The Blossom Sisters (12 page)

The best part to Mickey was that he was able to take his dog to work with him, something the FBI frowned upon. The dog's name was Booker. Mickey had named him Booker because he'd been working a case, and the scumbag he was chasing owned the dog and had mistreated him—the dog was booking ninety miles an hour to get away from the scumbag. Mickey caught him, cuddled him, and made promises to the dog he'd never broken. Nor would he ever break them.

Mickey did a second lap around the cul-de-sac before he walked to the back of Gus Hollister's house, which was totally screened off from its neighbors by lush foliage. The yellow Beetle was gone. He quickly removed the dog's leash and fished around inside his backpack. Within seconds, he had the back door open and was holding a gizmo in his hand, which he'd paid for through the nose and shouldn't even have to begin with. He watched as the digital display counted down before the gizmo succeeded in turning off the alarm.

“Okay, Booker, we're in. You know the drill. As soon as you hear or see anything, bark twice. You got it?” The dog tilted his head and took a stance beside the back door. “I think I might have an hour at the most.”

Mickey prowled the house, looking for anything that might be useful to Lynus and his client. He loved this part of the job—finding things people tried to hide. He corrected the thought—not just
people
, the bad guys, be they women or men. Women, he knew, were devious, more prone to be secretive, where men just blundered through life. At least, that's what he had been taught by his American mother. He'd never disputed her wisdom.

Mickey took the time to appreciate the layout of Gus Hollister's four-thousand-square-foot house and its manly, comfortable furniture. There wasn't a lot of junk or doodads cluttering up the place. He hated the artificial trees, plants, and flowers people tended to decorate with. Nothing but dust collectors. He found it a little strange that there was no rogues' gallery of family pictures. He shrugged—to each his own.

Thirty minutes later, Mickey was finished with the downstairs. Without pulling up the pine floors or knocking out walls, he'd been unable to find anything. He checked the refrigerator, because people were known to hide things in freezers and in bowls of leftover soups and stews. People's refrigerators as a rule were strange yet informative. This one, however, blew his mind.

Mickey poked his head around inside the refrigerator. Four jugs of apple-cider vinegar. Four gallons! Bags of every herb known to man, all neatly labeled, filled the entire second shelf. The vegetable bin held one withered apple and a rock-hard orange. There were no leftovers in containers, no takeout, no eggs, no milk, no juice. Just four gallons of apple-cider vinegar.
What does this woman eat?

What really blew his mind, though, were the six pure white roses nestled in cellophane, each stem encased in a plastic sleeve that held water. Earlier, he'd checked the cabinets, which held only canned and boxed soup, crackers, and some cereal that had never been opened. The cabinets were essentially bare. He looked over at the counter and saw three overripe bananas. The freezer had an icemaker and a freezer pack for injuries.

“You're doing a good job, Booker. I'm going upstairs. I still have about thirty minutes.”

Mickey again marveled at the big house. Five bedrooms for two people. He wondered if the couple had planned on having children, before they'd decided to split up. That's usually the way it worked, before a marriage went south for whatever reason. He was surprised that all five bedrooms were fully furnished. Four guest rooms. He shrugged. People were weird. He went through each room carefully and thoroughly, but there was nothing to be found. The chests were empty, the closets bare. No one lived in or even visited these rooms. The adjoining bathrooms held one towel each, one bar of soap, and that was it. Everything smelled fresh and unused. New. He didn't like the smell.

The last room in the long hallway had to be the master bedroom, judging by the king-size bed. More like a California king. It was frilly, flowery, and feminine. A room designed for and by Elaine Hollister's taste. Not really for Mr. and Mrs. Hollister.

The walk-in closet, which was almost as big as each of the guest bedrooms, held so many clothes, Mickey found himself overwhelmed. A lot of the outfits still had price tags dangling from the sleeves. Racks and racks of shoes, purses, scarves, and all the things women thought they needed to make a stellar appearance. There wasn't a single thing to indicate that a man had ever been in residence. Either she had completely obliterated any evidence of Gus Hollister's presence or he was like a ghost, leaving no physical traces of his existence. Mickey rather suspected the former and found it very sad, since he knew the story of the house and how it had once belonged solely to Gus Hollister.

Mickey checked every item—the pockets, the insides of the shoes, the handbags—but found nothing to interest him. He kept his eye on his watch as he sifted through the bureau drawers. It was no surprise to him that Elaine Hollister had a passion for lacy, gossamer-thin underwear. Tons of it, everything matching.

