BUSTED: Crime Fiction Sequel to BOUNTY

BUSTED

Crime Fiction Sequel to BOUNTY

Susan Swain

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Susan Swain

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, locales, or events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilog

About the author

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Chapter 1

From her tenuous position behind the counter, she watched the thickset but too thin old man reflexively duck his head to avoid clipping it on the door frame. His back held erect, he walked unaided into the well-lit reception area of the Midway Nursing Home. Dressed in black slacks, shirt, and jacket, and a dinky tan bow tie, she idly wondered if like owners who look like their dogs, he owned a rottweiler.

As he approached the counter, he turned to his right to acknowledge an elderly woman seated on a black vinyl upholstered sofa facing the desk. He looked down on the short, sparse white hair combed with care to cover her scalp. She wore a wash and wear, lavender and white print dress with an engaging bow tied at the keyhole neckline under an unbuttoned lacey white cardigan. Clad in pink ballerina slippers, her petite feet barely touched the highly polished floor. He presumed she was waiting patiently for attention so gestured for her to go in front of him in the informal line. But, smiling sweetly, she waved him on ahead of her. Without conscious effort, he returned her smile before turning to the hard-faced woman manning the desk.

About thirty, he guessed, of average height, her spare body encased in an institutional uniform. She wore a swipe of red lipstick on thin lips and her brown hair pulled back from her otherwise unmade up face in a utilitarian bun. When he looked closely, one narrow eye was blue, the other green.

She watched him make a mental note of the name on her badge. Norma. A keen observer of men, she waited while he pushed the thick fringe of black hair back from his wide forehead to reveal an enquiring frown. The man’s ears lay flat and close to the side of his head. She liked neat ears. His dark brown, almond shaped eyes lent him a calm expression. There were no tell-tale red marks or indentations on the bridge of his broad, flat nose to suggest he wore glasses. His mouth was generous and his neck free from loose skin. Not something she was used to in her chosen line of work. Then again, she had discerned a few white hairs in the scruffy wave over his shirt collar when he turned to address the elderly resident.

What was grandma doing parked in the reception area anyway? It looked untidy and so unprofessional and clearly wasn’t what was advertised on the cover of the glossy brochure for the nursing home on the desk in front of her. Granny reflected badly on the home and on the staff. If she hadn’t observed the man before he reached the front entrance, she would have ordered a nursing assistant to wheel her away. She was already enjoying the privilege of rank.

He exuded self-confidence as he extended a hand across the desk. In a deep, low tone he rumbled, Orson.

Although he’d already read the name on her uniform, he appeared to be waiting for a response. Pointing to the tag, she introduced herself as Norma. It had been only a few short weeks since she’d applied for and accepted the casual nursing appointment at the Midway Nursing Home. They’d been short-staffed and lucky to get her. It had suited her to start straight away. But she was still getting used to her new position and couldn’t afford to forget herself for a moment. Any hesitation invited unwanted attention and might result in letting slip her old identity. She dreaded a staff member or a patient asking her pointedly, Don’t you know who you are then?

He observed her openly appraising him while she returned his firm handshake across the desk. Orson preferred her direct approach rather than sly, sideways glances. He took the opportunity to read of his right to dignity and privacy set out on the laminated poster pinned to the cork board on the off-white wall behind her. Orson noted his medical, pecuniary, and visiting rights. The words triggered a sudden sensation of prison bars locking into position behind him and blocking his exit. He glanced guiltily over his left shoulder to satisfy himself that he was just being fanciful.

The dietary rights of vegans, vegetarians, and pescatarians particularly interested him, though they had not been catered for in the notices. On the other hand, he was pleased to read of his right to complain if he was unhappy with the care provided displayed on the board. Services included room and board, monitoring of medication, and personal care which he knew from experience meant assistance with normal daily tasks like dressing, bathing, and using the bathroom. Access to twenty-four hour emergency care as well as the level of care that required the expertise of medical practitioners was also provided. The notices had been solicitously set in large, bold, easy to read type. However, it appeared that social and recreational activities extended to a wide screen television in the residents’ lounge.

Apparently he would not be hurried. What was it with old people? They seemed to think they had all the time in the world. She straightened the edges of the nearest stack of pamphlets in an attempt to cover her impatience.

Is there someone I might speak to with regard to admissions?

I’m authorized to help you. Are you enquiring for yourself or… her voice trailed off.

