Code blue, p.10
Code Blue, page 10
“How long does it take for the county to post a death certificate?” Theresa asked.
“It’s issued right away, but it may take a while before the local bureaucrats make it public.”
“I wonder if there is any way we can check it,” Theresa said thoughtfully.
“I don’t have any contacts with the local authorities.” Henry gave a devilish grin. “Trying to keep a low profile.”
Theresa made a mental note to ask Lizzie.
Several minutes later, everyone was finally winding down from the adrenaline. Theresa checked the time. It was getting close to five. “I hope my car is still in the parking lot of the convenience store.”
“I’ll drive you over,” Henry offered.
“You have a car?” Frida asked.
“Yep. They haven’t hijacked my license yet,” he said, grinning.
“I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” Theresa said.
“No trouble. It will take less time, and you don’t want to be seen walking along the highway at dawn.”
“Oh, yeah, because I look so much like a hooker.” Theresa spread her arms to demonstrate the dirt and detritus on her clothes and shoes. “Sorry, Henry. I should have done a better job brushing off the decayed plant matter.”
“It’s fine. Maid service comes twice a week.”
“Fancy,” Theresa said, and grinned. She stretched her back. “Okay, Henry. Let’s saddle up.”
“Frida, care to go for a quick ride in my buggy?”
“Fer sure!” Frida answered.
Once outside, they walked about two hundred feet to an opening in a hedgerow that led to a small parking lot.
“One thing you can say about this area is that almost everything is beautifully landscaped,” Theresa mused. She also took note that there were no utility wires aboveground. “This is a well-planned community.” Little did she know how well.
Henry hit the key fob that sounded the chirp. The women looked around and noticed a metallic blue 1959 Cadillac Series 62 Coupe blink its double headlights.
“What in the …?” Theresa’s jaw dropped as she stared at the long, sleek car with the unmistakable fins, gleaming grill, and whitewall tires.
“That’s no buggy, mister!” Frida exclaimed.
“So much for maintaining a low profile!” Theresa added.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Did all the restoration myself. Refitted the engine. The works. Took me almost three years.” Henry opened the passenger door of his two-door classic car. “Who wants to climb in the back?”
“I might as well, since Theresa will have to get out first.”
Theresa grinned and stepped out of the way so Henry could pull the front seat down for Frida to climb in. Frida was a spry woman, but not necessarily dainty. He politely turned away when she was bottoms up. Theresa stifled a chuckle.
It took just a few minutes to pull into the parking lot of the convenience store. “What’s next?” Frida asked, as she got out after Theresa.
“Lunch?” Henry asked.
“Only if you’ll take us for a longer ride in this beautiful machine,” Frida chirped.
“I think I can manage that. I know of a local place that makes great chalupas. It’s near the mountains.”
“Sounds great. Where shall I meet you?” Theresa asked.
“Why don’t I pick you up at your hotel? This way, the three of us won’t be seen together on the premises.”
Frida giggled. “This is so exciting.”
“Food?” Theresa teased.
“Oh for …” Frida responded.
“Thanks for a different Arizona experience.” Theresa used air quotes for experience.
“Noon okay with you?” Henry asked.
“Perfect. I’m at The Canopy.”
“See you then,” Henry replied, and Frida waved.
Theresa sent off a quick text to Lizzie. Can we talk? Have some info. Tks.
Theresa’s head was spinning. This time, it was from her imagination. Body parts? Ew.
Chapter Ten
A New Mission
Pinewood
Myra was up early the next day. Lady and her pups lifted their heads and then placed them back on the bed. It was too early for them. They needed another half hour before they had to go outside and then have breakfast.
Myra was unusually agitated. Something about this senior living thing bothered her. Something wasn’t right, and it had nothing to do with the proximity of the residents to her own age. There was a vulnerability about it.
Myra knew she was fortunate enough to have whatever she wanted at her fingertips. At least material things. She would give it all up if she could have her daughter back. But she couldn’t, so she would do the best she can with what she has. And she has many resources.
She padded into the kitchen and fixed a cup of coffee with the French press. Myra had always used an automatic coffee maker, but Charles insisted that once she had coffee made that way, she would never go back to Mr. Coffee. “You’re divorcing him!” Charles proclaimed.
When Charles began to show signs of boredom after his retirement, Myra suggested he develop a hobby. Much to her delight, and to her dismay, it was food. Charles became a gastronomical connoisseur, and over the years developed into a gourmet cook, with Fergus as his sous chef and kitchen help.
Myra was in excellent shape, and she only imagined she was getting fat. Charles was very keen on never mentioning any woman’s age, weight, or shape. If the woman asks, “Does this make me look fat?” the answer is always, “Of course not, honey. You look gorgeous.”
Myra and Charles were never fancy people. They had nice things but nothing extravagant. Myra was low-key. She preferred classic but casual clothes. Unlike Annie, who preferred her white rhinestone cowboy boots. Myra was the yin to Annie’s yang. Actually, the two couples fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.
