voice was like her body: heavy, with an almost masculine rumble. She never stopped munching away at that damned hoagie while we talked, and never stopped swilling coffee. But it didn’t slow her down, and the meatballs didn’t affect her diction. Much.
“Thorndecker getting his dough?” she demanded.
“That’s not for me to say,” I told her. How many times would I have to repeat that in Coburn? “I’m just here to do some poking. You know Thorndecker? Personally?”
“Sure, I know him. I know everyone in Coburn. He’s a conceited, opinionated, sanctimonious, pompous ass. He’s also the greatest brain I’ve ever met. So smart it scares you. He’s a genius; no doubt about that.”
“Ever hear any gossip about that nursing home of his? Patients mistreated? Lousy food? Things like that?”
“You kidding?” she said. “Listen, buster, I should live like Thorndecker’s patients. Caviar for breakfast. First-run movies. He’s got the best wine cellar in the county. And why not? They’re paying for it. Listen, Todd, there are lots and lots of people in this country with lots and lots of money. The sick ones and the old ones go to Crittenden Hall to die in style—and that’s what they get. I know most of the locals working up there—the aides, cooks, waitresses, and so forth. They all say the same thing: the place is a palace. If you’ve got to go, that’s the way to do it. And when they conk off, as most of them eventually do, he even buries them, or has them cremated. At an added cost, of course.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I noticed the cemetery. Nice place.”
“Oh?” she said. “You’ve visited Crittenden Hall?”
“Just a quick look,” I said vaguely. “What about the research lab?”
“What about it?”
“Know anything about what they’re doing up there?”
She kept masticating a meatball, but her expression changed. I mean the focus of her eyes changed, to what I call a “thousand-yard stare.” Meaning she was looking at me, through me, and beyond. The same look I had seen in the eyes of the night clerk at the Coburn Inn when I had checked in and mentioned Thorndecker’s name.
I had interrogated enough suspects in criminal cases in the army to know what that stare meant. It didn’t necessarily mean they were lying or guilty. It usually meant they were making a decision on what and how much to reveal, and what and how much to hide. It was a signal of deep thought, calculating their own interests and culpability.
“No,” she said finally, “I don’t know what they’re doing in the lab. Something to do with human cells and longevity. But all that scientific bullshit is beyond me.”
She selected that moment to lean over and pick up her coffee cup. So I couldn’t see her face, and maybe guess that she was lying?
“You know Thorndecker’s family?” I asked her. “Wife? Daughter? The son? Can you tell me anything about them?”
“The wife’s less than half his age,” she said. “A real beauty. She’s his second wife, you know. Julie comes into town occasionally. She dresses fancy. Buys her clothes on Fifth Avenue. Not your typical Coburn housewife.”
“Thinks she’s superior?”
“I didn’t say that,” she said swiftly. “She’s just not a mixer, that’s all.”
“She and the doctor happy?”
Again she leaned away from me. This time to set the coffee container back on the floor.
“As far as I know,” she said in that deep, rumbling voice. “You really dig, don’t you?”
I ignored the question.
“What about the daughter?” I asked. “Does she mix in Coburn’s social life?”
“What social life?” she jeered. “Two beers at the Coburn Inn? No, I don’t see much of Mary either. It’s not that the Thorndeckers are standoffish, you understand, but they keep pretty much to themselves. Why the hell shouldn’t they? What the fuck is there to do in this shit-hole?”
She peered at me, hoping I had been shocked by her language. But I had
“Thorndecker getting his dough?” she demanded.
“That’s not for me to say,” I told her. How many times would I have to repeat that in Coburn? “I’m just here to do some poking. You know Thorndecker? Personally?”
“Sure, I know him. I know everyone in Coburn. He’s a conceited, opinionated, sanctimonious, pompous ass. He’s also the greatest brain I’ve ever met. So smart it scares you. He’s a genius; no doubt about that.”
“Ever hear any gossip about that nursing home of his? Patients mistreated? Lousy food? Things like that?”
“You kidding?” she said. “Listen, buster, I should live like Thorndecker’s patients. Caviar for breakfast. First-run movies. He’s got the best wine cellar in the county. And why not? They’re paying for it. Listen, Todd, there are lots and lots of people in this country with lots and lots of money. The sick ones and the old ones go to Crittenden Hall to die in style—and that’s what they get. I know most of the locals working up there—the aides, cooks, waitresses, and so forth. They all say the same thing: the place is a palace. If you’ve got to go, that’s the way to do it. And when they conk off, as most of them eventually do, he even buries them, or has them cremated. At an added cost, of course.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I noticed the cemetery. Nice place.”
“Oh?” she said. “You’ve visited Crittenden Hall?”
“Just a quick look,” I said vaguely. “What about the research lab?”
“What about it?”
“Know anything about what they’re doing up there?”
She kept masticating a meatball, but her expression changed. I mean the focus of her eyes changed, to what I call a “thousand-yard stare.” Meaning she was looking at me, through me, and beyond. The same look I had seen in the eyes of the night clerk at the Coburn Inn when I had checked in and mentioned Thorndecker’s name.
I had interrogated enough suspects in criminal cases in the army to know what that stare meant. It didn’t necessarily mean they were lying or guilty. It usually meant they were making a decision on what and how much to reveal, and what and how much to hide. It was a signal of deep thought, calculating their own interests and culpability.
“No,” she said finally, “I don’t know what they’re doing in the lab. Something to do with human cells and longevity. But all that scientific bullshit is beyond me.”
She selected that moment to lean over and pick up her coffee cup. So I couldn’t see her face, and maybe guess that she was lying?
“You know Thorndecker’s family?” I asked her. “Wife? Daughter? The son? Can you tell me anything about them?”
“The wife’s less than half his age,” she said. “A real beauty. She’s his second wife, you know. Julie comes into town occasionally. She dresses fancy. Buys her clothes on Fifth Avenue. Not your typical Coburn housewife.”
“Thinks she’s superior?”
“I didn’t say that,” she said swiftly. “She’s just not a mixer, that’s all.”
“She and the doctor happy?”
Again she leaned away from me. This time to set the coffee container back on the floor.
“As far as I know,” she said in that deep, rumbling voice. “You really dig, don’t you?”
I ignored the question.
“What about the daughter?” I asked. “Does she mix in Coburn’s social life?”
“What social life?” she jeered. “Two beers at the Coburn Inn? No, I don’t see much of Mary either. It’s not that the Thorndeckers are standoffish, you understand, but they keep pretty much to themselves. Why the hell shouldn’t they? What the fuck is there to do in this shit-hole?”
She peered at me, hoping I had been shocked by her language. But I had
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