The Suspect List-- Chapter Twelve

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

“JB had a rough night.”

This is how Fawn Whalen, fellow caregiver and friend, greets me when I walk into the lobby of Mesa Assisted Living barely on time for my shift. 

“Yeah, well, he’s not the only one.”

Fawn gives me a quick up and down look and her eyes widen, a sure sign that the evidence of my night shows in my puffy eyes, swollen lips, and unwashed hair–which I tugged into a messier than usual messy bun, after a very fast but necessary shower.

“Rough in a good way or a bad way?”

“A little of both actually.”

Fawn gives me a smile that would be at home on a magazine cover if magazines used women who are beautiful without a single brush stroke of makeup. “Anyone I know?”

“Not unless you’ve met JB’s grandson.”

Her thick, untrimmed eyebrows shoot upward. “Not Rev, I hope?”

“Why? What do you know about Rev?”

The automatic doors open for Patricia Waters, the manager of Mesa. A big woman, in her late fifties, she’s a transplant from somewhere on the east coast, and even after seven years here she’s still too well-dressed and professional for this casual town. Patricia is not a bad boss, but she’s all business and Fawn and I learned the hard way that it’s best not to let her catch us having personal conversations while on the clock.

We greet Patricia with forced cheerfulness and she responds in kind, clearly anxious to get to her office, and finish her 20 ounce triple shot vanilla latte before being bombarded with work.

“JB was hallucinating again,” Fawns says. “Poor guy thought he was being bitten by mosquitoes. He scratched his face so hard he drew blood.”

“Did you give him lorazepam?”

“We did but it still took longer than usual to get him calmed down. Also, I left a note about him needing his nails trimmed today.”

“I’ll do it.” 

“Great.” Fawns glances at Patricia’s now firmly closed office door and motions for me to move into the corner near the front door where there’s a fish tank and an unoccupied chair, and leans in close. “Rev Carlaw hurt a friend of mine.”

“Recently?”

“No, a long time ago, when he was a teenager.”

“Oh, do you mean Ty Ramsey?”

“Yes. He’s a friend of the family. I’ve known him all my life. He thinks Rev killed a girl, but no one could prove it.”

“Abigail Olsen. From what I understand there’s no proof that she was murdered.”

“I suppose Rev told you that?”

“No, not him. I mean I met Rev, but he’s not the one I was with last night.”

“Thank Goddess for that.”

“It was Zane, Sherry’s son, and he told me the story of Abigail and we found possible evidence but then…” What am I doing? Zane trusts me. I shouldn’t be telling anyone, not even Fawn who I trust.

“Then what?”

My beeper goes off, saving me from having to answer. It’s room 21. “Mrs. Finnigan.“

“She had a rough night too– didn’t sleep much. Never does when the moon is full. I read to her from her book of fairy tales.”

We day shift workers don’t have time for that sort of thing. This is what I tell myself anyway. It’s not that I don’t care about residents–I can’t imagine doing this job if I didn’t–but when it comes to empathy and caring, Fawn is in a league of her own. She makes me want to do better, be better. “Did the stories help?”

“They did until I got to Hansel and Gretal–the witch scared her.”

“That’s not surprising. In fairy tales the witches are always ugly and evil. Imagine if Mrs. Finnigan knew about you…” I’m smiling but Fawn isn’t. She shakes her head in disgust–she was raised with Wiccan traditions and is bothered by the way witches are portrayed in books and movies.

“I want to hear about this evidence you found. Can I call you tonight?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah sure.” That will give me time to figure out what to say to her. “Now go home and get some sleep.”

“I’ll try.”

Fawn prefers night shift over day shift because it’s quieter overall and she gets more time with the residents, but she struggles to get enough sleep during the day. “Good luck.”

I’m daydreaming about going back to bed and sleeping all day as I make my way down the hall to Mrs. Finnigan’s room. I only got about two hours of sleep last night. I’m pretty sure Zane slept more than I did, but not much more. The futon is not made for two people, but lack of wiggle room was only part of the problem. We got distracted by the making out thing, and the possibility of sex, and this led to a lengthy and somewhat philosophical conversation about whether or not sex on a first date is a good idea. Zane took the view that sex too soon could ruin chances of a longer term relationship and I argued that if it’s meant to be, sex will only speed things along. We went back and forth for a while, and then went back to kissing and stroking etc. It was Zane who stopped just when things were getting good.

I asked him if his ‘ethics’ had anything to do with religious guilt. At first he denied it, but then admitted it might be a factor. This led to me concluding that Zane is a serious overthinker–which I told him. He agreed with me on this, and then we ended up right back in it, both of us wanting more. Finally, I decided to be blunt about it and ask if he wanted a hand job. He was pretty quick to say yes.

Afterward, he returned the favor–a bit too fast and efficient if I’m honest— though maybe I’m being unfair as by that point it didn’t take much effort on his part. Once we finally got some physical relief we were able to sleep, but it was quite late by then.

