Day Shift
Page 27
Eyeing the numbers on the brick pillar mailboxes, Olivia turned into the gravel drive of the third house on the right. Visitors were clearly supposed to take the right turn onto the circle around a large rosebed full of mature plants, all in bloom. Only the family or tradesmen would continue to the back of the house. Or a gardener, like the young man at work on the roses. He appeared to be Hispanic and maybe nineteen. He was snipping the deadheads and tossing them into a bucket. He was very curious about Olivia’s arrival. He turned to watch as she parked in front of the house.
Olivia’s feet crunched on the gravel as she went up the shallow steps to the double front doors and knocked. She was a blonde at the moment, and she wore blue contacts and bright red lipstick to complement her dramatic eye makeup. Her sleeveless blouse was a bright print, and her trousers were navy blue.
“Yes?” said the maid who answered the door. She was Hispanic, and short. Her hair was thick and long and still solid black, though the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes put her in her forties. “Can I help you?” She craned a little to the side to see the young man working in the rosebed.
“I’m Rebecca Mansfield from Home Health,” Olivia said, her voice solid with confidence. She waited.
“I’m Bertha,” said the woman, reluctantly. “I’m the housekeeper. What can I do for you?”
“Nice to meet you, Bertha. We got a signed application from Mrs. Goldthorpe about receiving our services.” She had a messenger bag slung across her chest, and a clipboard. The combined force of these authority symbols was just too much for the maid, who stepped back to let Olivia enter. The moment Olivia was inside, she moved swiftly to the center of the foyer, and her eyes got busy taking in everything. It was the scale she needed. To her pleasure, she found that Manfred’s floor plan had been more detailed than she’d ever expected.
Bertha, who was clad in scrubs in lieu of a maid’s uniform, said, “Miss Mansfield, Mrs. Goldthorpe passed away.”
“She what?” Olivia looked at the woman, apparently shocked.
“She died of pneumonia, or something,” Bertha said. “So we don’t need any home health care. You want to talk to her daughter, Annelle? She’s upstairs.”
“Of course,” said Olivia-as-Rebecca. “I’m so sorry. Ah, she did agree to our terms. . . .” Olivia felt she might not make it past Bertha if she didn’t hint that money might be involved.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get her.” The maid turned to go up the stairs.
“I’ll just come with you,” Rebecca said. “I don’t want to drag her away from whatever she’s doing.”
Bertha looked at her doubtfully but led Rebecca up the stairs and into the large room that was the second left after the landing. Yes, Manfred had been right. This was clearly the master bedroom. A woman who must be Annelle was standing in the doorway of a walk-in closet, looking tired and sad. She was short and plump, though not nearly as plump as her mother had been, and her hair was dark brown and graying just a bit.
Annelle was surprised to see someone she didn’t know, and not pleased. “Who is this, Bertha?” she said, making a visible effort to pull herself together.
“This is Miss Mansfield from Home Health,” Bertha said carefully. “Your mom must have filled out some forms?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Annelle said incredulously. “What else is going to happen? Why’d she do that?”
Bertha remained, looking curious, too. “I didn’t know anything about it, Miss Annelle,” she said rather smugly.
“Miss Mansfield?” Annelle was looking at her doubtfully. “I’m Annelle Kling, Mrs. Goldthorpe’s daughter. I’m afraid you didn’t get the news that my mom passed away very suddenly.”
“Bertha just told me. I’m so sorry for intruding on your grief,” Olivia lied. “We had an appointment set up with Mrs. Goldthorpe a few days ago, but when we rang the bell, no one answered, and when we left a phone message, we didn’t hear back. So my office sent me by to do a wellness check. We get worried when we don’t get a response from an elderly client.”
“Even when they haven’t signed up for your service? That’s real customer devotion,” Annelle said, an edge to her voice. “Or are you trying to tell me that my mom’s estate owes your company money? Because I’ve got to tell you, my dad’s will wasn’t even out of probate, and now my mom’s passed away, and there’s just no telling when this will all be settled.”
“Not at all,” Olivia said, emphatically. “She had signed a preliminary contract, but of course under the circumstances we wouldn’t dream of trying to enforce . . . That’s not how we do business. Her insurance policy was going to pay for it in full, anyway.”
Annelle looked relieved, though Olivia got the impression it wasn’t over the money situation, but all about not facing any more paperwork. “Oh, okay, good,” she said. She took a deep breath, preparatory to telling Olivia good-bye, so Olivia babbled on.
“It’s just that almost all of our clients are elderly—your mother was relatively young!—and so often at that age memory is not quite what it was. We worry when people that age don’t respond, to put it simply.”
