its location, had gone from being on the wrong side of the tracks to the right side and back again, and she had lived there serenely through it all. She smiled. Well, maybe not always serenely. Successfully, let's say.

The motel was not quite as bad as she feared. It was clean and one of the two beds was not uncomfortable. She took a shower, changed her clothes, and set off for the Hennepin County Medical Center, stopping at a McDonald's on the way for their largest cup of coffee and an egg and sausage McMuffin to go.

*   *   *

K
ASSIE
Christianson waited in the lobby at the main entrance of HCMC for Valentina Shipp. Kassie had been Tom Riordan's social worker for several years, and brought into the recent mix by Judi Mormon. She was a short, slim African American woman, with short cropped natural hair, very large hoop earrings, and a no-nonsense face.

Kassie had spoken to Valentina on the phone, so she knew to look for a tall, thin woman with brown hair and wearing a tan sweater.

But she hesitated before stepping forward when she saw Valentina stride into the lobby like an inspector determined to find fault with the place. Valentina was wearing low-heeled suede boots, loose-fitting tan trousers, and a bulky tan sweater that looked hand-knit. Her light hair—brown mixed with gray?—was pulled carelessly to the nape of her neck with a rubber band. Her broad mouth was pressed into a straight line, and her dark, shapely eyebrows were pulled together forbiddingly over a hawklike nose.

Kassie could see a strong family resemblance to Tom Riordan, and since she'd first been introduced to him in the hospital, his face often showed a stronger emotion than he was actually feeling, so maybe Valentina shared that trait with him and wasn't feeling as aggressive as she looked.

“Ms. Shipp?” Kassie said, moving to intercept the woman's long strides.

The woman stopped short. “Yeah—are you Ms. Christianson?” Her voice was thin with a hint of twang in it. The tone was, however, mild rather than assertive.

“Yes. Could we sit down for a few minutes? I want to talk to you about your cousin, Mr. Riordan.”

Valentina looked around at the various upholstered chairs and settees grouped in clusters around the large room. About half the groupings were occupied by one or more people. “Okay,” she said, and smoothly led the way to an unoccupied cluster of four chairs a few steps away.

She sat down as gracefully as she walked—Kassie wondered if she was a trained dancer, or had been one in her youth.

“How is he?” asked Valentina.

“Doing well. The doctor thinks he'll recover completely—but it will take time. His right leg was broken in two places, and he's suffered some broken ribs as well. Plus he has a concussion, a bruised liver, and other internal injuries. He's not a young man, but he was in good health before the accident. It's just going to take some time.”

“But he's not going home anytime soon.”

“No. He's going to need some therapy on that leg. And . . .” Kassie hesitated, then plunged in. “I'm afraid his house is in very bad shape. He appears to be a . . .”

“He's a junker, right?”

“Junker?”

“He collects things. Like his dad, and his grandad. He buys things at garage sales, and will even take home things that other people throw out. Right?”

“So you know about that. And yes, but it's possibly worse than you think. Every room of his house is full of things he's . . . collected.”

“Oh yes?” But Valentina didn't sound surprised.

“That's not all,” Kassie said.

“No?” Valentina's dark eyes looked directly at the social worker.

“The house itself is in bad repair. It's not just his bedroom—which is open to the elements where the tree came through. The kitchen and bathroom are infested with mold, and I believe the plumbing needs to be completely redone. Until it's been fixed, Mr. Riordan will not be permitted to live in the house.” Kassie felt awful to be delivering such bad news; Ms. Shipp looked as if she had been struck in the face.

But she did not erupt; instead, her eyes closed for about thirty seconds while she seemed to be struggling to absorb what she was hearing. Kassie wondered if she would change her mind about helping her cousin.

“I'm sorry,” said Kassie at last, trying for a reaction.

“Me, too,” said Valentina, opening her eyes. Then, typically, she went on the attack. “You're his social worker. How did you allow the house to get into such a state?”

“Well, for one thing, he absolutely refused to allow anyone to come inside the place. He said he had some valuable things in there and didn't want anyone to know about them because he couldn't afford to insure them. I didn't exactly believe him—about having things of great value—but I wanted to respect his privacy. He's a nice man, but . . . sensitive. I didn't want to make him angry, I didn't want to hurt his feelings.” Kassie was ashamed, because the excuses she was offering were pretty lame. Sometimes—often, actually—it was her job to hurt some feelings. She had let Tom Riordan down. Perhaps if her caseload had been lighter, she would have paid more attention. But Mr. Riordan had been polite and sweet and only a little strange, so she'd been content to visit him as scheduled, only at a restaurant or in the library or at her office rather than in his home. “I'm sorry.”

