Joe pretended to note that in his pad, to show his support of the suggestion, and then redirected her toward what he hoped was more useful territory.
“The Governor,” he said. “How did she become known by that? Was it something she said?”
Swift raised her eyebrows. “Just that she’d been governor once. We didn’t take it at face value. That’s a little hard to fake, you know? Plus, somebody checked on it, just to make sure. We’ve only had the one female governor-Madeleine Kunin. I know ’cause I voted for her.”
She added upon reflection, “Maybe Carolyn was related to a governor, or slept with one, for all I know, and felt close to the office. Some of the more delusional patients have all sorts of associations like that.”
“Did she ever go into detail?” Joe persisted.
But Bonnie Swift wasn’t going to be able to give him that. She shook her head again sadly and then just as quickly turned the tables by saying, “She could’ve had a sister, though. She might know something.”
Joe and Lester became still. In their business, this was a classic “Oh, by the way” comment, which in the newspaper trade was referred to as “burying the lead.”
Joe returned to Bonnie and smiled politely. “Really?” he said. “A sister?”
She held up her hand and wobbled it from side to side. “Maybe. It’s so vague, it almost slipped my mind. It was more like I wondered at the time if it might be a sister.”
“Go on.”
“It was years ago-back when I first came on at the hospital. I was going through some paperwork, familiarizing myself with the patients. I saw that Carolyn had someone listed named Barb Barber under next of kin. It stuck with me, I think because of how it sounds, you know? Barb Barber. Kind of musical.”
“Any address?”
“Nope. No nothing. And no Barb Barber, either. She never contacted us, never visited, never existed as far as I know. I saw her name that one time, on the form, and that was it. That’s why I didn’t remember her.” She laughed then and pointed at them in mock accusation. “I saw that look. You thought I was holding back. That’s not it. I liked Carolyn. She may’ve been ditzy and thought she was governor, but she was sweet and never caused problems. It’s sad that someone like that had a relative who never got in touch. Maybe Barb’s dead. You think?”
Joe closed his pad and slipped it back into his pocket. “I think we’ll do our best to find out,” he assured her.
* * *
Gorden Marshall had just settled into his armchair with the newspaper, adjusted his reading glasses, and checked to make sure that his ever-ready scotch-and-water was within reach, when the phone rang in his office next door.
“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered. “Every fucking time.”
He struggled to rise, pushing on the chair’s arms and dropping his paper in the process, scattering its pages. Standing at last, he tilted forward, caught the rails of his aluminum walker, and began shuffling toward the incessant ringing. His daughter had nagged him to get a portable phone, or at least a long extension cord, but he’d refused, in large part to deprive her of the victory. But times like these were reminders that she was right.
He got to the phone at last, half expecting to hear a dial tone at the far end, given his long delay, but there was no sound whatsoever.
“What?” he asked petulantly.
“You know who this is, Gorden?”
He sighed and looked around, trying to strategize how to place the walker, find a seat, and not drop the phone all at once. They’d given him the walker just a week ago, and he hated it with a passion. But the choice had been clear: Either accept the recommendation, or they’d move him out of his apartment to the Level One maintenance unit on the ground floor. Everyone here knew what that meant. “LOM,” as they called it, was the next step to the hospital wing. And from there, it was the loading dock for the hearse. The Woods of Windsor may have been the state’s fanciest so-called retirement home, but pragmatists like Gorden knew it for what it was-a gold-plated conveyor belt bridging his present life to an eventual hole in the ground. He was a practical man, though-he’d not only recognized early on that this situation was inevitable, but he’d also played a pivotal role in getting The Woods funded and permitted by the state.
“Of course I know,” he grumbled. “Wait a second. I have to sort myself out.”
He put down the phone. One of his friends’ grandchildren had supposedly entertained him for what had seemed hours last Thanksgiving, detailing the story of Harry Potter to him. He’d hated the obligation and disliked the child, but the reference to Voldemort, whose name was never to be uttered aloud, had made him laugh.
The voice on the phone belonged to such a person.
Paranoid prick.
Gorden got himself situated in his desk chair without mishap, blew out a sigh, and picked up the phone again.
“Sorry. The sons of bitches saddled me with a damn walker. Guaranteed to make me break my neck, if you ask me.”
“Sorry to hear that, Gorden.”
“No, you’re not. What the hell are you calling me for? I can’t do you any good anymore. My smoke-filled-room days are long gone. You going soft in the head, too? Want a reference to get into this place? I recommend it. When they give you the lethal injection here, it’s by a pretty girl with a big smile. We cater to your needs at The Woods of Windsor. That’s what we say.”
“Are you done, Gorden?”
That voice. Patient, calm, slightly modulated to sound friendly. Gorden had been listening to it for fifty years. Never seemed to change. Never aged, never rose in volume, never showed undue emotion. In time, Gorden and his political cronies had called its owner Hal, as in the movie.
Except that Hal the computer had been a menace. This Hal-for the likes of Gorden and his ilk-had been more like a sci-fi commingling of Mary Poppins and Rasputin. A combination of financial support, strategic advice, and the sense that, with his backing, you could have the world by the tail. Or, without it, a world of hurt.
“Okay,” Gorden conceded. “I’m done. Let me tell you one thing, though, ’cause I know you’re a couple of years younger than me. Don’t get old. They’re right about it not being for sissies.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Speaking of the past, since you bring it up, do you remember Carolyn Barber?”
Gorden Marshall laughed. “That crazy bitch. She finally die?”
“Actually, quite the opposite. We have a bit of a problem.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Given that Vermont’s major roads to the north had suffered less at Irene’s hands, Joe and Lester, instead of returning home, went back to the interstate after meeting with Bonnie Swift for a quick trip to Montpelier and access to one of the local police department’s computers. The off chance that their missing person had a sister was too good not to act on immediately.
They weren’t holding their breath, however. The reference had been oblique; there’d been no implication that Barb Barber lived in the area, was still alive, or even existed. And, even if they found her, she’d still never visited Carolyn at the hospital or made an effort to reach out. Would she be likely to help now?
Those caveats made Lester’s satisfaction all the sweeter when he dropped his hands from the computer’s keyboard and announced, “There you have it. I’ll be a son of a gun.”
Joe circled around to peer at the screen. Lester had typed in the name Barbara Barber, gotten a hit straight off, and then opened up her involvements. There, listed under a traffic accident, he’d found where she’d recently been the passenger in a minor crash outside of Burlington. The officer called to the scene had taken the appropriate but often ignored extra step of recording the identities and birth dates of all the people in both vehicles. Finding Barb Barber’s name now was a textbook example of how such diligence could pay off.