Kathleen Creighton: Memory of Murder

Lindsey had no desire to control anyone else’s life. Just her own. She had no problem taking responsibility for her own bad choices-marrying Trent had probably been one of those-but she couldn’t stand it when things happened to her that she had absolutely no say in.

It had not been her choice to have a miscarriage.

Miscarriage -what kind of word was that? It sounded as if she’d made some sort of minor error, dropped something, or stumbled over something. She’d done nothing of the sort, she’d done nothing wrong. There had been absolutely nothing she could have done to prevent her baby from being born too early, so early she couldn’t possibly survive. That was the hard truth of it, no matter what euphemism they used: Her child had died. And there had been nothing she could do to save her.

No, she’d been unable to do anything about that, but she had been able to keep it from ever happening again. The doctors had told her the odds were she would never be able to carry a child to full term. Rather than take the chance of enduring that kind of loss and pain again, she’d made the decision that had eventually destroyed her marriage. Trent had been furious with her-had tried to bully her into changing her mind. But it’s my body, she’d told him, heartbroken that he’d seemed incapable of understanding how she felt. It’s my choice. And that was when he’d accused her of being a control freak.

Why was she thinking about this now? Surely not because Detective Cameron had mentioned his daughter, who was almost ten, which happened to be the age her daughter would have been, if she’d lived. No, not because of that. It’s been ten years…it can’t be that. Surely not after so long…

More likely, it was this thing with her mother, watching her change right before her eyes and being unable to stop the slow inevitable slide that was taking her further and further away…seeing the terrible toll it was taking on her father and being unable to do anything to help him. All this was making her feel powerless all over again. Going to the police with her mother’s story was at least doing something . Taking action. Taking control.

Even if nothing came of it, even if Detective Cameron decided it was just the Alzheimer’s playing tricks with her mother’s mind, she told herself, at least she’d done that-taken control.

Then, in her mind she saw those eyes, Alan Cameron’s eyes, steely blue and intently focused, gazing back at her in the rearview mirror, looking at her as he’d asked her questions. A chill shivered through her, and she wasn’t so sure that was true about taking control. Not anymore.

Pacific Gardens was nice enough, Alan thought, as those kinds of places went. Spanish in style, with a red tile roof and arches and a tiered fountain in front of the main entrance. The lobby looked more like a middle-to-high-end motel than a rest home, with potted palms and brightly upholstered chairs, and simulated terra-cotta floor tile, no doubt because real Mexican clay pavers would have been unkind to wheelchairs and walkers.

The front desk was manned by a friendly Hispanic woman with a nice smile who greeted Lindsey by name. As she signed them in, Alan’s eye wandered down a wide corridor, where, through open double doors, he could see several of the residents of the facility sitting in wheelchairs, shawl-draped shoulders hunched, gazing blankly at a flickering television screen, frail ghosts of the people they’d once been. He flashed briefly on the two old people in their blood-soaked bed, and knew a moment of not empathy, exactly, but knowledge, at least. Maybe even understanding.

Lindsey beckoned, and he followed her through the lobby, through double glass doors that opened automatically before them, out into spacious grounds, expanses of lawn shaded by huge pines and landscaped with lots of palm trees and bird-of-paradise, bougainvillea and lily-of-the-Nile. Roses and other flowers still bloomed in well-groomed beds, even this late in the fall. Wide pathways of smooth asphalt-again, for the accommodation of wheels and walkers and shuffling feet-wound through the gardens, connecting areas both sunny and shady where benches and tables offered opportunities for rest and reflection.

Yeah, a nice-enough place, he supposed, but it gave him the willies, anyway.

He wondered how much a place like this must cost. Plenty, he was sure. Lindsey had assured him her dad could afford it. He’d been a banker-vice president of something or other-before he’d retired, and had made wise investments, most of which had survived the economic meltdown. He’d also had the foresight to purchase long-term-care insurance, for both himself and his wife, because, Lindsey said, he’d told her he didn’t want them to ever be a burden on her .

She’d said that with a fierce kind of pride, Alan had noted, as if being a good financial planner was proof positive a man couldn’t possibly also be a cold-blooded killer.

“Mom lives in the assisted living section,” Lindsey explained as they navigated the curving, branching pathways at a brisk pace. “She has her own apartment-for now. Later, she can be moved into the main building where she would have more supervision and care.”

She knocked on the heavy wooden door of a single-story Spanish-style bungalow that appeared to be divided into several small apartments, then called out, “Mom? It’s Lindsey.” She waited a moment, then took a key out of her pocket and threw an explanation over her shoulder as she unlocked the door. “Being able to lock her door makes her feel safe. I have a key and the staff has one, of course.”

“But not your dad,” Alan said.

She shook her head, and her voice was low and breathless. “He’s not allowed to visit her at all. Can you imagine? She’s been married to him for over forty years, and won’t even let him come and see her.”

She opened the door and stepped into the apartment, calling again, “Mom? Where are you? It’s me, Lindsey…”

Behind her in the doorway, Alan paused. Through the tiny living room and an open sliding glass door, he could see a woman in an enclosed patio garden area, surrounded by pots filled with flowering plants. Hearing Lindsey’s greeting, she turned, wiping a gloved hand holding a trowel across her forehead. Her face broke into a smile.

“Oh, Lindsey, what a nice surprise. Did you bring me pansies? Oh-” She had started toward her daughter, then caught sight of Alan and hesitated. A look of uncertainty crossed her face-briefly. Then the smile returned, but more polite now-even determined-than pleased. “Oh-I see you’ve brought a friend.” She came in, pulling off her gloves.

“Do I know you?” she asked as she extended a hand to Alan, and her smile grew apologetic. “Forgive me-I forget…things, you know.”

“No, ma’am, we haven’t met.” Alan found that he had softened his voice and was holding her hand gently, the way he would if he were dealing with a victim of violent crime. “I’m Alan. Alan Cameron.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Someone older, for sure. He knew, given her daughter’s age, that she had to be in her upper sixties, maybe even early seventies-which wasn’t all that old nowadays, he reminded himself. It was probably the Alzheimer’s association that had him envisioning someone lost-looking, gray-haired and fragile, like the ghosts he’d glimpsed in the recreation room off the front lobby.

Susan Merrill looked far from fragile, though she did have quite a bit of gray in her dark hair, which was thick and shoulder-length, like Lindsey’s, but worn in a style reminiscent of another era-a pageboy, he thought it was called. Not exactly up-to-date, but on her it looked right. She was tall, slender and fit-looking, with skin that showed some sun damage-testimony to the fact that she belonged to a generation that had grown up believing a deep tan was a sign of health. Her eyes were fringed with the same dark lashes that made her daughter’s so arresting, but their color was hazel, a mix of green and gold that changed with the light.