His mother always hid things in her sock drawer. But Elaine Hollister did not have a sock drawer, and he could find nothing to alert him to what she was hiding. Unless you considered six white roses and four gallons of apple-cider vinegar as hidden things. Lynus was going to be upset if he didn't find anything. Hell,
he
was going to be upset. Everyone had secrets and things they hid. Why would this woman be an exception to the rule? Secrets and lies. He thought of the television show
House
, where the lead character said that everyone lies. It was so true. Right now, though, he wasn't interested in lies; he was interested in finding out this woman's secrets. His gut and his long years of snooping told him they were somewhere in the house; he just had to find out where.

The chest at the bottom of the huge bed yielded nothing but extra blankets and pillows. Hands on hips, Mickey looked around. What was he missing? He looked behind the artwork on the walls. Nothing. No safe. Nothing taped to the back of the pictures. He looked behind the plasma TV hanging on the wall. Nothing.

Mickey looked at his watch again. He had fifteen minutes, and he would need every single one of them to put the listening devices into the landline phones. He hustled then and was finished with two minutes to spare. At the last second, his gut instinct kicked in and he decided to put one of the little bugs on top of the doorframe leading into Elaine's bedroom. It was almost directly underneath the trapdoor leading to the attic. From here on in, any phone calls or conversations in or out of the bedroom or in the hallway would be picked up by Lynus and his eavesdropping equipment. The part Mickey didn't like was that he was going to have to sneak back into the house in the middle of the night, find Elaine Hollister's cell phone—which would likely be charging overnight—and bug it, too. He'd done it before, and though it was not his favorite thing to do, you had to take the good with the bad on any job.

Mickey looked at his watch. He'd used up his entire hour, and he still hadn't covered the basement, the garage, or the attic. That meant two more visits. Booker was silent, which meant he was going to be able to get out clean if he left immediately.

Standing in the hallway, he looked up at the ceiling and saw the unpainted wood frame around the attic opening. He knew that if he opened it, there would be a pull-down ladder. The wood looked new.
Why hasn't it been painted? What's up there? And where is the rope that would pull down the ladder?
He was tall enough that he had a good view of the square opening. No pull cord, no handle, no latch. He looked around and saw the switch plate on the wall. He was about to press it when Booker barked twice.

Mickey ran down the steps and whistled for the dog, who came on the run. This time they would exit through the front door. He quickly reset the alarm and walked smartly to the front door, Booker right alongside of him. Outside, they both squatted behind a thick box hedge just as the yellow Beetle roared down the drive to the back of the house.

Man and dog walked rapidly away from the Hollister house as if they had been visitors leaving a meeting. Between the two of them, the only one breathing hard was Booker.

Chapter 13

G
US CHECKED THE HUGE SIDE MIRRORS, SUCKED IN HIS BREATH
, shoved his foot down on the clutch, and shifted gears. He cringed at the grinding gears, but, somehow, he was able to get the big yellow bus backed up. He shifted again, the sound as mind-bending as the first time, but the bus was in first gear, then second, and, finally, the behemoth was moving out of the parking lot onto the road. His in-drawn breath was an explosion of sound when he finally released it. The word
performance
was ringing in his ears the entire time.

Somehow or other, he made it to the first assisted-living facility on his list, and there, right in front, was Elroy Hitchens with three other people, bags and boxes at their feet. Gus pulled to the curb and had a bad moment when he couldn't open the hydraulic door. Cursing under his breath, he finally got it open. His passengers looked at him for permission to board. “Welcome aboard!” he said. His four passengers trooped aboard, introducing themselves as they climbed the steps into the big bus. All of them smiled at him, the men offering their gnarled old hands to be shaken. The little cherub of a lady hugged him and said he must be a blessing to his mama. Her name, she said, was Dolly Madison. Not the real Dolley Madison, she clarified, saying, “I'm not
that
old!”

His passengers safely aboard and buckled in, Gus took his seat behind the wheel. “Where to, Elroy?”

“You got the contracts, Gus? Gotta have contracts.”

“They're right here, Elroy. You look them over while we're going to the next place. Okay?”

“Sure. We trust you. Go out to the main road, follow it for half a mile, make a right, then two lefts, and that will be your stop. You will be picking up six passengers.”

“This is what I call a real adventure,” Dolly bellowed, the excitement in her voice ringing throughout the bus. Gus grinned, listening to the chatter wafting his way as he concentrated on keeping the bus on the road. He had to perform. That was his bottom line.

Gus's second stop made his jaw drop. Huddled on the apron of concrete that led to the double doors of the assisted-living facility were eight people—not six—their fists shooting in the air at the sight of the big yellow bus sliding smoothly to the curb. Then they all clapped their hands in glee, even the four passengers already inside the bus. Introductions were in order. Gus shook hands, always careful not to squeeze too hard. He smiled, he grinned, and he laughed out loud at the seniors' exuberance.

Suddenly, Gus had a surge of feeling as he steered the big yellow bus down the road. Maybe he should initiate a sing-along. Then again, maybe not; his passengers probably weren't up on the latest music. His feeling of power was short-lived when he heard one of the seniors shout out, asking him why a young fella like him had a bus driver's license.

