Murder at the Villa Maria-Sedona Retirement Home

  Chapter Six

  Buckled into the luxury seats of their Cadillac CTS, Calliope and Wilson took the scenic route, as they liked to call the country roads, to Bracebridge. The time was early, the sun bright, and their moods chirpy.

  She passed Wilson a ‘gas-begone’ pill. “You forgot this morning,” she said, handing him a bottle of water.

  “You look after me so good.”

  True, but in this particular instance, her motive was purely self-serving. Wilson broke wind like a cannon blast and almost terrorized her heart into cardiac arrest on more than one occasion. There was too much mileage on her old ticker not to be intimated by a sound like that.

  She turned from the winding, narrow road and looked out the passenger window. Wilson was not the speed demon of his younger years, zipping from lane to lane, and because of that, the countryside with its grazing cattle and fields of wildflowers and acres of rich farmland, rolled slowly past.

  Calliope pulled her silk dress tightly under her derriere, as she had been taught. Less wrinkles, her mother would say. Some advice was never forgotten.

  Lately, memories of her mother flooded her thoughts at the oddest times and for no apparent reason. She hoped it wasn’t a precursor to an event not of her liking or choosing. Aside from the usual reasons for wanting to live, there were still many things and promises she had yet to fulfill. It would be a damn shame if the Big Guy called in her marker before she was ready. She would have a thing or two to say to Him if He did.

  And the dreams…what was up them?

  “I had the strangest dream last night, Wilson.” Knowing intuitively she held his attention, she said, “I had to wear braces, but only for two weeks, and they weren’t applied to my teeth but my lower lip. I took them off to eat, and my mother had to put them back in place. In order for her to do that, I had to stand perfectly straight with my back against the wall. The horse in the kitchen kept swishing his tail across my face, to and fro, to and….” Her voice trailed off to nothingness as she imagined the purple and white-spotted Appaloosa.

  Wilson laughed.

  She could always make him laugh. “Weird, huh?” She didn’t expect him to answer. He never did. Instead, he would ponder her dream and, at the strangest moment, tell her what it meant.

  After loosening the strap on her red sandals, she sat back, sighing loudly. Ten minutes into their trip and already boredom had overtaken her. She turned sideways and studied Wilson, his profile, as he drove. A handsome man. But looks weren’t the only attraction for her those fifty-five years ago. His easygoing, kind, gentle nature caught her attention before anything else. Nothing ruffled him. She should know. She’d tested him often enough; not purposely, of course.

  “I love you, Wilson.” She ran her hand over his thigh, appreciating the rigid muscles beneath her fingers that came from twenty laps around the Aquatic Center every other day and eighteen holes of golf on the other days.

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I love you, Calliope.”

  She sighed contentedly and relaxed against the creamy leather of the car seat. As she often did at these times when conversation was at a premium, her thoughts wandered to The Third. He hadn’t always been a horse’s patootie. Whoa. She took back the comment. He had always been an ass, but a tolerable one, which was not the case these past few years. She wondered what prompted the change. Old age either wisened or mellowed the bitter and contrary. For one thing, the oomph which would have been put into fighting, bickering and complaining was put to other, more important use – some mornings, simply getting out of bed without causing bodily injury proved both time and energy-depleting; something the elderly had in precious scant quantities. For another, memories failed, the eyes became less observant, and ears became deaf. Blind, deaf and dumb. What a fine how-do-you-do; at least, no one could accuse Calliope of any of those things.

  “I know we’ve discussed this many times, Wilson, but do you still believe Frederick when he says he didn’t have anything to do with embezzling that money?” She looked at him to gauge his reaction. Judging by the frown on his face, his opinion on the subject had changed. She turned sideways in the seat to read him more clearly.

  “I always believed him, but lately….” He grimaced.

  “What happened to make you change your mind?” she asked, crossing her fingers he would tell her straight. Wilson was sometimes reluctant about sharing all his views with her concerning The Third. She didn’t take insult. He had only her best interests at heart.

