“Not insurance?”
“No,” I said.
“Cemetery plots, subscriptions to Things to Do When You’re Nearing Death magazine?”
“No.”
“You don’t want me to sign some petition to save the manatees, whales, seals or sea grass?”
“No,” I said.
“I miss anything?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“So what the hell do you want? And who the hell are you?”
“Archie Goodwin, Consumer Advocates for the Retired,” I said.
“Bullshit,” he said. “I watch Nero Wolfe on television. I can’t remember shit, but I do remember names.”
“My mother was a Wolfe fan,” I said. “Father’s name was George Goodwin.”
He regarded me with prune-faced distrust.
“I want to know why you left Seaside.”
“Why? You want to talk me into going to the Assisted Living Home for Retired Housepainters or to join Geriatrics Anonymous?”
“Can I come in?”
“No,” he said. “No offense. I just don’t want you knocking me down, stealing whatever I’ve got and leaving me to crawl to the phone.”
“Fine. Why did you leave Seaside?”
“Don’t need it. Drove me nuts. I don’t like people much. Winn-Dixie’s right over there.” He pointed. “I can take a taxi anywhere I want to go, including the movies at…”
“Sarasota Square,” I supplied.
“Right. I can’t remember shit.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s written on your walker.”
“It’s been a nice visit, Goodwin,” he said and closed the door.
I checked him off my list, got in the Saturn and headed toward escapee number three. Her address was on Orchid, the east side of 41 where the houses were smaller, the costs were lower and the lawns not all kept neat and trim.
Finding the house was easy. It was a one-story white frame that needed a coat of paint. I parked on the street. Next to the house was a weed-filled lot with a sign on a stick saying the lot was for sale.
The woman who opened the door was big, probably about fifty. She was built like an SUV and wearing a business suit. She looked like she was on the way out or had just come in.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’m looking for Vivian Pastor,” I said.
“Why?”
“Just have a few questions.”
“About?”
“Why she left Seaside,” I said. “I’m with the Florida Assisted Living and Nursing Home Board of Review. It’s routine. Is she here?”
“Yes.”
The woman blocked the door.
“Can I talk to her?”
“You can, but I don’t think you’ll get your answer from her,” she said. “I’ll tell you what you need to know, but it will have to be reasonably fast. I’ve got to get to work.”
“I’d like to talk to Ms. Pastor,” I said. “Actually, I have to. Board rules.”
She looked at her watch, sighed and said, “Come in. Vivian is my mother-in-law. I didn’t think they were taking proper care of her. I’m Alberta Pastor.”
She held out her hand. I took it. She had a grip that could crack walnuts.
“My name is Lew Fonesca.”
I followed her into the small dark living room filled with a 1950s padded couch and two matching chairs with indentations where people had plopped for decades. There wasn’t much light coming through the windows, whose curtains were closed, and the single standing lamp in the corner was vainly trying to hold back the darkness with a sixty-watt bulb.
“I promised my husband, David, God rest his soul, that I’d take care of his mother.”
She opened a door and we stepped into a small dining room with a round wooden table for four. At the table sat a very small old woman with bent shoulders and large glasses that made her eyes look enormous. She was wearing flannel pajamas with red and blue stripes against a white background. In her hand she held an advertising insert.
“Mother,” Alberta Pastor said. “This man wants to ask you a few questions about Seaside.”
“See what?” the old woman said, bewildered.
“The place I got you out of,” the younger woman said patiently. “Where you were living. Remember?”
“Haven’t I always lived here?” the old woman asked.
“No, Mother,” Alberta said.
“Ma’am,” I said. “Why did you leave Seaside?” The old woman looked at the younger woman in confusion.
“The place you were staying,” I tried.
“I don’t understand,” the old woman said with a smile.
“Dementia,” Alberta Pastor said to me. “It’s been getting worse. They said they could take care of her, but she belongs in a nursing home or here with me. I don’t break my promises. For David’s sake, I’ll keep her with me as long as I can. I’ve got a woman who comes in to look after her while I work. She should be here any minute. She’s late. Vivian used to watch game shows, read, but now…”
“I had breakfast,” the old woman said. “Didn’t I?”
“Yes, Mother,” Alberta said patiently.
“Am I hungry?”
“I don’t know. Are you?” Alberta asked.
“I don’t know,” answered the old woman. “See, what did I tell you?”
“About what?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” the old woman said with a laugh.
“Enough?” Alberta asked me.
“Yes,” I said.
The old woman went back to looking at the ads for toothpaste, Diet 7-Up and cans of Planters cashew halves.
Alberta Pastor led me back to the front door. “Anything else I can tell you?” she asked.
“Nothing I can think of,” I said. “Thanks.”
I was back in my car. Three checked off. All among the living. Only Gertrude Everhart remained. Her new address was the Pine-Norton Nursing Home on Tallavast just north of the Sarasota/Bradenton airport.
The Pine-Norton was sprawling, pink stucco, new and no trouble finding. I went through the automatic doors at the entrance and stepped out of the way for a young black nurse’s aide in a blue uniform pushing a shriveled old woman in a wheelchair. The woman’s head was leaning to the left as if her neck was no longer strong enough to support it. The door just to my right had the word OFFICE in black letters on a white plaque next to it. The door was open.
A woman, probably in her thirties, but she could have been younger, was staring at the computer screen in front of her, her nose a few inches from it. She was frowning.
I knocked and she looked up with a harried smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
She was pretty, nervous, with ash blonde hair that wouldn’t stay in place.