Honesty, his grandmother had taught him and Barney early on, was always the best policy. “I don't have a license, sir. I'm just filling in to help you guys take it on the lam. This is the first time I ever drove a bus! I'll get you where you need to go, that's a promise. And I promise never to drive a bus again until I get a bus driver's license.”

More hand clapping, hooting, and hollering followed Gus's declaration.

A robust voice from the middle of the bus shouted out that if they were pulled over by
the fuzz,
they'd all step up to the plate and tell the officer that they'd forced Gus to take them on the lam. Then the voice said, “The police never do anything to old people, so your secret is safe with us, sonny.”

Gus believed them implicitly. He thanked them profusely as he struggled not to laugh out loud.

“Your next stop is the mother lode, Gus,” Elroy Hitchens bellowed. “You'll be picking up eleven passengers from Pine Crest. That's a satellite facility of Sea Crest. It's a dump. We got everyone who is ambulatory. We all agreed last night to use our first paychecks and sign-on bonuses to relocate those who couldn't come with us from Pine Crest.” More hooting and hollering.

“Wheee!” Gus said, his fist shooting in the air as he sailed down the road in the big yellow bus.

Fifteen minutes later, Gus pulled to the curb at Pine Crest. The seniors were huddled, huge smiles on their faces, waiting for him. They piled in and greeted the other seniors as they high-fived one another. While all this was going on, Gus stared at the building where the eleven people had lived for God only knew how long. Elroy was right; Pine Crest was a dump. There was no lawn to speak of and the hedges and straggly bushes were sorely in need of pruning. The windows were unwashed and grimy-looking; the window frames' paint was cracked and peeling. The glass door leading to what he assumed was a lobby had a huge crack running across it. The sign on the building was missing two of its screws and hanging lopsided. He knew in his gut that the inside was probably worse than what he was seeing. A dumping ground for elderly people whose families were too busy to care for them.

Gus knew then that he was doing the right thing, and if he had to do it all over again, he would. He had a new mission in life now, to do whatever he could to give these people a better life, and he now had no doubt that his grandmother and his aunts were on the right track in doing what they were doing.

It was at that moment that Gus Hollister committed himself to doing whatever he could to help his grandmother, his aunts, and all these wonderful people he was transferring to Blossom Farm. Maybe he
should
initiate a sing-along.

The thought flew out of his mind when he realized he was less than a quarter of a mile from the turnoff to Blossom Farm. Should he drop his passengers at the farm, or should he take them to Shady Pines first? No one had said what he was to do. If he dropped them at Shady Pines, how would they get to Blossom Farm, given the flooded grounds? They wouldn't be able to use the golf carts. He seriously doubted the seniors could make the two-mile trek on foot. And yet, his grandmother had said they were up most of the night at Shady Pines, getting it ready for the new residents. How did they get to Shady Pines to do all that? Probably in the van by road instead of across the field.
Performance.
Gus looked at his watch—eleven-thirty. He had to get the bus back to Pastor Evans by noon. The decision was taken out of his hands when he approached the gravel road that would take him to Blossom Farm. He turned right at the sign, which was flapping in the light breeze. A cheer went up from his passengers.

When Gus brought the bus to a full stop, he left the motor running. There was no way in hell he was going to let any of the seniors see him grinding the gears and trying to back up the big yellow bus. It was all about performance.

Gus waited outside the bus until all his passengers were safely on the ground before he turned to his granny. “I have to get the bus back by noon. I'll be back to help as soon as I can.” His grandmother smiled at him, a warm smile that made him feel better than he'd felt in days. Even Violet gave him a thumbs-up. Iris wiggled her fingers in his direction, which meant, well done.

The babble of voices with shouted questions jarred Gus. He heard: What time is orientation? Who is doing it? When is lunch? When do we find out more about salary and bonuses?

Gus held up his hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, that will all be taken care of when I get back. I have to return the bus to the church by noon. Just be patient, okay?”

“Okay, sonny. We have nothing but time,” someone in the group shouted.

Gus mentally patted himself on the back as he made his way up the steps to his seat behind the wheel of the big yellow bus. He took a deep breath and wanted to shout his happiness when he shifted gears cleanly and smoothly. He waved as a cheer went up from the group he was leaving behind.

Gus drove to the closest gas station, topped off the bus's tank, then drove to the church and parked the big yellow bus exactly where he'd found it. He cut the engine, replaced the keys over the visor, then did what all good bus drivers do: he checked the bus to make sure none of his passengers had left anything behind. He found nothing. He left the bus with a light heart and made his way to his vehicle.

