Chapter Seven Pinewood
Chapter Seven
Pinewood
The house phone in the kitchen of Myra Rutledge’s farmhouse rang. Myra knew it could only be one of the Sisters, a member of their elite, underground organization of vigilantes. While Myra wasn’t fond of the term, it fit.
When called upon, the group met at Pinewood, Myra’s one-hundred-plus-year-old farm.
The house itself sat above a network of tunnels that had been used by the Underground Railroad.
It was only fitting that such a place would bring justice for others.
The basement was equipped with advanced technology, the envy of any covert operation.
Myra answered the phone, “Hello.”
“Hey, Myra. It’s Lizzie.” Lizzie Fox was a crackerjack lawyer who once served as Chief Counsel for the White House.
“Hello, my dear. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Myra smiled. “We haven’t spoken for several weeks.”
“Yes, sorry about that. Election season, and everyone wants to be sure their tooshies are covered.”
Myra chuckled. “That’s requires a lot of legal fabric.”
“You’re not kidding.” Lizzie took a breath. “Listen, I just got a phone call from my friend Theresa Gallagher.”
“Ah, yes, your friend from the book club.”
“Correct. Get this. Two weeks ago, she got a certified letter from someone in Arizona. According to the correspondence, Theresa had an aunt who left home when she was a teenager, and the family had lost track of her until recently. The letter was sent by a neighbor who went to great lengths to find a family member and explained that her Aunt Dottie was in a nursing home.”
“Oh?”
“Theresa felt compelled to go out there to see if her aunt needed anything.”
“That was truly kind of her. And Dottie’s neighbor.”
“Yes; however, Theresa told me a very strange story about the place where Dottie was living. Sunnydale in Tempe.”
“Isn’t that one of those senior places where there are different types of residencies?”
“Correct. It’s a bit complicated. Do you think I could stop by later and give you the details? I’m getting the feeling that this is something we might have to look into together.”
“I see. Yes, of course. Would you like to come for dinner? I am sure Charles would be happy to cook up something,” she added. Charles’s “retirement” involved his newly found passion for cooking. He explained that England had “mean cuisine,” and this was his revenge.
“I don’t want him to go to any trouble.” Lizzie knew Charles would be happy to oblige, but she felt it was necessary to say the words.
“Don’t be silly. Hold on a second. Let me buzz him.” Myra pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and hit the speed-dial number assigned to Charles.
“Hello, love. Everything alright? You do realize I am down the hall?”
“Yes, but I have Lizzie on the house phone, and I invited her to dinner. What say you?”
“Chicken cordon bleu?”
“Perfect answer.”
“Six o’clock?” Charles asked.
Myra spoke into the yellow wall phone receiver. “Six?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then. Thanks, Myra.”
“Oh, Lizzie, you are welcome here anytime. After almost twenty years, please don’t make me say it again,” Myra teased.
“I know.” Lizzie chuckled.
“By the way, is there anyone else you want to discuss this with?”
“Probably Annie.”
“Will do. I am going to see her in an hour. I’ll let her know.”
“Great. See you later.”
Charles entered the kitchen and gave Myra a peck on the cheek. “What is the occasion, lovey?”
“Lizzie got a call from a friend asking about Sunnydale. The one in Arizona.”
“Ah, the old fogie place?” He patted her on her fanny.
“Oh, Charles. It’s a retirement community.”
“Po-ta-to, po-taht-o. Aren’t Lizzie’s friends a bit young to consider going into one of those places?”
“It had something to do with her friend’s auntie. She said it was a bit complicated, and we should have a chat.”
“Already sounds a bit dodgy. Should I fire up the War Room?”
“Ha. Not yet, but I have an odd feeling about this. Lizzie is quite capable of overseeing a multitude of issues and problems. We agreed we should bring Annie into the conversation.”
“Which also means Fergus,” Charles added.
“Darling, you should know the routine by now.” Myra grinned. Lady, the golden retriever, slapped her tail on the floor to punctuate Myra’s sentence.
Charles chuckled. “Even she knows the routine. Of course, Fergus always has treats in his pocket.”
“She’s no fool.” Myra bent down to give her dog a hug.
“Dinner for five, or twelve?” Charles asked, not because he was joking. It could very well end up with a full-blown Sisterhood meal.
“Lizzie didn’t mention anybody else. I suppose she wants to get our opinion before we bring everyone in. I know Kathryn is in Utah dropping off a load of appliances.”
