Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) (11 page)

“I haven’t met the guy.” She sat on the edge of my desk. “But some engineer moved to Allport a few months ago from Florida, where he worked at a bottling plant. Nowadays he’s employed by our old buddy Stan Wozniak at WOZ Industries.”

When I left the office, Barbara was preparing to drive out to the local base for WOZ Industries. The fire in her eyes told me nobody out there had better refuse her request to interview the new guy, even if Stan Wozniak had once barred her from entering the building. That was during her investigation into the death of Stan’s daughter, and I thought for a while back then that either Stanley or Barbara was going to murder the other. It was simply a question of who lost control first.

Faye walked me out to my car, and I knew she was fretting over Clara’s future. I’d told her I visited Clara’s house and merely peeked in the windows. I did
not
tell her about the scary man who’d chased me away, because Faye worries about stuff like that, even after it’s over. She’d have felt guilty about letting me go out there alone, though there was no way she could have known and she couldn’t have stopped me anyway.

Faye was sure Gail Sherman was dishonest in her motives for becoming Clara’s guardian. Since I’d met Clara, I was sympathetic. She seemed competent to me, and while I wasn’t sure she should be living out at the springs alone, that didn’t mean she needed full-time care and an ankle monitor.

When Faye mentioned the possibility of a physical cause for Clara’s confusion, I asked what that might be. She listed some problems she’d seen because of Harriet’s years in the nursing home. “It would be nice to talk to Doctor Allen about Clara, but HIPAA laws will prevent him from telling us anything.”

“I’ve met Doctor Allen a few times, and I think he might tell me what we want to know.”

“Really?”

I gave her arm a pat. “Let me see what I can do. Since I volunteered with the hospital auxiliary, I knew when and where the good doctor ate his lunch.”

Our hospital cafeteria was the old-fashioned kind, meaning it served cardboard sandwiches, glutinous casseroles, and overly-sweet desserts. It smelled like tuna most days, with overtones of burnt coffee. Usually I avoided the place like the plague, but Dr. William Allen either enjoyed the bland food or was used to it after decades in Allport. When his rounds were finished he went there for an hour, always alone, always at the same table, and shoveled in the day’s special while doing one crossword puzzle after another from those books sold in drug stores.

It took almost bumping into him to get him to notice me. When he looked up, his eyes narrowed as he tried to refocus. Flashing a big smile I said, “Dr. Allen, isn’t it? You took care of my son when he broke his ankle skate-boarding.”

It was obvious he didn’t recall, and I hadn’t expected him to. Most doctors see the problem, not the person. Still, he nodded, his expression betraying interest in me if not in the long-ago injury. “Dangerous things, those skateboards.”

“May I join you?” I’d arrived with a tray, and I glanced at the almost-full cafeteria. “Everybody seems to be eating late today.” It wasn’t true, but he was looking at me, not at the room.

Belatedly remembering his manners, he stood. “Please, sit.”

After the niceties had been observed, I steered the conversation in the direction I wanted it to go. “What keeps you busy these days, Dr. Allen?”

“Bill, please. Dr. Allen makes me feel like I’m on duty.”

“We can’t have that.”

After we chuckled together, I waited for him to answer the question. He rambled a little about cutting back on his practice so he could spend more time with his grandchildren. That led to mention of the Meadows, where he was staff physician, a job I guessed consisted mostly of showing up and listening to the same complaints he’d heard the week before. I seized on it, though, since it was what I’d been hoping for. “Isn’t that a coincidence? I was just up there.” I went on to tell him about the interesting woman I’d met, “Clara Something. She tried to tell me she didn’t belong in a nursing home.”

He took on the injured air some medical people get that hints they know best, though the rest of us don’t get it. “She’s quite insistent on that point, but her personal physician signed the papers.”

“Is it possible he overlooked something?”

At first his laugh was harsh, but he tried to moderate it, perhaps to appear less cynical and therefore more attractive. (Did I mention Dr. Allen is divorced?) “They all think they can go home, Ms. Stilson.”

