Snow Blind Read online

  “No. She isn’t as spry as she used to be. She relies pretty heavily on a cane. She’s still too proud to admit she could use a walker.”

  “Understandable. But I do feel the need to warn you that we are a large facility, and fairly spread out, so she might need that walker.”

  “Thank you. We will need to take that into consideration before we make a decision.”

  “Any other questions about these units?”

  Kevin shook his head. “We’d like to see the common rooms, if that’s possible.”

  “I’ll be happy to show you any place you like.”

  I bolted from the claustrophobic unit and started down the hallway at a good clip.

  10

  Kevin snagged my arm. “What is your problem?”

  “The same one I had when we walked in,” I

  hissed. “What the hell are we doing here? I don’t want a fucking three-hour tour, Skipper. And if the empty hallways are any indication, chances are pretty high the Geritol set is napping and no one will talk to us anyway. This is pointless. Can we go now?”

  “No. Amery paid the retainer up front, and near as I can figure, we still owe her two hours, so buck up, sis.”

  “I fucking hate you right now, bro.”

  Footsteps halted behind us and we spun in tandem toward Dee.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Kevin said, “No,” the same time I said, “Yes.”

  Dee kept a polite mask as she waited for us to clarify.

  “Could you point me to the nearest bathroom?”

  “Certainly. Return to the main reception area and it’s down the short corridor to your left. Can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Would you like us to wait for you?”

  “Not necessary. You two go on. I’ll catch up.”

  Kevin glared at me; I resisted the urge to flip him off before I meandered away.

  Might’ve been petty, but I took my own sweet time reaching the bathroom. I checked my makeup and my cell phone messages. When I couldn’t justify hiding out in the crapper any longer, I sauntered to the receptionist’s desk.

  11

  One plus-sized woman a decade older than me sat behind a gigantic monitor. Since she’d left the sliding glass partition open, she didn’t bother to get up and acknowledge me; rather, she said loudly, “Something I can help you with?”

  “My brother and I are taking a tour with Dee, and I wondered if you had a map of the facility?”

  “They should be on the counter.” She squinted and sighed. “Hang on. I see the clipboard. Looks like Dee moved them to her desk again.” She rolled her chair back.

  “No, I don’t want to be a bother. I think I can reach it if you don’t mind me hanging over the ledge.”

  “Go for it.” She disappeared behind the monitor and I heard pecking noises from her keyboard again. As I leaned across the counter, I noticed two manila folders on Dee’s desk right beside the clipboard. One marked PTF Schedules; the other marked Monthly Activity Sign-up Sheets.

  I shot a quick glance at the office worker. She wasn’t paying attention to me. Tsk-tsk. I lifted the edge of the clipboard with my left hand, slid the folders underneath it with my right, and scooped up the whole pile.

  A tiny shot of adrenaline worked free. Now this was the part I liked: snooping. Standing at the counter opening the files wasn’t an option, so I moved to the seating area, keeping my back to the desk.

  I flipped open the cover on the Activity file. My gaze 12

  zeroed in on the volunteers’ names. Five total. Millie Stephens. Bunny Jones. Margie Lessle. Dottie Rich. Luella Spotted Tail. Millie was listed as the bus driver/

  volunteer for the trip to the Rushmore Mall with Margie assisting. Bunny was conducting a memoir writing class in the common room with Dottie assisting.

  More of the same. Busy. Busy.

  Were these women on crack? Or just bored out of their freakin’ minds?

  Odd. Nothing listed for Luella Spotted Tail on the activity list.

  I turned the map to the blank side and jotted down the info. After making sure no one was watching me, I switched to the PTF folder. The time sheets were organized by pod and room number; eight pods, ten rooms in each pod. Inside the individual hour boxes, from 9:00 to 3:00, Monday through Friday, were the volunteer’s initials. I skimmed the sheet for Luella Spotted Tail. Luella was a busy woman. Her dance card was filled five out of five days, as she brightened elderly folks’ lives.