“Utah is adjacent to Arizona. You should let her know to stand by.”
“Oh, I hate to mess up her routine.”
“Perhaps you should find out?” Charles pursed his lips.
“You’re right. At least we’ll have an idea if she is available if this turns into something.”
Charles gave her a sly grin. “Why do I think it’s more of a when than an if?”
Myra rolled her eyes. “You know me well.” She snapped a kitchen towel against his bum.
“Ow!” Charles feigned a sting. “What was that for?”
“Returning the favor.” Myra pinched his cheek … the one on his face. “I think you have some cooking to do, yes?”
“I do, indeed. Better check the fridge and the supplies.” Charles entered the large pantry off the kitchen, where they kept a second refrigerator. He called out to Myra, “Scalloped potatoes and roasted broccoli?”
“Sounds delish.” Myra walked to a desk in the atrium where she kept a laptop. She began to do a search on Sunnydale. She combed a number of sites, checking for reviews. They were all stellar. Then she took the virtual tour. “Charles? Could you come here?”
Charles entered the atrium, wearing a chef’s apron and holding several potatoes in his hands. “Yes, love.”
Myra couldn’t help but smile. Her husband bore a strong resemblance to the actor Sir Patrick Stewart.
No one would have guessed this man in a kitchen smock that read KISS THE COOK was once a counterintelligence agent.
While they never discussed their pasts, the former spy and his best mate, Fergus, once head of Scotland Yard, utilized the tools of their former trade.
Between the two men, they had far-reaching ties to the CIA, FBI, DOD, DOS, DOJ, and DHS, and that was just in the U.S.
The were also connected to MI5, the United Kingdom’s version of our FBI, and MI6, their form of the U.S.
’s CIA. Then there was ASIO and ASIS, Australia’s domestic and international organizations.
There were many more, and if they didn’t have an in somewhere, they knew someone who did.
No one knew the real story as to why Charles left the U.K. It would not have been suspicious had it not been for the fact that Charles could never return for fear of being assassinated or arrested. This was one of the best uses of the phrase “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”
“Take a look at this.” She pointed to the screen on her laptop.
He handed the potatoes over to her and leaned in. “Looks quite posh.”
“Right? Very high-end. It’s a gated community with all the amenities. Could be a resort.”
“For old fogies,” Charles teased. Myra gave him an affectionate elbow jab. He continued to watch the video. “What’s the dosh on a place like that?” he asked.
“It’s a sliding scale. Let’s see.” She scrolled through their menu. “The senior living community offers one- and two-bedroom rentals, but it says, ‘prices may vary from state to state.’”
“That is most likely true, but you’d think they could post each state individually, no?”
“Right. They want you to fill out a form, and someone will get in touch.”
“I see one of their slogans includes ‘Embrace Life. Live it to its Fullest’.”
“Not a bad marketing angle.” Myra clicked on the still photos. “Definitely looks like a resort. Florida, New Mexico, and Arizona. They’re magnets for retirees.”
Charles pointed to one of the tabs that read ASSISTED LIVING. “Check that.”
The photos were fewer than on the active community page.
One showed a studio-type space with a private bath and a tiny kitchen behind a Murphy door.
Another showed a well-appointed common dining room with murals and floor plants, and a small lobby with more plants.
There was an activity room, and a lounge area with a piano.
A floor plan sketch was posted next to it.
“That looks more like what I had envisioned.”
“Info is sparse, as well.”
Myra went to another tab that said LONG-TERM CARE, which had even fewer visuals.
She read the mission statement out loud.
“Things change. We change. But passion doesn’t have to end at retirement.
As we mature, we want less struggles. Less stress.
At Sunnydale, we make life’s transitions easy.
Seamless. No need to worry about your future.
We’ve got it covered.”
“And off to the mortuary you go,” Charles said, chortling.
“Charles! That’s a terrible thing to say, although I have to agree with you. I understand the logic and the planning, but …”
Charles kissed her on the top of her head. “My point, exactly. It’s an interesting concept which I would prefer to avoid. At least until I no longer can, or no longer care.” He took the potatoes Myra had placed on the desk. “Now, lovey, I have to scallop these spuds.”
“Do you need any help?” Myra asked half-heartedly. She wanted to spend the time doing a little more research before Lizzie arrived, so she’d have a better sense of the place.
“Crack on. I know your curiosity has reached its peak.”