Valentina sighed, trying to cool her temper. She looked around the big room, glanced at the nearest television set hanging from the ceiling, then looked at Kassie. “What are you expecting me to do?”

“What we're hoping you will do, first of all, is talk to him. Tell him what his doctor has been trying to tell him, convince him that he really can't go home right now because his injuries need more care, and because his home is not fit to be lived in.”

Valentina looked at her some more and said, “What else?” Kassie almost smiled, because this woman was savvier than she'd hoped. Yes, there was more, or why had they summoned her all the way from her home in Muncie? They could have told her all this on the phone.

“Well, something needs to be done about that house, but I don't have the authority to do anything unless he agrees.” She held up a hand against an objection she was sure was coming. “Nor does the person in charge of his finances.”

“But I sure don't, either.”

“Not right now, you don't. But there's a way you can get the authority. It's called an emergency conservatorship, and it's a whole lot easier to get if you're the next of kin. It's a legal option, it needs to be done by a judge after a hearing. My understanding is that it can be done quickly, but the person to talk to about getting one is the man in charge of Tom's trust. He's an attorney named James Penberthy. His office is in Excelsior.”

Again there fell a silence while Valentina studied Kassie's face. Kassie tried to look as sincere and hopeful and friendly as she could, while Valentina successfully concealed what she was thinking.

“Let me talk to Tommy first,” she said at last.

*   *   *

V
ALENTINA
slipped into the hospital room feeling a little wary. She had not seen her cousin in years and wasn't sure of her welcome.

Tommy was asleep, or seemed to be. There was a big bandage on one side of his face, but she recognized him right away: the peaked nose, the dark freckles, the wide mouth, pursed a little in sleep. There was a deep crease between his thin, dark eyebrows; that was something new. Of course, he was somewhere around sixty-three, so it was time he got a few lines on his face.

The covers on his bed were awry, exposing the huge, complicated bandage on his right leg. His foot was bare, the toes lumpish and the nails needing to be cut. There were bruises on his hands and arms, some of them scabby. He looked shrunken; he must have lost weight—or maybe not. He'd been a skinny kid so why shouldn't he be a skinny old man?

She approached the side of his bed, which was cranked into a half-sitting position. “Tommy,” she called softly.

His nose twitched and he reached up to rub it, but his eyes stayed closed.

“Tommy, it's me, Val. Are you awake?”

“Mph, yuh?” muttered Tommy. “Whosit?”

“Me, Val. I've come to take care of you.”

“Who?” The dark eyes opened and wandered around a bit before coming to look up at her. “Oh, it's you, Val. I was just hopin' you might come.” He swallowed thickly. “Can you take me home?”

“No, you got to stay for a while longer. You were hurt bad by that tree falling on you.”

He smiled. “Yeah, that ol' tree did a job, all right. On me
and
my house. Say, Val, can you go out there an' check on it for me? I got this feelin' people been goin' in there and messing with my things.”

“You still living in that brick house your dad left you? Out in Excelsior?”

“Well, sure, where else would I be livin'?”

“How should I know?” she asked, sounding aggrieved—her default position when she didn't know what to say. “You never write nor call.”

“Ain't got nuthin' to say,” he grumbled.

“That never stopped your tongue before!”

“Now lookie here, you gonna get an attitude, you can just go away!”

“All right, all right, let's not get our jammies in a wad,” she said, gentling her tone. “'Cause now we do have something to say to each other. This lady I talked to, her name's Christianson—”

“I know who she is,” interrupted Tommy.

Valentina bit down hard on her temper. “That's right, you do. Anyway, she says your house is a mess, a big mess.”

“How does she know? Say, she been in there?” His expression hardened.

“Probably, probably. Or she's been talking to the people who have.”

“Who all's been in there? They got no right! I keep my doors locked, how'd they get in?”

“Well, how were they supposed to get you out of there? Climb in a window?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well . . . Anyway, so what? They don't have to live in it. And it ain't that big a mess. An' there's good stuff in there, valuable stuff!”

“Really?” Valentina tried to turn a grimace into a smile. “That's your opinion. Hers is different. And her opinion is what counts; she's your social worker, your connection with the law, the person who's supposed to be in charge of you. She says the house ain't fit for human habitation, and that means they won't let you move back in there until it gets cleaned up to meet their standards.”

“Why'd she decide that? I thought she liked me. I thought she was on my side!”

“She may or may not like you, but she's on nobody's side but the county's, you ought to know that. None of those folks are your friends. You're a job to her, not a friend, nor hardly even a real person. Her job is to make you behave, and you let that house get into a real state, she says, an' that it's got to be fixed. There's a law against filling up a house with junk.” This was the hard part of Tommy's problems. Of all the problems in the world she most emphatically did not want, an entanglement with the law was number one.