  But the majority of her time was blocked off for room 208 from 10:00 to 2:00 three days a week. From a WTF standpoint, Luella only spent an

  hour with the other occupants of the room numbers on her list? One hour, once every two weeks? But lucky number 208 received twelve hours per week?

  Didn’t someone in Administration find that strange and question her about it?

  13

  I scanned the time sheet for the previous month and found the identical schedule and no notation from Luella’s supervisor—B. Boner—just a scrawled signature as final approval. Although the name wasn’t listed I knew who lived in room 208. I also realized that no other volunteer’s initials were in any of the time boxes attributed to room 208. I thumbed through the remaining paperwork in the folder. On the last page marked Extra, at the top of the list, in roughly an hour, two full hours were blocked off as personal time for Luella Spotted Tail and Mr. Room 208—Vernon Sloane.

  Guilt assailed me for my earlier dismissal of Amery’s concerns. As far as I could tell, no other resident spent time away from Prairie Gardens with Luella on a regular basis.

  A door slammed, startling me. I returned to the reception desk and poked my head through the partition.

  “Thanks. I think I have a better handle on this place now. I’ll just put this back”—and I purposely knocked the clipboard, the folders, and all the papers off Dee’s desk right onto the floor. “Oh jeez. I’m so sorry; I’m such a klutz; let me come on back there and help you clean it up—”

  “No unauthorized people in the office; it’s against company policy,” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She angrily hefted her girth out of the overtaxed office chair and lumbered to the jumbled mess. 14

  Using the map, I trudged down the main hallway to the common rooms. I’d made it about ten steps when I heard a raspy voice behind me that sent chills up my spine.

  “You’d be dangerous if you were half as sneaky as you think you are. I saw what you were doing. Give me a reason why I shouldn’t turn you in, young lady.”

  15

  Busted. I eased around slowly, afraid I’d find a battle-ax resembling my tenth-grade social studies teacher, Mrs. Bartelsby, itching to drag me back to the reception area to face the Muzak.

  I looked down into a wheelchair at a shrunken woman, her thinning hair an unnatural shade of auburn, her watery blue eyes magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses. She wore a baggy gold lamé tank top, purple velour sweatpants, and Sponge Bob slippers. She’d gone braless. Her long, thin boobs rested on her skinny thighs as if waiting to be fashioned into balloon animals. I tried not to gawk at the droopy tubes or at the Sex Kitten tattoo melting down her right bicep.

  “Hi there. I’m, umm—”

  “Up to no good, aren’t you?”

  “Ah, no. Actually, I’m lost.”

  16

  She snorted. “Actually, you have a map in your hand, which means you had no reason to paw through those private files.”

  Crap. “I didn’t think anyone saw me.”

  “Why?” She waggled a bony finger around the vicinity of my belly button. Because this is an old folks’

  home? You see a sea of white hair and think we’re all blind, deaf, and dumb? Oblivious to our surroundings?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She squinted at me. “What is your name?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I attempted to sidestep her; I’ll be damned if she didn’t maneuver her wheelchair
like Earnhardt Jr. and run me into the wall.

  “Don’t you try to get around me. I’ll ask you again: What is your name?”

  Tired of being bullied by a woman half my size and three times my age, I leaned down until we were nose to nose. I smelled Emeraude perfume on her wrinkled skin and butterscotch candy on her breath.

  “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

  Those bug eyes blinked at me for a second before she sent me a sly smile. “Fine. I’m Betty Grable.”

  “And I’m Lauren Becall. Try again, Betty.”

  She smiled broadly—the grin of a woman proud to have all her own teeth. “Okay, I’m Reva Peterson.”

  “Nice to meet you, Reva. I’m Julie Collins.”

  The grip of her withered hand was surprisingly strong. “That isn’t the name you gave to Dee.”

  Double crap. “You been spying on me, Reva?”

