Angelina Bonaparte Mysteries Box Set Nanci Rathbun (i love reading books txt) 📖

caretaking.” She extracted a manila file folder from her desk and handed it to me. “Here are the papers you’ll need to sign. Let me get you a cup of coffee while you read them over.”

Her belief that I would make an immediate decision astounded me. Then I reflected on Frank’s words, that most of the residents here were without family and reliant on government assistance. For them, it would be a matter of taking any offer on the table.

“Before I do that, I’ll need to take a tour of the facility.” I rose to my five-five stature (in heels).

Mrs. Rogers swiveled toward me. “Well, my, of course you will. What was I thinking?”

The next twenty minutes were agonizing as I toured the dining room, a two-person bedroom, the physical therapy room and the chapel—a closet with a Bible and standing cross on a table. Permeating the whole place was an atmosphere of life without hope, of being parked in a hallway in a wheelchair, waiting. “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me,” wrote Emily Dickinson. The residents here were waiting for Death’s carriage to stop and invite them for a ride.

All but one. At a table in the common room, a woman sat working a jigsaw puzzle. Her white hair was coifed and tinged slightly blue, and her dress, though out-of-style, was clean and pressed. She held herself with dignity and looked me in the eye as we passed. When Mrs. Rogers moved down the hallway, she shook her head at me and mouthed, “No.” Then she pressed her forefinger to her lips.

I acknowledged her message with a nod and continued after my guide, noting the bathroom on my right. As we entered the office again, I said, “May I please use your restroom?” I gave a sheepish smile. “Too much morning coffee.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Rogers replied. “It’s to your left as you go back down the hall.”

I went into the unisex lavatory, wrote my cellphone number on my business card, counted to ten, and peeked out. Mrs. Rogers’ door was just closing. She’d watched to see where I went.

I tiptoed down the hall to the common room and approached the lady with the blue hair. “Here’s my card. Would you call me? Please? I need your help.”

“I will, dear. Now hurry back, so Mrs. Mean doesn’t see you.” She shooed me away with one hand as she tucked my card into the bodice of her dress.

I returned to the office, picked up the papers and extended my hand to Mrs. Mean … uh, Rogers. “Thank you for your time. I’ll look these over and get back to you later today. I have one other place to visit this afternoon.”

For a second, Mrs. Rogers’ eyes slitted and the corners of her mouth turned down. Then she resumed a placid smile. “I’m sure your uncle would be very happy here. And our charges are the most reasonable of any in the area. Don’t wait to decide. We fill up fast. And we currently have only one bed open.”

I assured her that I would not be dilatory and escaped into the morning sunshine, taking in great gulps of cold fresh air and congratulating myself on being years—decades—and a loving family away from that world.

I had an hour before I needed to meet Frank Jamieson. Back at the B&B, I changed into casual clothes for the shelter visit. I wanted to look approachable to the residents there. Black dress jeans, a plain sweater in deep green and black half-boots with a two-inch cowboy heel.

My host, Devon, offered me tea in the parlor. I retrieved my book from my briefcase—I never go anywhere without reading material—and settled down while he brewed Earl Grey. As he approached with a lovely china cup and saucer, my cellphone played Billy Joel’s “The Stranger.”

“Hello,” I said.

“This is Augusta Simmons, from Padua Manor. The lady you gave the card to.”

I sat up. “Augusta, thanks so much for calling me. Are you in a place where we can talk without your being overheard?”

“Why, yes, I’m in the park down the street.”

I was a little startled by that. I assumed that the Padua Manor residents were not allowed out by themselves. But … what if they weren’t? Had she somehow gotten out without permission?

“So you’re not restricted to the facility?” I used a gentle tone, hoping not to upset her.

“Many are, but not me, dear. I’m the sane one and I can still walk. Oh, and I have some money, so they let me have my little treats. I told them I wanted to go to the drugstore for some mints.”

“Why don’t I drive over and meet you?”

“Wait.” I heard her take a deep breath. “What’s this about?”

I debated telling her the truth, but decided that I’d done enough lying for one day. I used Hank’s assumed name, though, because that’s how Augusta would know him. “It’s about a man named Jim Beltran. He died at Padua Manor on December twenty-ninth. He was estranged from his wife. She wants to know more about his last days, but Mrs. Rogers refused to talk to me about him. I’m afraid I told her an untruth this morning, posing as a woman who wants care for her elderly uncle.”

“So this isn’t related to payment for Myrna?”

“Myrna?”

“My sister. She’s a resident at the home. She has dementia.”

“No, this has nothing to do with her or you, personally. I only want to talk to someone who was there when Jim died.”

“Well, then, I think I can help you.”

It was a five minute drive, but she was a much older woman and the thermometer at the B&B showed thirty-six degrees this morning. I helped her into the car and checked her surreptitiously for signs of hypothermia. Bundled up in a red wool coat, with red knit scarf, hat and mittens, she resembled a cardinal wearing black snow boots. “Red suits you,” I said, pulling away from the curb.

“I love a pop of color,