  “He mentioned, bragged is more like it, about how much money he has. It didn’t add up for me.”

  Calliope perked up. This was important to know. She wished she knew why. “How much money?”

  “A couple of million. So he says. Maybe he’s exaggerating a little, but even so, there’s no way he could have stashed away that kind of money, even with solid investments.”

  “Interesting.” Supposing The Third had that amount of money, how did he come by it? Maybe there was some truth to the embezzlement rumor after all. The police had conducted a thorough investigation, though, on the claims of the young man. What was his name? She couldn’t remember, but he was the old man’s nephew. The young whippersnapper had also accused The Third of killing his uncle. Maybe there was some truth to that, too. But surely the police were smart enough to distinguish a murder from a suicide. Maybe not. Mistakes happened. All the time, in fact. The more she thought about it, the more she believed The Third was up to his flamboyant brows in the whole sordid affair.

  She was more determined than ever to bring The Third down, and hoped her plan went without a hitch. The anticipation of finally putting an end to his nastiness made her squirm.

  Wilson looked at her. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I’m anxious to get there is all.”

  “Why? Aren’t you just getting yarn to finish the sweater you’re knitting for Madge’s great-grandson and doing a little browsing in the boutiques?”

  That was her story. “Yes, but you know me. Can’t sit still for two minutes.” She fingered the plastic hoop earrings dangling from her ears.

  “You’re sure it’s nothing more than that?” He jerked his head in her direction as though he had a sudden revelation. “You’re not up to anything, are you?”

  “Moi?” she said, raising her brows.

  “Don’t give me that wide-eyed innocent look.” He chuckled. “You are up to something, aren’t you? Should I ask, or should I wait and find out later?”

  “Watch where you’re driving,” she said too late. She gasped and lifted her legs as they swerved onto the shoulder of the road. Gravel brushed the undercarriage of the car. She held her breath.

  Without a word, Wilson expertly steered the car back onto the road.

  She exhaled her relief and crossed her fingers, but couldn’t look at him. “I’m not up to anything,” she said, staring perfectly straight ahead.

  “Remember the fiasco of a blind date you arranged for Beatrice’s daughter last November?”

  He had to remind her, didn’t he? She grimaced at the memory. “How was I to know she was a man?”

  “I never did find out how you met him ... her.”

  “I picked him up at MacKay’s Bakery. There was something about the way he looked at the half-and-half cookies ....” She stared into space, remembering the look of desire on the young man’s face.

  “Yes, I can see how it wouldn’t make him a serial killer.”

  True, she could have set up the poor girl with a psychopath instead of a transvestite. Her intentions had been pure, though. But just so Wilson would think she thought he kidded her, she poked him in the ribs.

  He cried out in pain. “Hey, give an old guy a break. Those nails are weapons.” He flicked on the blinker light, turned off the road and pulled up to the pumps of a self-service gas station.

  She glanced at the gas gauge. Sometimes Wilson’s preparedness for every eventuality irked her. “We still have three-qu
arters of a tank,” she said, annoyance seeping into her voice.

  He waved away her protest and shuffled from the car.

  As always the sign above the door of the diner boasting ‘Eat Here and Get Gas’ got a chuckle from her. She could never get enough of some things.

  She turned down the sun visor, flipped the cover from the vanity mirror and coated her lips with a fresh coat of red lipstick, put a dab of pink blush on her already rosy cheeks and dusted her freckled nose with powder. While arranging her curly hair around the brim of her floppy hat, she noticed the white roots at the sides of her head. She took her ‘Things-To-Do’ list from her purse and penciled in a reminder to call Bobbie for a dye job.

  Minutes later, back on the road, she donned her new tortoiseshell sunglasses and turned to Wilson. “You like?”

  He grinned. “They’re you.”

  “I thought so, too. Maybe I’ll wear them and nothing else to bed tonight and pretend I’m that actor with the big lips and big boobies.” She inched her fingers along the inside of his thigh. Just as she reached his crotch, Wilson frowned.

  “What’s her name?” he asked.

