Helen hidden behind the bulk of the wing-back chair. By the time she emerged from its cover, he was passing the wheelchairs at the huge front windows on his way to a woman working on a jigsaw puzzle in the corner.
His target was younger than most of the residents here, probably early sixties, but with the characteristic signs of having suffered a stroke: her left arm was limp, and the left side of her face drooped. She wore what looked like brand new and top quality but unadorned navy sweatpants and sweatshirt, clothes she could pull on with just one hand. She was seated at a small table set at an angle, so she was practically boxed into the corner.
"Hello," he said to her. "I'm Geoff Loring. Reporter with the Wharton Times ."
The woman didn't acknowledge her visitor. She reached across the table to collect a puzzle piece, and her left arm flopped against the edge of the table. She winced and then used her right hand to place her left hand back in her lap.
Geoff tried again, this time speaking louder, presumably under what Helen thought was a mistaken belief that the puzzler was hard of hearing rather than ignoring him. "Is this your first day here? I'm Geoff Loring. Reporter."
The woman studied the puzzle piece she'd just retrieved then set it down beside five or six pieces that from halfway across the room looked identical—standard jigsaw shapes, all printed in an uninterrupted sky blue.
"It's okay," Geoff said, proving that he did have the persistence of a reporter if not the fearlessness. "I don't do exposés, just personal interest stories. I thought you might have something interesting to share. I'll leave my business card in case you ever want to have a nice little chat. You can ask around. Everyone here will vouch for me."
Geoff turned, only then catching sight of Helen. He started and grabbed his right forearm, rubbing where it had been broken awhile back when he'd been pursuing a story that he'd thought would make his dreams of winning a Pulitzer Prize come true. It had turned out to be his last attempt at investigative journalism.
"Are you stalking me?" Geoff demanded.
"Why would you think that?" Helen nodded over her shoulder to where Betty and Josie were sitting. "Can't I just visit my friends?"
Geoff looked in the direction of the fireplace. Betty and Josie must have waved since he stopped rubbing his arm to wave back.
"Today isn't Charity Caps Day." His voice was drenched in suspicion even as he bestowed his beautiful smile on Betty and Josie, two of his best sources of leads on stories that didn't involve any risk to him. "And you don't usually visit in the morning."
Helen hoped he couldn't see the triumph she felt. He'd given her exactly the opening she needed. "I meant to spend the morning at the community garden, but I couldn't do much there because of the ongoing police investigation, so I came here instead."
"Then you aren't investigating Sheryl Toth's death?"
"Why would I be interested in a simple accident?" Helen said. "That's all it was, wasn't it?"
Geoff glanced at the woman working on the jigsaw puzzle as if hoping she might have thawed toward him. She continued to ignore him though.
He clearly would have preferred to interview the puzzler, but deep down, buried beneath the fear of what might happen to him if he pursued a serious lead, lurked the soul of a dedicated storyteller. He preferred his stories to be entirely free of blood and guts, of course, and to have happy endings, but he couldn't resist sharing a good one.
"The police think it's an accident, and I'm more than willing to believe them, especially since it's none of my business." Geoff rubbed his arm again. "But I can't help thinking that emotions are running high over the title to the garden's land, and Sheryl was right in the middle of it all."
"Everyone keeps mentioning the possibility that the town will sell the land out from under the gardeners as if I knew what they were talking about, but I don't," Helen said.
His target was younger than most of the residents here, probably early sixties, but with the characteristic signs of having suffered a stroke: her left arm was limp, and the left side of her face drooped. She wore what looked like brand new and top quality but unadorned navy sweatpants and sweatshirt, clothes she could pull on with just one hand. She was seated at a small table set at an angle, so she was practically boxed into the corner.
"Hello," he said to her. "I'm Geoff Loring. Reporter with the Wharton Times ."
The woman didn't acknowledge her visitor. She reached across the table to collect a puzzle piece, and her left arm flopped against the edge of the table. She winced and then used her right hand to place her left hand back in her lap.
Geoff tried again, this time speaking louder, presumably under what Helen thought was a mistaken belief that the puzzler was hard of hearing rather than ignoring him. "Is this your first day here? I'm Geoff Loring. Reporter."
The woman studied the puzzle piece she'd just retrieved then set it down beside five or six pieces that from halfway across the room looked identical—standard jigsaw shapes, all printed in an uninterrupted sky blue.
"It's okay," Geoff said, proving that he did have the persistence of a reporter if not the fearlessness. "I don't do exposés, just personal interest stories. I thought you might have something interesting to share. I'll leave my business card in case you ever want to have a nice little chat. You can ask around. Everyone here will vouch for me."
Geoff turned, only then catching sight of Helen. He started and grabbed his right forearm, rubbing where it had been broken awhile back when he'd been pursuing a story that he'd thought would make his dreams of winning a Pulitzer Prize come true. It had turned out to be his last attempt at investigative journalism.
"Are you stalking me?" Geoff demanded.
"Why would you think that?" Helen nodded over her shoulder to where Betty and Josie were sitting. "Can't I just visit my friends?"
Geoff looked in the direction of the fireplace. Betty and Josie must have waved since he stopped rubbing his arm to wave back.
"Today isn't Charity Caps Day." His voice was drenched in suspicion even as he bestowed his beautiful smile on Betty and Josie, two of his best sources of leads on stories that didn't involve any risk to him. "And you don't usually visit in the morning."
Helen hoped he couldn't see the triumph she felt. He'd given her exactly the opening she needed. "I meant to spend the morning at the community garden, but I couldn't do much there because of the ongoing police investigation, so I came here instead."
"Then you aren't investigating Sheryl Toth's death?"
"Why would I be interested in a simple accident?" Helen said. "That's all it was, wasn't it?"
Geoff glanced at the woman working on the jigsaw puzzle as if hoping she might have thawed toward him. She continued to ignore him though.
He clearly would have preferred to interview the puzzler, but deep down, buried beneath the fear of what might happen to him if he pursued a serious lead, lurked the soul of a dedicated storyteller. He preferred his stories to be entirely free of blood and guts, of course, and to have happy endings, but he couldn't resist sharing a good one.
"The police think it's an accident, and I'm more than willing to believe them, especially since it's none of my business." Geoff rubbed his arm again. "But I can't help thinking that emotions are running high over the title to the garden's land, and Sheryl was right in the middle of it all."
"Everyone keeps mentioning the possibility that the town will sell the land out from under the gardeners as if I knew what they were talking about, but I don't," Helen said.
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