CHAPTER 24
Medora and I had lunch at Scarlett’s Diner, a small, homey joint that had been around for over forty years. The owner, Scarlett O’Hare, was a large black woman with a robust figure and a voice to match, who had taken a play on her name and turned it into a successful eating establishment. Her diner, a converted double wide trailer, was on the north side of Wolf Hollow, and tended to cater to the locals who only knew where she was located. The walls were adorned with dusty portraits of Clark Gable, Vivian Leigh, Hattie McDaniel and others from the 1939 Gone with the Wind movie. The restaurant tables had large blown-up pictures under glass of the now-famous Twelve Oaks Plantation, the inspiration for the Tara homestead in the novel, and the menu offered items such as Rhett’s Cheesy Grits and Mammy’s Biscuits and Gravy.
After filling ourselves with Scarlett’s homemade fare and listening to her endless banter with her customers, we left our temporary refuge, and stepped back into our day. During lunch, I had decided on a slight change of plans. I dropped Medora back off at the station to pursue any deeper connections she could find between Kenny, Alison, and Manetti besides the Wolf’s Den. Fending off her questions and quizzical glances, I told her that I had something personal to do and left it at that.
I headed back north towards Scarlett’s, then turned right about a mile before the diner, and headed towards the ocean. After about two miles, I slowed as I approached the top of a small, well-manicured rise. Turning left at the top, I entered the tree-lined driveway of Ocean View Senior Living, an aptly named facility, as its four-story main building had a gorgeous view of the sparkling blue water of the Atlantic Ocean in the near distance.
Winding down the graceful road towards residence hall, I took in the serene gardens and walkways on either side, some with elderly people walking slowly, taking in the crisp fresh air, the birds singing in the trees, and the rejuvenating sunlight. Reaching a small circle with a stone fountain in the middle and white port au cochere on the opposite side that advertised the main entrance for the assisted living center, I made a slight right, and parked in front of a smaller, attached building with its own entrance.
Getting out of my car, I approached the entryway, which had a metal plate emblazoned with the words “John Hardy Wing”. John Hardy, along with Bart DeStrooper, Christian Haass, and Michael Goedert was a pioneering researcher of dementia, and a recipient of the prestigious Brain Prize in 2018. I had learned this when I was doing my own research on Alzheimer’s, after my mother was diagnosed with the disease four years ago.
Pressing the security button, I waited until I heard the faint buzz of the door lock being released, then opened the silent glassed door and entered. The entryway was cool and quiet, with faint, soothing music in the background. The floor was burnished wood, the walls and ceiling painted with muted yellows and greens. A receptionist behind a welcome desk looked up from her computer and greeted me by name.
I tried to visit my mom once a week or so, or when I was having a particularly rough time, and needed someone to listen to my problems. Often, on her good days, she would remember me, and I was transported back to when I was young, and it was just her and I, and she would listen to my woes, soothe me, offer words of advice or solace, and get me back up on my feet to face the world. Today, with Alison and Kenny’s violent cases with no real leads, seeing Angie again, and Anders’ murder cropping back up, it had hit me suddenly that I could really use one of mom’s good days.
Following a resident assistant down the brightly lit hallway with polished wooden handrails, we stopped at a closed door with the name “Marty Jones” stenciled in the entryway. The RA knocked gently, calling Marty’s name. Receiving no answer, she slowly opened the door, calling her name again. Pushing the door further open, we both entered quietly.
Mom, or Marty, was sitting in a rocking chair out on a small balcony. Looking around, I am always shocked by how pristine Mom’s room looks for an eighty-six-year-old with late-stage dementia. Her bed was crisply made, covered by a handmade woven quilt of interlocking weeping willows. Next to the bed was a small nightstand with a reading lamp and a book titled “The Fire and the Darkness”, which I knew was a true story about the bombing of Dresden in 1945, because when she was having one of her bad days, I would read it to her. Against the opposite wall was a credenza with neatly arranged small mementos, and above, her memory wall, with pictures of her and my father in better days, friends from the school where she taught for forty-five years, and me and my sister when we were young on a trip to Disney in Florida, among others.