  17

  “Yep.”

  “Why? You the head of Security around here?”

  “You’re a real laugh riot. No, I’m keeping an eye on things because I have nothing better to do.”

  Great. Just my luck Prairie Gardens had their very own Miss Marple.

  “So, unless you want me to turn you in, you’d better tell me exactly what you’re up to.” The wheels squeaked as she backed up. “Come on, I know a place where we can talk in private.”

  I was glad she hadn’t ratted me out, so I followed her. We ended up in a bare bones employee break room consisting of a card table circa 1970, two dilapidated chairs, a microwave, and a Coke machine. The angle of the room was cockeyed and doorless, providing an unobstructed view of the entire reception area. No wonder Reva knew what I’d been doing.

  I flopped on a rickety folding chair.

  Reva said, “Out with it.”

  “Why don’t you get right to the point?”

  “Don’t see why I shouldn’t. I’m old. I could die at any time.”

  “Well, there’s that saying about curiosity …” My gaze landed on her Sex Kitten tattoo. Made me think of Martinez. Was I the only person in the world who wasn’t inked?

  “You’re stalling.”

  “You weren’t by chance a drill sergeant in your former life?”

  18

  “Nope. I spent forty-seven years as head librarian in the Gillette Public Library.”

  That explained it. “I’m assuming this will stay between us?”

  She nodded.

  “The truth is, I’m a private investigator.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Are you undercover? Like that woman on Alias?”

  “Sort of, but without the cool clothes and awesome wigs.”

  “Do you have a hot partner like that Vaughn guy?”

  “Yep.” I grinned when her blue eyes widened behind her thick lenses. “My partner and I are checking out a couple of concerns a client has about a relative living here.”

  “Which resident?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Shoot. That’s no fun.”

  “Sorry. But you can answer a few general questions, right?”

  “Be happy to.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Five years.”

  “Yeah? Been big changes since the new owners took over?”

  Reva scowled. “Yes. They’re bombarding us with people and visits and activities. Something going on all the time. They claim we need the mental stimulus.”

  19

  She snorted. “Half the people in here only have half a working brain anyway, and that isn’t because they’re old in body.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Who likes change? We’re set in our ways. What’s wrong with the way things were? Some of us like hiding out in our apartments entertaining ourselves.”

  “Then again, Reva, some of you skulk around the hallways making your own entertainment.”

  “True. But you wouldn’t believe the shenanigans going on in the utility closet right after shift change.”

  She offered me an impish smile. “Something to be said for access to unlimited Viagra.”

  “You talking about the employees?”

  She shook her head. “The residents.”

  I did not want to think about prunish bodies slapping together. “I thought you were gonna say the volunteers. But I guess they gotta get their perks where they can since they’re not getting paid.”

  “Who told you the volunteers weren’t paid?”

  That jarred me. “Doesn’t the word volunteer mean

  ‘work without compensation’?”

  “You, me, and Webster’s Dictionary are the only ones who seem to know that.” Reva adjusted the gold chain holding her glasses. “These new owners started a senior group called Prime Time Friends. Notice I didn’t say volunteer group. Their organization is run more like a hospice than Meals On Wheels.”

  “Hospice services aren’t free.”

  20

  “Neither are the visits from Prime Time Friends.”

  “So who’s paying for the visits?”

  “We all are.”

  “Individually? Like if you want someone to spend time with you alone, you pay for it?”

  “Yes … and no.”

  I waited while she gathered her thoughts.

  “Every resident is allotted two hours a month of personal time and two hours a month of activity time. If you want additional time with the friends, you pay extra. But collectively, when the new owners hired all new staff and started remodeling, they upped the rent, tacking on an ‘activities and recreational improvement’ fee.”

  “Jesus. Is that even legal?”

