office yesterday. Apparently, he wanted to reassure me he wasn’t pointing a finger at me. Exactly what is it you expect I might tell you, Mr. Hardesty?”
I breathed a small sigh of relief. So far, so good. “Right now I’m mainly concerned with learning everything I can about your late father and the circumstances leading up to his death. I was wondering if I could stop by for a few minutes this afternoon?”
“I think that could be arranged,” she said pleasantly. “I’m afraid my social calendar is not exactly filled at the moment. Mel tells me you’re quite handsome, and I always have time in my life for handsome men. If you’d care to come by about one, we could talk for a bit before my next session with the brain pickers.”
I thanked her, expressed my condolences on the loss of her father, told her I’d see her at one o’clock, and hung up.
Mel thinks I’m handsome, huh?
Don’t go there, Hardesty!
*
Oak Terrace was set in—and was indistinguishable from—a stretch of trendy mid-rise apartment complexes lining the east bank of the river, their backs looking out on the bluffs along the west bank. I wasn’t quite sure where it got the name “Oak Terrace,” since the trees lining the street were all maples and I saw nothing resembling a terrace. Maybe at the rear of the building, on the river side.
Turning into the underground garage, I found a spot in the visitors’ parking section and followed the yellow arrows painted on the floor to a door that led up to the reception area, which resembled the lobby of a luxury hotel. I signed in and was directed to the elevators and Apartment 9B.
Checking my watch—it said 12:59—I knocked, to have the door opened almost immediately by a very attractive, impeccably groomed woman in her mid-sixties wearing a gossamer-thin, rose-colored open dressing gown over what looked to be a blue silk high-collared oriental pajama set. For some reason she reminded me of Madam Chiang Kai-Shek.
“Mr. Hardesty, I presume,” she said warmly, extending her hand, which I took.
I followed her into a large living room with a huge picture window looking out on the bluffs. Since I wasn’t close to the window, I couldn’t see the river nine stories below. To the immediate right of the entrance was a very compact, gleaming kitchen, though I had passed a large dining room adjacent to the lobby where several people I had assumed to be residents were apparently finishing lunch. To the left of the door was a short hallway with the bathroom on one side and a closed door I assumed led to the bedroom on the other. The “other half” lived very well, I decided.
Showing me to a seat on the plush sofa, she took a chair beneath the window.
“And what is it you would like to know?” she asked, getting right to the point.
“Anything you can tell me about your father that might support Mel’s concern about the circumstances of his death,” I said.
She smiled, placing her arms casually on the arms of her chair.
“Were ours a normal family, I would dismiss Mel’s suspicions out of hand. He was devoted to his grandfather and, as he undoubtedly told you, was very concerned about my reactions and feelings toward my father when I was off my medications. I have my mother to thank for that, since she instilled in me and my brother a deep resentment and distrust of my father. It is not healthy to be raised in so toxic an atmosphere, as both Richard and I can attest. I do think my children have fared much better than Richard’s, however.”
While I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, I was quite impressed by her calm demeanor. My experience with people I knew to be schizophrenic was fairly limited, but I’d never have guessed Mrs. Fowler was one of them.
Realizing there was no easy way to work up to it, I said, “Do you think Mel’s concern has merit?”
She looked at me impassively, then gave a small sigh. “Frankly, Mr. Hardesty, I honestly don’t know. I simply
I breathed a small sigh of relief. So far, so good. “Right now I’m mainly concerned with learning everything I can about your late father and the circumstances leading up to his death. I was wondering if I could stop by for a few minutes this afternoon?”
“I think that could be arranged,” she said pleasantly. “I’m afraid my social calendar is not exactly filled at the moment. Mel tells me you’re quite handsome, and I always have time in my life for handsome men. If you’d care to come by about one, we could talk for a bit before my next session with the brain pickers.”
I thanked her, expressed my condolences on the loss of her father, told her I’d see her at one o’clock, and hung up.
Mel thinks I’m handsome, huh?
Don’t go there, Hardesty!
*
Oak Terrace was set in—and was indistinguishable from—a stretch of trendy mid-rise apartment complexes lining the east bank of the river, their backs looking out on the bluffs along the west bank. I wasn’t quite sure where it got the name “Oak Terrace,” since the trees lining the street were all maples and I saw nothing resembling a terrace. Maybe at the rear of the building, on the river side.
Turning into the underground garage, I found a spot in the visitors’ parking section and followed the yellow arrows painted on the floor to a door that led up to the reception area, which resembled the lobby of a luxury hotel. I signed in and was directed to the elevators and Apartment 9B.
Checking my watch—it said 12:59—I knocked, to have the door opened almost immediately by a very attractive, impeccably groomed woman in her mid-sixties wearing a gossamer-thin, rose-colored open dressing gown over what looked to be a blue silk high-collared oriental pajama set. For some reason she reminded me of Madam Chiang Kai-Shek.
“Mr. Hardesty, I presume,” she said warmly, extending her hand, which I took.
I followed her into a large living room with a huge picture window looking out on the bluffs. Since I wasn’t close to the window, I couldn’t see the river nine stories below. To the immediate right of the entrance was a very compact, gleaming kitchen, though I had passed a large dining room adjacent to the lobby where several people I had assumed to be residents were apparently finishing lunch. To the left of the door was a short hallway with the bathroom on one side and a closed door I assumed led to the bedroom on the other. The “other half” lived very well, I decided.
Showing me to a seat on the plush sofa, she took a chair beneath the window.
“And what is it you would like to know?” she asked, getting right to the point.
“Anything you can tell me about your father that might support Mel’s concern about the circumstances of his death,” I said.
She smiled, placing her arms casually on the arms of her chair.
“Were ours a normal family, I would dismiss Mel’s suspicions out of hand. He was devoted to his grandfather and, as he undoubtedly told you, was very concerned about my reactions and feelings toward my father when I was off my medications. I have my mother to thank for that, since she instilled in me and my brother a deep resentment and distrust of my father. It is not healthy to be raised in so toxic an atmosphere, as both Richard and I can attest. I do think my children have fared much better than Richard’s, however.”
While I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, I was quite impressed by her calm demeanor. My experience with people I knew to be schizophrenic was fairly limited, but I’d never have guessed Mrs. Fowler was one of them.
Realizing there was no easy way to work up to it, I said, “Do you think Mel’s concern has merit?”
She looked at me impassively, then gave a small sigh. “Frankly, Mr. Hardesty, I honestly don’t know. I simply
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