LimeLight (25 page)

A
fter about forty minutes, my house quiets down, and I think all of my “guests” have finally departed. I cannot imagine what they found to talk about for so long, besides me and my unfortunate state of affairs, but then I refused to leave the sanctuary of my bedroom and join the party to find out.

Now, still dressed in my layers to protect myself from the cold, I tiptoe out of my room, unsure as to whether any lurkers are staying behind. As I walk through the kitchen, I hear a noise from the living room and wonder if I really am alone. I hear another popping sound and realize it could be a fire.

I go out to the living room to see that a nice fire is burning in the fireplace, crackling and popping the way I wanted it to do last night. Not only that, but a fire screen is set up. Oh, it’s a bit rusty and dusty and old looking, and I suspect it came from the woodshed, but at least it should keep the embers safely enclosed. There is also a note on the mantle, secured with one of my silver candlesticks, informing me that the reason for my smoke problems was a closed flue, which is now open.

Despite the fire, it’s still cold in here. Someone taped a piece of cardboard over the broken window in the front door. I
suppose that will help to keep some of this heat in. Just the same, I’m not ready to remove any layers yet.

I need to use the bathroom but cannot bear the thought of going back into that cesspool. And yet I really have to go. If Bea were home, I would actually set aside my pride and ask to borrow her facility. I think about what pioneers did back in the “good old days,” and I suppose I could find something to work as a temporary commode. It would certainly be better than wetting myself.

It takes me several minutes of searching in the house, and I refuse to go outside to the shed. Finally I decide on a Crock-Pot Michael stored in the laundry room. I honestly do not see that I’d ever have a use for such an appliance anyway. Well, other than this. And after I use it today, I will dispose of it.

I consider taking it to the bedroom, but I don’t want to risk spilling anything on the carpets in there. So I settle it in the center of the kitchen and, after peeling down my layers of pants, I attempt to hold on to the edge of the counter to balance myself. However, squatting doesn’t come as easily as it once did, and I decide it might be best to elevate the Crock-Pot. I notice a nearby plastic crate, one that had clothing in it, which will be just the thing. Soon I’m all set.

With the Crock-Pot balanced on the crate, I am able to hit my mark with no problem. I’m feeling pleased with myself when I realize I forgot to bring toilet tissue. Oh, what have I been reduced to? I try not to think what some of my old friends
would say if they could see me now. How tongues would wag and phones would jingle.

Just as I’m finishing up, someone knocks on the front door, and this is followed by the incessant ringing of the doorbell. I jerk on my layers of pants, not even getting them fully zipped, then rush to see who is at the door. I just hope that it’s not unlocked this time. I cannot bear any more uninvited visitors barging in on me again. I especially hope it’s not Violet or her friends. I do not care to see my sister or any of them anytime soon, if ever.

I peek out to see what appears to be a well-dressed and fairly nice-looking woman standing on my porch. She’s probably in her thirties and carrying what appears to be a Gucci purse as well as a black briefcase. I inch open the door to see what she wants. Hopefully, she’s not selling anything.

“Hello.” She smiles and hands me a business card. “I’m Melinda Maxwell from Senior Services.”

I examine the card, and it looks to be authentic, so I open the door wider. “Yes?”

“You must be Mrs. Ford.”

“Ford?”

She frowns. “Yes, I believe that’s the name I was given. Mrs. Ford?”

“Fioré.”

“Oh, well, then. Mrs.
Fioré
…I’d like to come in and have a nice little visit with you, if you don’t mind.”

It could be my imagination, but it seems she is using baby talk with me. As if she thinks this is how you address “elderly” people. I do not care for it. In fact, I find it highly offensive, not to mention affected, and I’m tempted to tell her so in no uncertain terms. But then I think better of this and invite her in.

“Thank you.” She comes into my house and looks around my still messy living room, as if taking some sort of mental inventory.

“Things are rather messy,” I explain. “I had a rather disturbing day yesterday… I’m sure you heard.”

“Only yesterday?”

