On Turpentine Lane(65)

Nick asked, “Mrs. Lavoie? What did you want to show me downstairs—”

“She didn’t want to show you anything!” I yelled. “She wanted to push you down the stairs! That’s her MO. And I’d be next!”

Mrs. Lavoie asked, “Doesn’t anyone here have a sense of humor? I was kidding.”

I told her we had very acute senses of humor and, by the way, what twice-widowed woman whose husbands died falling down these very stairs would ever go near them? The jig was up!

Mrs. Lavoie tsk-tsk’d through my rant, then announced that I was awfully touchy.

Nick said, “The police will drive you back to ManorCare.”

“Heartless, the both of you,” she muttered.

I said, “I’m sorry if your daughter sold your house without your permission, but according to lawyers for all sides, it was completely kosher.”

“Kosher!” she repeated. “I told you you were Jewish.”

I pointed to her daughter’s name on the contract. “See? Signed, witnessed, and paid in full. By me.”

“She would do that. She’s the one who put me in that loony bin.”

Past politeness, I snapped, “You’re lucky it wasn’t a state penitentiary.”

“I wasn’t home when those men fell if that’s what you’re hinting at. How do you push someone when you’re not even home?”

I said, “Why did I ask? As if you were going to tell me the truth.” I looked at my watch. The police station was no more than a ten-minute drive to Turpentine Lane, faster with a siren on.

“What do you do for a living?” Mrs. Lavoie asked Nick.

He said, “I work in an office.”

Mrs. Lavoie asked, “Is that how you met her,” tilting her disapproving head in my direction.

“That’s private,” he said.

“You had a lot of husbands. How did you meet them?” I asked.

“I forget,” she said.

“When it’s convenient, I’m noticing,” said Nick.

“Probably at church,” I said.

“Or temple?” Nick added.

“I know you’re the kidder now,” she said.

We heard an approaching siren then saw lights flashing. Within seconds, Brian Dolan and another officer were in my kitchen saying, “Ma’am? We’re police officers. Put your hands on top of your head.”

“Might this be a little overkill?” Nick asked. “She’s ninety.”

“Ninety and very lucky that her roommate is still breathing!” Brian snapped, searching her rather delicately before handcuffing her.

“Roommate?” I repeated. “Is she okay? Was it her emphysema?”

“What it was,” he answered, “was a pillow over her face.”

“Ruthie?” I asked Mrs. Lavoie. “You tried to kill Ruthie?”

“Who’s Ruthie?” said the accused.





40





If Those Walls Could Talk


I FOLLOWED UP. Ruthie was in the hospital but okay. Brian told me they hadn’t put Mrs. Lavoie in a cell, just sat her on a chair in the booking room where she was charged with attempted murder. “We were hoping someone would make bail,” he said. “No one wants a ninety-year-old woman prisoner.”

“How much bail?”

“Half a million.”

“Has anyone paid?”

“We contacted the daughter in Hawaii . . . so far, nothing wired.”

I asked where Mrs. Lavoie was now.

“The county jail. In senior citizen isolation. It’s kind and friendly. She’s safe there.”

The polite thing to say was “That’s a relief.”



Detective work needed to find Jeannette Pepperdine? Zero. As soon as Brian Dolan had spoken the phase “caller ID” with respect to their tipster, I knew she had a listed number and began compiling questions that might serve as my overture.

I rang the Pepperdine home and got one of those overly ambitious outgoing messages asking for name, time, the reason for the call, my phone number, and the best time I could be reached. I got as far as “I wanted to tell you that Anna Lavoie is no longer at ManorCare, but has been moved—” when a stern female voice broke in asking, “Who is this?”

I said, “I’m Faith Frankel. I live on Turpentine Lane, number 10, which once belonged to Anna Lavoie.”

“My caller ID says Everton Country Day.”

“Because I’m at work—”

“This isn’t a good time,” she said.

I said, “I’ll be quick! It concerns the house I bought from a daughter of hers.”

There was silence, and then only “How did you get my number?”

“It’s listed.” And without elaborating, I plunged in with “I found Polaroid photos in my attic, of baby girl twins, photographed in my kitchen.”

More silence.

“May I ask if you were born on December 15, 1956?”

Still nothing until “Did I win something?”

“No. I’m trying to find those babies, to make sure they weren’t victims of infanticide.”

“Why?”