The Maid's Diary(18)

She keeps her features neutral. “And your name, sir?”

“Horton. Horton Brown. This is my house. Well, it’s my mother’s, but I live here.”

“Can we come in? I understand from dispatch that Mrs. Brown is confined upstairs.”

He exhales heavily and steps back, allowing them entry. Mal exchanges a quick glance with Benoit. He gives a small nod and says, “Mr. Brown, I have some questions for you, too. Shall we talk down here in the living room while Sergeant Van Alst goes up to chat with your mother?”

He grunts and leads Benoit into a living room furnished with overstuffed chairs upholstered in a cabbage rose print. Crocheted doilies hanging over the backs. Clearly Horton’s mother’s furniture. A dirty-looking Maltese follows Horton, nails clicking on the wooden floor.

Mallory climbs the steps, wondering how often Beulah Brown manages to get downstairs, if at all.

She reaches a landing with a small window that looks out toward the sea. A door stands ajar.

“Mrs. Brown?” Mal knocks on the open door. “This is Sergeant Mallory Van Alst. I’ve come to talk to you about the 911 call you made.”

“Come in.” The voice is thin.

Mallory enters a large room. It’s equipped with a hospital bed, an oxygen compressor, a wheelchair, a comfortable-looking sofa, and reading chairs. A bathroom leads off the room, and a small kitchenette has been installed along the rear wall. The front windows face the sea. The corner window has a clear view of the house and driveway next door. French doors lead onto a small balcony. At least she can get out, thinks Mal.

Beulah Brown sits dwarfed in a wingback facing the ocean. Her legs are swollen and propped up on an ottoman. A crocheted throw covers her lap. A flask, a teacup, cookies, and a pair of binoculars rest on the small round table at her side.

“I didn’t think anyone would come,” the old woman says.

Mal detects a faint British accent.

“They all think I’m a nutter, you know? Come closer. Take a seat. Would you like some tea? You’ll need to fetch yourself a cup from the kitchen cupboard first, but I have some extra in my flask. It’s still hot.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Sit, then, sit. Please. It’s so nice to have the company.”

Mal seats herself on an overstuffed chair. “Nice view,” she says. She can see her boiler-suited techs busy by the pool, and she can see into the part of the living room where the coffee table is upturned. Movements are also visible in the upstairs windows. Police tape flutters across the driveway.

“Yes, it’s a marvelous view. Horton bought me binoculars two weeks ago so I can see to the other side of the Burrard. I can sometimes see the sailors on the tankers in the bay. They come from all around the world, you know. Today is a twelve-tanker day. Just look at them all waiting to go into the harbor.”

Mal looks. The water sparkles. “You also have a good view of the house next door and the driveway, too.”

Beulah pulls a wry mouth, but her rheumy eyes light up. “I’m too old and too far gone to pretend I don’t turn my scopes on the neighbors.” She leans forward and lowers her thin voice in a conspiratorial way. “Between you and me, that is. And the binoculars make it so much nicer. My spectacles were failing me as it was.”

Mal smiles. “Do you get downstairs much?”

Beulah’s features change. She glances away. Then quietly she says, “Horton . . . he means well. He did buy me the binoculars.”

Mal opens her notebook. She clicks her pen. “You reported hearing screams early this morning, Mrs. Brown. Can you tell me in your own words what you saw and heard?”

“Beulah. Please call me Beulah. Something woke me at 11:21 p.m. I lay there awhile and I’m sure I heard it again. A woman’s scream.”

Mal makes a note in her pad. “You seem very certain of the time.”

“Well, yes. I keep a log now.”

Mal glances up. “A log?”

“Like a journal. A recording of everything I see. Out in the garden. On the water. Next door. Along the little seawall path in front of my property. Sometimes a yacht docks in the bay, and I watch the people on board having their sundowners, and I write it all down—what time they anchored and sailed off. Which stand-up paddleboarders go past, and when. I started a few weeks ago because Horton kept telling me I was misremembering and mis-seeing things. He said I was forgetting my medication and that I needed to take more pills. I began to worry he might be right. Or that I might be taking the wrong pills, because the days just started blurring one into the next. So now I write down which pills I take, and when. And I write the names of all my carers and nurses. I also record how often I go to the loo.” She chuckles. “Otherwise they make me try again. Getting old and sick is not for the meek, I tell you.” She hesitates, coughs. “It’s such hard work sometimes I wonder if it’s worth fighting to stay alive.”

Mal feels a clutch in her chest. “I’m sorry to hear that, Beulah.”

“Calling 911 does offer some respite, though.”

Mal wonders again how reliable this witness will prove to be. “About what you saw—”

“Pass me those reading spectacles,” Beulah says abruptly as she reaches for her notebook.

Mal hands the glasses to her, and Beulah perches them on her nose. She opens her book, runs a gnarled finger down the text on the page. “I’ll start from when I believe it began yesterday. At six fourteen p.m., Thursday, October 31—that’s Halloween. We never used to celebrate Halloween when I was a girl. We—”