Myra’s coffee preparation must have disturbed the pups, because soon Lady strolled into the kitchen and sat at the back door. Her pups were not far behind. Myra walked outside with them while her coffee was going through a full-immersion process. She had to admit, it made a delicious cup. She strolled over to the garden, where Charles grew his vegetables for cooking. Myra was in charge of the herb garden. It was the season for basil. She rubbed a leaf between her fingers and inhaled the essence of the fragrant oil. “I’m surprised this isn’t illegal,” she said, and chuckled.
As soon as Lady rounded the corner, Myra knew it was time the coffee was ready. Funny how certain routines seem to evolve without planning. By the time she got to the kitchen door, Myra could smell something baking in the oven. “Oh, no! Not scones again!” She was half joking.
Baking wasn’t Charles’s forte, with the exception of scones and Yorkshire pudding. Annie once argued that popovers did not count as baking. “But don’t let me stop you from making them!” she said gleefully.
Charles then gave Annie a history lesson of the cherished delight, citing that “pudding” referred to rustic desserts, eaten by lower-class people, and were made in coal ovens by the miners. Regardless of their origin, popovers, as they’re called in America, are a Pinewood favorite. Charles also pointed out that they are lower in carbs. On the other hand, scones were packed with carbs, sugar, and fat.
“Oh, Charles, why do you tempt me with such things?” Myra took a long whiff of the treasures in the oven.
“It’s part of our marriage certificate. I do believe it is stated quite brilliantly. ‘Charles must, at all times, unless other wise noted, tempt Myra with a variety of delights.’” He raised his eyebrows.
“Darling, it’s too early for verbal volleyball.”
“Who said anything about sports, love?” Charles pinched her fanny.
Myra patted him on the cheek. “Later, darling. We have work to do this morning.”
“Yes, we do. But not yet.” He wrapped his arm around Myra’s waist, bent her slightly backwards, and planted a wet kiss on her mouth.
“Off me, you brute!” Myra kidded. “At least give me a scone first.”
Charles pulled on the oven mitts and removed the pastry. “I shall apologize in advance. These were made yesterday. I was simply heating them up.”
Myra made a gesture with her arm in the air. “Check, please!”
Charles placed the scones, butter, and jam on the table, then pulled a chair out for Myra. “I’ll be right back.” He kissed the top of her head.
Charles hustled down the stone steps to check if any information had come through about Sunnydale. He powered up his monitor and saw that several in-network messages waited.
Sunnydale is a recipient of several government grants. Money was released to an LLC, a subsidiary of another LLC, an additional subsidiary. Funds are distributed to several different subs, one in Caymans.
Another message said:
No records of complaints found so far. More to follow.
Charles nodded as he read the short paragraph. Just as everyone suspected, Sunnydale was up to something. What were they hiding under all the layers of LLCs and offshore accounts?
He printed out the message and brought it up to the kitchen, where Myra was slathering locally churned butter on her warmed scone.
“Well, love, looks like we have a mystery to solve.”
“Do tell!” Myra instinctively stroked her pearls. By now she believed they held special powers. They calmed her. They energized her. They instilled inspiration.
Charles read the first one that came through from one of Fergus’s sources. “The second is from Lizzie.”
The wall phone began to ring. Charles answered, “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Charles. Lizzie here.”
“Got your message. Anything else to add?”
“I got a text from Theresa saying she needs to speak with me, so I’m about to give her a call. I’ll ring you back as soon as I reach her.”
“Right-o. Cheers,” Charles ended the conversation.
“And?” Myra peered at him.
“And Theresa sent Lizzie a text asking if they should talk on the phone. She’ll get back to us as soon as she makes contact.”
Myra couldn’t resist the temptation to get up and snatch her laptop from the atrium. When she returned to the table, Charles was wolfing down the rest of her scone.
“I beg your pardon?” she said with mock indignation. “I believe that was my scone.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Charles made a Who, me? expression.
“The evidence is all over your face.” Myra plucked the scattered remains of her breakfast treat off Charles’s chin.
“I shall fetch my lady a replacement.” Charles bowed.
“Make it snappy, buster,” Myra joked. She looked up the Sunnydale website again and took the virtual tour. She clicked a tab and read a list of services they provide. Financial Advisors Available was included. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” she muttered.
“What, dear?”
Myra read the list, which also included Personal Valet, Catering, and Future Planning. “I wonder what their idea of ‘future planning’ is.” She held up a finger. “Don’t say off to the mortuary you go.”
“I didn’t have to, now, did I, love?” Charles grinned.
“We need to come up with a plan.”
“I have no doubt. Shall we send out a bulletin to the Sisters?” Charles asked. The Sisters were on a highly encrypted private server that only they had access to. With each new mission, Charles and Fergus would wipe the server and assign new passwords to everyone. It was an extra step that assured them anonymity. Interpol could crack the code, but Charles and Fergus’s fail-safe would immediately delete everything, and cause the server to self-destruct. They had come close only once, and it had been years earlier.
Technology changes as quickly as most people change their underwear. It was important to keep an extra pair handy. In the Sisters’ case, a spare server was constantly being updated with the latest technology. It was continuously scanned for viruses, bugs, malware, and spyware.
“Kathryn is already waiting for further instructions. Let’s see if everyone else is available for a video conference tomorrow evening. We should have more information by then, right?”
