“Don’t know exactly yet,” Pete says, “but no spring chicken.”
“She was seventy-nine,” Holly says. “One of the news stories I searched while I was waiting for Bill to pick me up said she was seventy-three when the City Center Massacre happened.”
“Awfully long in the tooth to be taking care of a quadriplegic daughter,” Hodges says.
“She was in good shape, though,” Isabelle says. “At least according to Carstairs. Strong. And she had plenty of help. There was money for it because—”
“—of the insurance,” Hodges finishes. “Holly filled me in on the ride over.”
Izzy gives Holly a glance. Holly doesn’t notice. She’s measuring the room. Taking inventory. Sniffing the air. Running a palm across the back of Mom’s easy chair. Holly has emotional problems, she’s breathtakingly literal, but she’s also open to stimuli in a way few people are.
Pete says, “There were two aides in the morning, two in the afternoon, two in the evening. Seven days a week. Private company called”—back to the notebook—“Home Helpers. They did all the heavy lifting. There’s also a housekeeper, Nancy Alderson, but apparently she’s off. Note on the kitchen calendar says Nancy in Chagrin Falls. There’s a line drawn through today, Tuesday, and Wednesday.”
Two men, also wearing gloves and bootees, come down the hall. From the late Martine Stover’s part of the house, Hodges assumes. Both are carrying evidence cases.
“All done in the bedroom and bathroom,” one of them says.
“Anything?” Izzy asks.
“About what you’d expect,” the other says. “We got quite a few white hairs from the tub, not unusual considering that’s where the old lady highsided it. There was also excrement in the tub, but just a trace. Also as you would expect.” Off Hodges’s questioning look, the tech adds, “She was wearing continence pants. The lady did her homework.”
“Oough,” Holly says.
The first tech says, “There’s a shower chair, but it’s in the corner with extra towels stacked on the seat. Looks like it’s never been used.”
“They would have given her sponge baths,” Holly says.
She still looks grossed out, either by the thought of continence pants or shit in the bathtub, but her eyes continue to flick everywhere. She may ask a question or two, or drop a comment, but mostly she’ll remain silent, because people intimidate her, especially in close quarters. But Hodges knows her well—as well as anyone can, at least—and he can tell she’s on high alert.
Later she will talk, and Hodges will listen closely. During the Saubers case the year before, he learned that listening to Holly pays dividends. She thinks outside the box, sometimes way outside it, and her intuitions can be uncanny. And although fearful by nature—God knows she has her reasons—she can be brave. Holly is the reason Brady Hartsfield, aka Mr. Mercedes, is now in the Lakes Region Traumatic Brain Injury Clinic at Kiner Memorial. Holly used a sock loaded with ball bearings to crush in his skull before Hartsfield could touch off a disaster much greater than the one at City Center. Now he’s in a twilight world the head neuro guy at the Brain Injury Clinic refers to as “a persistent vegetative state.”
“Quadriplegics can shower,” Holly amplifies, “but it’s difficult for them because of all the life-support equipment they’re hooked up to. So mostly it’s sponge baths.”
“Let’s go in the kitchen, where it’s sunny,” Pete says, and to the kitchen they go.
The first thing Hodges notices is the dish drainer, where the single plate that held Mrs. Ellerton’s last meal has been left to dry. The countertops are sparkling, and the floor looks clean enough to eat on. Hodges has an idea that her bed upstairs will have been neatly made. She may even have vacuumed the carpets. And then there’s the continence pants. She took care of the things she could take care of. As a man who once seriously considered suicide himself, Hodges can relate.
6
Pete, Izzy, and Hodges sit at the kitchen table. Holly merely hovers, sometimes standing behind Isabelle to look at the collection of photos on Izzy’s iPad labeled ELLERTON/STOVER, sometimes poking into the various cupboards, her gloved fingers as light as moths.
Izzy takes them through it, swiping at the screen as she talks.