Chapter 30
I’m getting Mrs. Walkowski bathed and into her wheelchair a bit later. Once she leaves for the dining hall, I strip her sheets. Her room happens to the front of the building. I glance out the window and see a group of the lake cottage residents clustered around something laying on the lawn.
I wash my hands, then head out the front door to investigate.
Once in awhile, a huge snake gets lost and finds its way onto the grounds.
Old people get a little odd as they age--they either become paranoid and scared of everything, or stupidly fearless.
Last year I found a bunch of old guys taunting a rattlesnake with a shovel.
When I get close enough, I see what they’re staring at, and it's not a snake. I suddenly really wish it was.
There's a man lying facedown in the grass of the front lawn.
You don't need medical training to see that he's very obviously dead--the fact that there's a fist-size hole in the back of his head kind of eliminates the need for checking for a pulse.
I freeze at the edge of their group, just staring, my heart pounding in my ears.
"I guess we don't have to call anyone, after all," Mrs. Riccini says. She gives me a little wave and smiles. "Hello, dear."
Mr. McCoy prods the guy's back with the end of his ready cane. "Thought for a second it was Douglas, but his sweaters aren't near as nice."
"Too young to be Douglas," Mrs. Fitzhumphrey remarks. "He's still got most of his hair. Well, except for the part that’s gone. I suppose we can’t really tell about that spot."
“He might have had a hairline like Friar tuck, and we'd never know.” Mr. McCoy chuckles at his own joke.
"Poor fella. What do you think happened? Heart attack? Stroke? Nut allergy?"
"Too much blood for any of those."
Mr. McCoy screws up his enormous nose. "Not if he broke his nose when he fell."
Mrs. Riccini tsks. "He's got a hole in the back of his head."
Mr. Glanham looks at the sky. "Might have been hit by a meteor, maybe."
"You think? I read once that meteors sometimes are made of precious metals--gold, platinum, that kind of thing."
Mr. Hartog huffs. "What kind of click-bait bullshit are you getting your news from? Moon rocks aren't precious metals. They're just rocks."
"So are diamonds, dumbass."
"Hey," Mrs. Riccini says, bending over the body to get a better look. "There's a note pinned to his shirt."
Before I can tell her not to, she's snatched it up. It takes her a long time to get back upright, but when she does, she hands it to me. "It's for you."
I unfold the note with trembling fingers. It's just a piece of notebook paper; it shouldn't fill me with so much dread. But the body at my feet that has me spooked. I think I know who the body is, but until Mrs. Riccini found the note, I hoped that maybe this had nothing to do with me.
This is a down payment on the debt we owe your brother. If you don't get us what we want, the next delivery will be you or him--we don't really care. He knows how to reach us.
But I don't know how to reach him! I want to scream. I brace my hands on my knees and take great gasping breaths.
"What's the matter with you?" Mr. Hartog snaps, rapping his cane on the ground. "You never seen a dead body before?"
"This is what's wrong with this generation," Mrs. Riccini says. "Too soft. Anyway, we're going to be late for breakfast if we don't hurry up."
"Waffle day. Don't want to miss that."
They all trundle off toward the main building, leaving me alone with the body.
That's the thing that TV shows get wrong about stuff like this, I think, as I stand and stare.
On TV shows, the second the body is discovered, a whole flock of professionals descend on the scene instantly.
In real life, it's just me and the domestic sounds trailing out of the cafeteria door thirty yards away.
Down toward the lake, a mourning dove starts its looping cry.
I pull out my phone and dial.
"Nine one one, what's your emergency?"
"There's a dead body at Shady Lake Retirement Home."
"You must be new. This is the emergency line. I'll transfer you to the Coroner line and they'll send someone out."
"No," I say. "There's a body on the lawn."
"Put a tarp over it or something until they get there, then. But it might be awhile--George called in sick today."
"Stop," I snap. "There's been a murder. There is a murdered body on the lawn."
There's a few moments of crackling silence, then, "Are you sure?"
"Yes I'm sure. This guy isn't a resident. I don't know who he is. Someone dumped him here."
It's a lie. I'm lying to the police and it's all being recorded. Well, I guess it isn't strictly a lie. Im only ninety-nine percent sure that I know who this guy is, but I'm not going through his pockets looking for an ID to confirm it.
"Look," I say. "I've worked here for like ten years. I'm not new. You need to send the Sheriff out here right now."
I hang up and call Mack. He answers on the first ring.
"Gabriella? You ok?"
"No," I say, honestly. "I think I found Daniel Bellafonte."
Even after I call everyone, I end up sitting on a nearby bench--they're scattered all over the campus so old people have a place to rest when they get tired.
For about twenty minutes, it's just me and the mourning dove, and the occasional, overly loud announcement from the activities director in the dining hall.
She's reminding everyone about the sixties theme dance on Friday night.
My worlds feel like they're colliding and there's not enough room for either of them in my head.
Right now, in this moment, I'm so mad at Alex I can barely think straight.
This whole time I've been worried for him to the point of near-constant nausea.
But now I'm angry. How stupid do you have to be to get involved with these guys?
This isn't normal---there's a dead guy at my work.
That's not because of me. That's because of Alex.
Though he's my brother, if he showed up right now, I'd wring his skinny neck. Ok, so I wouldn't choke him, but I'd definitely take him by the shoulder and shake the shit out of him.
But along with the anger comes a thread of relief. Because I know that if they're threatening Alex, then they don't have him. The relief is short-lived. the anger comes back twofold.
What the hell was Alex thinking? And where is he?