“One in a hundred. And yet...” Jules led the way past the somber, whispering crowd who’d come to watch their fellow resident’s final departure, beelining for the front desk where a near-elderly woman herself looked up to greet them. “Yeah, we’re here to see Gavin LaCrosse?”
The look on the woman’s face said it clearly, even though the words she spoke were, “Are you family?”
“No,” Jules was always painfully honest, whereas Sam would’ve figured there was surely a connection enough to call the man Cousin Gavin, even though they’d probably have to go back three or four hundred years on the old family tree.
But Jules was Jules and his honestnogot him: “I’m afraid he’s no longer... available.”
Sam pointed back to the front door that was still wide open, and the ambulance that hadn’t yet left. “Was that him?”
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t?—”
Sam didn’t wait for her to finish. He went over to an ancient but bright-eyed man in a wheelchair. “Was that Gavin LaCrosse on the stretcher?”
“If I tell you, will you help break me out of here?” the old man said, but then, as Jules joined them added, “Sorry, I’m a wiseass. If my wife was still alive, she’d tell you that and she’d be right. Was he family?”
“No, but we were hoping to talk to him.Wasthat...?”
“It was,” the old man said as Jules sighed heavily as he no doubt inwardly cursed their luck. “Heart attack. Or so I heard. He was fine at breakfast—which is, in my opinion, the bestway to shuffle off this mortal coil. Blueberry pancakes, maple syrup, and then whammo. A hard and fast goodbye.”
“Did you know him well?” Jules asked.
“I did not,” the old man said. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but he was a giant, pompous ass.”
“Did he ever mention his friendship with Milton Devonshire?”
The old man laughed. “Did he ever not?”
“How about someone named Emily Johnson? Did you ever hear him talk about her?” Jules was attempting to make like all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, and put this ugly, dead-witness mess of an informational Humpty Dumpty back together again.
But their bad luck was holding. The old man shook his head. “To be honest, I tuned out when he opened his pie hole for, well, pretty much anything but talk of pie.”
“Did he have any... closer friends here?” Sam asked.
The man made a face. “The pompous ass thing was generally not well received. Most of the inmates here are of the not-suffering-fools variety. You reach this age... Anyway, he tended to keep to himself—eat in his room. If he dined with anyone it was usually Roger and Wendall, but I doubt they’ll be able to tell you much.”
And yeah, both Roger and Wendall lived in the memory care wing. Conversations with them got them a giant ball of nothing.
But now here they were, driving back up the sweeping driveway to Devonshire Place with its grand front entrance. Sam knew from yesterday’s exploration of the property that a four-car garage was around the back, but there were plenty of parking spots here in the front—one of which held Rene William’s car.
“I usually parked in the back,” she told them as theypulled in beside her, “but I figured since I’m no longer employed here...”
She was probably in her fifties, with her hair pulled severely back from a perpetually annoyed face. Her smile was tight, and her entire vibe was fake-friendly, which was better than hostile, but not by much.
Introductions were tossed out and they all shook hands as she let them know—indirectly through her body language and word choices—that this job had Not Been Fun, and she was doing them a huge favor by coming back here.
As Jules led the way into the house, heading for the ground floor room where Milt the Senior had spent the final years of his life, he started the interview with a question about Gavin LaCrosse, no doubt because the man was on his mind. Did she know him? Was the name familiar?
No and no.
She was clearly curious, but Jules moved on immediately, asking questions that Rene could easily answer, first verifying how long the woman had worked there—nine months—and then asking to get a quick overview of her day-to-day activities. He had his little pad out and was jotting down notes as she stopped, right there in the grand foyer and talked.
And talked.
And talked.
Sam was tired and a bit hungry—the day had already been too long and too disappointment-filled. So while he appreciated copious and free-flowing information from a primary source, Rene was a lot.
She had Things to Say: about cooking for Mr. Devonshire and the nursing staff, about keeping the huge house clean with a focus on the library, its adjacent bathroom, and the rooms that were used by the round-the-clock nurses and twenty-four-hour security team—none of whom were namedEmily Johnson, she was afraid. The nurses, that is, because security had always been rather large and forbidding men—no women amongst them. And most of the guards looked like they were part of a biker gang, for which Rene carried a few metric tons of both judgment and shade.
