Dying Wishes (5 page)

On
Sunday Armando decided to put in a few hours of overtime at
TeleCom
,
so I invited
Strutter
to join me for a leisurely
inspection of the annual “Scarecrows along Main Street” display in Old
Wethersfield. She was only too happy to hand off Olivia to her husband and
join
me at the Mack Realty office, where we left our cars
and set off on foot.

Charlene
“
Strutter
” Putnam is one of the loveliest women I’ve
ever known, inside and out. Her creamy, milk chocolate skin, soft brown curls
tumbling to her shoulders, and eyes the color of the Caribbean are only the
beginning of the story. Add to that her shapely figure and long, curvy legs,
not to mention the dimples framing her warm smile, and the package is
breathtaking. As she walked her trademark walk, the one that had inspired her
nickname, down Old Main Street in the afternoon sunshine, she turned the usual
number of heads. I was used to it.

“So
Katie turns fifty at the end of the month and will be an old granny lady by the
New Year,” she teased me as we admired an exhibit entitled “Eagle Scouts.”
Fairly recognizable bald eagles, fashioned from papier-mâché and dressed in Boy
Scout uniforms, were clustered in a huge pile of straw and sticks in front of
the travel agency.
“Cute but not my favorite so far.”
We moved on as the strollers on the sidewalk shifted.

“Yes,
and if you and Margo have some ghastly surprise party in the planning stages,
you can just forget about it. Armando and I have tickets to a show at the
Bushnell that afternoon, and that’s about all the excitement this old gal can
handle. You know what? I’m tired of talking about the damned birthday. It is
what it is, and I’ll just have to get over it.”

Strutter
shaded her eyes with one hand to study “Broom-Hilda,” a black-caped witch
riding a broom suspended on wires between two trees. The witch was listing a
little bit to one side, and we had to tilt our heads to see her face.

“Maybe
we’ll just get you one of those to ride and call it a day,”
Strutter
suggested, cutting her eyes at me. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop. What’s going on with
the
Henstock
ladies?”

As
I filled her in on my conversation with
Ada
, her
expression became troubled. “Of course I’ll help, we all will. I’ll get on line
this afternoon and find out what social services are available. I’m sure we can
line up at least part-time day care and some household help for
Ada
.”

“Whoa,
hold on there,” I laughed.
Strutter
in full Good
Samaritan mode was a force of nature. “We don’t even know for certain yet that
the diagnosis is dementia. They have an appointment with a neurologist this
week to get some test results. I’m going to check in with
Ada
on Thursday, and then we’ll know better what’s what.” I hugged her briefly.
“But thank you.”

We
continued our leisurely circuit of the exhibits on both sides of Old Main
Street, moving along with the meandering crowd. When we found ourselves in
front of the Main Street Creamery and Cafe, we didn’t even consult each other
before stopping in to buy an ice cream cone apiece, strawberry for me and mocha
chocolate chip for
Strutter
.

We
lapped at them contentedly on our return stroll to the Mack Realty office, and
I marveled once again at
Strutter’s
resiliency. A
Jamaican by birth, she had endured an abusive first marriage, which had turned
out not even to be legal; separation from her family; a succession of lousy
jobs to support her son Charlie; a late second marriage; and a surprise second
pregnancy that had produced Olivia, now two years old. Although
Strutter
had worried that her present husband, a big teddy
bear of a man some ten years her senior, would be less than thrilled, both he
and Charlie had been overjoyed and welcomed Olivia into their family with open
arms and hearts “like a new puppy,”
Strutter
had
chuckled. It was an analogy that reminded me of Armando’s premonition about
Emma.

“So
it’s not enough that I have one grandchild in the works. Armando says he saw
another one in Emma’s eyes on Friday night,” I laughed.
Strutter
didn’t join in, which didn’t surprise me. She and Armando shared an almost
spooky intuitive sense. “What do you think about that?” I repeated Armando’s
thoughts about motherhood being infectious.

“I
hate to break it to you, but he makes a good argument,” she said rather
callously, I thought, as she patted her lips and tossed her napkin into a handy
trash receptacle. “Emma is at that age, after all.”

“What
age is that?” I wanted to know.

“Oh,
you know, the nesting age when all of the hormones and societal expectations
and most of all your girlfriends are pushing you to get with Mother Nature’s
program and reproduce. If I’m doing the math correctly here, you must have gone
through something like that in your twenties.”

I
was jolted but had to admit she had a point. “Parenthood is daunting enough
with a husband around to help, but if anyone knows how hard single motherhood
is
,
it’s you. Let’s hope it’s just a whim.”

She
smiled enigmatically, which didn’t cheer me at all. By this time we had arrived
back at the Mack Realty offices, where we regarded Emma’s perennial entry in
the scarecrow display with affection. A braying ass, wearing clothes fashioned
from a variety of legal paperwork and carrying a briefcase, was entitled, “Law
Suit.” He was an old friend, and I gave him a pat.

“Since
Margo handled the open house on Garden Street this morning, I suppose the least
we can do is check messages before we take off,” I said as we approached the
converted barn. I secretly hoped
Strutter
would
attempt to dissuade me, but no such luck.

“You’re
right. It’s only fair,” she said, so in we went.

It
took a minute for our eyes to make the adjustment from the late afternoon
sunshine to the relative gloom inside the converted barn. The bustle and
chatter of the pedestrians outside fell away, and we smiled at each other as we
always did when re-entering this building. We were happy to be back. We had
quite a history with the old structure, but despite a calamitous experience
here and there, we had been grieved to give up our lease two years previously
when the housing market crashed and our business faltered.