Annelle seemed to be taken aback. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you were being . . . overzealous. We’ve just had people coming out of the woodwork to try to claim my mother owed them money, and all those claims have been spurious. I apologize if I seem too suspicious.”
Olivia’s feet crunched on the gravel as she went up the shallow steps to the double front doors and knocked. She was a blonde at the moment, and she wore blue contacts and bright red lipstick to complement her dramatic eye makeup. Her sleeveless blouse was a bright print, and her trousers were navy blue.
“Yes?” said the maid who answered the door. She was Hispanic, and short. Her hair was thick and long and still solid black, though the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes put her in her forties. “Can I help you?” She craned a little to the side to see the young man working in the rosebed.
“I’m Rebecca Mansfield from Home Health,” Olivia said, her voice solid with confidence. She waited.
“I’m Bertha,” said the woman, reluctantly. “I’m the housekeeper. What can I do for you?”
“Nice to meet you, Bertha. We got a signed application from Mrs. Goldthorpe about receiving our services.” She had a messenger bag slung across her chest, and a clipboard. The combined force of these authority symbols was just too much for the maid, who stepped back to let Olivia enter. The moment Olivia was inside, she moved swiftly to the center of the foyer, and her eyes got busy taking in everything. It was the scale she needed. To her pleasure, she found that Manfred’s floor plan had been more detailed than she’d ever expected.
Bertha, who was clad in scrubs in lieu of a maid’s uniform, said, “Miss Mansfield, Mrs. Goldthorpe passed away.”
“She what?” Olivia looked at the woman, apparently shocked.
“She died of pneumonia, or something,” Bertha said. “So we don’t need any home health care. You want to talk to her daughter, Annelle? She’s upstairs.”
“Of course,” said Olivia-as-Rebecca. “I’m so sorry. Ah, she did agree to our terms. . . .” Olivia felt she might not make it past Bertha if she didn’t hint that money might be involved.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get her.” The maid turned to go up the stairs.
“I’ll just come with you,” Rebecca said. “I don’t want to drag her away from whatever she’s doing.”
Bertha looked at her doubtfully but led Rebecca up the stairs and into the large room that was the second left after the landing. Yes, Manfred had been right. This was clearly the master bedroom. A woman who must be Annelle was standing in the doorway of a walk-in closet, looking tired and sad. She was short and plump, though not nearly as plump as her mother had been, and her hair was dark brown and graying just a bit.
Annelle was surprised to see someone she didn’t know, and not pleased. “Who is this, Bertha?” she said, making a visible effort to pull herself together.
“This is Miss Mansfield from Home Health,” Bertha said carefully. “Your mom must have filled out some forms?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Annelle said incredulously. “What else is going to happen? Why’d she do that?”
Bertha remained, looking curious, too. “I didn’t know anything about it, Miss Annelle,” she said rather smugly.
“Miss Mansfield?” Annelle was looking at her doubtfully. “I’m Annelle Kling, Mrs. Goldthorpe’s daughter. I’m afraid you didn’t get the news that my mom passed away very suddenly.”
“Bertha just told me. I’m so sorry for intruding on your grief,” Olivia lied. “We had an appointment set up with Mrs. Goldthorpe a few days ago, but when we rang the bell, no one answered, and when we left a phone message, we didn’t hear back. So my office sent me by to do a wellness check. We get worried when we don’t get a response from an elderly client.”
“Even when they haven’t signed up for your service? That’s real customer devotion,” Annelle said, an edge to her voice. “Or are you trying to tell me that my mom’s estate owes your company money? Because I’ve got to tell you, my dad’s will wasn’t even out of probate, and now my mom’s passed away, and there’s just no telling when this will all be settled.”
“Not at all,” Olivia said, emphatically. “She had signed a preliminary contract, but of course under the circumstances we wouldn’t dream of trying to enforce . . . That’s not how we do business. Her insurance policy was going to pay for it in full, anyway.”
Annelle looked relieved, though Olivia got the impression it wasn’t over the money situation, but all about not facing any more paperwork. “Oh, okay, good,” she said. She took a deep breath, preparatory to telling Olivia good-bye, so Olivia babbled on.
“It’s just that almost all of our clients are elderly—your mother was relatively young!—and so often at that age memory is not quite what it was. We worry when people that age don’t respond, to put it simply.”
Annelle seemed to be taken aback. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you were being . . . overzealous. We’ve just had people coming out of the woodwork to try to claim my mother owed them money, and all those claims have been spurious. I apologize if I seem too suspicious.”
