章節 20: Chapter 20: Grandmother's Things
I wasn't expecting that kind of response, considering I'd just found out the looming woman was the victim's relative, though the more I stared up at her the more their powerful resemblance turned me into a stuttering, stammering idiot.
"Mrs. Fleming's things are in the office," Ruth said, brushing past me with the kind of presence a freight train might command, even the lightest touch from her big arm making me feel bruised. "Good day to you, Miss Fleming."
I watched her lumber away, caught Peggy's unhappy frown and head shake and shrugged it off. I had to live in this town and encounters with those who knew Pete-for better or worse-were going to happen. Hopefully the more time between his death and some other scandal would ease the discomfort of being thought of as the primary suspect.
I was dreaming of course. Reading residents had long, long memories.
The office was about as nicely lit as the foyer with the same buzzing, flickering fluorescent lights and the exact old vinyl tile now grayed out and flecked with who knew what. A clunky desk tucked in one corner, ancient gray filing cabinets lining the back wall and a heavy wooden door with a smoked glass pane dominating the top center in the far corner with "Ruth Wilkins, Administrator," etched on it.
So, head nurse and the boss? I nodded to the young woman behind the desk as she blinked at me past her thick glasses, stringy dark hair puddling in unattractive chunks on her narrow shoulders. She picked absently at a cold sore at the corner of her thin mouth while I glanced around. Noting the large photograph of who had to be staff behind her, Ruth's giant form filling the middle of the image with a grimace likely meant to be a smile.
No one else looked happy to be there.
"Can I help you?" The receptionist's voice matched the rest of her, high pitched and rather wheezy. She inhaled from a blue puffer, still staring while I offered a quick smile, feeling like I had, indeed, wasted my time. Well, it was mine to waste, wasn't it?
"I'm here for Iris Fleming's things." Both of my hands clenched at the straps of my purse over my shoulder and I had to force an inhale and relax them before I lost circulation. Why was I so wound up? The smell of this place wasn't helping, nor the awkward encounter with Ruth. And knowing I'd come on an errand that would likely end with a box of old nightgowns and regret made my shoulders sag.
"Right. Just a sec." The young woman stood, tugging at her ugly brown cardigan, the pockets laden to overflowing with used tissues and a box of what looked like breath mints. I glanced away as she shuffled in her practical shoes across the office about as fast as a turtle might hustle to a pile of boxes in the corner near Ruth's office door. Searching for a distraction, I studied the photo behind the desk, recognizing the receptionist where she squashed up against her boss with the most awkward smile I'd ever seen. And spotted a face I hadn't expected.
I knew her, but not personally. That pretty blonde in the second row with the big eyes and unhappy expression. I'd seen her yesterday leaving the Wilkins's house. Sneaking out the side yard and driving off like she didn't want to be noticed.
So she worked here, did she? Well, good for her. This was a small town, after all. People were connected to places and each other in oddly layered ways. Still, I couldn't help my curious mind's pondering as the receptionist shuffled back to the desk and deposited a small cardboard box, sealed shut with a single strip of packing tape, one end flapping loose as if it had been too much effort to fix it. In big, messy capitals, IRIS FLEMING glared back at me from the surface.
"ID please." I fished out my wallet, showed her my New York driver's license which she squinted at a moment before shrugging like it didn't matter anyway. "Sign here." The young woman produced a pen with the end chewed to a flat line, still moist from her mouth, I could only imagine, and a battered clipboard with a sheet of paper clinging under the wobbly clamp. I put my wallet away before accepting the pen from her, scrawling my name as fast as I could, hoping the cold sore she bore wouldn't transfer to my fingers from the pen and planning to douse myself in cleanser from the dispenser on the way out.
I left, heart heavy, two pumps of clear gel making my skin dry out as I rubbed vigorously, using my shoulder to push the glass door wide. There was no sign of Peggy and just as well. I wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone, not with the last worldly possessions of my grandmother from her deathbed tucked under one arm.
I sat in the car a long moment, the box in my lap, staring down at her name and the loose flap of dirty tape and wondered if this was what life came to, in the end. My fingers grasped the tape and jerked, pulling loose most of her name with it when it tore the top of the box's surface free, the flaps popping open. Only then did I realize they'd recycled this box, that someone shipped something innocuous and unimportant in the container that held the last bits and pieces of Iris Fleming.
Fury gave me a pounding headache, instant and overwhelming and I had to fish in my purse for a tissue as tears flowed. I blew my nose for the woman I barely knew and emptied the offending box out onto the passenger's seat, tossing the cardboard in the back so it wouldn't touch Grandmother Iris's things ever again.
I was right about the spare nightgown, the faded slippers. A single hair clip with a butterfly on it, costume jewelry at its finest. My fingers trembled as I touched it and, on impulse, I pinned it in my hair before setting aside the pale pink housecoat and stopped in surprise when a folded letter fell out of the pocket and slid down between the seat and the console. A bit of grunting and swearing and I had the envelope, staring down at it and the crease that divided my father's name in two.
I should have just taken it to him, let him open it. Addressed to him or not, though, I felt closer to Grandmother Iris in that moment than I ever had and my fingers tore open the flap before I could stop myself.
And found myself absorbed in the contents:
Dear John,
You were correct about Pete Wilkins, and in exactly the way you expected. I've heard enough rumors in this place to uncover he is not only a fraud and a liar but he really has been using the elderly as a means to acquire property.
So Grandmother Iris was investigating herself, was she? Even gravely ill and on her death bed. Well, I came by my nosiness honestly.
I suspect many things I can't prove, but you must investigate Ruth Wilkins as well at this juncture. She and her brother have been speaking frequently behind closed doors and I'm certain she is part of his crimes.
That would make sense. I frowned at Grandmother Iris's scribbled handwriting and had to forgive her the messiness. She'd been in a terrible state. Would I even have been able to form a sentence in her condition, post stroke, let alone write an entire letter?
Pete isn't the one acquiring the signatures. Whoever is doing it, I will uncover the truth. But they only target those who have not had their power of attorney removed as you suspected so the sign overs are legal and binding. I will attempt to play dumb and perhaps take the risk of Petunia's if the opportunity presents. If so, I will find a way to tell you in my signature who it is had me sign.
I gasped and looked up, staring out the windshield and shaking. Grandmother Iris knew exactly what she was doing. But, sadly, it sounded like she'd actually signed over Petunia's. I needed another look at what she'd written. Because from the sounds of things the whole case against Pete and his underhanded takeover of property could rest in my grandmother's signature.
For now, be well and be brave, as always.
My love, Mother
I needed to take this letter to Dad. That's why, five minutes later, I parked outside the sheriff's office and carried it inside. And handed it to Crew Turner instead.
Traitor.
***
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