The Lavender Ladies Detective Agency: Death in Sunset Grove (3 page)

But regardless of what the residents said, Siiri liked Sinikka Sundström. She thought Sinikka sincerely cared about the residents and wanted to do everything she could to keep the place
running smoothly. Director Sundström was a typical career-oriented woman who enjoyed making other people feel good.

Siiri made her way to the director’s office. She found Sundström sitting at her desk, absorbed in something on her computer screen. The room was dimly lit, the dark curtains drawn
over the window, an unpleasant-smelling candle burning on the desk. Siiri saw what looked like playing cards on the director’s computer screen, but that couldn’t be right –
playing cards on a computer? When she saw Siiri, the director smiled warmly and hurried to give her a hug. Siiri felt swallowed up in the too-deep embrace, lost in folds of clothing and strong
perfume. She worried that she might have a sneezing attack. But Sinikka Sundström had studied the science of caregiving and she knew that old people needed physical contact.

‘Siiri, dear! How are you?’ she asked, once she had let go. Siiri could once again breathe freely.

She got straight to the point and handed Sinikka the complaint. She apologized that it was written on notebook paper. ‘Oh, that’s all right. You have lovely handwriting. Just like my
grandmother’s. Of course, she died years ago, when I was just a little girl.’

Sundström read the complaint, raised her plucked eyebrows, and looked worried. She was terribly sorry that such a thing had happened to Siiri and promised to look into the matter
immediately, although housekeeping wasn’t actually the responsibility of her office, since it was contracted out. She asked Siiri to sit down and explained briefly that they used a private
cleaning company, that Sunset Grove had taken bids from several companies and Muhuv Su Putz and Planck had been far and away the most reasonable and reliable, and that all matters regarding
subcontractors were the responsibility of Pertti Sundström in Quality Control.

‘Pertti Sundström? Is he a relative of yours?’ Siiri asked, not having ever heard of Quality Control, despite having lived at Sunset Grove for twelve years.

Pertti Sundström was Sinikka’s husband, and Sinikka said she would be happy to introduce Siiri to him but, unfortunately, he was on a business trip so Siiri would just have to drop
her complaint in the suggestion box there in the hallway by the big picture of the rose. That was the wisest course of action, since Pertti took care of all the quality-control issues through his
limited partnership.

‘His office is in the new development at Fish Harbour, but I can certainly bring this to his attention,’ Sinikka said with a smile, and thanked Siiri for her active interest, because
the facility could only improve itself if the residents provided feedback. ‘Even if we do have a five-star quality rating, there’s always room for improvement!’ she added.

Siiri used the desk for support as she stood up, and then she noticed a folder on the director’s desk with Tero the cook’s name on it. What a lucky coincidence! If she hadn’t
seen it, she would have forgotten why she had really come here in the first place.

‘Tero Lehtinen. He was a nice man, and a good cook. I wonder, can you tell me what he died of, so suddenly, a young man like him?’

Sinikka was already on her way out of the room, waving Siiri’s slip of notebook paper, but when she heard Tero’s name she stopped, turned quickly around, closed the door behind her,
and hurried over to give Siiri another hug. Her large, wooden necklace pressed unpleasantly against Siiri’s cheek.

‘We’re all grieving for Tero,’ Sinikka sputtered. ‘What a tragedy. He was very dear to us.’ She patted Siiri like a beloved pet. When she was finished consoling
her, she escorted her out of the door and excused herself, explaining that she had a meeting to attend in town. She continued her lament about Tero’s tragic end as she put on her coat, and
Siiri started to wonder if she ought to do something to help the poor woman. But she didn’t know what.

‘We’re organizing a therapy group for anyone who feels they need help in dealing with Tero’s death. Would you like to participate, dear Siiri?’ She tossed her colourful
scarf over her shoulder with such flair that the fringe brushed Siiri’s face.

‘No, thank you. We old people don’t need anything like that, but I’m sure it will be helpful to the staff,’ Siiri said, trying to give the director a reassuring
smile.

‘Don’t call yourself old! It’s such an ugly word. Well, I’m off. Bye-bye!’

But Siiri wasn’t satisfied with Sinikka’s response. She was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened to Tero. She must speak to Irma about it.

