Manor of Death Read online

  Manor

  Of

  Death

  The Possumwood Mysteries Book 1

  Holly Dey

  Chapter 1

  Detective Sergeant PC Donovan sat at the banquet table, wishing the congratulations-on-your-retirement speeches would end. Her back hurt and she had to pee. Lordy, she’d never heard such a long-winded Chief. It was an open secret that he had designs on the Mayor’s office. But that was not her problem.

  She sneaked her phone out of her uniform slacks and, keeping it discreetly under the table, turned off tomorrow’s alarm. She’d get up when she got up. Perhaps go down to the art supply store and have a good look around. Painting, maybe some sculpting, photography–retirement sounded like a dream. PC would miss the people, but not the work. Twenty-five years in Homicide was plenty. She put the phone away and glanced at her FlitBit. Her sister had given it to her as a retirement present. Daisy had been so excited last week, making sure to tell PC that this gift–the one in the plain orange paper–was NOT for Christmas at least a dozen times. PC had laughed out loud when she opened the ersatz fitness tracker. Completely on-brand for Daisy.

  It was her last day as a sergeant in Houston Homicide, and she’d make her step count by the time she got to the parking lot, if this retirement banquet ever ended.

  She almost fell out of her chair when her phone vibrated in her pocket. A few people looked at her with glazed eyes as she got up and left the private dining room.

  There had better be a good reason her sister was calling her. “Daisy?”

  “You gotta meet me at the hospital. Mama’s fell and busted her hip.”

  “Which hospital?” The rural county hospital where they lived had closed years ago, so she’d probably be coming into Houston.

  “That one on the freeway.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down.”

  “It’s the same one where she got that stent thing put in.” At least PC knew where to go now.

  “Have you called Rocky?”

  “Don’t know where he is.”

  That figures. She didn’t want to call her brother a drifter, but if the shoe fit… He couldn’t have gone too far–he was just at Mama’s house last week for Christmas. And he wasn’t exactly rolling in bus fare money.

  “I’m on the way.”

  She texted a fellow retiree, Captain Hastings, to tell him she had a family emergency, and please give her regards to the Chief.

  PC poured herself another cup of coffee. Her hands had finally stopped shaking, and the nausea had subsided, mostly. Daisy was in the ladies’ room, fixing her makeup. There were windows in the waiting area, but they looked out onto the corridor. If they’d have been on the outside wall, she would have seen the parking lot and the freeway. Six one way, half a dozen the other.

  I’m sure glad I bought that pee-pee station with the fake grass for Cordite. Poor dog would have exploded by now if I hadn’t. She was glad her good boy would be waiting for her when she got home.

  The surgeon came into the room. “Ms. Donovan?”

  “Yes?”

  She extended her hand. “I’m Dr. Liskova, and I did the hip replacement on your mother. The surgery went well, and I think Rose will be fine. She was… a bit dehydrated when she came in. Does she live alone?”

  “She does. Why?”

  “Sometimes elderly people forget to eat and drink, which makes them dehydrated, which makes them dizzy and more prone to falls. She’s going to have to stay in a rehab center for physical therapy so she can learn to walk again. But you might think about having someone stay with her, or at least check in on her, every day, once she’s back at home.”

  “Of course.”

  “The nurses will let you know when she’s out of recovery and you can go see her.”

  “Thank you.”

  Five minutes later, Daisy returned. The eyeliner that had streaked down her face earlier was repaired, and the false eyelashes that had been hanging at crazy angles had been re-glued.

  PC set her coffee down. “The doctor says Mama is in recovery. So far, so good.”

  “Oh, that’s great news! When can she go home?” Daisy sat down.

  “When she’s done with rehab–”

  “Rehab! Mama don’t do no drugs! She don’t drink, neither. Well, hardly ever.”

  “Not that kind of rehab.” PC retrieved her coffee. “Physical therapy. Her body has to learn how to use the new hip. But when she’s ready to go home, she’s going to need somebody to look in on her every day.”

