“Foxhole,” Dorothy corrected.
The talking woman didn’t care or didn’t hear.
“Drove me crazy, those stories. Told them to the kid who delivered the groceries, the mailman, the insurance man, the guy at the Texaco station who couldn’t even understand English.”
“Dorothy,” I said as they moved behind me.
She looked over and stopped.
“Mr. Fonesca.”
The red-haired woman behind the desk with the pen tapping on the form in front of her nodded to show that I was vindicated and not a mad intruder.
“He got his wars confused at the end,” the talking woman said as she and the other woman left Dorothy behind to talk to me. “Korea, Vietnam. Came up with the notion that he had been part of the invasion of Japan.”
I walked with Dorothy down the corridor behind the talking woman. When we were out of earshot of the redhead, Dorothy said, “Did you find out who I saw get murdered?”
“No,” I said. “The staff is all accounted for. The residents are all accounted for. The four people who left are all accounted for. No deaths.”
“It’s no go,” she said. “My husband used to say that. It’s no go the picture show. It’s no go the Roxy. You can watch with wonder when Merman sings, but don’t go getting too foxy.”
I didn’t get it.
“Variations on Louis McNiece,” she said.
“Ah.”
“He was a poet, like my husband. I saw what I saw. Someone was murdered. Find out who and prove I’m not halfway to dementia. Find out who and tell the police. Find out who and what and why and I’ll tell every nurse, social worker, physical therapist, visiting children pretending they’re doctors, administrators. You’re sure none of the people who were released is dead?”
I pulled the list out of my pocket as we walked and read, “Ellen Gallagher, living with her grandchildren.”
“Not a socializer.”
“Mark Anthony Katz. Lives on his own.”
“Proud, crotchety.”
“Vivian Pastor. With her daughter-in-law.”
“Big. Lives for bingo. Checks off the days. Good for four cards a night.”
“Gertrude Everhart is in a nursing home,” I concluded.
“Now there’s a poor woman whose mind is definitely going,” Dorothy said. “Sometimes I think that’s a blessing.”
She stopped walking and put her thin hand on my arm.
“Do not give up,” she said. “You need more money?”
“No,” I said. “I need more ideas.”
“Yes, you do,” came a voice behind us.
I turned to look at Ham Gentry, the pudgy pink man with the walker who had caught me and Ames in Amos Trent’s office. He shuffled his walker next to Dorothy’s. I had the sudden fantasy that they were about to race down the hallway.
“You have any?” I asked.
“Ideas? One. Ask more questions,” he said.
“I’ll do that.”
“I will too,” he said. He looked at Dorothy. “We both will. I believe in this woman.”
He was breathing heavily, definitely not ready for a walker race. He patted his chest and said, “Fish cakes. Taste all right, but don’t sit well. The sands of time are falling. Get moving. A man who believes in the Chicago Cubs,” he said, pointing to my cap, “cannot give up this easily.”
I nodded, said I’d be back in touch with Dorothy and watched the two of them move slowly down the carpeted corridor.
It took me less than ten minutes to get to Richard Tycinker’s office. The woman at the reception desk looked up at me, checked her watch and said, “They’re waiting for you in his office.”
I moved past her down the gray-carpeted corridor and knocked at Tycinker’s door. He told me to come in. I did and closed the door behind me. He was sitting behind his desk. Nancy Root, Richard McClory and Yolanda Root were there too, as far apart as they could be. McClory sat in one of the chairs across from Tycinker. Nancy Root sat on the black leather sofa. Yolanda Root sat in a matching black leather armchair against the wall.
“Nancy says you’re close to finding the man,” said Tycinker.
“I think so,” I said.
“Nancy, Dr. McClory and Yolanda would like to talk to you. I suggest you go into the conference room.”
I nodded. Tycinker got up from behind his desk, moved to the door I had just come through, opened it and waited for us to follow. We did. Nancy was first, then Yolanda, then McClory. I was next, with Tycinker last.
He motioned to his right. I knew where the conference room was.
“You’ll have complete privacy,” he said. “Take as long as you need. There’s coffee brewing and soft drinks and bottled water in the refrigerator.”
He opened the conference room door, waited till we were inside and then left, closing the door behind him.
I wasn’t sure who was in charge or what this was about. The table was freshly polished. The large windows looked out at a line of five evenly spaced palm trees. Yolanda went to the refrigerator, got a Pepsi and sat at the far end of the table popping the can. Nancy Root, looking strained, sat on one side of the table facing the window. McClory, needing a shave and looking as if he was hungover, sat across from his ex-wife with his back to the window. I sat at the end of the table across from Yolanda.
I took off my cap and placed it on the table, waiting for someone to tell me what we were doing here.
“Go ahead,” Nancy said, looking at her ex-husband.
“Look,” he said, not to me but to her.
“We agreed,” Nancy said.
Yolanda took a gulp of Pepsi and gave her former stepfather a look of open contempt and muttered, “Wimp.” McClory pretended not to hear.
“Kyle was my only child,” he said.
“He knows that,” said Yolanda. “And he was my only brother and Nancy’s only son. Jeez.”
Nancy suddenly stood up.
“You’re not going to do it, are you?” she asked, glaring at McClory.
“I’ll do it,” he said without enthusiasm.
Yolanda shook her head and pursed her lips. “Richard,” Nancy said firmly. “You and Yola wait outside.”
“Great,” said Yolanda sarcastically. “We’ve got so much to catch up on.”
“Look, Nancy…” McClory said.
She looked but said nothing.
McClory got up slowly, resigned, looked at me, brushed his hair back with his hand and came around the table. Yolanda across from me rocked and bit her lower lip, said, “Shit,” and got up. McClory and Yolanda left the room, closing the door behind them.
Nancy Root sat again and faced me. She was wearing a little too much makeup and a determined look that seemed more than a bit strained.
“Kyle is dead,” she said. “The man who did it is alive. I understand that if you find him and turn him over to the police, a number of things could happen.”
I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I nodded.
“He’ll get a lawyer,” she said. “Maybe plead innocent.”
“Maybe.”
“Will there be enough evidence to convict him?” she said.
“I think so,” I said.
“You think so, but you’re not sure.”
“He’ll be convicted,” I said.
“Of what?”
“The charge? That’s up to the prosecutor,” I said.
“I’ve been in enough courtroom dramas to know that murder in the first degree is unlikely,” she said, eyes holding mine.
“I-”
“He can say it was an accident, that he didn’t mean to run him down,” she said. “He can…”
She closed her eyes.
“He might plead guilty,” I said. “I think he’s feeling guilty.”
“But he’ll live,” she said. “He’ll be alive and Kyle is dead. He won’t get the death penalty.”
She was right. There was nothing for me to say and I knew now what was coming next and why she had told McClory and Yolanda to leave the room.