Chapter 15 #2
Getting out of the car, Nikki noticed that the curtains were drawn around the large bay window of the house, but the front door was wide open, and a heavy-set man in khakis and a polo shirt was pushing a frail-appearing woman in a wheelchair.
With some trouble, he was attempting to circumvent a crack on the cement ramp that had been built near the three stairs leading to a leaf-strewn porch, but the wheels of the chair kept catching in the uneven surface, wet leaves collecting in the spokes.
The man, sunlight glinting off his bald head, caught a glimpse of her walking toward him, and a perturbed expression crossed his fleshy features.
“Can I help you?” he asked, continuing to maneuver the wheelchair to the bottom of the ramp, where a brick path wound toward the drive.
The walkway was covered in leaves and twigs, and once more, he had trouble pushing the chair.
“I’m looking for Blanche Crawford.”
“You found her,” the woman said with a wry, thin-lipped smile.
Her papery skin stretched tightly over sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin.
She appeared to be in her eighties, her fingers clutched tightly around a small, well-worn Bible.
An apricot-colored pantsuit hung loosely over her thin body, and a lap blanket covered her legs.
Her puff of white hair was tamed by tortoiseshell barrettes, while rimless glasses covered sharp blue eyes that narrowed as she assessed Nikki.
“You’re Charlene Gillette’s daughter,” she guessed and pointed a gnarled finger in Nikki’s direction. “The younger one. A reporter.”
“That’s right. I’m—”
“Nikki Gillette,” the man cut in with an audible sigh.
“Why am I not surprised you’re here? This is about Mavis, isn’t it?
Well, we have nothing to say. Nothing.” He was blustering, obviously irritated, his dimpled chin extended defiantly.
He sent Nikki a scathing glance and said, “Come on, Mother.”
“Maybe your mom can speak for herself,” Nikki suggested a bit coolly.
Blanche chuckled. “You always did have spunk! Drove your mother crazy and got you into quite a bit of trouble.” She swiped at a strand of hair that had crossed her cheek, her hand trembling slightly.
“Now, stop, Oliver, I might want to talk to her. This,” she motioned upward to the man, “as you may have guessed, is my son.” With a glance up at him, she added, “She’s helped solve a lot of crimes in this city, you know.
She might actually be able to aid us in finding out what happened to your sister.
” Then a pause, and her gray eyebrows pinched, confusion evident on her features. “Where is Mavis?”
“Mother,” he said, with exaggerated patience.
“She’s gone. Remember? We talked about this.
Three times now. And I don’t think Ms. Gillette can help.
It’s a police matter.” His shoulders sagged a bit at the confused look in Blanche’s eyes.
He turned to Nikki. “Look, this is a hard time for us. I just realized what was going on here.” He ran a hand through the few wispy hairs covering his head.
“Mavis was supposed to be taking care of Mom. She was the appointed guardian, but …”
He flopped an arm toward the house. “I live in LA, and I just hadn’t gotten back here since she moved Mom and sold the family home.
But … I mean, I believed her when she said Mom needed help, and I just let her handle it.
” A look of consternation mingled with regret caused wrinkles to appear over his eyebrows.
He glanced back at the house. “I can’t believe she had Mom living here with such limited care.
” Then he seemed to give himself a quick mental shake.
“Well, it’s water under the bridge now. And I’m fixing things.
Come on, Mom, let’s go.” He started pushing the chair again, and Nikki noticed movement by the open front door.
A skinny, thirtysomething woman, with stringy red hair and tattoos running up her arms, appeared. She was lugging an overflowing laundry basket and deftly edged her way around the wheelchair to the dirty minivan, where she loaded the basket, shoving it inside.
“We need to get going,” Oliver said. “If you want to speak to Mom, try later this week. She’ll be at the Riverview Towers. Room four twenty-seven.”
“You’re moving?” Nikki asked Blanche.
She blinked, squinting a little as she angled her head up toward her son. “Am I?”
“Yes, Mom. We talked about this.”
The redhead slammed the door of the minivan and got behind the wheel.
Oliver said, “We really have to go.” Jaw set, he rolled his mother over the bumpy bricks to the passenger side of the Lexus, and as he did, Nikki walked up the steps to the open door.
Peering inside, she noticed that the old carpet was stained and the brick fireplace darkened by smoke.
Several pieces of sagging furniture were scattered around the living room, and boxes were piled near the doorway.
The acrid scents of cooking grease, wood smoke, and urine hung in the air.
This was where Blanche Crawford had been living.
She started to step inside, but Oliver yelled, “Don’t!” He’d already strapped his mother into the passenger seat of his sedan and had dumped the wheelchair into the car’s trunk. He slammed the lid and walked briskly up the brick walkway again. “Please,” he said, breathing hard. “Don’t go inside.”
Before Nikki could step over the threshold, he hurried up the steps with more agility than she could have imagined, then pulled the door shut.
“I—I don’t know what to say. Mavis moved my—our—mother last year, and I …
I hate to admit it, but I had no idea what kind of squalor …
well, it’s over now.” He withdrew a set of keys from his pants pocket and locked the door, double-checking the handle to make certain the lock was engaged.
“As I said, I was remote, and Mom’s care fell on my sister.
But …” He scowled at the front door, where there were scratch marks from some long-ago pet.
“I shouldn’t have trusted her. A similar situation happened after my dad had his first stroke. I shouldn’t have abdicated.”
“You feel you abdicated?”
“I have a life in LA, okay? A busy life. I’m the office manager for a construction company.
Big one. Lots of jobs going at the same time.
And the truth of the matter is that my wife and my mother have never gotten along, so …
” He shrugged as he shoved the keys into his pocket again.
“Mavis told me Mom had dementia, that she needed round-the-clock care and it was expensive, but she was handling it. With money from Dad’s estate.
” He studied the rundown house again. “But if this is where Mom was living …” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.
“Mom isn’t that bad. Yeah, she sometimes isn’t as sharp as other times, and she can’t walk on her own, but …
well, she’ll do fine at Riverview. There’s a nurse on duty twenty-four seven and staff to look after her and good, nutritious meals and other people.
There are classes—art, exercise, that sort of thing.
And activities. Field trips. Some of her friends live there, so it’ll work out.
” He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.
“I really would like to talk to her.”
“We’ve got to get going. You saw how she goes in and out, right?
As I was putting her in the car, she told me that Mavis would be mad at me.
Really angry. For moving her.” He rattled the keys nervously in his pocket.
“Okay … fine. I’ll meet you at Riverview.
She’ll be fine there,” he said, as if still trying to convince himself.
“There are people at the Towers. So, yeah.” He pocketed the keys and hurried down the path to the car again, where his mother was waiting.
Meanwhile, the woman in the minivan had rolled down the window and was vaping, blowing thick clouds of vapor into the spring air.
Oliver started the Lexus, hit the gas, and backed onto the street. As soon as he was off, the minivan started backing up as well.
“Wait!” Nikki said through the open window and the redheaded driver hit the brakes. “You took care of Mrs. Crawford?”
“Who wants to know?”
Nikki introduced herself. No sign of recognition showed in the woman’s disinterested brown eyes, so maybe that was a plus.
“I’m Sherry,” she said. “And yeah, I was hired, just this last week, a temp fill-in, but now it looks like I’m out of a job.
Again.” She took another puff from her e-cig. “Story of my life.”
“Who hired you?”
“Mrs. Greenlee,” she responded. “I heard she’s dead. Somebody offed her.”
“That’s right.”