Until
a few months ago the three of us, who had launched Mack Realty as a joyous
statement of our independence and survived countless adventures and
misadventures as a team, had been forced to cut our operation to the bone.
Strutter
had chosen to devote herself to her family, which
now included baby Olivia. I had made do with a number of temporary positions,
each of which had been an adventure in itself. Margo had assumed the primary
responsibility for Vista View, our only long-term account, while she conducted
an ill-fated campaign for the Wethersfield Town Council. It was a brief
flirtation with politics she soon abandoned.

“Politics
is just an ugly business,” she told the young reporter from
The Hartford Courant
, who interviewed
her following her withdrawal from the race. “Those mudslingers can slug it out
without me. I can be far more helpful to the people of Wethersfield by
sellin
’ some real estate and
buildin
’
up the tax base,” and she proceeded to get back to doing exactly that. Her
first act had been to negotiate a new lease for our previous office space.

Now
Strutter
and I crossed the quiet lobby by the light
of the lamp on the receptionist’s desk that was always left burning and
descended six stairs to our office at the rear of the building. As expected,
the message light on my phone blipped frantically. Sighing, we extracted
notebooks and pens from our handbags. I punched the speakerphone and play
buttons, and we listened as our work week took shape.

Per
Margo, the Garden Street open house had gone very well, and she expected an
offer to be made this evening. I made a note to tell Emma. A harassed
first-time buyer didn’t understand some language in his good faith cost
estimate. (Tell Emma to give him a call.) The exhausted parents of new twins
were having trouble lining up a mover, and could we change the closing date?
(Tell Emma.) And so on and so on.

“Having
that daughter of yours around comes in real handy, doesn’t it?”
Strutter
joked.

The
last message was from Ginny Preston at Vista View. “Sorry to bother you on a
Sunday, Kate, but we have another unexpected vacancy to fill. Margaret Butler
died last night. It really is the damnedest thing.” She paused, as if considering
what to say next. “Central administration is in a big flap with this coming so
soon after Angela
Roncaro’s
death. Not good for the
Vista View image and so on.” She chuckled half-heartedly. “Could you drop by my
office when you get in tomorrow morning so we can firm up the listing details?
See you then.”

Four

Margaret
Butler had been a Phase I Vista View resident for less than two years. I had
rented her one of the
poshest
two-bedroom apartments
we had to offer, as it happened, and I remembered her well. A trim, stylish
lady in her mid-sixties, Margaret had struck me as being far too vigorous to
require the services Vista View offered, but, as she had phrased it, she wanted
“to be prepared.” She had no husband, no children, and no other family members
in New England, she told me. She had to look out for herself, but she wanted to
enjoy her remaining years of good health unencumbered by property.

She
launched her plan by divesting herself of an attractive house in Cromwell, a
transaction facilitated by Mack Realty. She added the proceeds to the already
impressive investment portfolio she herself had compiled during her successful
career as a financial advisor and, with an unerring sense of timing that must
have served her well in her position, liquidated it all just before the real
estate crash. She then set about living the good life.

From
April through November, Margaret golfed and played tennis with friends, of whom
she had many of both genders; traveled and enjoyed season tickets to every
major entertainment venue in central Connecticut. Around the first of December
she drove her silver BMW sedan to Florida, where she subleased a swanky,
beachfront condo and resumed her activities with her snowbird friends until the
chill of winter in Connecticut had safely departed.

I
had occasionally seen Margaret whisking through the lobby or chatting with
friends over lunch in the communal dining hall, but our relationship had
dwindled to a passing wave now and then.

“It’s
hard to believe that she’s gone,” I said to Ginny as we finally settled
ourselves for a late lunch on Monday in the nearly empty staff corner of the
dining room. My wild mushroom quiche smelled heavenly. “She always looked so
well. What was it, a coronary?”

Ginny
glanced around to assure herself that we couldn’t be overheard. “The official
pronouncement was death from natural causes,” Ginny said carefully as she dug
into her chicken Caesar salad, “but frankly, when a woman of a certain age
expires alone in her bed, and there’s no reason to suspect foul play, the
authorities don’t bother to look for any. Why would they?”

“No,
I suppose they don’t, unless someone gives them a reason to do so.” I looked at
her. “Do you think there’s a reason?”

“Until
yesterday morning, I didn’t. Despite the glow of good health she exuded,
Margaret did have some health problems. She didn’t talk about them, at least to
me, but there was an extended stay in Boston last year, and she didn’t play
tennis for quite a while after that,” she shrugged. “Still, her own doctor
signed the death certificate, and he certainly knew her better, medically
speaking, than anyone else did.”

“But?”
I stopped
stuffing my face and gave her my full attention. “What’s bothering you about
this, Ginny?”

She
sipped her coffee slowly, as if weighing the advisability of sharing her
concerns. Then she made up her mind and put down her cup.
 
“So much time had passed, Kate. The last time
anyone could remember seeing Margaret was on Thursday evening, right here in
this room. She ate a light dinner with the Grants and the
MacRaes
around seven o’clock, played a few hands of bridge with them in the Grants’
unit, and excused herself around nine-thirty, something about a PBS travelogue
on Portugal she wanted to see. It wasn’t until she didn’t show up for her
Saturday afternoon yoga class with Mrs.
MacRae
that
anyone missed her, and it was a couple of hours after that before they accessed
Margaret’s apartment and found her. That’s nearly forty-eight hours, Kate.
Anything could have been in her system all that time and eventually killed her,
but the on-call physician didn’t even consider the possibility, just looked for
a pulse and pronounced her dead on the spot.”

Ginny
looked mutinous. I was astounded to see how riled up she was. I remembered her
earlier comment.