I turned and smiled at Donna, the resident assistant, nodding that I was ok, she could go. Donna nodded in return, showed me the emergency call button which I could probably by now find with my eyes closed, and bowed out, closing the door quietly as she left.
Approaching my mother, I called out quietly, “Hi mom, it’s Harper!”
Not getting a response, I stepped out onto the deck next to her, and instantly knew that today was not one of her good days. Marty was dressed in a faded light blue nightgown, white heel-less slippers, and a thin gold chain with a heart-shaped locket around her neck. I reached behind me and pulled a chair from her small desk, placing it next to her rocking chair, and sat down. I turned towards her, but her wizened face was looking towards the distant ocean, a soft salty breeze blowing back the tendrils of her frayed gray hair that had escaped the ponytail that a nurse had undoubtedly tied for her. Looking into her eyes, I could see the vacancy of the disease as she gazed outward towards a flock of seagulls pinwheeling in the air, desperately trying to get her attention.
Reaching for a thin, blue-veined hand, I tried again. “Mom, are you there? It’s Harper!” I said, squeezing her hand gently.
Marty’s gaze broke from the seagulls, and she turned, her watery blue eyes searching my face. After a moment, her face suddenly creased into a smile, and my heart rose hopefully. “Denny!” she cried, pressing my hand in both of hers. “You came to see me! Oh, I’ve missed you so!”
My surge of hope deflated as soon as my mom called me by my dad’s name. Smiling resignedly, I said, “No mom, dad’s not here. I’m Harper, your son.”
She looked into my eyes, and it seemed for a moment there was a spark of recognition. But then she said, “Harper? How is Harper, Denny? I miss him so. Can you tell him to come visit, I’d love to see him! And Siena, tell Siena I miss her too!”
I closed my eyes for a minute as I briefly thought about my kid sister who had disappeared seven years ago and hadn’t been heard from since. I took a deep breath and smiled at my mom. Unfortunately for me, this wasn’t going to be one of those good days, but she was still my mom. Squeezing her hand again, I said, “I’ll tell them Marty, let them know you miss them. Say, would you like me to read to you for a little while? It’s beautiful out here, with the warm breeze and sun!”
Mom squealed delightedly and clasped her hands together. “Oh Denny, that would be wonderful! What shall we read?”
“How about the Fire and the Darkness?”, I replied as I rose to get the book from her room. “You like that one.”
Marty frowned slightly. “I don’t know that story, but if you say so.”
I returned with the book, sat down, and randomly picked one of the many dog-eared pages. “I know you’ll like it, because I do.” I said.
Mom grabbed my hand and squeezed as I began to read. Although I wasn’t able to receive any solace for my troubles, giving my mother an afternoon of joy and companionship more than made up for it.
Or at least an hour and a half of joy and companionship. Because ninety minutes into the book, my cell phone buzzed. Looking at the caller ID, I saw it was Barnes’ cell phone. And Barnes only called from his cell when he absolutely wanted me to pick up.
Flicking the screen, I connected, and put the phone to my ear. “Hey Chief, what’s up?” I asked.
“Where are you?” Barnes asked me urgently.
“At Ocean View with my mother. They called, asked me to come over.” I replied, fibbing slightly.
“Well, I hope she’s ok, because I need you back here. Now.” Barnes said.
“OK, I can be there in fifteen. What’s going on?” I asked, closing the book, and squeezing my mom’s hand. For the past fifteen minutes, she had resumed staring out to the ocean silently, retreating to whatever world was inside her head.
“Feds are here. Four of them. They’re here about Alison Newton. They want to talk with the detectives on her case. That’s you and Medora.”
Acid started churning in my stomach as I rose and turned towards mom’s room. “For Alison? Did they say why?”
“No, but they’re here, and they look serious. Get here as soon as you can.”