  Daisy pouted. “How’m I supposed to run the beauty shop, raise up two teenage boys, AND look after her? And all her critters? I do have a very active social life.”

  If you call hanging out at the Silver Dollar Saloon across from the truck stop a social life. PC crossed her arms. “Maybe Rocky could stay with her. Probably be good for both of them.”

  “I don’t know ‘bout that. He’s got some… disreputable friends.”

  Of course he does. He’s a transient. “Well, something’s gotta be done.”

  “Happy New Year, Mama!” Daisy popped open a bottle of sparkling grape juice.

  Rose Donovan’s eyes narrowed. “It’s 8:00.”

  PC handed her mother a glittery paper party hat and a noisemaker with glossy plastic streamers. “Visiting hours close at nine. I did bring a cake.”

  She’d picked up the dessert at the grocery store on the way. She pulled out the cake knife and quickly cut through some of the piped-on decorating. I’m sure that s a champagne bottle. PC had thought a quarter sheet cake would be way too much, but after a glance at her hulking teen nephews, Tyson and Zachary, she wondered if it would be enough.

  “Mama, do you want a corner or middle piece?”

  “Depends. What kind of frostin’? If it’s whipped cream or cream cheese, then a corner. Otherwise, middle.”

  PC used a plastic fork to scrape a wad of “champagne bottle” off the knife and tasted it. Buttercream. Middle it is.

  She set a square of cake on the tray table next to Rose’s bed. Daisy added a plastic cup of bubbly grape juice.

  “Dang it!” Rose dropped the TV remote in disgust. “I thought there’d at least be some fireworks or somethin’.”

  Daisy finished passing out drinks. “Well, here’s to the new year! In with the new, out with the old!”

  They all raised their glasses.

  “I hope you’re not talkin’ about me.” Rose sipped her drink.

  Daisy’s mouth popped open. “Of course not, Mama! Why would you think that?” When Rose didn’t reply, she added, “Are they servin’ you black-eyed peas with cornbread and cabbage tomorrow?”

  Rose took another drink. “Don’t know.”

  “I’m cookin’ up a big batch, and I’ll send some in with PC.”

  Thanks. The detective took a sip of juice.

  She served up another four pieces of cake onto paper plates, taking one for herself.

  Daisy waved her plastic fork like a magic wand. “Who’s got New Year’s resolutions? For myself, I’m gonna lose that pesky ten pounds and sell more color treatments at the beauty parlor. Mama, how ‘bout you?”

  Rose yawned. “I guess I’ll learn to get around on my brand-new hip.”

  “All-star tackle this year,” Zach said around a mouthful of cake.

  Tyson gave his brother a light shove. “You better, ‘cause I’m gonna set the record for passin’ yards.”

  Daisy stared at her sister, then gave her a tight-lipped smile.

  “Oh, I resolved not to make New Year’s resolutions a long time ago.” PC picked up a forkful of cake.

  “Spoil sport.” Daisy gave a disapproving shake of her head. “Zach! Tyson! Y’all come over here and we’re gonna sing Auld Lang Syne. You, too, PC.
Gather ‘round Mama’s bed.”

  A gravelly snort came from Rose’s direction. The meds had kicked in, and she’d fallen fast asleep.

  Hoping to get on the road and get home before the drunks were out in force, PC wished Daisy and the boys a happy New Year and dropped the remaining half of the cake at the nurses’ station.

  “Thanks for working tonight, and have a great New Year,” she told the charge nurse.

  PC stared at the ceiling. The same one she’d stared at for eighteen years, before she moved out of her mother’s house. It was weird, sleeping in her childhood bedroom. Of course, she came to Possumwood to visit on birthdays and holidays. But it was a place she’d gotten out of as fast as she could, and she had no desire to come back. Too many bad memories.

  Problem was, Rose had critters.

  Four cats, two donkeys, a three-legged goat, and a flock of chickens to be exact. But who was counting? Somebody had to take care of all those animals while Rose was in the rehab center in Houston, and then for a while after she came home. That’s why it would have been perfect for Rocky to come stay with their mother. She needed help, and he needed a place to stay.

