“Oh, no, thank you,” said Pendergast hastily. He removed a notebook. “I’m compiling a little family history and I wanted to speak to you about a relative of mine who was a resident at Bay Manor some years back.”
“What was her name?”
“Emma Grolier.”
A long silence.
“Do you remember her?”
Another long pause. The teakettle began to whistle in the kitchen, but the woman didn’t seem to hear.
“Allow me,” Pendergast said, rising to fetch the kettle. “What kind of tea, Mrs. Payson?”
“What?”
“Tea. What kind would you like?”
“Earl Grey. Black.”
In the kitchen, Pendergast opened a tea box that sat on the counter, took out a bag, placed it in a mug, and poured in the boiling water. He brought it out with a smile and set it on the table next to the old woman.
“How very kind,” she said, looking at him now with a much warmer expression. “You’ll have to come more often.”
Pendergast settled himself again into the cat-hairy chair, throwing one leg over the other.
“Emma Grolier,” the old nurse said. “I recall her well.” The watery eyes looked at him, narrowing with fresh suspicion. “I doubt she spoke highly of me or of anyone. What do you want to know?”
Pendergast paused. “I’m assembling information for personal family reasons and I’d like to know all about her. What was she like?”
“I see. Well, I’m sorry to say she was difficult. A thorny, fractious woman. Peevish. I’m sorry to be blunt. She was not one of my favorite patients. Always complaining, crying, throwing food, violent even. She had severe cognitive impairment.”
“Violent, you say?”
“And she was strong. She hit people, broke things in anger. Bit me once. A few times she had to be restrained.”
“Did any family visit?”
“Nobody ever visited her. Although she must’ve had family, since she had all the best care, a special doctor, paid-for outings, nice clothes, presents shipped in at Christmastime — that sort of thing.”
“A special doctor?”
“Yes.”
“His name?”
A long silence. “I’m afraid his name has slipped my mind. Foreign. He came twice a year, a grand fellow strutting in like he was Sigmund Freud himself. Very exacting! Nothing was ever right. It was always a chore when he arrived. It was such a relief when that other doctor finally took her away.”
“And when did that happen?”
Another long pause. “I just can’t remember, so many came and went. A long time ago. I do remember the day, however. He came without warning, signed her out and that was it. Didn’t take any of her personal belongings. Very strange. We never saw her again. The Bay Manor at the time was in financial trouble, and it closed some years later.”
“What did he look like, exactly?”
“I don’t much recall. Tall, handsome, well dressed. At least that’s my vague recollection.”
“Is there anyone else from the nursing home I could speak to?”
“Not that I know of. They didn’t stick around. The winters, you see.”
“Where are the medical records now?”
“Of Bay Manor?” The old nurse frowned. “Such things are usually sent to the state archives in Augusta.”
Pendergast rose. “You said she was mentally impaired. In what way, exactly?”
“Mental retardation.”
“Not age-related dementia?”
The old nurse stared at him. “Of course not! Emma Grolier was a young girl. Why, she couldn’t have been older than twenty-seven or — eight.” Her look of suspicion deepened. “You say she was a relative?”
Pendergast paused only momentarily. This was stunning information, the significance of which was not immediately clear. He covered up his reaction with an easy smile and bowed. “Thank you for your time.”
As he emerged once again into the bitter air, annoyed at having been smoked out by a half-deaf octogenarian, he consoled himself with the thought that the medical files in Augusta would fill in any missing details.
CHAPTER 58
ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST SAT IN THE BASEMENT of the Maine State Archives building, surrounded by the defunct files of the Bay Manor Nursing Home. He was frowning at the whitewashed cinder-block wall, and one manicured fingernail was tapping the top of a deal table with evident irritation.
A diligent search for the medical records of Emma Grolier had turned up only a single file card. It indicated the complete records had been transferred by medical order to the care of one Dr. Judson Esterhazy, at his clinic in Savannah, Georgia. The date of the transfer was six months after Helen’s alleged death in Africa. The card was signed by Esterhazy, and the signature was genuine.
What had Esterhazy done with those papers? They hadn’t been in the safe of his Savannah house. It seemed almost certain he had destroyed them — that is, if Pendergast’s theory, still taking shape in his mind, was correct. Chances were the existence of the nursing home bills was an oversight.
As he ascended from the basement and once again emerged into the subzero afternoon cold, his cell phone rang. It was D’Agosta.
“Constance has escaped,” he said without preamble.
Pendergast stopped dead. For a moment, he did not speak. Then he quickly opened the door of his rental car and slid in. “Impossible. She has no motive to escape.”
“Nevertheless, she escaped. And let me tell you, I hope you’ve got a raincoat handy, because the shit is about to hit the fan.”
“When did it happen? How?”
“Lunchtime. It’s bizarre. She was on a field trip.”
“Outside the hospital?”
“Central Park Zoo. Seems one of the doctors helped her escape.”
“Dr. Ostrom? Dr. Felder? Impossible.”
“No. Apparently his name was Poole. Ernest Poole.”
“Who the devil is Poole?” Pendergast started the engine. “And what in the name of heaven was a self- confessed baby-killer doing outside the walls of Mount Mercy?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. You can bet the press will have a field day if they find out — which they probably will.”
“Keep this from the press at all costs.”
“I’m doing my best. Naturally, homicide is all over it.”
“Call them off. I can’t have a lot of detectives blundering about.”
“No dice. An investigation’s obligatory. SOP.”
For perhaps ten seconds, Pendergast stood motionless, thinking. Then he spoke again. “Have you looked into the background of this Dr. Poole?”
“Not yet.”
“If homicide must occupy themselves with something, have them do that. They’ll discover he’s a fraud.”
