“I never say no to a visitor, Bette. I rarely see a friendly face other than my son, and he only makes it once or twice a month. Come on by.”
Bette parked outside the retirement community. It was located in Harbor Springs, a picturesque lakeside town busy with tourists despite it being a weekday.
The name Sunny Angels felt oddly portentous, as many of the residents would be little more than that when they left the fieldstone house.
The house was high and long, with a gabled roof and clean white shutters on every window. The lawn had the vibrant green color that reminded Bette of limes. She imagined they had to use fertilizer and some other magic powder, aka poison, to produce such an unnatural color.
Inside the front door, Bette found a cheery welcome area. A middle-aged woman with hair dyed red sat in a plush office chair, her manicured hands tapping on the keys of a typewriter. She looked up when Bette walked in.
“Hello there!” She stood and slipped from behind the desk, extending her hand. “You must be Jessica. I’m delighted you’ve decided to tour Sunny Angels. Your mother will absolutely adore our cozy home.”
Bette faltered, gazing at the woman’s teeth, which seemed so bright Bette squinted at them. “No, actually, I’m here to see Eliza Sanders.”
The woman’s smiled vanished, and she placed a hand on a jutting hip.
“Visitors are expected to call ahead, unless you visit on Saturday afternoon, of course. And today, if memory serves me, is Monday.”
Bette didn’t smile. Crystal would have. More bees with honey and all that nonsense, but Bette had never been one to bow down to rude people, and this woman was rude. She would have been nice to Jessica, because Jessica was a potential check in the mail, but Bette meant no benefit to her.
“I’m sure her son would be disappointed to hear I was turned away,” Bette lied. “He’s actually in Ann Arbor this week on business. There are some really beautiful retirement communities down there. Have you ever been?”
The woman, named Linda according to the little gold sign propped on her desk, scowled at Bette.
Behind Bette, the front door opened and another young woman entered. She was short and mousy, and wore stiff-looking khakis beneath a white blouse. She looked timidly from Bette to Linda.
Linda’s eyes fixed on the woman, and Bette could see her honing in on her prey. She brushed past Bette and held out her hand.
“You must be Jessica,” she gushed in the same syrupy voice she’d unleashed on Bette a moment before.
“Yes,” Jessica told her, her voice barely a whisper, nearly drowned out by the paddle fan whirring overhead.
“Welcome to Sunny Angels, the loveliest retirement community in Michigan,” Linda told her, glancing at Bette as she said it, as if challenging her to disagree.
“Before you get wrapped up, can you direct me to Eliza’s room, please?” Bette kept her voice even, though she wanted to put the woman in her place.
Linda glanced at Jessica and pursed her lips.
“Follow that hallway to the end,” she said, finally. “Room 104, the last door on the left.”
“Thank you.” Bette didn’t wait to hear more.
She left the reception area and walked down the hall, gazing at the paintings of sleepy seaside fishing villages and sailboats drifting in still water. Behind the closed doors, she heard the low murmur of voices from televisions. From one room, she heard loud snoring.
She stopped at room 104 and knocked on the door. There was silence within, and she wondered if the woman was sleeping.
Before she could knock a second time, the door swung open and a tall woman with long white hair and bright blue eyes stood glaring at her.
Her eyes softened when she saw Bette.
“Sorry for that look. I reserve it for Linda.” She spoke Linda’s name as if she were describing slimy Brussel sprouts.
“I met Linda,” Bette admitted. “I’m guessing she’s earned a few dirty looks.”
“And a swift kick in the pants; though being a lady, I don’t permit myself.” Eliza smirked. “Roger across the hall more than makes up for my passivity. He throws his food tray at her at least once a week.”
Bette laughed and glanced down the hall, where she saw Linda looking towards them suspiciously.
Eliza leaned out, grimaced and tucked her head back in.
“You better come in, dear. If we loiter, she might give us a ticket.”
Bette followed the woman into the little room.
A twin bed stood against a wall, covered in a blanket flecked with blue and yellow flowers. In one corner stood a kitchenette with a mini fridge and sink. A dish-drying rack occupied the tiny counter beside it.
The space was cozy, small for a woman of Eliza’s stature. By the window, two wicker chairs sat with a table between them.
Eliza moved easily. It took her only three strides to cross the room and settle into a chair. She gestured to the one opposite her.
“I admit that my mind’s not what it once was, but for the life of me, I cannot place you, dear. Have we met?”
Bette shook her head. “This might sound strange, but I’m a friend of Weston Meeks.”
Eliza continued to smile at her, puzzled, and then awareness crossed her features.
“Oh yes, yes. The young man who called about the asylum and the Claude family in particular. Well, that’s a long story, and I’d offer you a cup of tea, but we’re not permitted hot plates. Nor tea kettles. I wonder if Linda fears one of the guests might club her over the head with it. Guests,” she repeated with a snort.
Bette took the other chair. “Why do you live here, Eliza? You look healthy. I mean—”
“Not like an invalid?” Eliza asked, eyes twinkling. “I’m not dead, not in the slightest. But I choose to live here, believe it or not. I’ve been having seizures since an accident at my former workplace, the Northern Michigan Asylum. That happened in the seventies, a long time ago now, two decades.”
She shook her head as if disbelieving the passage of time.
“You worked at an asylum?” Bette asked.
“Yes. I was a nurse at the Northern Michigan Asylum for nearly forty years. I went through their nursing school and everything. Such a beautiful place. Have you ever been?”
“No,” Bette admitted. “I’ve seen photographs. It seemed a bit ominous, honestly.”
Eliza nodded.
“Oh, yes, it is that. And it’s not all in your head either.” Eliza winked at her.
“Can you tell me about the Claudes? Did they live at the asylum?
Bette remembered Lisa’s claim that Greta Claude had grown up on the grounds of an insane asylum.
Eliza lifted a hand to the back of her head, wincing as if something pained her.
“I’m sorry, are you okay, Mrs. Sanders?”
For a moment, the woman didn’t respond. Her eyes had shifted down, and she continued cradling the back of her head with one hand. When she looked back at Bette, an uneasiness had settled over her features.
“I haven’t spoken about Joseph Claude in… more than a decade at least.”
“But you knew him?”
Elia nodded. “Oh yes, everyone at the asylum knew him. He was the caretaker. The man we called if the toilet chains broke or a window had frozen shut. That was in the earlier years. Joseph suffered a mental breakdown at the beginning of the seventies. He was admitted to the asylum as a patient. He’d begun to hallucinate. Eventually, one of the doctors diagnosed him as a schizophrenic, but I never believed it.”
“Why not?”
The woman folded her hands on the table and looked out at the glossy grass.