Elaine Orr - Jolie Gentil 07 - Vague Images (12 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AFTER A LECTURE from Dr. Birdbaum’s nurse about waiting a week before I called with questions, she relayed his opinion that there was enough pain that I could not force myself to wiggle the almost-immobile ankle, and a physical therapist could massage and move it for me
. The therapist could also teach me some exercises to do at home. While I generally like a massage, having someone force my ankle to move did not sound like fun.

Since crutches are less fun, I discussed the matter with my health insurance company, a process that required me to be on hold three times during a ten-minute conversation
. I got an appointment quickly because someone cancelled.
Imagine that?  I’m having good luck for something medical.

I sat with my foot resting on the arm of the chair next to me as I filled out forms in the PT waiting area
. Most dealt with my injury, but some were designed to find out if there would be insurance companies or lawyers arguing about who would pay. “Were any other individuals involved in your accident?  If yes, please provide contact information, including an email address.”

Oh yeah. That would be Jane Doe of Woodland Gardens.

When I passed her the papers, the receptionist said it would be another fifteen minutes before I was seen. I tried to hide my irritation in a smile. They were seeing me on short notice. I crutched to the water fountain and did not lean over until I was certain I wouldn’t get splashed in the face.

The clunk of a can hitting the metal bottom of a soda vending machine drew my attention to an alcove about three meters away
. I started for it, intending to get a Dr. Pepper, but voices stopped me.

“No one will say anything
. How are we supposed to feel safe?”  The speaker was a woman, and she sounded fairly young.

An older woman’s voice continued the conversation
. “I went to the HR office to see if they were hiring more security. They said they were installing more cameras.”

The first woman’s tone was exasperated
. “We’re supposed to work a thirty-six hour week instead of forty and see the same number of patients, but they can’t hire a couple more security guards?”

“Ms. um, Gentle?”  The voice was behind me, and I turned so quickly that I almost toppled into the wall.

I crutched a couple of paces toward him so the women would not realize I’d been standing right outside the alcove listening to them. “It’s pronounced Zhan-tee, it’s French. But please call me Zho-lee.” 

The therapist was older than I expected, perhaps fifty-five or sixty
. I was anticipating someone who looked more like a fitness trainer at a club that advertised on television. “Thanks. I’ve seen your name, but I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Bob Ellis, and I’ll do your assessment.”

He led me to a tiny room that had only two chairs and a massage-type table
. “You told the receptionist something about a deer and stomping on the brakes?”

I told my story again, and he smiled as I finished
. “Did the deer send flowers?”

“If it did they went to the wrong address.”

“Hop on the table and take off your shoe and sock and lets have a look.”  He made a couple of notes on a computer tablet as he spoke.

Even though the table was low, hopping did not seem a good option
. I set the crutches against a wall, leaned against the table, and pulled myself onto it. Then I took off my shoe and sock and stretched my leg out, placing the swollen foot at one edge of the table.

Bob sat on a small, round stool with wheels and touched my foot lightly
. “Hmm. Okay, I’m going to gently feel around your ankle. It might not feel good, but it shouldn’t be really painful.”  He started gently poking me. “You still have a lot of swelling. How does that feel?”

“I don’t like it, but it’s not…yikes!”  He had pushed on the lump at the joint where my leg merged with the foot.

“Yes. That anterior talo-fibular ligament can be touchy.”

You don’t have to tell me that
.
“Can you fix it?”

“I think we can help you out
. It’s kind of hard to inflict pain on yourself. I’ll help you get it more limber and then teach you some exercises. I’ll put some moist heat on it for a few minutes, then I’ll massage a bit, then follow with a cold pad. Just lie back.”

While he went to get his hot pack or whatever it was
, I stared at the ceiling and wondered if he knew anything about the murder or any suspects.
Why would he?  You never know. If you don’t ask you could be missing an opportunity.

Bob came back before I could decide which part of the mental argument won
. As he carefully put the moist heated pad around my ankle, my natural curiosity won out. “That was a shame about Tanya Weiss.”