  Reva harrumphed and tapped her foot. Sponge Bob’s head bobbled. “Yes. Fair warning rate increase is perfectly legal. But when I looked up the statutes online, the language seemed vague when it comes to specifics governing assisted living facilities. The rules are much more rigid with traditional nursing homes.”

  No surprise Reva had researched the matter. Librarians lived for that stuff. “How much was the increase?”

  “A hundred bucks straight across the board.”

  My stomach dropped. That’d be a huge financial hardship for residents on fixed incomes. It’d also be a huge chunk of cash for the organization. “No one questioned it?”

  “A few did.”

  “What happened?”

  21

  “They got rid of them.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not.” Reva counted off the infractions on her gnarled fingers. “Louise Ellis broke her hip and was transferred to acute care before she was shipped out. The staff counselor diagnosed Dan Reese as violent after he blew up about the increase so he had to move back in with his daughter. Jim Rea suffered a stroke and he’s up at the VA.”

  Sounded like normal ailments for the elderly. Where was the conspiracy?

  “Two others in wing C also left right away. The new residents don’t question paying the extra hundred bucks. But you want know the worst thing?”

  Not a rhetorical question so I couldn’t shout no. Especially after I saw tears welling in Reva’s buggy eyes.

  “I feel sorry for the people who don’t have a little financial cushion. I’m not talking about these folks giving up luxuries; I’m talking about them giving up necessities. They’re either eating Meals On Wheels or not eating at all.” She raised her moist eyes to mine.

  “Before you ask, no, they can’t just up and move. Like me, most people in here don’t have immediate family, so they’re stuck.”

  The soda machine made a loud thump.

  “Do these friends you’ve bought visit you on a daily basis?”

  “Biweekly. We’re assigned two friends and they 22

  rotate. Of course, you have to take the good with the bad. Half the time I get Dottie, a cheerful do-gooder who treats me like an imbecile. Luella is better, but she should be since she’s head of the program.”
>
  Casually I asked, “She is?”

  “Yeah.” The frown lines on Reva’s face increased.

  “I thought it was strange at first, too. In my experience those administrative types don’t get their hands dirty, yet Luella is here every day.”

  “I take it Luella is your favorite?”

  “Mine. Not everyone else’s.”

  My first thought was because she was Indian. Sad, but true. “Why is she your favorite?”

  “She goes above and beyond.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Oh, if she sees something in a magazine that might interest me, she’ll bring it along. If I ask and give her cash, she’ll pick me up a bottle of Jack Daniels without giving me a lecture on how dangerous drinking is at my age.”

  “You don’t hop on the senior bus and go to the grocery store and all the other places?”

  “No. I don’t like being stuck in this wheelchair, but it does give me an excuse not to have to do those things. Doesn’t get me out of the activities most times.”

  “What kind of activities?”

  “Lectures about estate and funeral planning, wills, all that old folks’ crap. Demonstrations on cooking for one. Those aren’t bad. It’s the craft ones I hate, 23

  making us decorate picture frames with beads and seashells like a bunch of kindergartners. Bah.”

  “Forced crafts? No wonder you sneak around. I would, too.”

  “Not a crafty person?”

  I smiled coyly. “Not in the literal sense.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of other crafty stuff going on around here to keep me occupied, not in the literal sense either.”

  “Prairie Gardens doesn’t seem like a den of iniquity.”

  “It isn’t. It’s become a cave of apathy.”

  When she didn’t clarify, I leaned closer. “Explain that remark, Reva.”

  “You wanna know why I’ve been roaming the hallways? Because the new punks they hired don’t give a hoot about us. They’re supposed to check on each unit twice a day. Half the time they don’t bother to do it once. After what happened to my friend Nettie …”

  “What?”

  “She slipped getting out of the shower and hit her head on the toilet. By the time those minimum wage idiots found her the next morning? It was too late. She was dead. If they would’ve checked on her that night, like they were paid to, maybe …” Her chin wobbled and her glasses slipped down her nose. I allowed her a minute to find her composure.