  PC rolled over and rearranged her pillow. Her brother was perhaps the one person who wanted to see Possumwood in his rearview mirror even more than she did. PC was scarred, but their father’s murder had broken him.

  For the twenty days that Rose Donovan was in rehab, PC researched elder care. Cordite supervised. He was twenty pounds, give or take, although it was probably on the give side since they’d been in Possumwood. She gave him too many treats, but it kept him from barking at the cats. Which was good for his health. Marmalade, the orange tabby, was almost as big as the terrier mix, and could easily shred him into tiny pieces. The other three cats would surely help. PC’s mother pouted when the rehab center wouldn’t let the dog come along with PC to visit her.

  Home healthcare did come out this far into the boonies. But none of them offered livestock care as an option. Daisy might know of some 4H or FFA kids who’d be able to feed the animals to earn some extra cash.

  Even after Rose got back on her feet, somebody would need to check on her every day, to make sure she hadn’t fallen and was taking her medication. Daisy lived just on the other side of town, ten minutes away, tops, in traffic. But she was not exactly reliable. She was a good soul, and PC didn’t think she would deliberately neglect Rose, but she was inclined to forget things, especially if they weren’t directly about her.

  That left Azalea Manor. Her mother was not going into a nursing home without a fight, though. PC had scheduled a tour of the facility for Monday morning. Then she was picking Rose up after lunch.

  The detective pulled into Azalea Manor’s caliche driveway and parked in the gravel visitor’s parking lot. The rocks were too big to comfortably walk on, and she worried about turning an ankle as she made her way to the main entrance.

  Paint peeled off the faux marble pillars that held up the sagging portico. The building looked abandoned. Had she come to the wrong place? Through the hazy glass door, she saw a nurse pushing a wheelchair down a hall lit by a sallow light. PC swallowed hard, then reached for the door handle and pulled.

  Urine.

  Institutional food.

  Disinfectant.

  Those were the most identifiable smells that assaulted her as the door screeched open. She turned to leave.

  “Hello? Can I help you?” A woman in scrubs parked a patient in a walking frame against the corridor’s handrail.

  Caught! Dammit. “Yes. I have an appointment with the director. But I—”

  The walking frame lady began to moan loudly.

  “Okay, Miz Brazwell, we’re gonna get you back to your room. You shouldn’t go wandering off like that.” The nurse handed PC a plastic bag. “Can you carry this for me, please?”

  She put one hand on her patient’s back and steered the walker with the other.

  “Sure.” At this point it would have been rude to say no. PC took a quick peek inside the sack as the nurse helped the elderly lady hobble down the hallway at glacial speed. Adult diapers. At least they weren’t used.

  Finally, the tiny parade stopped at an open door.

  “You can just hang that on the door handle, hon. If you’re looking for Miz Fennec, go to the nurses’ station just ahead. They’ll help you.” The nurse guided the walking frame through the doorway.

  “Thank you.” PC slid the plastic loops over the protruding metal. Could she slip out without anyone noticing her at this point?

  “Miss Donovan?” The voice came from a woman shuffling towards her down the hall.

  Guess not. “Yes?”

  The woman extended her hand. She was a large lady, but everything about her drooped and sagged as if her very skin was too tired to hold anything up. “Hi. I’m Durelle Fennec. I’ll take you on the tour.” She handed PC a manila folder. “The admissions paperwork is in there.”

  She doesn’t waste any time. “Okay.”

  Director Fennec led PC the six feet or so to the nursing station. One nurse typed on a keyboard hooked to a computer with a green monochrome monitor. The building was shaped like an H, with the nursing station and some offices on one side of the crossbar. The cafeteria and common area were on the other. For security’s sake, the entrance should have been there, too. Yet another reason to give this place a hard pass.

  Fennec pointed behind the station. “That there’s the gift shop.”

  Dusty knickknacks languished on glass shelves in the window.

