Monument to the Dead by Sheila Connolly

Author:Sheila Connolly
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group, USA
Published: 2013-05-07T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

After a detour to a liquor store, we arrived at Louisa Babcock’s rehabilitation center. If Rodney’s modest tract house had shaken my assumptions about Marty’s friends, Louisa’s current if temporary residence more than compensated: it looked more like a pricy hotel than a medical facility. Everything about the tasteful, spacious lobby confirmed my original notion of her friends’ wealth. There was a surprisingly large and elegant concierge’s desk to the right, with a low arrangement of fresh flowers on one corner, and a well-dressed middle-aged woman watching our every move. “May I help you?” she asked.

“We’re here to see Louisa Babcock,” Marty said.

“Are you on the approved list?” said the woman whose name tag read Esther. It had never occurred to me that we would have trouble getting in.

Marty apparently knew the drill. “Martha Terwilliger. I’ve been here before.”

The woman behind the desk turned to a sleek touch screen and looked at something we couldn’t see. “Ah, of course, here you are. I’m sure Louisa will be delighted to see you. If you’ll just sign in? And your guest as well?” She slid a leather-bound register across the desk. Marty signed, then passed it to me, and I did the same.

When I had returned the book to Esther, Marty led the way down a long corridor, turned left, and followed another corridor until she stopped in front of a door halfway down. Along the way I caught a faint whiff of what must be dinner, but it actually smelled tempting; happily there was no smell of urine or illness that I had unfortunately noticed in other facilities of this kind. This place was well-managed on all levels, it seemed.

Before rapping on the door, Marty turned to me. “Louisa’s sharp, and she doesn’t care for mealymouthed people. You have a question, ask it. Don’t condescend to her just because she’s old.”

“Marty, when have I ever . . .” But she had already turned to the door and rapped sharply on it.

“Louisa? It’s Marty. You decent?”

“As close as I get,” a gravelly but surprisingly strong voice replied. “You’ll have to let yourself in—this damned hip!”

Marty pushed open the door and held it while I entered. Louisa was seated in a classic high-backed wing chair near the window, but she made no move to rise.

Louisa all but licked her lips on seeing me. “Ooh, you’ve brought me fresh company. I’ll owe you one. Who are you, dear?” she asked me.

I resisted the urge to curtsey—my mother did teach me to respect my elders, and Louisa wore her eighty-plus years proudly. “I’m Nell Pratt. I run the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society in Philadelphia.”

“You can stop now if you think I’m going to give you any money.”

“Nothing like that.” I glanced at Marty, who nodded. “We need to talk to you about the Forrest Trust.”

Louisa looked at Marty. “Now that’s something I didn’t expect to hear. Martha, did you bring my, uh, mouthwash?”

“Of course.

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