Sorrow Road (Bell Elkins #5) - Julia Keller Page 0,44
us. She was deteriorating rapidly, I’m sorry to say. One of our aides found her in her bed. She immediately called the front desk, and Dorothy notified the sheriff, which is always our procedure, even when there’s nothing even remotely suspicious about the death. Deputy Wilkins came right away. The coroner immediately informed us that—just as we thought—Polly died of natural causes. It’s a common progression with late-stage Alzheimer’s. First they lose the ability to walk, and then they stop eating or holding up their head. Next the heart stops. It’s usually a very quiet death—and it was for Polly Delaney. The same for Margaret Jacks. Three weeks ago, she was wheeled back to her room after dinner. She’d not been feeling well. She was found later that night by an aide. Margaret, too, had died in her sleep.”
“Same aide?”
“Pardon?”
“Was it the same aide who found both residents dead?”
Layman searched the sheet. “Why, yes. Yes, it was. Marcy Coates. One of our best employees. Very reliable. Been with us since we opened.”
“And who found Harmon Strayer?”
This time Layman did not need to look down. “That was Marcy as well.”
“I’d like to speak to her.”
The director frowned. “She’s already been interviewed by Deputy Wilkins. And it’s really not something she enjoys talking about, Mrs. Elkins. It was quite traumatic.”
“I’ll try my best not to upset her. But it’s important.”
A beat. “Fine,” Layman said. “I’ll get a phone number for you. She has the next few days off. It was the least we could do.” She hit a few keys on her computer. “Yes. Here it is.”
Bell put the number in her cell. “Thank you.”
Now she waited. When Layman did not speak, Bell filled the silence herself. “How did Harmon Strayer die?”
Layman closed the file folder. She re-linked her fingers on top of it. Her dark eyes moved to the single window in her office. It looked out on another parking lot at the side of the building, a gray rectangle in which only two cars were parked, on opposite sides of the lot. At the edge of the space was a long pile of frozen snow, shoved there by a plow and heaped up. It wasn’t much of a view.
After a few seconds Layman looked back at Bell.
“That was difficult,” she said, her voice grave. “And it’s even sadder, given what happened to his daughter this weekend. Harmon was a favorite with all of us. He was very respected around here. Respected and loved. Did you know he served in World War II? He was part of the D-Day landing. The thing about Alzheimer’s, Mrs. Elkins—and maybe this is old news to you—is that you often lose short-term memories but not the longer-term ones. Not the oldest ones, the ones that you’ve had for decades.
“So Harmon couldn’t tell you what he had for breakfast five minutes after his meal—but he could describe every detail of being on a U.S. Navy ship on D-Day. I mean everything—the gray color of the sky, the smell of the ocean. The way the Normandy coast looked as they got closer and closer. They weren’t part of the original landing force—their ship was there to search for survivors. Or for any soldiers, alive or dead, who were still in the water. They were going to take them home.”
“Did all those details come from Harmon?”
“Some. And some came from Darlene. She and I had a lot of conversations about her father. She’d grown up hearing the stories about his experiences on D-Day. And I got the rest of it from his oldest friend, the Reverend Alvie Sherrill, who also visited here quite often. Twice, three times a month. He’d sit with Harmon in the lounge. Always brought a checkerboard. I guess he hoped they’d play a game. That was never going to happen—Harmon was well beyond the ability to play checkers. But that’s what they had done, for so many years, and so the reverend brought the checkerboard. It was a kind of symbol, he told me. Of what they’d meant to each other. Finally he just left the checkerboard here. Said he didn’t need it anymore.
“He and Harmon would sit there at a little table in the lounge, hour after hour, with that checkerboard between them. When Harmon first came to live here, you might hear some conversation, but in the last few months, Reverend Sherrill did all the talking. That’s what happens, Mrs. Elkins. Most of our residents don’t talk at all anymore. I can