His expression grew guarded
. “I read that you found her. When I saw your name on the chart, I wondered if this was maybe an injury from that night.”

“It was, but I did it before I came to the hospital
. Did you know her?”

“Oh, she spent some time down here.”  His tone was noncommittal.

“It sounded as if she had a tough job, cutting costs and all.”

“She was some kind of workforce efficiency expert
. I think she actually liked it.”  This time there was a slight edge to his voice.

“I have a few friends who work here.” 
That should give Scoobie enough cover
. “Their departments were getting some equipment cuts.”

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”  He gave a tight smile as he left.

I had probably gone too far and it made him uncomfortable. Or maybe he left because there was no reason for him to stay in the room while the moist heat did its job. I spent the next ten minutes thinking about how to be more tactful, and not succeeding.

Bob came back in and pulled the rolling stool to the bottom of the table
. “Ready for a work out?”

“If you say so.”

He began to gently massage around my ankle and then the top and bottom of my foot. “You have an injury to the top of your foot, but you haven’t been using any of your foot muscles for days, so you’re going to have some strengthening exercises to do.”

“Listen, I’m sorry I asked you questions about…”

“It’s no problem. I can definitely see why it would be on your mind.”  He worked for another few seconds, and added, “We were about to order three recumbent bikes. Had the budget approved. Supposedly that’s on hold because of her recommendations.”

“Can’t you make a case that they’re for, what would you call it, direct patient care?”

He smiled as he worked the bottom of my foot. It tickled.

“In theory, almost everything relates to that
. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was a clear reason for the cutbacks. It’s,” he paused, “it’s like changing the rules in the middle of the ball game.”

“I can see where that would make people angry, but it’s hard to see it as a motive for murder.”

I don’t think the extra hard rub was because I said that.

I SAT ON MY couch with an ice pack. This time it was to reduce inflammation from my workout, as Bob had put it. I glanced through the several pages of exercise that he had printed for me.

Ankle rotation
. I took the cold wrap off and started to do it, then remembered I was supposed to wrap a warm towel around my foot for a couple of minutes before I started.
How complicated can toe wiggling be?

I didn’t feel like getting the couch wet or sitting on the edge of the tub, so I began rubbing my ankle and foot sort of like Bob did
. I could already bend my ankle some, and the swelling had gone down a bit since he had worked on it. Something about dispersing fluid build-up.

The key in the door announced either Scoobie or Lucas
. “Hi, guy.”

A dejected Lucas came in, collapsed on the rocker, and put his head in his hands
. “She’s gone. Just gone.”

I wanted to jump up and cradle his head, but that was out of the question, so I let him cry for almost a minute. As his sobs subsided, I said, “She may not want to listen to you, but she’ll only get as far as ten dollars will take her, Lucas
. She’ll be back.”  When he looked at me, I smiled slightly and added, “Maybe this time we should have Scoobie and me in the living room with the shades up and you in the kitchen.”

He stared at me for a second, and then acknowledged me with a shrug
. “What should I do?”

“You have to understand
. You may love her and want to protect her, but she’s going to make her own choices. Some of them may be bad.”

“I didn’t know you listened in the meetings.”  Scoobie had come in through the unlocked door, so I hadn’t heard him
. He stood next to Lucas, and stared at me for several seconds.

“I was channeling you.”

Lucas looked between us. “What are you talking about?  This doesn’t help find Kim!”

Scoobie squatted in front of Lucas
. “Actually, it might make her more willing to find us.”  He stood. “Come on. We’re going out.”

I looked at the clock on the wall
. It was almost time for the evening Twelve Step meetings at Saint Anthony’s. Scoobie goes at least weekly and alternates mostly between AA, NA, and Codependents Anonymous. I go, much less often to the All-Anon meeting, which is for anyone who has a family member or friend with any kind of addiction or compulsion. Scoobie and George consider my ex-husband’s gambling to be what Scoobie calls a starting point for me, though he says they should create one called Controllers Anonymous just for me.

