Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [100]
When our hour session was over, we had a quick business meeting. I showed them the check for the quilt.
“What would you all like done with it?” I asked. Though we had a guild account, they often liked donating it to the Oak Terrace Friendship Fund. It provided bingo and snack money for people in the retirement home who had no families and were barely making ends meet.
“Donate it to the Friendship Fund,” Thelma said. “We have plenty in our account.” The others nodded in agreement.
After hugging and kissing everyone good-bye, I went upstairs to the offices to take the check to the accounting clerk. After shooting the breeze with her, I walked down the long corridor toward the exit, passing by a large, airy sunroom. Normally crowded, it was empty this early evening. The large clock over the gurgling fountain read five o’clock. Dinner was served at five-thirty, so everyone was probably in their rooms getting ready.
Everyone except Rose Brown. She was, to my surprise, sitting in a wheelchair alone, gazing out the picture window at the English rose garden and beyond at the cars driving by on the highway below. I hesitated for a few seconds, then decided that this might be my only chance to speak to her, so I’d better grab it. She was dressed in expensive-looking camel slacks and a brown cashmere sweater. Good leather shoes covered her small feet. In her lap, on top of a nubby, hand-knitted throw, her hands clutched a neat leather purse that matched her shoes. She didn’t turn around or even react when I walked up behind her and softly called her name.
“Mrs. Brown,” I said again, a little louder, and walked around so she could see me.
She looked up, her aqua eyes cloudy with age. Really looking at her this time, I realized what a beautiful woman she must have been. And how much Bliss favored her.
“Mrs. Brown, my name is Benni Harper. We talked the other day at the wine tasting.”
She nodded mutely. Her face was slack today, traces of spittle pooled in the corners of her pale pink mouth. It was hard to believe she was the same woman I’d talked to only a few days ago, but I knew how, at this age, good days and bad days were as unpredictable as our Central Coast winds.
“Can I ask you some questions? It won’t take long, I promise.”
She blinked slowly and nodded again.
I hesitated again. Questioning someone this elderly, this helpless, seemed cruel and heartless. And, considering her condition today, so much worse than a few days ago at the wine tasting, maybe even pointless.
And what about those babies? I heard Detective Hudson’s voice in my head.
I swallowed and said, “I’m sorry about your babies, Mrs. Brown.”
Her eyes looked into mine at the mention of babies. Her mouth started moving, trying to say something. I bent closer, trying to encourage her.
“My babies,” she said, her voice low and harsh. “They died.”
I knelt down next to her wheelchair. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Dr. Jacobs was so good to me. We drank tea.”
“I’m sure he was.” I wracked my brain trying to think of what I could ask her. “Mrs. Brown, do you remember Eva Knoll? She took care of your babies. Do you remember?”
Her eyes teared up upon hearing Eva’s name. “The judge sent her away. He said she was a bad woman. She just flew away. Like a bird.” A pale, age-spotted hand grabbed mine, pinning it to the cold handle of the wheelchair. “She wasn’t bad.” She squeezed my hand, then let go and crooked her finger at me to come closer. I bent toward her.
“Rouge,” she whispered, her head nodding. “The men love it. They don’t even know we have it on.”
Great, more grooming tips. I tried to lead her back to the subject of Eva Knoll, maybe find out her whereabouts. “Where did Eva Knoll go?” Before she had a chance to answer, we were interrupted by a sharp voice.
“Excuse me, who are you?”
I stood up and faced the stern-faced