“Right.” Charles pulled Myra’s laptop over to his side of the table and typed a message, asking about availability for the following evening at nine.
Within a few short minutes, Charles was getting pinged. “All are a go!” he announced.
“Wonderful. We’ll bring everyone up-to-date about what we found, and decide if there is any reason we should carry this forward.”
“Brilliant,” Charles concurred.
An hour later, Lizzie and Theresa connected. Theresa explained everything, beginning with the first visit when she had been turned away. Then the second, and the woman with the ring. The accident. No security footage. And then, in great detail, her prowling with her new friends, Henry and Frida. Theresa described the hearse, the black bag, and Nurse Ratched. On the one hand, Lizzie was horrified over the risks they took, considering Theresa’s accident and the odd behavior from the staff. On the other hand, Lizzie would have done the same thing.
Theresa assured Lizzie that she was okay, as were her “people inside,” as she called them.
This was a lot more information than Lizzie had counted on, and she was eager to share it with everyone. Lizzie said she would have someone look into a death notice, and then gave Theresa a backup phone number. She ended their call with, “Please be careful out there.”
Lizzie phoned Charles and Myra and conveyed the information.
“Sounds like we need to get our act together and take it on the road,” Myra said wryly. She immediately phoned Annie and asked her to whiz on over. Annie would be there in less than ten minutes.
Myra had given the situation some thought. Charles and Fergus would continue to work on the finances and follow the money. Myra would apply for a duplex at Sunnydale in Florida. If there were shenanigans in Arizona, there would be more of the same in Pensacola. Myra searched the town of Pensacola to get an idea of the area. She wanted to be sure she could fit in. As she scanned the local paper, she noticed a small article below the fold:
HIT and RUN: A thirty-two-year-old man, Jeremy Sykes, was found on the side of the road after his car overturned. Sykes, who recently left his job at Sunnydale, was hit by a dump truck. Before he slipped into a coma, Sykes described being sideswiped by a vehicle, causing his car to roll. The truck had no markings. Anyone who has any information about this please contact Pensacola Police Department at 1-888-555-9111.
“Charles! Listen to this!” She read the brief article to him. “Two hit-and-run accidents by a dump truck? And both victims had an association with Sunnydale.”
Charles pursed his lips. “I know how sensitive you are to such things. Interesting. One was in Florida, the other in Arizona. It would take at least twenty-four hours to get from point A to point B, unless there is more than one truck.”
“My guess would be ‘yes.’ Keep in mind that Sunnydale is always expanding and adding new units. It would make sense if they had construction vehicles on the premises. At least easily available.”
“Agreed.”
The sound of gravel being kicked up by a hot-rod golf cart perked up the dogs’ ears. Annie came barreling in. “Good morning, all!” She stopped and petted each of the dogs, then gave Charles and Myra pecks on the cheek. She pulled out a chair and sidled up next to Myra. “What’s up?”
Myra recounted everything Lizzie shared, and then pointed to the article about the hit-and-run.
Annie wrung her hands conspiratorially. “What say you, my friend?”
“We have to find out more about Jeremy Sykes and why he was run off the road. It’s not a coincidence he and Theresa were in similar collisions after dealing with Sunnydale.”
“But what could it be? How would they be connected?” Annie pondered out loud.
Charles chimed in, “Perhaps they’re not directly connected to each other, and their association with Sunnydale is the only common denominator.”
Annie owned one of the nation’s largest, most successful newspapers and had contacts everywhere. It came vis-à-vis her work as a publisher, her philanthropy, or just plain fun. “I’ll get Maggie to ferret out more information. The Pensacola Press runs most of our headline stories in their paper. It’s our way of helping to keep local news outlets in business. Most are terribly understaffed. We feed them the story, and they run it with an origination notice. Our version of ‘free press.’”
Annie dialed Maggie’s number.
Maggie Spritzer was a crackerjack reporter with a hunger for a good story and anything edible. Petite and wiry, Maggie had red curly hair that framed her porcelain face dotted with the requisite freckles. She was easy to spot. When she went on a stakeout, she called on the talent of Alexis Thorne to create a disguise. Maggie also traveled with a tote bag of chips, candy, cupcakes, and cookies.
Annie explained about the accidents and what she needed Maggie to do.
“Roger that, boss!” Maggie signed off.
“Where does that girl get so much energy?” Annie marveled.
“You’re pretty perky yourself,” Myra stated.
“Thank you, and ditto to you.” Annie nodded. “But I can’t imagine all the junk she eats is healthy.” She looked over at Myra and chuckled. It was candy that put Myra’s company in the Fortune 500 Club.
“Sugar, salt, fat. Three major food groups,” Charles said, and chuckled.
“Speaking of food …” Myra broke off a piece of her scone and handed it to Annie. “Leftovers.”
“Yummy! Got any more?” She gave Charles a puppy-dog look.
“I think that can be arranged. But mind you, it is left over from yesterday.”
Myra leaned in. “Had I known they were in the pantry, there wouldn’t have been any left over,” she whispered loudly.
“You’re doing a bang-up job on them today, love,” Charles teased.
