Dilemma

DILEMMA

Is it Murphy’s Law or Sod’s Law that claims that if there is a worse time for something to go wrong, it will happen then? 

A court case had just ended and I was trying to fit eight hours’ work into an afternoon when she phoned. She being the manager of the retirement village where my mother has spent the last four years. I don’t get to visit as often as I should, but this was clearly a summons.  An issue that “could not be discussed over the telephone”.

A large lady with a vaguely matronly manner met me at the door to her office.  Luckily, her name was displayed on a lapel badge – Marian Cronberg. There had been half a dozen managers during the time my mother had lived there, and most were pretty  forgettable. This one showed me to a seat, closed the door firmly, and leaned toward me to whisper confidentially: 

 “We suspect early dementia and would like to call in specialist help.”

“My mother?”  If I sounded incredulous, I was.  At eighty, my mother was as alert and strongly opinionated as always. But it was a month or so since I’d seen her and maybe …  

“There’s the possibility of paranoia,” said  Marian, adding kindly, “If you know what that is.” 

“Has there been a specific example?  Something recent?”

“I’m afraid so.  In every other area your mother seems well, but she’s developing a fixation – an obsession one might say – about some recent deaths in the village.”

I stood, trying not to look at my watch.  “I’d like to talk to her before this goes any further.  I’ll just pop upstairs and see her.”

Marian was visibly concerned. “I had hoped we could keep this little talk confidential.”   She clutched her forehead.  “Though I imagine you’d like to discuss things with the doctor here.”

I almost laughed.  I knew my mother had “fired” that doctor some time ago, preferring to consult her own.  Apparently she’d asked why she was being prescribed some medicine or other, and he told her he gave it to “all the old people in the village”.  Ouch!

I found my mother in her deck garden, tying a vagrant piece of wisteria or something into place.  

“Yay!” she said.  “You’re a lovely excuse to stop.”  I felt guilty that I couldn’t stay, but there just wasn’t time.  

“Want me to bring some sushi later – not sure when I’ll finish work, but I could grab some and stay a while.”

“Great,” she said. “Is that what you dropped in to ask me? Why didn’t you just phone?”  

I shrugged. “Dunno. Let’s talk later.”  And escaped.

I was busy for the rest of the afternoon, but not too busy to have a quick word with the doc at the police station.  Paranoia, dementia.   In someone who appeared normal?    

“Afraid its possible,” he said.  “See if you can get her to talk to you about what’s worrying her, and whether that seems rational to you.”

I didn’t tell my mother what the manager had said.  I just mentioned that she didn’t seem as happy with life in the village as she used to be.

“I’m not,’” she said flatly. “It’s totally different since it was sold to new owners nearly a year ago and management changed. It gets more like a rest home every day. My friends are dying and their replacements are …..”  She shrugged. “I guess it’s old age.”

“Not like you to accept that.”  I smiled at her. “Should we think about finding you somewhere else?”

“Yeah, right!  Have you tried doing the math? That’s what my friend Anna thought.  About a month before she died, she came to see me.   I don’t think you ever met her, but like me, she was a journo in her time and not one to settle for second-best.   She started speaking out at residents’ meetings about the way things were changing.  Shortly afterwards, she got a letter from management.

“Basically, they were offering to halve the 10% a year she’d lose if she left, on condition she moved out within three months, and did not discuss their offer with any other resident.”

“But she did discuss it with you.”  

“Because she’d decided to reject it.  She just wanted to double-check.”

“The math?”

“Yep.  Look, she’d been here for four years.” She reached for pen and paper.  “She’d paid $440,000 for the right to occupy her apartment.  Now, as well as charging about $800 or more a month for services, the owners of villages like this deduct 10% of that every year for three years.  Which means, she’d normally lose $132,000 if she sold.”

“You’re kidding.  That 10% would be on the reduced value each year.  And she‘d share in any capital gain.”

“No. It’s on the original price.  And no, she wouldn’t.  It’s only a licence to occupy. So she was looking for an apartment somewhere else for about $300,000.”

“That would be difficult?”

“Impossible.  The way the market’s moved, an apartment here, identical to her own, is selling for well over $600,000. They’re much the same everywhere.  And I don’t think any bank would consider her for a mortgage, do you?”

I took a deep breath.  

“How did I miss that when you moved here?”

“Because you had to find me somewhere urgently when I was well enough to leave hospital. And help me sell my house ... the pressure was really on. Remember?  I didn’t fancy sharing your bachelor pad. And you did get a lawyer to check it out.”

We were both silent for a while.

“Ma, listen Let’s say you’re right. It would take about 3 or 4 people to die or move out before they made a million dollars.  That might seem a lot to you or me, but to people in this racket, it’s peanuts. When, to be blunt, all they have to do is wait.”  

“I know,” she said.  “They’ve got it made. All the baby boomers getting old and the property market going crazy.”

“And most, like Anna, couldn’t afford to take up that offer to leave.” 

“Agreed. But she’d accepted that. So why would she slash her wrists? I just can’t believe it.” 