“Retta,” I corrected.

“Retta, you aren’t eating your lunch.”

Looking at the sad square of lasagna on my tray, I tried not to flinch. I took a bite and chewed, taking a large drink of water to wash it down. Smiling, I got back to the real reason for my presence. “I’m sure someone as thorough as you looked at her physical condition to make sure she doesn’t have something that’s easily curable.”

“Oh, yes.” Because he said it too quickly, I concluded he hadn’t been all that thorough. “She’d been failing for several months, and her family recounted several incidents where she might have been hurt or even died at home.” He adjusted his glasses. “I was told she lives—lived—some distance from the hospital, and the—er—reporting family member could no longer take responsibility for her safety.”

I had to tread carefully so as not to seem too interested in Clara. Taking a second bite of my cold, greasy main dish, I said, “I had an aunt once whose behavior got weirder and weirder until they finally realized she had a brain tumor. I hope Mrs. Knight doesn’t have one of those.”

He made a gesture of dismissal. “Of course we ruled out the obvious possibilities. There’s no brain tumor.”

“I understand some drugs can make people act funny.”

“Clara didn’t take any—” He stopped himself. “Her personal physician made the decision. We make thorough evaluations of each patient, both when they arrive and periodically afterward. No patient at the Meadows is neglected.”

His voice had taken on an aggrieved tone, so I hastened to change the subject. At the same time, I began planning my getaway as soon as I could manage it.
Bat your eyes and smile
, I told myself.
Then remember suddenly that you have a meeting across town in twenty minutes
.

I probably could have found out the new WOZ employee’s name some other way, but part of me still resented the high-handed treatment we’d once been subjected to from the company’s owner and CEO. As a result, instead of calling or asking discreet questions around Allport, I went directly to the local office, determined to let the people there know their boss didn’t intimidate me one bit.

WOZ had started as a stone quarry, but the Wozniak family had diversified over the years. Nowadays Stan was into computer parts, automotive accessories, and a dozen other profitable enterprises. The Allport location wasn’t headquarters anymore, but it was still the most impressive edifice in the county. Located near the original quarry, WOZ Allport was three stories of glass and brick. It was a ’70s-type building, with suspended fluorescent lighting and dark-paneled walls. It wasn’t well sound-proofed, and inside the lobby I could hear the beep-beeps of backup alarms from the heavy equipment down in the pit.

When I asked at the front desk, the Barbie-like receptionist said I must be looking for Enright Landon, head of operations. I asked if I might speak to Mr. Landon.

“Let me see if he’s in his office.” Picking up the phone with exaggerated care so as not to damage her extra-long nails, the woman glanced up and stopped, a wary expression on her face.

“Miz Evans, isn’t it?” The voice came from behind me, but I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

I turned, hoping my neck didn’t flush as it does sometimes when I’m nervous or angry. “Mr. Wozniak. I heard you’d left Allport to live in Detroit.”

“I drive up from time to time to see to things,” he said. “This time of year, the drive itself is a reward.”

Making a sound of agreement, I waited, wondering what came next. Would we discuss the fall colors at length? Would he order me off his property? I had no idea.

“You’re here to see Landon?”

“Um, yes. We have a case that involves water rights, and we were told he’s the person to speak to.”

Wozniak nodded. “Landon knows more about water than anyone I’ve ever met.” What happened next made me recoil in disgust. Stan Wozniak actually put his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take you up. His office is on the second floor.”

Confused by his benevolent attitude and feeling weird about being touched by Wozniak without invitation, I let myself be led down the corridor. The only other time I’d been there, he had watched from his second floor office as I was escorted out of the building. It seemed we were going to let bygones be bygones.

As Wozniak led me to the elevator, chatting about Mr. Landon’s vast knowledge of land and water usage law, I reminded myself that people like him often simply forget incidents in their past when they’ve behaved badly. If they stayed angry after every fit they threw, they’d soon have no one to talk to. I guessed his victims seldom brought up past unpleasantness. Who wants to relive the horrors of being screamed at?