For myself, but I’d like a tour of the institution before we take it any further. Orson felt nothing substituted for seeing things for himself. He’d get a better feel for the facility by asking questions and observing residents, their families, and caregivers.

Of course. She couldn’t hide her pride when she checked her practical lapel watch, Are you able to take the tour now?

When Orson nodded, she moved briskly around the pale wood veneer reception desk with its double counter top to join him.

She now stood head to shoulder with him in her universally recognizable, unisex, aqua scrubs. He wondered what distinguished her from other staff. Was she a receptionist, a health worker, or both?

She replied that although employed as a nurse at the facility, while on her break, she registered that the reception desk was unattended. And when I saw you approach from the parking lot, I decided to wait and see if I could help you. In case the receptionist didn’t return in time, she added.

Orson thanked her for forgoing her break to see to his needs.

Although her duties didn’t include filling in on the reception desk, it had been fortuitous that she had been behind it. On passing the break room, she discerned that the staff assigned to the desk appeared to be settling in to a long-drawn-out coffee break. So she took the opportunity to search the desk and see what she could learn about the home and its staff and residents that might be of use to her. She hadn’t noticed the old woman when she moved behind the desk. But she didn’t regard the residents as threats to her plans, merely willing victims. She’d only just begun the search when she happened to look up and see the old man approaching the automatic entry door. Now, as she studied him more closely, she wondered if he’d fit into her plans.

This way, she prompted as she led him through the residents’ lounge anchored by a wall-mounted wide screen television.

A few residents parked in easy care black vinyl upholstered chairs looked up but without interest as they entered the room. Orson deliberately slowed himself to acknowledge the residents arranged around the off-white walls. But they appeared to have given up trying to talk over the sound of the television. Then again, he conceded to himself, it was no doubt turned up to accommodate those with hearing difficulties.

He noticed that the residents wore slippers. They’d apparently chosen not to take advantage of the warm weather to enjoy a leisurely stroll around the well-tended rose gardens. Although the one story red brick building filled the site, it was bordered by budding bush roses. Standard roses edged the driveway and the red brick and wrought iron perimeter fence.

Orson also noted that Norma hadn’t acknowledged the residents as they passed briskly through the lounge into the large dining room. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to disturb their reveries.

Empty of residents, its tables set for the next meal with seating for four around each table, they exited the dining room through double doors. Overheated air without odors assaulted them in the wide hallway. The uniformly gray linoleum floors were clean and polished. To her relief, there were no residents hanging about untidily for their next meal.

Although Orson noted the hand rails secured to the walls, it concerned him that no seating was provided for the residents. The off-white walls also lacked the welcome splashes of framed color displayed in the residents’ lounge and dining room.

As they drew level with the large industrial kitchen, an aqua clad staff member burst through the swing doors and scurried past them. The swinging doors revealed a harried looking woman wearing uniform scrubs, a shower cap, disposable gloves, a sour expression on her face, and a meat cleaver in her hand. The doors swung closed, but not before Orson noted the gleaming steel surfaces and what appeared to be bite-size portions of food arranged on small plates. Orson could not guess at what was on the menu. Feeling his eyes upon her, the cook half-turned to reveal her name tag, Beverley, before the doors swung closed.

Norma hastened him past a laundry room, its washers and dryers humming with activity, labeled doors leading to bathrooms, and storage, staff, and trash areas.

As they turned the corner to residents’ rooms, Orson noted the doors left ajar. It prompted him to wonder whether residents’ rights to privacy, dignity, and individuality were being observed. Did staff knock before they entered the rooms? Were private visits with families and friends allowed? Might residents come and go freely if they could do so safely? Were they encouraged to be as independent as possible?

But his train of thought was derailed by the non-stop chatter of a woman wearing scrubs labeled Anne as she ostensibly assisted a resident into his room. Her front teeth prominent, red highlights in her cropped black hair garish under the harsh fluorescent lighting, Anne chatted to another staff member who held the door open for them. Her ubiquitous uniform was named Ivy. She was short and squat with small eyes, mean lips, and a doughy face set in a permanent scowl framed by tightly permed iron gray curls.

The elderly, white haired gentleman looked natty in gray flecked trousers and an open necked, blue and white striped shirt under a lightweight, French blue sweater. He was trying valiantly to steer his walker through the open doorway, hell-bent on escaping the nursing staff and their conversation.

Orson peered past the open doorway into his sparsely furnished bedroom. The bed had been expertly made, its baby