“On my way.” I replied, as I rushed out Marty’s door, signaling a nurse that I was leaving as I walked hurriedly down the hallway. Thumbing my phone off, I thought to myself grimly, the Feds. Great. Here we go.
CHAPTER 25
Angie was having a shitty day, and it just kept getting worse. It started with her oversleeping this morning, probably from having too many happy hour martinis with Brian, her producer and current boyfriend. She had wanted to sleep over at his mansion of a house, but he had begged off, citing an early morning investor meeting at the station. So Angie, irritated, had gone back to her house, had a few glasses of wine, gotten quite the buzz, and fell asleep early. Consequently, she didn’t set her phone alarm, and woke up late, with dry cotton mouth and a nasty pounding in her head. Crawling into the shower, she had checked her phone, and seen multiple texts and messages from her boss, Chief Editor Mike Edwards. Apparently overnight, there had been a murder, and according to Mike, sources said that it appeared to be somehow linked to Alison Newton.
Frantically, Angie had punched in Mike’s cell number, which went straight to voicemail. Next, she tried his assistant Mabel, who told her that when Mike couldn’t reach her, he had sent Brianna Carlisle out to cover the story.
Brianna! Angie had seethed. That little tramp has been trying to worm her way into Mike’s good graces for months! Choking down four aspirin, Angie hurriedly dressed, going with tight pants and stilettos. Mike was married, but was also known to have a wandering eye on occasion, so whenever Angie needed an edge, she tried to appeal to Mike’s lizard brain.
But Angie’s tricks didn’t work, and despite her pleas that Kenny’s murder was hers by the association to Alison’s case, the story stayed with Brianna. In turn, Angie was assigned to run a piece on the recent population explosion of horseshoe crabs on the Wolf Hollow beach scene. And to add insult to injury, it wasn’t a tv gig, she was just writing the piece with some photos, and posting it on the Wolfpack webpage.
It's all Brian’s fault. Angie thought grumpily. If he had just let me stay over, I wouldn’t have drunk the wine, I would have gotten up early with him, and the Kenny Brainwell story would have been mine.
As a result, all day, Angie had been tethered to her desk, doing research on horseshoe crabs, while watching Brianna bouncing around the reporter room, making phone calls, coordinating with Brian on production of the piece, and editing film in the film room. Once, she had tried to come over and get Angie’s opinion on how Kenny and Alison were linked, and Angie had just snapped at her to do her own research. Brian had also come over to see if she wanted to go out for lunch, but Angie, with her head still hurting, had just glared at Brian and shut him down too.
Now, with four o’clock about to chime, Angie was wrapping up her piece and ready to bolt. All she needed now were some pictures of the crab population overrunning the beach, and she’d be done for the day. Plus, she didn’t want to be around while Brianna was preening on the tv set with Angie’s story.
Gathering her things, including a Nikon camera hanging by the editing room, she ignored poor Brian trying to make eye contact from his office across the room. Her phone buzzed as she was pushing through the front doors, and glancing down, she saw that it was a message from Brian. “You ok? Call you later,” It read. Angie smiled a little. Men were so easy to manipulate, she thought. “Getting pics for my article.” She replied. “You can buy me a late dinner at Atilio’s.” Atilio’s was a new upscale beachside Italian restaurant that was not for the faint-hearted when it came to menu prices. Angie hadn’t eaten there yet, and she had heard about their expensive wine selection, which she was eager to try.
Ten minutes later, she was driving down Beach Drive, the road that ran along Wolf Hollow’s oceanfront all the way from the mouth of the Merritt River in the north to Brian’s gated community The Beaches to the south. With the top down on her Mustang, her sunglasses on, the salty wind whipping through her hair, and the afternoon sun gently beginning its descent over the mountains to the west, Angie began to feel better, and started to enjoy the drive. Turning her stereo up to the Eagles’ “Life in the Fast Lane”, she smiled and began looking for a beach-side spot to park, oblivious to the man in the car that had been following her since she left the station.
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