I frown at her. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, simply that, uh, people sometimes get confused as to time frames and when something really happened. What you think was only yesterday may have actually started, say, a month ago.” She smiles again. But now I see that it’s as phony as her fake Gucci handbag.

“Perhaps,” I say in a cool voice. “But since I have been in this house for less than two weeks, I do not see how that is possible, Ms. Maxwell.”

She waves her hand. “Call me Melinda, please. And I was just using that time period as an example.”

“I see…”

She glances at the fireplace. “That’s cozy. Did you make that fire?”

“No, I did not.”

“Oh. Who did?”

I want to ask her if she has any intelligent questions to ask me but decide to bide my time with this woman. “I don’t happen to know who made it.”

She nods, looking at the shards of shattered glass still in and about the fireplace. “Right…”

“I mean, it might’ve been the policeman—I don’t recall his name. No, actually, I believe it was the paramedic. It’s been a rather hectic morning.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Would you like to sit down?” I finally ask, thinking that we might as well get this wrapped up as soon as possible since this woman is as aggravating as a broken heel on the way to a premiere.

“No, actually, I’d like to look around, if you don’t mind.”

“Suppose I do mind?”

She smiles. “I’d like to look around anyway.”

“Why is that? Are you going to write up a report on me?”

“Oh, Mrs. Fioré, you should be careful. You don’t want paranoia to kick in.”

“Well, am I wrong?”

“If you must know, I’m here at the police department’s request. I need to do an evaluation.”

“Why?” I glare at her. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

“I don’t even know you.” Again with the smile. “That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Fioré. I want to get to know you. One of the ways
I get to know my senior clients is by looking around. I see how they’re getting along and whether or not they’re in need of assistance.”

“Fine,” I snap, tired of this cat-and-mouse game. “But you might as well know the place is a complete disaster. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong last night. And it wasn’t my fault either. I did all I could to make this work. But I believe I have been sabotaged.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Sabotaged? Really?”

I simply throw my hands up. Perhaps I should keep my mouth shut around this woman.

She nods toward the kitchen. “May I look around?”

“I doubt I can stop you.”

She sort of laughs, then proceeds into my kitchen where her laughter comes to an abrupt halt. “Oh my!”

I look around the kitchen too, suddenly seeing it as she must see it—as my sister and her friends and the public servants must’ve seen it—broken dishes on the floor, scattered clothing all around, random household items dumped from the cardboard box I used as kindling, my Armani pantsuit with horrible red wine stains, a large knife nearby. But then I see what her eyes are really focused upon—my makeshift commode.

“What is
that
?” She points to the structure.

“You mean the Crock-Pot and the crate?”

“Are you using
that
as a toilet?”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear that I had a plumbing problem.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Last night my toilet backed up, all over the bathroom. I haven’t had a chance to clean it up.”

“Is the bathroom this way?” She heads down the hallway.

Before I can direct her, she opens the door to the guest room/office. “Well, now, whose room is this?”

“No one’s.”

“Oh.”

Then she moves on to the bathroom, opens the door, and glances around. Making a face, she quickly closes it. “That is disgusting.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“What’s this other room?” She reaches for my bedroom door, but before I can answer, she opens it and enters. Like my sister, she picks up the wine bottle and holds it out. “Do we have a drinking problem?”

“I don’t know, do
we
?”

“Do you always take a bottle of wine to bed with you?”

“Only when the plumbing backs up, the house nearly burns down, and I expect to suffer from hypothermia before morning.”

“I see…”

“Yes, I’m sure you do.”

She shakes her head. “You’re not much of a housekeeper, are you?”

“No, actually, I am not. I haven’t kept house since I was a child. I married a very wealthy man, lived in a beautiful mansion, and always had servants who did the cleaning and cooking for me.”

“Really?” She looks at me with skepticism. “Sounds like a dream life.”

“Yes, it was…”

“So, what happened? If what you’re saying is true, how did you end up like this?”

I sit on my bed and sigh. “I wish I knew.”