Once inside, he pulled out his cell phone to see if anyone had called or sent him a text while he was seeing to the seniors. He had one text and one voice message. The text was from Marsha, his real-estate broker, saying she had found the perfect house for him and had made an appointment to show it to him at four o'clock. Please don't be late was the last line of the text. The voice-mail message was from the fireplug, saying she wanted to see him in her office at four-thirty. She cautioned him not to be late, because she had other late-afternoon appointments scheduled. Gus groaned out loud. He had to make a decision. Before he could think twice, he fired off a text to his broker and said he would meet with her, and he would be on time. He tensed when he called the fireplug and prayed he would get her voice mail. What was it about the lawyer that made him so nuts? He almost let out a whoop when he heard the metallic-sounding voice asking him to leave a message. He quickly left a courteous, polite response, which said he had a prior commitment and couldn't break it, and she needed to give him more notice when she wanted to set up a meeting.

Gus justified the response by telling himself that his divorce case wasn't going anywhere in the next few days, and he might lose the opportunity to view what his broker considered the perfect house to fit his needs. As far as he was concerned, it was a no-brainer. When it came to the fireplug, everything seemed to be a no-brainer.

Not wanting to think about it anymore, Gus turned the key in the ignition and left the parking lot. Why was life always so complicated? Finding no answer to this question, he turned on the radio and listened to Kenny G, who kept him company all the way back to Blossom Farm.

Gus let himself in the kitchen door. A little lady who was one of the original staff was loading the dishwasher. She looked at him, smiled, and asked if she could fix him some lunch. Gus realized he was hungry. “That would be nice, ma'am. I am hungry. Something smells good.”

“I'm Aggie,” the little lady said, holding out her hand for him to shake. “I work with the feathers.” Gus nodded. “We have the U.S. Senate bean soup for lunch with ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Our new guests loved it.”

“Well, if it tastes as good as it smells, I can understand why.”

Gus sat down and felt guilty when Aggie served him. He said so.

Aggie shook her head. “I love to cook. I grew up on a farm, and my mama taught my sisters and me to cook when we were young. We had to feed the farmhands three times a day. Food is all about the herbs and spices you use. You can take the cheapest, the toughest piece of meat, season or marinate it properly, and you have a gourmet meal. It also helps to serve something sweet afterward.” She giggled. “You best hurry, son, the others are chomping at the bit to get going. We seniors say we don't mind waiting, but we really do. We fixate on things. I don't know why that is,” she said fretfully.

“You aren't in the minority, Miz Aggie,” Gus said as he wolfed down the delicious soup. He gobbled down the sandwich and wished he had a second one. He swigged the last of his sweet tea, wiped his mouth, then carried his dishes to the sink. He thanked Aggie and gave her a hug.

Aggie looked up at him and beamed her pleasure. “That's exactly what a cook wants to hear. Skedaddle now and do what you have to do.”

Gus squared his shoulders.
Performance time.

The talkative seniors were all crowded into the massive dining room. The twelve seats at the table were full. Folding chairs were set up against the wall. Some of the seniors, mostly men, were standing, their backs to the wall. One seat was waiting for him. He swallowed hard. It was his granny's chair at the head of the table. She was turning it over to him. He felt so light-headed at this show of forgiveness, he had to grab hold of the chair. A laptop stood open on the table, along with a yellow legal pad and two pens.

“Okay, everyone, my name is Gus Hollister. I'm a certified public accountant. Rose is my grandmother, and Violet and Iris are my aunts. This,” he said, waving his arms about, “is a family affair.” He risked a glance at his grandmother and aunts. They were smiling. He was performing.

“We just met your first need: lunch. I hope you all enjoyed it and thanked Miss Aggie, as she is the one who cooked it. Having said that, now that our numbers have increased by twenty-three, Miss Aggie is going to need kitchen help. That means shopping, preparation, and the actual cooking and cleaning up. Three meals a day. I think two volunteers will do it. Now I'm going to go around the room, give you a pen and a sheet of paper. I want you to write your name, and, if you have a cell phone, include the number. I'll input all this into the computer. Next, on the same paper, I want you to tell me about your strengths and what you perceive to be your weaknesses. After we go through all that, with the help of my grandmother and aunts, we'll be assigning you each a job. We are going to work shifts. Four to five hours each, unless you feel you can put more time into your particular task.” Gus looked to his grandmother and aunts to see if they approved of his performance so far. They nodded.

A voice from the back shouted out, “I think we all would like you to address our pay, the bonus we were promised, and what we're going to do about the others left behind at that dump, Pine Crest.”

“I'm going to let my grandmother address those matters.” Gus got up and turned his chair over to his grandmother. He took that time to watch the faces of the people in the room. He didn't think he'd ever seen a happier group. He let his mind drift to his late-afternoon appointment with Marsha to look at the house that might be his and Wilson's new home. He didn't spend too much time thinking about the house, because he trusted Marsha and knew it would work out.