“Where are we going?” Lucas asked, standing
. He pulled a paper towel from the pocket of his jacket and blew his nose.

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Scoobie said, and pointed at me
. “Your car okay?”

“Of course.”

Scoobie picked up the keys from a small table by the front door, and I listened to them going toward my car. Lucas would either begin to learn to let go of what he couldn’t control, or he’d rage at Scoobie. I’d find out soon enough.

Still, someone should look for Kim
. “Crud.”  I didn’t have my car. Maybe Megan would take me to Step ‘n Go.

Megan’s tone reminded me of the one I’ve heard her use when Scoobie wants to play a prank at Harvest for All
. “They won’t let you in.”

“Not even to look for Kim?”

“Especially not to look for Kim. It’s for the kids.”

“Yes, but…”

“No buts, Jolie. Besides, Alicia has one of the photos. Sergeant Morehouse brought it to Harvest for All and asked me to give it to her. If Kim is there, Alicia will see her.”

“Will she call me?”

“Only if she thinks the girl is in immediate trouble. And maybe not even then if she thinks it’ll make Kim run. You need to put some faith in Alicia and let go of what you can’t control, Jolie.”

What an overused concept. I just wanted to help.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A HARD KNOCK ON the front door woke me on Wednesday
. As I swung my feet to the floor of my bedroom I heard someone else open the door enough to peer out through the chain, then heard the chain being released.

“Lucas up?”

Sergeant Morehouse?
 
Uh oh
.

“He will be now,” Scoobie said
. “Come on in.”

I put on my bathrobe, thankful that I could put at least a little weight on my injured foot, and crutched to my bedroom door.

“Did you find Kim?” Lucas asked.

“Kim?  Your sister?  You ain’t found her yet?” Morehouse asked.

“Have a seat,” Scoobie said, and I heard Morehouse walk into the living room.

“I kinda did, but she left again.”  Lucas had been sleeping on an air mattress on the floor, behind the screen Roland of the Purple Cow had provided
. I could tell Lucas had moved closer to the couch.

I crutched through the hallway toward the kitchen
. “I’ll start coffee.”

“We’ll keep keepin’ an eye out for her
. I need to talk to you about the hospital.”

I could envision Lucas with his mulish expression.

“I told you all I remember,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, but I want you to walk through there with me
. Somethin’ might come to you.”  Morehouse was being a lot more polite than he sometimes was with me. He must really want the help.

“I have to look for my sister.”

There was a brief pause, then Scoobie said, “They can’t release health info, but if she’s been in the cafeteria or something she might be on tapes there. They wouldn’t show you, but they might show the sergeant.”

The coffee had started to perk, and I thought I would contribute more by staying out of the way
. I took down four mugs from the cabinet over the sink.

“Okay, sure.”  Lucas’ tone sounded anything but compliant
. “Let me pull on some clothes and brush my teeth.”

The bathroom door shut, and I peered out of the kitchen, toward the living room, so I could hear better.

Scoobie spoke in a low voice. “She was here briefly yesterday, but her judgment may not be the best now. She left out the bathroom window.”

“Suicidal?”  Morehouse asked this in an even quieter voice.

“Hard to know.”  Scoobie looked toward the bathroom. “Do you have Lucas’ mobile number, in case you see her?”

The bathroom door opened, and Lucas met my gaze as he started to walk back into the living room
. I blew him a kiss, and he ignored me.

“I’ll get it,” Morehouse said.

Lucas looked as if he could bite a shark, so I chimed in. “Coffee’s ready. Anyone for toast with PB to eat on the road?”

“Got paper cups?” Morehouse asked
. He was staying in the living room, probably so he didn’t have to talk to me when I was in PJs.

“Sure, I save Burger King coffee cups,” I said.

“Used paper cups?” Morehouse muttered.

“I wouldn’t go there,” Scoobie said, and I could hear the humor in his voice.

I popped two pieces of bread in the toaster and smelled it cook as I poured two cups of coffee and fastened the lids. I got the idea of saving the cups from Ramona’s Uncle Lester, who is nothing if not cheap. I don’t keep them if they have coffee rings in them.

