Grave Matters

Drive, the house had the obligatory tile roof and a two-car garage, a late-model red Pontiac Grand Prix parked out front. The lawn didn't appear to have met water since spring and-other than a droopy fruit tree-the only other decorative touch was the red, white, and blue FOR SALE sign of a local Realtor.

Vega led the way as the three walked up a narrow sidewalk that led to an inset front door.

The detective rang the bell and, a moment later, the heavy Spanish door was swung open by a lithe blonde, perhaps five-foot-eight, an extremely well-preserved forty-something. She wore the white pants and floral smock of the Sunny Day nurses.

'Detective Vega,' Vega said, showing her his badge. 'You're Rene Fairmont?'

'Yes,' the woman said, her voice husky.

'We spoke on the phone earlier. Afraid we're a few minutes late.'

'Traffic in this town,' she said, with a shrug. 'But I do have to get to work…so can we make this brief?'

'We'll do our best. These are Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown from the crime lab.'

With a friendly smile, she shook all of their hands, then gestured and stepped aside for them to enter. 'But remember, I've only got a few minutes.'

'We won't be long,' Vega assured her.

To the left of the front entry was a spacious, formal living room, not at all lived-in looking; the interior was brick here and wood there, with a stark geometric feel, including the overhang mantel of a built-in rough-stone fireplace.

Why, Catherine wondered, did people in Vegas, where the temperature was seldom below sixty, so often insist upon having fireplaces?

A giant picture window overlooked the brown front lawn, and the furniture-two sofas, three chairs, and numerous tables-were fifties modern, either copies or well-preserved originals…like Rene Fairmont, Catherine thought. Several geometric modern-art paintings dotted the brick walls and a few abstract sculptures had been carefully placed around the room. The woman's late husband had been a drama professor, after all, and a whiff of the artistic permeated.

A nice home of its era, in fine shape; but something about the lack of yardwork outside, and the dominance of the late husband's taste, gave Catherine the feeling that the Fairmont woman was somehow just…passing through. And of course that FOR SALE sign was the best evidence backing up that theory.

Rene Fairmont waved for them to take a seat and she perched on the edge of a sofa; between them was a kidney-shaped coffee table cut from wood and heavily laminated. A very pretty woman, Catherine thought, noting the high cheekbones and heart-shaped face, shoulder-length hair, flawless complexion, big dark blue eyes with long lashes, and a smile that seemed both shy and endearing.

Catherine noticed something else, however: a high-gloss hardness, not unlike that shiny coffee table. This might be a product of the sudden death of her husband; she'd seen the quality in recent widows before. And those big blue eyes, for all their smile crinkles, seemed detached from the woman's pleasant expression. She was studying them, the way…

…the way a cop studies a potential suspect.

Their hostess took the lead. 'On the phone you said you wanted to talk to me about Vivian Elliot. I don't have much to share, but please-ask me whatever you like.'

'Let's start with your reaction,' Vega said, 'to hearing she'd died.'

'Well, of course I was sorry to hear Vivian had passed. She was a dear sweet lady, very friendly. But she had spine. She couldn't be pushed around or manipulated.'

'When did you learn of her death?'

'In the most routine manner-every day we get an update at the beginning of shift.'

'Is it commonly known at Sunny Day that Vivian was murdered?'

If Vega had intended this hardball to jar the woman, the effect was nil.

'Of course,' Rene Fairmont said. 'We do have our little Gossip Club, if nothing else.'

'How long had Vivian Elliot been under your care?'

'Well, since she got to Sunny Day…. I'm the second shift nurse in that wing, so all those patients are mine- from the time they come in until…until they leave us.'

Catherine said, 'Seems like a lot of patients have been 'leaving' lately. Had you noticed anything unusual about that?'

Shrugging, Rene said, 'I've worked in continuing care off and on for nearly fifteen years. You have these little runs of bad luck. It happens. But, by the same token, I must admit it's a little unusual for the streak to go on this long.'

'You noticed the 'streak' when?'

'Oh…two or three months ago.'

'Who did you tell?'

'Tell? I didn't 'tell' anyone. We all knew it. It was a topic of conversation amongst the staff, at least the nurses and orderlies. Of course we talked about it, but, like I said, sometimes these things just happen.'

Vega said, 'None of you thought it was worth calling the authorities over?'

Her radiant smile seemed wrong as an immediate response to such a question. 'Why? It's an old folks' home…people come there to die…. Oh, I'm sure that sounds callous, but when you work in continuing care, you get used to the idea that more of your patients are going to die than live. In that way, I suppose it's much like working in a cancer ward…. I would imagine if the average people knew how you detectives talk about cases and victims, you'd seem callous.'

Warrick said, 'That's true. But didn't you have a responsibility to say something about this string of deaths?'

'I'm a nurse, Mr. Brown. That would seem the place, the responsibility, the purview of the doctors. And your coroner's people came out, in every instance, of course…. Really, how much more of this is there? I don't want to be late. I have living patients who're depending on me.'

Catherine ignored that, saying, 'You said you've worked in continuing care for most of the last fifteen years.'

She sighed; settled. 'That's right-until I got married three years ago.'

'We understand your husband passed away, not long ago. We're very sorry.'

Rene Fairmont glanced toward the fireplace and gestured to a silver urn on the mantel. 'We were very close, Derek and I; it comforts me that he's still…looking over my shoulder.'

'I lost my husband not long ago,' Catherine said.

Warrick flicked Catherine the barest sideways glance. Eddie had been Catherine's ex-husband, of course, and his schemer's lifestyle had got him killed. But Catherine was trying to make a connection behind the hard smooth surface of another widow-was the woman protecting herself behind a coffee-table veneer? Or did that veneer conceal flaws, or even…emptiness?

'Well, then, Ms. Willows-you know what my life is like. You know that it's been hard. Derek was a funny, bright, vital man. He was everything to me.'

'You quit your job when you married?'

'His idea, really. I was working for a dermatologist, Dr. LeBlanc-that's actually where I met Derek. He came in to have a biopsy on a mole. We started talking and, you know, just hit it off.'

Catherine asked, 'You weren't working in continuing care at the time?'

'No, I'd only been in Vegas a short while. I bounced around a lot when I was younger. Late seventies, early eighties are kind of a blur, frankly.' Her laugh was attractive if brittle. 'We're about the same age, Ms. Willows. You might understand.'

'I might.'

'Anyway, Vegas is the first place I've really put down any serious roots.'

Maybe so,Catherine thought, but the roots in your front yard are dying….

The woman was saying, 'I tried to find nursing-home work when I came to town, but Dr. LeBlanc was the first nibble I got and I needed a job, so I went to work for him. A lot easier than continuing care, frankly.'

Vega asked, 'Can you tell us a little more about your late husband?'