Irma and Siiri lived in neighbouring one-bedrooms on the second floor of the A wing of Sunset Grove. Their apartments were identical and yet completely different. Siiri had
furnished hers very sparsely, while Irma had wanted to bring all the beloved things from her former large apartment into her much smaller one. She had rugs all over the floor, pictures, shelves,
ryijy
tapestries on the walls, bookcases full of books, a sofa in the living room and a low porcelain-topped table with flowers painted on it that she had done herself in a community
education course. There was also a rocking chair, a piano bench in memory of her piano, two zany-looking stools, a dining table and chairs, a television and, of course, rose-printed Sanderson
fabric on everything – the curtains, cushions, wallpaper and chair covers.

The two friends enjoyed a cup of instant coffee and some bundt cake together almost every day at Irma’s place. Irma sat in the armchair in the light of the floor lamp and Siiri sat on the
sofa, where none of the lamps from Irma’s childhood home cast any light. Sometimes they popped over to each other’s places in their nightgowns, on a whim. That was the best part of old
age – being able to walk around in your nightie, eating whatever you wanted, doing whatever you felt like doing. They’d never eaten so much cake when they were younger.

‘Caaake,’ Irma corrected Siiri. ‘It should have a lot of As, so it sounds as good as it tastes. Have some more caaake while I get my pillies.’

Irma believed that if she took her diabetes pills at the same time she ate her cake, she wouldn’t have to worry about her blood sugar. She could eat three ice-cream cones, one after the
other, so long as she popped a pill and drank a little whisky. Siiri took diabetes pills, but she didn’t worry about what a little cake would do to her blood sugar and she’d never
stopped to think about whether Irma’s method made any sense.

Siiri decided that now was the time to voice her concerns to Irma.

‘Irma, do you think there’s more to Tero’s death than meets the eye?’

Irma finished a mouthful of cake and licked her lips before replying. ‘I know you’re upset about it, but we have to get used to people dying at our age.’

‘Yes, at our age. But not at Tero’s age. He was far too young.’

Irma nodded thoughtfully, and Siiri took this as her cue to continue.

‘There’s something suspicious going on and I want to find out what happened to Tero. Someone has to.’ Siiri was slightly red in the face; she was getting herself worked up.

‘Now dear, there’s no need to get in a state,’ Irma said kindly. ‘What are you planning to do about it?’

‘I’m going to investigate!’ Siiri said decisively. ‘And you’re going to help me,’ she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

Irma laughed. ‘Help you? How? Do you want me to turn into Miss Marple, at my age?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly it! Why not? It would give us something to put our minds to. And the police don’t seem to be acting very fast. We owe it to Tero.’

Irma beamed; Siiri’s enthusiasm was catching. ‘Count me in!’ she cried.

‘We’ll solve the mystery. Just leave it to us: The Lavender Ladies Detective Agency.’

Irma crowed with joy. The name seemed appropriate as Siiri sat there in her mauve jumper. ‘OK, so where shall we start?’ she asked.

‘Do you think Pasi’s been on sick leave, since Tero died like that?’ Siiri said.

But Irma didn’t think Sunset Grove would give anyone sick leave just because a member of staff had died. She said that Virpi Hiukkanen, the head nurse, ran a tight ship, drove the staff to
work long shifts back to back, paid poorly and never acknowledged anyone for their work. That was why the young people who worked there were worn out with entertaining and taking care of old
people. In a place where nobody else was in any hurry to do anything and nothing ever happened, the staff were always in a dreadful rush. So the nurses got burned out and ended up quitting to find
a job that was more fun. Or they went on state sabbatical. Siiri had no idea what state sabbatical was.

‘That’s when an employer pays a worker to do nothing for a year,’ Irma explained, but Siiri didn’t believe her. You couldn’t always trust Irma’s stories. She
was a bit batty sometimes.

‘Sure they do. The employer fills the position with a refugee or somebody who’s unemployed and they get money from the state,’ Irma said. Siiri decided to look it up later.

Irma had been diligent and found out that there was a funeral service for Tero in two weeks at the old chapel at Hietaniemi cemetery. They both decided to go to the funeral – to pay their
respects, and also because they might learn something about Tero’s unexpected death there.