  “Who she is isn’t relevant.” She slapped his leg, not playfully. “Diggity, Wilson. You sure know how to burst a girl’s bubble.” She stared out the window and sighed. Sometimes, Wilson ― God bless his sweet soul ― lost focus.

  “I’m sorry, kumquat.” He looked at her. “Does this mean you’re going to put me on a no-salt no-fat no-sugar no-sex diet again?”

  The little boy in his voice made her smile. “I should.”

  He nodded. “I deserve it. What’s it going to cost me this time?”

  She thought about it a moment. “A pearl necklace. There’s this―”

  “But you already have three―”

  She gave him the eye. He was wise enough to shut up, but not before he said, “Whatever your little heart desires.”

  “Which reminds me,” she said. “Elvis is dead.”

  “Elvis has been dead for years.” Wilson took his eyes off the road and stared at her.

  “No, he hasn’t,” she said. “I read his obit in the paper yesterday, and I called his wife, ….drat, her name always slips my mind.” She waved a hand in the air. “I passed on our condolences.”

  “How did you get her telephone number?”

  “In the telephone directory. How else? She said he was sick for a long time. Something about a little heart, disproportioned and on the wrong side, or something or other. The doctor said he was lucky to have lived as long as he did.”

  Wilson bit the inside of his cheek. “So, he didn’t die from substance abuse.”

  She pruned her face. “Elvis didn’t do drugs.” It took her a minute, but her upstairs light came on, slowly, like those compact fluorescent bulbs. She threw back her head and laughed. “Not Elvis Presley, you ninny. Elvis Lowe,” she said, referring to one of their neighbors in Bracebridge.

  They drifted into a comfortable silence. Wilson tuned in the radio to a classical music station.

  Thirty minutes later, they traveled down Yonge Street. The massive structure of the Trade Center Condominium never failed to impress her. “What a spectacular view of the city and the lake the roof top club must have.” She pointed at the building.

  “What are you saying?” he asked, jerking his head to face her.

  “Keep your eyes on the road!” She smiled at the look of fright that crossed his face. Their move to Hampstead from Bracebridge hadn’t gone well, in fact, nothing had gone right. Wilson solemnly believed she was the cause of the ‘one fiasco after the other’, as he liked to put it. “Relax, I don’t want to move back to Bracebridge. I love it at the senior complex.” She smiled when he released the breath he held.

  She buckled the straps on her sandals and grabbed her purse by the handle when Wilson drove into a metered parking lot.

  He pulled into the first available space and shut off the ignition. “Synchronize,” he said, pocketing the car keys and lifting the cuff of his French shirt to reveal his watch. “Ten-o-four.”

  She adjusted her watch. “Ten-o-four.”

  “I’ll meet you in front of L’Escargot Bistro at one o’clock. Don’t be late. We have reservations.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  Hand in hand, they strode toward Market Square.

  Inside the lobby, Wilson kissed her cheek. “Try not to get into any trouble, lamb chop.”

  The words rushed from her mouth. “It wasn’t my fault the last time. I didn’t know the scarf had caught on the bottom of my purse. It was all a big misunderstanding. Shoplifting, yeah right!”

  “Uh-huh, but you didn’t need to sock the police officer.”

  “I told you. I thought he was trying to steal my purse. I didn’t know he was a cop. He should have been wearing a uniform.”

  He gave her a look that said she should have known better, but Calliope wouldn’t give up, not when she knew she was right. “He should have identified himself.”

  “Be good,” he said, issuing one last warning.

  “I will. Promise.” She crossed her heart and watched him walk away. When he was out of sight, she turned and exited the building.

  This was it. She was on her own. Free to score some dope.

  Some teenagers outside the movie theatre in Hampstead had said that. She liked the hip sound of it.

  Those kids had also used the ‘f’ word freely. In all of her years, she had never said the word, never felt the need. A well-placed haughty remark stung more than any four-letter word. It was all in the timing, presentation and delivery. The Third could affirm the veracity of that fact, she was sure.

