Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 57

MAYBELLE PAYSON LIVED IN A RUN-DOWN fourplex back from the water in a working-class part of town. This working class consisted almost entirely of lobstermen, their boats parked on their lawns, chocked, blocked, and braced, draped in plastic tarps, some even bigger than the trailers the owners lived in.

Trudging up the walk, Pendergast climbed up on the creaky porch, rang the bell, and waited. After a second ring, he could hear someone moving about, and eventually an owlish, wizened face appeared in the door pane, haloed in fine blue hair. The old woman looked at him with wide, almost child-like eyes.

“Mrs. Payson?” Pendergast said.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Payson? May I come in?”

“I can’t hear you.”

“My name is Pendergast. I’d like to speak to you.”

“What about?” The watery eyes stared at him suspiciously.

Pendergast shouted into the door. “About the Bay Manor. A relative of mine used to live there. She spoke highly of you, Mrs. Payson.”

He heard the turnings of various locks, latches, and bolts. The door opened, and he followed the diminutive woman into a tiny parlor. The place was a mess and smelled of cats. She swept a cat off a chair and seated herself on the sofa. “Please sit down.”

Pendergast eased himself into the chair, which was almost completely covered with white cat hair. It seemed to leap up onto his black suit, as if magnetized.

“Would you care for tea?”

“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.