‘We can do some of our Lavender Ladies Detecting!’ Irma said. Siiri didn’t like funerals, but Irma always looked forward to social events.

‘Let’s invite everyone to Tero’s funeral!’ she said excitedly. ‘We can make it a real autumn outing. We can take the
scram
, so even you’ll enjoy
it.’ By scram, she meant the tram. ‘Where have you been lately on your travel card?’

Siiri told her she’d taken the number 3 and number 7 trams yesterday, and of course the 4, to get to and from Sunset Grove. At the stop by the Aurora Hospital a nutcase had got on again,
yelling to herself, and as the buildings in that neighbourhood were so ugly, it had made for a very oppressive mood. But when the tram had reached the greener, narrower streets of Vallila, the mood
had brightened up. Siiri had noticed a restaurant on the corner of Mäkelänkatu and Sturenkatu where they served breakfast in the middle of the day for three euros, which amused them
both.

‘We should go there sometime, instead of always having our coffee here,’ Irma said.

‘There isn’t really a corner at the corner of Mäkelänkatu and Sturenkatu, just one of those round things like they have in Central Europe. But you probably don’t know
that because you’ve never been there.’

Irma was one of those women who’d never been to the wrong side of Pitkäsilta, the bridge that separated the southern half of Helsinki from the working-class northern half. But she had
been to Vallila at some point, of course, and she remembered that it had a lovely aroma of coffee.

‘Veikko told me that there are whole blocks of 1920s buildings in Vallila with courtyards that you ought to see because you look in and it’s like you’re suddenly in a lovely
park.’

Veikko was Irma’s husband. He had died long ago of lung cancer after smoking two packs a day for years. Irma talked about her husband occasionally, but didn’t seem to miss him the
way Siiri missed her husband, yearning for him every day.

‘It would be terrible if Veikko was still alive. I’m sure he would be very sick and I would have to take care of him. Or he’d be batty and get put in the closed
unit.’

The official name of the unit for patients with severe dementia was the Group Home. It was in a low building off the common area, and its door was always locked, so they often called it
‘the closed unit’. None of the residents were allowed to go there and a mystique of secrecy hovered over the place, a combination of fear and fascination. The nurses ran in and out of
the door with their keys jangling, always in a hurry, with worry lines on their foreheads.

Every so often the Hat Lady reported that someone from the apartments had been moved to the closed unit. When the fat woman from the ground floor of A wing was sent there, Irma had suggested
that they go and sing to her and read her stories, but Nurse Hiukkanen had absolutely forbidden it. She said caregiving required professional skills and training. They couldn’t let just
anyone drop in to play. So Siiri and Irma had never seen inside the closed unit.

‘It’s an awful bustle in there,’ Irma said. ‘They wake you up at eight every evening and give you a sleeping pill. Then they wake you up at eight in the morning and give
you a pep pill. That’s no way to live. Veikko was smart to smoke cigarettes and die on time. What do you think – should we start smoking? Otherwise we’re never going to die.
Döden, döden, döden
.’

The doctor at the health clinic had told Siiri that she should take a sleeping pill every night at eight thirty because that was a good time for an old person to be asleep. That amused them both
tremendously.

‘Eight thirty? In the middle of the news?’ Irma said, and crowed so hard that her cake went down the wrong way and she started coughing.

‘Don’t choke! I’ll get you something to drink!’

Siiri went to the kitchen and found the bottle of red wine that always stood by the sink next to the bottle of washing-up liquid. Irma had a rule that she never drank anything but red wine. She
said water was for washing and milk was for growing children. She often had a couple of glasses of wine with lunch, plus the whisky her doctor prescribed in the evening. Sometimes she
couldn’t remember if it was evening, or morning, or afternoon, and the wine and the whisky got mixed up.

The wine worked wonders. Irma was able to speak again after a couple of swallows.

‘It’s just that I was thinking you don’t really need a sleeping pill to fall asleep while the news is on.’

A few days later, Siiri and Irma were enjoying a very peaceful, ordinary afternoon at Sunset Grove. Everyone had had their lunch and their midday rest, and around 3 p.m. they
came down to the common room to play cards. The afternoon card game wasn’t one of Sunset Grove’s services; it had sprung up spontaneously when they realized how many of them liked to
play.