  On the street, she hailed a cab. In record time, a City Taxi stopped.

  “Chinatown on Spadina,” she said, hopping into the back seat.

  He looked in the rear view mirror at her. “Chinatown?”

  Such a nice young man to worry about her. “Yes, I’m sure, sonny. I’ve been there before by myself.” She returned his gaze in the mirror, smiling coyly.

  “Any place specific in Chinatown?”

  “No, just drop me off anywhere on Spadina.”

  On the drive, Calliope thought back over the years. She’d been very fortunate, certainly more than most and definitely more than her best friend. Grace didn’t deserve the life she’d been dealt, and Calliope would do anything within her power to make her BFF happy. The only way she could see to do that was to make The Third easier for her dear friend to live with. She hated resorting to illegal drugs, but she couldn’t very well get a prescription for chill-out pills for The Third from his doctor, could she? Nor could she from her doctor. He’d suspect she was up to something and ask her a bunch of questions.

  The cab stopped, and she handed the driver a twenty. “Keep it.” She smiled and waved to the nice taxi driver as he drove away.

  Caught up in the energy of Chinatown, she quickly mingled with the hordes of shoppers and tourists examining the wares of merchants and absorbing the ambience of distant cultures.

  The sidewalk narrowed in front of makeshift stands of fruits and vegetables labeled with Chinese characters. Lychees and rambutons hung in bunches from awnings shading the store windows. She held her breath against the putrid odor of a sliced durian. A neon sign flashed Herbalist and Acupuncturist. Farther on, a young woman dressed in silky lounging pants and a Mao-style blouse smoked a brown cigarette behind a table of scarves, handkerchiefs and vibrantly colored costume jewelry.

  Calliope stopped and fingered a necklace. “Very nice,” she said, getting the young woman’s attention.

  “You like?” she asked.

  “Yes, very much.” Calliope smiled.

  “You buy?”

  “How much?”

  “For you, ten dollars. Real pearls. Real bargain.”

  If they were real pearls, it would be a real bargain. Calliope dug in her purse and handed the girl a ten. She shoved the necklace in her purse. “Do you know where I can buy some d
rugs around here?”

  The girl pointed to her left.

  Calliope looked over at a display of ginseng, dried mushrooms, ground seashells and dried sea horses in front of a medicine shop. “No, not that kind. Catch my drift?” She raised her eyebrows and jutted her chin to the side.

  “Oh ... oh drugs, eh?”

  Calliope nodded.

  The girl shook her head. “No ... no know.”

  Sprinkles of rain dampened Calliope’s euphoria. Gosh dang. It had to rain, didn’t it? With not quite so much spring to her step, she moved on to the next makeshift table, stared into the face of an Asian outfitted in monk’s attire. Her spirits sagged even more. Maybe Abbott didn’t know anything about where to score dope. Maybe he’d humored his old mother. When she got back to Hampstead, she’d set him straight on the subject in a hurry. She didn’t just get off the turnip truck today.

  She ambled down the street, feeling more and more useless and heartbroken with each of her steps. The scent of fried onions and mushrooms wafting toward her reminded her of Wilson’s lunch reservation. She checked her watch. If she were going to get lucky, it would have to be soon. She looked at the barbecued pig hanging in the window of Linn Chau’s Restaurant.

  “You eat. Yes?”

  The voice startled her. She looked at the old Chinese man sitting on a red plastic crate, smiling a toothless grin. “I ... I was just admiring.”

  “You look for something?”

  Peripherally, she peered at him, wondering if he could direct her to a dope pusher. Why not give him a shot? Time was running out, and she doubted she could convince Wilson to come back to Bracebridge any time soon. She decided on the direct approach. “Dope. Got any for sale?”

  Like every second customer posed this question to him, he pointed down the street. “In alley. You see. You see.”

  Awright! Ecstatic, Calliope yanked her knee-highs to mid-thigh, raised her bent leg in the air and shouted, “Woohoo”. She set off in the direction of the seller’s outstretched finger, not sparing the horses.