In the morning Zane left a few minutes before me to grab a bite from the bakery before meeting his parents at church. I offered him peanut butter on white bread but he turned it down–go figure. He gave me a look when I rolled up my slice so I could easily hold it in one hand and eat it while driving, but it was more amused than disgusted so that’s good, I guess. He’s a bit more mannerly than I am.

I wonder how the conversation with his parents is going.

My thoughts are interrupted by the anguished cries of Mrs. Finnegan.

“Help me, someone please help me.”

I hear her well before I reach her door.

The other residents have their first name and last initial on a nameplate next to their door. Florence Finnigan has been called Mrs. Finnigan by everyone in town for many years. Her husband, Frank, is the one who started referring to her that way right after the wedding. They were married later in life, a first marriage for both of them, after many years of Florence saying that she had no intention of ever marrying. That’s the story I heard anyway.

The couple didn’t have children and Frank died years ago. Mrs. Finnegan is well known in Mannon from her days as the town librarian, and head volunteer with the county historical society. She used to get visitors, but doesn’t anymore so it’s up to us to comfort her.

“Please help me. Someone untangle my legs.”

Bedridden, she is sometimes too weak to move her legs on her own, but other times she surprises us with her strength. 

“I’m here Mrs. Finnigan, I’ll help you.”

Her eyes are sunken, her cheek bones prominent in her skeletal face. It’s been a struggle getting her to eat lately.

“You’re not my girl.”

She prefers Fawn, that’s no secret. “Sorry, but you’re stuck with me today.”

I check her urine bag, and see that it’s been emptied recently.

“My legs. Untangle my legs.”

I lift the blanket. Her legs are mostly bare, her pink nightgown only reaches her knees. Her legs are thin, hairless, pale. One is crossed over the other. Gently, I move it.

“Is that better?”

“Yes. Thank you, you’re a dear.”

I reach for her bony hand. “Fawn is the deer, remember? I’m Kalico, I’m the cat.”

It’s something she used to say to us on good days, when her personality showed through, but she’s already gone again, her eyes empty.

“I’ll be back soon with your breakfast.”

No response.

By the time I’m out the door she’s moaning again, pleading for help. I preferred the angry outburst phase that went on for months over her frequent crying. There’s nothing worse than loneliness and hopelessness.

I make my way to JB’s room. Fawn must have gotten him out of bed and into his wheelchair in front of the window. His face does look bad–like a cat scratched his cheeks.

“Good morning, Jabez. Guess what day it is?”

He doesn’t look at me. “It’s Sunday. Your daughter will be here to visit you later this morning.”

“Mary is coming?”

He often mentions his wife during his more lucid moments. No one has the heart to tell him that she died. “Sherry, your daughter, will be here in a while.”

He peers out the window at the sheep farm. “Mary, Mary, my little lamb.”

It’s rare to hear emotion in his voice, but it’s there today. Sadness is spreading through this place like a virus. At least he’s not talking about fucking sheep. Not at the moment anyway.

I wonder, not for the first time, what his mind was like before the illness. Are the raunchy things he says all due to dementia as Sherry has suggested or is Zane right that JB had an unpleasant side that he mostly kept from the public? Did JB hurt Abigail? Or did he only protect the ones who abused her? Or was he innocent of everything?

He’s calm enough now. Probably he got all his fury and frustration out during the night. If I take the right tone, will he answer my questions? Reveal something interesting?

I get the nail clippers and pull a chair over next to him. 

“Where’s Mary?”

“She can’t be here right now. She asked me to trim your fingernails for you.”

“Mary, Mary, my little lamb.”

I take his hand, with its swollen, misshapen knuckles, the dry and flaky skin so thin every vein is visible, and start with his index finger.

“Mary didn’t want Abigail hanging out at the ranch anymore did she?”

Nothing.

“I know you remember Abigail. The blonde girl who caused all the trouble that summer.” I point to the picture on the wall.

He follows my gaze, frowns, and then turns back to the window.

“You called her a slut and a whore. There must be a reason you said that about her.”

“Whore. Pimp. Whore. Pimp.”

Pimp? The image that comes to me is from old movies and television shows– a black man, or a sleazy-looking white guy, wearing gold chains and/or a fur coat. I can’t imagine such a person in Mannon, not even two decades ago. “Are there pimps in Mannon?”

He looks me in my eyes. “Don’t tell Mary.”

My heart beats faster. “Don’t tell Mary what? Don’t tell her about Abigail or the pimp, or, or what?”

“No good.”

“What’s no good? Or who? Are you saying the pimp is no good? What was his name?”

He starts to answer but one of the day workers chooses the exact wrong moment to arrive with JB’s breakfast tray and all he does is mutter something incoherent.

I’m not giving up. I’ll try again after the guy leaves.

(I hope you’re all enjoying the story—and having a good summer. I’m in the middle of moving and we all know how much fun that is! I plan to have chapter thirteen out in two weeks, but with all that’s happening in my life right now it might be late. I hope not, but we’ll see.)

Happy Reading!