Lester would have taken me to the teen hangout last night. Why didn’t I think of that?

Lucas walked in, took down the peanut butter jar, and spread it on the two pieces of toast. He put the pieces together, like a sandwich, and wrapped them in a paper towel.

“You can carry in the coffee, too,” I said
. I knew Morehouse took his black, and Lucas could do whatever he wanted with his.

“I’ll catch you later,” he said, without looking at me.

A minute later Sergeant Morehouse and Lucas were pulling away and Scoobie walked into the kitchen. He had on an old pair of sweats and a Harvest for All tee shirt that was maybe a size too small. I glanced at him for a second, and then looked back at the coffee I was pouring.
When did he get such broad shoulders?

“Have you been working out?”

He picked up an empty mug, added water, and stuck it in the microwave for his decaf coffee. “The hospital has an employee gym and I can use it when I’m interning there. Trying to build up the old back muscles.”

Scoobie injured his back a couple of years ago
. Rather, someone injured it for him. “I keep forgetting about that.”

“I try to
. I’ll get my coffee in a sec.”

He headed for his room and I high-tailed it to the bathroom, aware that my cheeks were flushed
.
What is that about?

I DIDN’T HAVE a house to appraise and I could not walk around to look for Kim. I kept wondering whether their father’s long-ago enemies really would hurt Lucas and Kim.

I wanted to check out their father, assuming I could find anything
. I fired up my laptop and started with a search for their mother’s obituary. I knew her first name when it was Finch, but Lucas had never mentioned either parent’s first name as Householders. My guess was that this was not deliberate. To him they were simply Mom and Dad.

It was not hard to find an Atlanta area obituary for someone with their last name
. Annette Householder had been fifty-two, and there was no cause of death noted. Though it was more common to note a cause than it was years ago, the obit had one of the codes for suicide, noting that she had died “suddenly, at home.”

There was not a lot to learn
. Her fictitious parents were said to be Martin and Maureen Boyle, who predeceased her. While she had sisters in real life, the obit said she had had only a brother who died in infancy. I studied her photo. It was not large, but her face was easily identifiable as the Elizabeth Finch I had known, and I suppose whoever she was before then. I hoped the sisters she missed so much had seen her.

It was the survivor information that interested me. Husband Douglas and daughter Kim – of the home – lived in Atlanta, while son Lucas lived in Sandy Springs, one of the city’s suburbs
. The only personal information about Annette was that “after high school she worked as a receptionist before her children were born,” and she enjoyed flower arranging.

How sad. Elizabeth Finch had seemed to be a good-humored woman
. She could have graduated from a prestigious university and been a noted economist, or gone to Julliard and had stage roles on Broadway. Instead, life for the Finches and Householders was about keeping low profiles.

A Google search for Douglas Householder and Atlanta turned up only his mention in his wife’s obituary
. No Facebook page, not even a telephone directory listing. I conjured his face. When he was Nicholas Finch he had been a good-looking man, with jet-black hair, though he had always seemed kind of nervous. That had made sense once I learned he had been in the Witness Security Program. I hadn’t thought much about any of the Finches after I returned to Lakewood for my senior year of high school.

I decided to visit my favorite haunt for digging up information, the Ocean Alley Library
. I cleaned Jazz’s litter box, which was under the sink in the bathroom, and tackled Pebbles’, which beckoned from its spot in the coat closet.

I had just dumped both plastic bags in the trash can next to my back porch when the sound of Pebbles’ nails on the floor reached me
. She waddled into the kitchen and I shook a finger at her. “You don’t have to go as soon as I clean your box.”  She expressed her disagreement by walking into the closet.

“Sheesh.”  I gave Jazz a pat as she sat on her carpet-covered stand near the window
. I could put a little weight on my foot, but not enough to abandon my crutches. I slung my purse over my shoulder and made my way to the library. It is not a large building, and looks very different than when I went to eleventh grade in Ocean Alley. In addition to bright hues on the walls, the large wooden card catalogs have been replaced by a bank of computers. Two are to search the collection, and the rest are for Internet use.