“Surely, you must know. If you really were as wealthy as you say, you must know what happened to change things for you. Tell me, I’d like to hear your story.” She actually pushes my clothes off my chair and sits down.

“I got old.”

“Oh yes. Getting old can be difficult. But it’s not the end of the world, Mrs. Fioré.”

“And you know that for a fact, do you?”

She smiles again, and I swear I’d like to rip the lips from her face. “My degree is in gerontology. You may not know what that is, but it happens to be the—”

“Just because you’ve studied aging doesn’t mean you understand it.”

She blinks. “Are you trying to tell me that you understand it?”

“I am
experiencing
it.”

“Does that mean you
understand
it?”

I consider this. The truth is, I don’t understand it. I don’t wish to understand it. But I refuse to give her the satisfaction of hearing that confession.

“Okay, I think we need to get down to the basics here.” She looks around my room. “But perhaps it would be more comfortable in the living room.”

“Not to mention warmer.”

“Yes.” She nods. “Good point.”

Oh boy, I made a point!

Soon we are both seated in the living room, and she opens her black briefcase and removes a notebook. “I have some questions.”

“Is this a test?”

“No, Mrs. Fioré,” she says in that baby-talk voice again, “it’s just our way of finding out how we can best serve you.”

“
Please
, I am not a child, and I am not senile. I would appreciate it if you would address me as an intelligent adult.”

She nods and looks down at her notebook. “First of all, is it true you have no source of heat…other than the fireplace?”

So, for what feels like the umpteenth time, I explain about the furnace. “It had been working perfectly fine.” I remove my purple gloves and set them aside. “Until yesterday. That’s when everything fell apart. I’m sure you may think I’m experiencing paranoia, but I cannot help but think there was a human hand involved.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, just consider it. I’m away from home during the day. I return to no heat, stopped-up plumbing, a fireplace that doesn’t work properly… Does that seem like a coincidence to you?”

“I’d say it’s a stretch of bad luck. But why didn’t you call for help? A plumber? The oil company?”

“Because my phone wasn’t working.”

Now I seem to have gotten her attention. “You mean your phone line is down as well?”

“Not my phone line. My cell phone. I had it all charged, but it would not connect. I tried and tried, but I just couldn’t put a call through.”

“Where is your phone? Maybe I can give it a try.”

I nod to the fireplace.

“You
burned
it?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh…” She studies me carefully, and I can tell she’s questioning my mental capacity. I must either win her confidence or risk being written up as a lunatic, which could mean they would see fit to have me locked away in a place like Laurel Hills or worse. I cannot have that.

“As you said earlier, you do not
know
me. And what you’re seeing right now is not the Claudette Fioré I used to be. To start with, the IRS recently forced the sale of my beautiful home in Beverly Hills. They seized most of my assets, and I had to relocate to Silverton because this was all I had. You see, I inherited my childhood home, and although it’s not much, it was better than being homeless. But I’m not accustomed to living in deprivation or being without my household staff. My stepson helped me set up housekeeping, and believe it or not, this place looked rather good before he left less than a week ago.”

She glances around again. “I did notice that you do have some nice things.”

I nod. “But even so, I am living in an impoverished way.”

“And what you’re telling me is the truth, Mrs. Fioré? You really did live in Beverly Hills? You really were wealthy?”

“Why would I make that up?”

She laughs. “Oh, you’d be surprised at the things elderly people, in need of attention or suffering from dementia, will make up.”

“Look at this.” I wave to the abstract behind me. “That is an original Sean Scully. I don’t know if you know anything about art, but it is quite valuable.”

Melinda frowns up at the painting. “I happen to be quite fond of abstract art, Mrs. Fioré, and I certainly know about Sean Scully. But I can’t believe that’s an original. A good reproduction, perhaps, but
not
an original.” Then she laughs.

“Your fake Gucci purse may be a
reproduction.
Not a good reproduction, mind you, since I spotted it the minute you walked in. But that painting, like most of the art in my home, is the real thing.”