Joe had no clue what she meant by that, but he already liked her style, especially compared to her colleague. He was also pleased by her mention of the SA. Roger Carbine had evidently made an effort to smooth the way, even without knowing much about their interest in Mr. Marshall. Joe made a mental note to send the man a gift of thanks. However, all he said was, “Whitby also told us that Marshall’s still here. We appreciate that, and thank you for your cooperation. I do apologize if we’ve ruffled any feathers.”
“Of course,” she said, and gestured to them to follow her down a short corridor to her office, where she waved them into guest chairs and offered them coffee, which they each turned down.
“You have to understand that communities like ours run as much on rumor and gossip as on cash,” she explained. “And bad news travels the fastest of all. I know you may not be willing to tell me what’s going on, but I was told that Mr. Marshall’s death was completely natural. That’s what my medical director told me when he was about to sign the death certificate.”
“It may be,” Joe admitted. “But there are circumstances beyond his death that caught our interest, along with the SA’s. It happens sometimes that the usual protocols have to be tweaked a bit. I didn’t realize we’d cause such a ruckus.”
Hannah Eastridge shooed that away with her hand. “Oh, George. He was exaggerating slightly. Death at The Woods is sadly an almost weekly disturbance. So, the appearance of the police this time will guarantee some extra chatter over dinner tonight.”
She settled down behind her modest desk in an office remarkable mostly for its small size and self-effacement. “That having been said,” she continued, “I can’t deny that my cell phone has come alive since the first squad car pulled up, and I’ve already heard back from a family member of Mr. Marshall’s.”
A large white cat suddenly appeared on the desk between them like a magic trick, startling the cops and making Eastridge laugh as she reached out to pull the animal toward her.
“I am sorry,” she said. “Meet Echo, the true boss of the operation. She’s only allowed free rein in this suite of offices, but she rules the roost.”
They exchanged a few comments about Echo before Lester asked politely, “Who was Marshall’s family member that you mentioned?”
“His daughter,” Eastridge said. “Michelle Mahoney, who also has power of attorney. She’s it, when it comes to relatives. She was automatically informed of her father’s passing, soon after he was found. She lives in Connecticut and is making travel plans. When she called back, I told her pretty much what you just said, that sometimes the police get involved for vaguely related reasons, and occasionally order an autopsy. I stressed that there’s usually nothing to it. Purely procedural, is how I phrased it. I also mentioned to her that since this is all so vague, the police might want to access her father’s apartment, and would that be all right? For the record, she told me you could if need be, but she wanted to be informed if anything was removed.”
“Thank you,” Joe said. “That was exactly right. You are clearly a practiced hand at this.”
“Twenty-eight years in the business,” she stated, absentmindedly stroking the happy cat. “Thirteen of them right here.”
“And Gorden Marshall? How long was he here?”
“Eight years,” she answered quickly.
“Just him?”
“Yes. He arrived as a widower, which is not the norm, since the women generally outlive the men, and to be blunt, he was never in great shape.”
“How was he discovered?” Joe asked. “I take it he lived alone.”
“He did,” she replied. “But he also had an early breakfast routine with some buddies. He didn’t show up, they made a phone call he didn’t answer, and they sounded the alarm.”
“How was he as a tenant?” Joe asked. “Or whatever you call them.”
“We prefer ‘resident,’” she instructed him. “And he could be a bear. The Woods of Windsor is pretty high on the social ladder, as you probably noticed. It attracts some leadership personalities.”
Joe smiled. “Very diplomatic.”
“That’s the first thing you learn here.”
“He was a politician?” Joe asked disingenuously. “Agent Spinney and I were called in pretty abruptly, so we didn’t get a chance to dig into his past.”
“A Vermont senator,” Eastridge replied. “Although I got the sense that it was more than that.”
“A mover and a shaker?” Lester asked.
“That’s what I was led to believe,” she agreed, “although I never knew the details. I understood that he was the epitome of the glad-handing good ol’ boy. He certainly handled himself like that. He joined a bunch of committees early on and tended to make more of his responsibilities than perhaps they deserved.”
“In other words, a real jerk,” Lester said flatly.
Eastridge burst out laughing, making Echo look up at her. “I hope I can trust you not to get me in trouble, but of course you’re right.”
Joe was smiling when he suggested, “Sounds like he could’ve been pretty unpopular.”
But she raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It does, doesn’t it? But with this group, things are often not what they appear. We’ve got more ex-CEOs and company presidents and retired chairmen than this county has horses, which is saying something. The type A’s among our residents tend to consider someone like Gorden Marshall as one of their own. For you or me, they can be pretty unpleasant, but in context, he was no nastier than a competitive tennis player on the pro tour. Half the time, what I might write off as pure orneriness is seen here as game playing. Just strolling the hallways, I witness as much combative psychology as I’ve heard they have in the Marines.”
“Sounds charming,” Joe said softly.
She leaned forward slightly in her chair, finally making Echo jump from her lap in search of quieter quarters. “That’s the interesting part. It mostly is. I’m no glutton for punishment. I get paid well, but if the job didn’t have its perks, I’d leave. I don’t come from the same world they do-the real extremists, I’m talking about-but because of my title, they pretty much treat me as an equal. All the stuff I’ve been telling you is what I see, not what I suffer at their hands. And the truth is, they can also be generous, supportive, and incredibly helpful at times-most of the time, in fact, if you know how to handle them.”
She stood up and moved to the door. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to head off to one of the forty or so committee meetings I regularly attend. I’ve arranged for someone-not George”-she smiled-“to take you to see Mr. Marshall’s body and then to the apartment, if you’re so inclined.”
They joined her at the door, where they shook hands once more.
Hannah Eastridge held on to Joe’s hand for a split second longer, in order to say, “So we’re clear, the people I just told you about represent twenty-five percent of our population-the equivalent of maybe one percent out there in the real world. That means seventy-five percent of The Woods of Windsor is made up of rich people-true enough-but who’re pretty regular, too. This is a nice place, filled with overwhelmingly decent people. Some of them just have too much time on their hands.”
“Okay,” Joe said, touching her shoulder to emphasize that he did get the point. “We’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again for your help.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “It goes with the territory.”
* * *
Gorden Marshall was currently residing as far away from the rest of the facility as geography and architecture would allow. Eastridge’s guide took Joe and Lester on an impressive hike through the complex’s nether reaches until they arrived at last at a large refrigerated room to the rear of the terminal care unit-and one door shy of the loading dock.
“Kind of says it all, don’t it?” Spinney said appreciatively, looking around. “The high-end, industrial-housing version of ashes to ashes.”
Joe didn’t challenge him there, and headed to the one shrouded occupant of the room, now adorning a steel gurney and draped with a white sheet. On the way, he thanked their Sherpa and promised to find their own way back-although how, he wasn’t exactly sure.