Rene followed her into a living room, which was furnished in floral Queen Anne wing chairs and sofa.
“And it’s Cassie,” the woman demanded. “Who in their right mind would want to be named after a woman who prophesied doom while nobody listened.” She gestured for Rene to sit in a chair. “You’re here because of what my sister did, no doubt, so you’ll probably need a coffee, unless you prefer something stronger.”
“No, water would be fine, thank you.”
“Well, I’m having coffee. The only way to get my heart going in the morning. Still want the water?”
“I’ve already had three cups. Any more and I’ll need a straitjacket.”
Cassie smiled. “A pharmacist with a sense of humor. Now there’s a rare duck.” And she left for the drinks.
On the small fireplace mantel were framed photos of children, perhaps grandchildren. One was a formal portrait of Cassie and a man, perhaps her husband. Also one of Cassie and, she guessed, Clara, from the resemblance, taken when they were much younger—probably in their twenties. Cassie was dressed in a high- fashion dress and hat and Clara in a skirt and polo shirt; Clara was holding a golf club. They were both strikingly handsome, Clara a bit shorter and less willowy than her sister, but with a round, elfin face that could barely disguise high spirits. She was caught midlaugh, as if somebody had just told a joke.
“She had just won a club tournament,” Cassie said, entering the room with a tray. “She was quite the sportswoman in her day.” She set the tray down and handed Rene a tall glass of ice water with a slice of lemon.
“That’s Walt, my third husband. Clara never married, but I made up for that. Buried three of them. Walt died six years ago, and that’s when the word got out I was a high-risk bride.” She smiled and sat opposite Rene. “Shortly after that my sister moved in. And now she’s up for murder.” She took a sip of coffee. “On second thought, maybe my parents had foresight when they named me.”
Rene smiled. The woman’s directness was refreshing. “So the police were here.”
“No, they called with the details. I’m sure they’ll be dropping by with a lot of questions. They tell me she’s being evaluated at McLean Hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts. But I can’t visit her for a while.”
Cassie was remarkably sharp of mind and still attractive for a woman of eighty—tall and broad-shouldered, although now rounded and padded by time. She had a regal face with wide cheekbones and arching, slightly supercilious dark brows that were enhanced by round, dark wire-framed glasses. Her brown eyes were large and heavily lidded and the skin around them was papery, but they held a person with a fierce intensity. Her hair was gray and pulled back in a bun. She wore no makeup. She was dressed in a red pullover, jeans, and white tennis shoes. Perhaps she was getting ready for a morning walk.
“On the phone you said you had some questions about what might have led up to her assault on that unfortunate young man.”
Rene handed her a photocopy of the murder story from the
Cassie read the article, at one point wincing at something. When she finished, she laid the article on the table and looked at Rene without a word. Rene was sure the police had spelled out the details of the killing, but something in the woman’s manner set off uneasiness in her, as if the written words had confirmed the enormity of her sister’s act. “You no doubt know your sister better than anyone else. And I know you visited her at Broadview. I’m just wondering if you saw anything that might explain her behavior.”
“My sister was a high-energy woman—a fighter, as you can see,” and she nodded to a cabinet full of golfing trophies. “She had a temper and would lash out if she felt wronged. But my sister was not a violent woman or capable of murder.”
“And as far as you know Edward Zuchowsky was a perfect stranger to her.”
“Yes, besides, how could she know him, being stuck in the nursing home?”
“What’s baffling is that she wasn’t on any medications that would have led to such psychotic behavior.”
Cassie took a sip of her coffee. “But she was demented.”
“True, and demented people do have fits of violence, but there are always signs of that, and from her records Clara never harmed another patient or staff member.”
Cassie raised her cup to her face again, her eyes locked on Rene’s so intently that for a second Rene felt their heat. Then the woman looked down and the moment passed.
“Did you notice any changes in Clara while in the home—any alterations in her behavior from visit to visit?”
“Frankly, I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I haven’t visited my sister in several months. My eyesight is poor and I don’t trust myself on long drives. And to be honest, watching her bump down the staircase is very depressing, as you can imagine.”
“As I said, she moved in with me after Walter died. And for a while it was fine. Then she began to have memory problems. We had her diagnosed, and within a year she began to get worse—confused, disoriented. She was forgetting things from one moment to the next. It was like watching her being peeled away like an onion. God, what a cruel disease.”
“Yes, it is.”
“When it became too much for me to handle, even with visiting nurses and day care, we found Broadview. I must confess that the early visits were stressful. I love my sister, but seeing her disappear like that took its toll. She would flicker in and out, asking me the same questions over and over again until I felt my own mind begin to go. Of course, the driving became an issue. So I stopped visiting her, which didn’t make any difference to her by then.”
“The last time you saw her, how did she seem in terms of mental abilities?”
“Half there. She’d sit around the activities table and try to fill in the blanks. The aide would read a familiar adage for patients to fill in the rest: ‘You can’t have your cake and …’ pause. Or’Nothing ventured, nothing …’ pause. ‘A stitch in time saves …’ et cetera.
“Clara would struggle to beat others to the answers. Sadly, she was a book person with a master’s in history and a doctorate in education. A former high school principal. Most of these books are hers. The last time I visited her she couldn’t read the name on the box of chocolates I’d brought.
“I have a good dozen ailments, not the least of which is degenerative arthritis of the lower back—which sounds much kinder in Latin. But I don’t know what happened in the genetic throw of the dice that caused her to start blanking out while I’m still festering with useless memories. There are times I envy her. You reach a certain point in life when even your recollections begin to feel made-up. I think Mark Twain said it best—something like, ‘I can’t remember anything but the things that never happened.’”
“I understand.”
Cassie took a sip of coffee. “No, you don’t understand.”
Rene wasn’t certain what she meant but felt as if she were engaged in some odd sparring match. “No, I can understand the anxiety of seeing her fade. It’s horrible, I know, and there’s nothing to feel guilty about.” Rene did all she could not to stumble on her words.
“It’s different. It’s part of your job.”
“My father died of Alzheimer’s.” The words jumped out before Rene could catch them.