Aunt Madge does not have Internet in the B&B
. She maintains her guests come to get away from the real world. I used to check email at the library or Java Jolt, the coffee house where we all hang out, but not since I had Internet installed in my bungalow. Now I mostly come to the library to look at back issues of the
Ocean Alley Press
or other local publications. Or talk my former classmate, Librarian Daphne, into posting flyers about a Harvest for All fundraiser.

She greeted me with her typical half-breezy, half-skeptical look
. “What are you up to today, Jolie?”

“I’m not
up to
anything.”

She smiled
. “I’m not sure I believe you when you’re that definite about it.”

“That’s not nice.”  I returned her smile, but was careful not to say what I was doing
. How do you explain looking for information on a family that lived in Ocean Alley less than one year and moved away twelve years ago?  And, by the way, was in the witness security program, or whatever it was called.

It was Annette Householder’s flower arrangement hobby that had piqued my interest
. Ocean Alley has a Master Gardener group. Most of its members are older, people who became gardening enthusiasts after they retired. There are always a few younger members, and I hoped she had been one.

The Master Gardeners do a spring plant sale and a fall bulb sale
. At both they sell beautiful arrangements of cut flowers, and Aunt Madge always buys something for the entry hallway at the Cozy Corner. I’m not big on cut flowers, probably since I’m too lazy to grow my own and don’t generally want to pay store prices for bouquets. Besides, my bungalow is too small for floral displays.

What I was looking for was the Master Gardeners’ newsletter, which I knew about because the club distributes it to real estate offices
. It’s published at irregular intervals, but at least a few times each year. Most of the photos are of plants, but occasionally there is a group picture of members or a photo of someone in their home garden.

Copies of local newsletters or activities of groups such as Lions and Rotary are in what’s called a vertical file, which means they are in a file cabinet in the library’s reference section
. That made my search a bit more obvious than when I look at old microfilm of the
Ocean Alley Press
. I reminded myself that no one cared what I looked at, it just felt that way because I didn’t want to be noticed.

Files are alphabetical, of course, but if the first word is
the
or
Ocean Alley
, then the material is filed by the more specific name. Ocean Alley Master Gardeners was filed under M. It was a thick file, and a couple of newspaper clippings fell out as I retrieved the material.

I put the file on a table far from the reference desk and retrieved the clippings
. It took about fifteen minutes to organize things by date, and I didn’t hear Daphne when she first walked up.

“Girl, you are concentrating,” she said.

I thought fast. “Oh, I am. I’m, uh, looking for examples of gardens that have things that grow well at the beach.”

Daphne’s look of suspicion lifted
. “There are a bunch of articles about that in those files. Are you going to start with what your aunt has at the B&B?”

Aunt Madge has flowers?
  Of course she did. I weeded the patches a bunch of times when I lived there. I mostly remembered bushes. Azaleas, I thought.

“You know, those decorative grasses that grow well in soil that’s part sand,” Daphne continued.

“Right. I was hoping for some color, though.”

She started to reply and then there was a ding from the front desk
.
Saved by the check-out bell.
That would keep me from pretending I knew about flowers other than tulips and marigolds. I’d have to remember to actually plant something in my small patch of front yard.

I was most interested in the newsletters, but tried to be careful to keep all of the items in their approximate chronological order
. The Finches had moved to Ocean Alley the summer before my junior year, and left before the end of that school year. It wasn’t a long span of time, and I wasn’t surprised to find no mention of Elizabeth Finch. I stood, ready to refile the material when I thought to check a couple of issues after they left. Photos weren’t published immediately.

And there she was, in the May newsletter, just as my junior year was ending
. The caption read, “Elizabeth Finch shows her variety of spring flowers.”   She was kneeling on the brick path that led to their front door, and on either side of her was an array of daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths. I hadn’t remembered her flowers, but I usually went in the kitchen door.