  “You can get a drink or a snack there, too. There’s a vending machine if there ain’t no cashier. We have a volunteer, comes in Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings to run the shop. If they do a craft, residents can sell it there.”

  PC nodded. She’d already made her decision and was working on her exit strategy.

  Fennec pointed down the corridor where PC had entered. “That’s our ambulatory wing.” Her arm arced to point at the opposite end of the same leg of the H. “That’s semi-ambulatory.” She switched arms and pointed to the same end of the other leg. A glass door led to this wing. “Alzheimer’s and dementia. We have to lock ‘em in so they don’t roam around and go outside. Your loved one don’t have dementia, do they? Cause we’re full of ‘em. Cain’t take no more.” And finally, the last section. “Bed-ridden. Any questions?”

  “No. I’m good. Thanks.”

  “Alright. Lemme know when you’re going to bring your loved one, we’ll get a room set up. The Medicare paperwork is in the folder. Make sure you get that approved first.”

  “Thanks for your time. I’ve got another appointment, so I’ve got to get going.”

  Fennec grunted and turned away.

  It took a lot of self-control for PC not to sprint out of the building. A pall of sadness threatened to envelop her, even as it weighed down the residents. As soon as the door opened and fresh air hit her lungs, she sucked it in greedily.

  Her phone rang before she got back to her car. It was Daisy.

  “You gotta get home right now! Guinevere is missing.”

  Chapter 2

  “What? Which one is Guinevere again?” PC’s phone connected to the Bluetooth in her car and she dropped it onto the passenger seat.

  “I don’t know! I cain’t keep track a all Mama’s animals. But her neighbor, Mr. Youn, called me. He saw the gate open and shut it. but Guinevere was gone. And Mama had told him last time she got loose that Mr. Parker threatened to shoot her if she got in his roses again.”

  PC glanced at the dashboard clock as she pulled onto the highway. She had an hour and a half until she had to leave to pick her mother up from the rehab center.

  “Which house is Parker’s?”

  “If you’re standing on Mama’s front porch facing Travis Street, you’ll go south three blocks and hang a right on 14th. He’s down that way a few houses–it’s two stories, kinda tan with big ole rose beds.”

  “On my way.”

  PC stepped
on the gas, then let off a little. She was a private citizen these days, and Possumwood was known for its enthusiastic traffic enforcement. She didn’t believe Chief Wilson wouldn’t cut her a millimeter of slack, given that they’d had a nasty break up in high school, and time had not smoothed over that seething pile of ugly. It was likely that eventually she’d run into him, but if she were really lucky, she’d avoid him altogether during her brief stay. Rose was done with rehab, so PC would probably be back home in a week, two, tops.

  Don’t get yourself shot, Gwen. Not on my watch. That’s all I ask.

  A smooth three-point turn later, PC rolled down Travis Avenue to 14th Street, scanning for an out-of-place farm animal in somebody’s yard. Rose had two donkeys and a goat. She hoped Guinevere was the goat, because she could easily put her in the cargo area of the SUV.

  Fugitive located.

  The back half of a taupe-colored donkey protruded from a large shrub rose. PC sighed. How was she going to get a donkey home? The goat would have been so much easier. She pulled the car against the curb and checked for witnesses before getting out of the car. Not a soul in sight. And, more importantly, no one was standing in the front yard with a shotgun.

  “Guinevere!” PC whispered.

  A long, hairy ear flicked in her direction.

  At least she’s not a runner. PC was by no means an equine expert, but she did know better than to approach the animal from the rear.

  “Alright, Gwenny. Here I am. Coming to take you home. Good girl.” She walked around the rosebush to face down the donkey.

  Guinevere raised her head, a pearl-pink blossom drooping from her rubbery lips.

  “C’mon we’ve got to get out of here. Your mama–our mama?–is coming back very, very soon. You don’t want to get shot, now, do you?”

  The jenny blinked, her long eyelashes brushing her cheekbones and dislodging a few rose petals. And then she reached into the shrub for another bite, shaking the bush as she pulled off a mouthful of flowers.