On Turpentine Lane(59)

“Her roommate backs that up,” said Hennessy. “They play canasta most afternoons.”

“You’ve been visiting Mrs. Lavoie? Talking to her?” I asked.

“Trying to.”

“How old is she now?” I managed.

“Ninety? Ninety-one maybe. She lies about that.”

“Can you arrest a ninety-one-year-old?” I asked Detective Dolan.

He snapped his fingers. “Like that,” he said.





37





I Waste No Time Getting Over There


THE PLACE WAS ONE STORY, neither sprawling nor appealing. A floor plan was framed in the lobby, an arrow pointing to an area designated SIGN IN.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Anna Lavoie,” I told the woman—Jacqui, according to her name tag—who was dressed in pink scrubs patterned with shooting stars. I wrote my name on the sign-in sheet, and in the column labeled RELATIONSHIP I wrote Buyer.

“Room 111-B, the side closest to the window.” She checked a chart, and said, “She should be back there in a few minutes. Beauty shop this morning.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“We’re not allowed . . . HIPAA laws.”

“Can you say just something like . . . ‘She can carry on a conversation’ or ‘She understands what’s going on’?”

“Both. Believe me.”

The door to 111 was open, but I knocked on the frame anyway. No one yelled permission to enter, so I did so on my own. The television was on, The Price Is Right, loud. A woman with only a few strands of white hair arranged over her otherwise bald head was watching from the closest bed.

I said, “Hello? Excuse me? Mrs. Lavoie?”

“She’s over there.” The woman gestured toward the empty half of the room. “You can sit.”

I didn’t immediately; I said I was told she’d be back soon, asked her how long she’d shared a room with Mrs. Lavoie.

“Since I got here.”

“Months? Weeks?”

“Six weeks. A couple of broken bones in my foot. And the emphysema.”

“Can I ask you a question about Mrs. Lavoie?”

“Are you a social worker?”

“No. Just, um . . . director of Stewardship . . . Is she, what’s the right term . . . with it?”

“You mean does she have all her marbles? Most of the time.”

I introduced myself, learned her name was Ruthie, and asked, “Is she a nice roommate? Or does she strike you as someone who’d hurt people when she was out in the world?”

“Hurt how? Their feelings?”

“Well, yes. That too, I guess.”

“She’s not what I’d call a people person. She has her moments.” Her voice didn’t lower its volume when she said, “She likes to win. Take it from me. And if it means cheating . . .” She added a sage nod.

“Jacqui at the desk said Mrs. Lavoie was having her hair done.”

“She does that every week. I’m only here till my foot heals. The turkey broke some bones. It was only a breast, but it was frozen.”

“Do you know if Mrs. Lavoie is more or less here for the duration?”

“She’s not going anywhere! She tells me she’s eighty-five, but she’s more like ninety.”

I said, “No harm in a little white lie like that, I suppose.”

It was then that a tall, smiling, tattooed man with a shaved head wheeled the ancient, unsmiling, perfectly coiffed Mrs. Anna Lavoie into room 111. If I had any question about her wits, it was answered by her sharp “Who’s this?”

The man said, “We heard you had a guest. Isn’t that nice?”

Mrs. Lavoie was dressed in the manner of a head librarian, in skirt, blouse, and jacket. There was a triple strand of pearly beads around her neck, and a rhinestone Scottie on her lapel.

“What’s she gaping at?” Mrs. Lavoie snarled.

I said, “You’re . . . you’re . . . dressed so elegantly.”

The helper explained, “We like our residents to dress, not to stay in their pj’s and robes. Right, ladies?”

“Not me,” said Ruthie. “I’m one of the invalids.”

“Only temporary!” he said. “Anna? Where you wanna be now?”

“There.” She pointed to the sole chair on her side of the room.

He said, “How about if you stay in this chair for now, and your guest sits in the visitor’s chair? You call me when you need a lift.”

“Do I know you?” Mrs. Lavoie asked me.

I didn’t answer until she’d been wheeled in place, the brake hit, and the helper had drawn the curtain that divided the room.

I said, “I live in 10 Turpentine Lane. I bought the house from your daughter, Theresa.”

“You bought it from me,” she snapped.

“My understanding was . . .” I refrained from saying that you were dead, so I finished with “that you were possibly comatose.”

“Who told you that?”

Who had told me that? Tammy the real estate agent? Mrs. Strenger next door? Theresa herself? I said, “It was my mistake. I misunderstood whatever they told me about your . . . reason for selling.”