Chapter 37 Maggie
Chapter 37
Maggie
Vivian Stillwater might have dropped off the face of the earth, but her sister had not.
Catherine Wedge (previously Stillwater, then Duguay, then Harrington) now lived in the Fair Winds Retirement Community outside Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The woman’s turbulent marital history, combined with her restless tendency to move frequently, between multiple houses in multiple states, had made locating her a complicated task. But locating people who didn’t want to be found was the sort of challenge that Ingrid relished, and she could always be counted on to find her man. Or, in this case, woman.
After a four-hour drive through the sheeting rain, Maggie and Declan found themselves in the parking lot of the Fair Winds complex. Like so many upscale senior developments, this one was designed to look more like a country club than an institution where guests checked in and seldom checked out—alive, anyway. They sat in Declan’s Volvo, contemplating the building and picturing what their future might be like, residing in a place like this. Such a future would not be far off for them, something painful to accept, although Maggie was not oblivious to the inevitable.
“Do you think they have martini nights here?” Declan asked.
“We could always start them.”
“If it’s allowed.”
“If martinis are not allowed, I’d rather be dead.”
He smiled at her. “Ah. We agree on the important things in life.”
“On the upside, I wouldn’t have to mow my fields anymore. Or shovel snow.”
“There’s that.”
“And the next time you break your leg, there’d be some sweet young nurse to pamper you.”
“Why would I want a sweet young thing?” He leaned toward her and pressed a kiss to her lips. “You are all I can handle.”
They watched a Fair Winds van pull up under the porte cochere. Half a dozen silver-haired residents slowly emerged and shuffled into the building. “Seriously, Declan. Is that our future?”
“No, Mags. We’re both going to go down fighting. And they’ll have to pry my martini glass out of my cold, dead hands.” He opened his door, letting in a gust of rain. “Let’s get on with the mission.”
His leg might have been in a cast, but even on crutches, Declan moved quickly and gracefully across the rainswept parking lot, his long, lean body swinging like a human metronome. Maggie had to hurry to keep up with him.
Inside, the receptionist greeted them with a smile when they introduced themselves. “Yes, I heard Cathy was expecting visitors today. She’s in Apartment 319.” She looked them up and down, and Maggie knew what the woman was thinking: Older couple, prime candidates. “Would you like a brochure about Fair Winds? You’re very welcome to stay for a meal and sample our chef’s wonderful cooking. I think duckling in orange sauce is the special tonight.”
“Do you serve martinis?” Declan asked.
“Maybe another time, thank you,” Maggie cut in, and nudged Declan toward the elevator.
“It was a perfectly reasonable question,” he said as they rode up to the third floor.
“For a committed alcoholic.”
“Should I ever move into a facility like this, I’d insist on a well-stocked bar and convivial fellow inmates.”
“I don’t think they’re called ‘inmates,’ Declan.”
They stepped out of the elevator, into a hallway that was decorated with pale-rose walls and a beige carpet. Pretty pastels to keep the mood serene. It was quiet here, so quiet, and the only sound was the thump of Declan’s crutches on the carpet. They reached #319 and rang the doorbell. They already knew that Cathy Wedge, née Stillwater, was seventy-nine years old, which Maggie once would have considered elderly. Now she thought of it as the prime of life—health permitting, of course. One could be a young seventy-nine or an old seventy-nine, and she wondered which version would answer the bell.
The door opened, and she saw neither version of Cathy Wedge, but a smiling young man dressed in blue nurse’s scrubs. “Hey, you’re here to see Cathy?” he asked.
“Maggie and Declan. We called yesterday,” she said.
“Come in, come in! Cathy’s been talking about it all morning. She’s been so bored, stuck inside after her little accident.”
“Accident?”
“She tripped on the curb and broke a toe last week, so she’ll be laid up for a while.” He glanced at the cast on Declan’s leg. “And what happened to you?”
“I fell out of a tree.”
The man laughed. “Ooh, that’s a much better story.”
Declan didn’t bother to tell the young man that it was true, that he really did fall out of a tree, because it was just another item in a long list of things that people would not believe about them. They followed the man into the living room, where Cathy Wedge sat with her bandaged foot propped up on a stool. She was a handsome woman, her thick silver hair swept back and fastened with tortoiseshell clips. She might have been temporarily disabled, but judging by her alert gaze, there was a lively mind behind those dark eyes. Outside the rain had intensified, the drops noisily pelting the window, and the light cast a watery halo around her head.
“So you’re here about Vivian,” she said. “I wondered when someone would finally ask me about her.”
“No one else has?” Maggie said.
“You’re the first, outside of my own family.” She looked at the young man. “And Bertie here. But he’s like family.”
Bertie smiled. “We fight like family, anyway. Shall I bring some tea, Cathy?”
“Yes. And the butter cookies. No one ever turns down butter cookies.” She looked at her visitors. “Please, sit down.”
As Bertie headed into the kitchen, Declan and Maggie settled into chairs. For a moment, the only noise was the kettle being filled with water and the clink of chinaware. Cathy was studying them with her head cocked, as though peering at some unfamiliar species that had suddenly landed in her living room. “Tell me why you want to know about my sister. How did you even hear about her?”
“There was a news article in the Purity Weekly , 1972,” Maggie said. “It was about your sister, who went missing. It said you were the one who alerted the police.”
Cathy nodded. “Vivian planned to drive down to Boston and stay with me for a few days, before going on to Washington. That night, I expected her at my house in time for dinner. I had the guest room all made up, a roast in the oven. I waited and waited, but she didn’t show up, didn’t call. That wasn’t like her, not at all. If Vivian said she’d be somewhere, you could count on it. At midnight, when she still hadn’t arrived, I knew something had happened to her. So I called the police.”
“In Purity? Or in Boston?”
“Both. For all the good it did,” she added bitterly. “They told me that she hadn’t been missing long enough. That she’d probably gotten tired and pulled off the road to take a nap. Or maybe she’d just changed her mind, as if she was some silly woman who couldn’t stick to a plan. I told them Vivian wasn’t like that, but I don’t think they believed me. It took them two whole days before they finally took me seriously.” She turned to look at the photos on her wall. “By then, my sister was lying comatose in a hospital in New Hampshire.”
“ New Hampshire? ” Maggie stared at her. “So she did make it out of Maine.”
“Barely. She was just this side of the New Hampshire border when she had her accident. She lasted three long years in a coma, before ...” Cathy’s voice faded.
“Then your sister—she’s deceased?” said Maggie.
Cathy nodded. “I scattered her ashes in the sea, off Nantucket.”