When we stepped off the elevator, Wozniak touched my arm lightly to steer me onto the carpeted strip that led to Landon’s office. It took everything I had not to shiver. He seemed unaware but stopped in the doorway of an office where a man sat at a cluttered desk. About forty, with a full head of hair balanced by a full, dark beard, he wore a khaki shirt with two pockets. One held pencils and pens, the other bulged with something tubular, possibly a bottle. Half-glasses sat near the tip of his nose.

“Enright, are you busy?”

His voice was assertive, and I guessed no one in his employ would ever say, “Yes, I am, Mr. Wozniak. Come back later.”

Slipping the glasses off and laying them on the desk pad, Landon looked up, his manner deferential. “Just doing some forms for the state.”

“No end to those.” His tone hinted there should be. “This is Ms. Evans of the Smart Detective Agency. She’d like advice on water usage laws.”

“Oh.” Landon glanced briefly at me then looked away. “Sure.”

I hesitated, hoping Wozniak would leave, but he didn’t. Behind us came a woman with a cart containing coffee with all the trimmings. I was offered decaf, regular, or amaretto. Though it smelled wonderful, I refused, eager to get down to business. Wozniak waved the woman off, and she backed away with a smile. He stayed.

I considered asking for privacy but didn’t have a good reason to do so. Having seen Wozniak angry, I wasn’t interested in experiencing his temper again. My questions for Landon would have to be hypothetical.

“Mr. Landon, I’m looking into a case where an individual seems to be attempting to buy all of the property around a lake. My sisters and I theorize this person might be thinking of getting into water bottling. What can you tell me about the process?”

Landon gathered himself as if I’d asked him to interpret the laws listed in Leviticus. He looked at me only occasionally as he spoke, and for the briefest moment. “It depends upon the body of water, of course. Lakes in Zone A locations are excellent sources for bottled water. The state would do an assessment of the possible repercussions of water withdrawal. If it’s determined the lake can sustain itself, and if no neighbors object, the permit would in most cases be granted.”

“Then it would be an advantage to have only one landowner on the lakeshore.”

“Well, yes.” He used a fist to make light taps on his desktop, apparently a nervous gesture. “One seldom gets legal objections from deer and raccoons.”

Wozniak, whose brain was meant for business, caught on immediately. “Would it make more sense to build your own plant or simply buy up the land and sell it to an established bottler?”

“Most people don’t have the capital to get a plant started on their own,” Landon replied. “Bottlers are always looking for new sites, though, so it’s potentially profitable if a landowner offers a viable property with no objections from local sources.”

Wozniak’s left hand rose to rub lightly at his chin. “No lengthy court battles holding up the plans.”

“Exactly. One Florida bottler I’m aware of encountered difficulty when local citizens objected to the closing of a local swimming hole. There was another case where people tried to stop the transport of piped water over delicate habitats. In the end landowners were allowed to do as they wanted with their property, but the controversy caused a good deal of delay.”

I asked a few more questions, and Landon explained the basics of bottling water. His manner was precise but emotionless, and it felt like I’d asked Siri for information, not a human.

Wozniak picked up on the possible pitfalls of the premise with an ease that surprised me. Like him or not, the man had a quick grasp of business, even a business he’d never been involved in.

“I think I understand the process better now.” I said when my questions had been answered. “Might we call on you again if we need more information?” In reply Landon wrote his cell number on a sheet of note paper and handed it to me. He looked up for a millisecond before lowering his gaze to the desktop again.

As we returned to the elevator, Wozniak said, “So your agency is thriving, Ms. Evans?”

“It is.”
No thanks to you,
I thought, but I wasn’t going to be the one to reignite old fires.

He seemed to want to say more, but the silence grew long as we waited for the car to return to our floor. When the ding indicated it had, Wozniak stepped back. “I’ll let you get back to it then.” He watched me as the doors closed, his brow furrowed. He was probably concerned I’d disrupt operations at WOZ with my investigation. He could frown all he wanted. I didn’t really care what old Stanley found to worry about.