She shrugged and looked down at her hands. I hadn’t noticed before how much more her age was visible there, than on the rest of her body.

 “She was just so .. so feisty. She loved nothing more than a good fight.  She told me once that she’d always wanted to be a lawyer, but we lived in a time when that was a profession reserved for your gender!”  She smiled at me. “Look, I’ve wanted to ask you, ever since she died, what you think, but I know how busy you are.  So I guess I’ve just had to accept things.”

“But you’ve talked to other people about this?”

“No. Not really. Oh yes, once. When I went to so-called “happy hour” and had a wine or two. And once to Marian soon after it happened.”

I said nothing.  But she guessed what I was thinking.

“Should have kept my mouth shut, I guess. But, honestly, Pete, I’m scared. Since then there have been two or possibly even three “accidental” deaths among those of us least likely to die or move out …”

“Leaving apartments that could be sold for double their value while they were occupied.  But I think we’ve covered that…”

She interrupted.

“I know the food here is bloody awfu.l It’s why I still cook for myself. But they’re saying Bob died of food poisoning …?? And Sue “slipped in the shower” and broke a femur, which is almost always fatal in the long run .. only it wasn’t long.  And …”

She looked at me, head on one side.

“It’s the interesting ones who are going.  Either to the undertaker or to the rest home that’s part of this place, where they pay a fortune, and from there … God knows. Sorry, but it’s mostly

women here and … well, they’re what I might have been if your Dad hadn’t died young and I’d had to fend for myself.”  

She shrugged. “The conversation revolves about what someone is knitting for which grandchild this week.  Which rather leaves me out of it.”

“Thanks to your gay son.”

“Well, I don’t think that the happiness my gay, artistic and thoughtful son brings me would be on the agenda, no.”

“Even if he is a copper.”

It has always amused me that my mother, who accepted my sexual orientation so easily, is still bewildered by my decision to become a detective.  She forgets that we share a nose for sniffing out the truth – or rather, pursuing it like a terrier after a bone. 

“Anyway, back to these deaths. Maybe I’m getting paranoid…?”

“I think maybe, you’re sort of shut in and things are getting to you.  It might be interesting though, to find out the average time people spend in a retirement home and how that compares with things here. I could do some checking.”

“No, honestly, Pete, forget it.  I think it’s time I spent more time in the garden. I’m so glad I live on the fourth floor – nothing above me but sky and clouds, treetops and birds…  I should realise how lucky I am.”

But somehow, I couldn’t quite forget.  It sounded like something out of a penny dreadful.  Murder in a rest home – oops, retirement village.  I decided to have a chat with the very likeable Superintendent in my office.  We all called him Eeyore because he was a large grey man who invariably dressed in baggy grey suits and managed to find something to be grumpy about whenever possible. But I’d learned to look past his macabre humour and seek his commonsense.

“Is that all?” he asked when I told him of my mother’s suspicions.  “My mother was in one of those places before she died.  Always ringing me – or worse my boss – to accuse one of the staff of nicking her stuff.  I’d call on her for the 89^th time to find she’d shoved it under a cushion or something so no-one would nick it, and then forgotten.  Sometimes I’d think she did it on purpose to get me to visit,  but I dunno.  They reckoned she had dementia or something.  And it wasn’t her fault.”

Google and Wikipedia seemed to agree:

“Paranoia is a thought process believed to be heavily influenced by anxiety or fear, often to the point of delusion and irrationality.^[1] Paranoid thinking typically includes persecutory, or beliefs of conspiracy concerning a perceived threat towards oneself (e.g. "Everyone is out to get me"). …. Making false accusations and the general distrust of others also frequently accompany paranoia. For example, an incident most people would view as an accident or coincidence, a paranoid person might believe was intentional. (The italics are mine.)

Whew!  That seemed to describe the situation fairly clearly.  But somehow I still couldn’t accept it.  What if …       

Google again.  An insight into the “booming” retirement industry with a huge increase in the number of retirement villages/rest homes. Reference to a “strong investor interest in the gold rush of retirees”.  Plus warnings, from Consumer and others, about the importance of choosing “complexes that are registered.”  

Well at least that was something I had checked before she moved in. Olive Grove’s owners, Proteus, were registered as a retirement village and had to comply with RVA rules.

It was time to accept the possibility that ‘accident or coincidence were being seen as intentional’.  And to get back to work.

It was about a week later that she phoned.  She this time, was my mother herself, and she was definitely agitated.  

“It’s happened again,” she said. “Bill O’Donnell has just been taken away by ambulance.  They’re saying he overdosed. But that’s just not possible.  He was about the last friend I had here.  And we often discussed this.  He sees the doctor here, and he lets the nurses or carers or whatever bring his medication.  He keeps none in his apartment.

“I’ve always refused to accept that.  I only take what my own doctor prescribes and I get the chemist to deliver to me directly.  I think they’ve poisoned him …..Oh, Pete, I am so scared …”

“Hang on. I’m on my way …  but maybe .. I mean have you seen your own doc lately?  You sound as if you could use her.”

“She’s overseas. And I don’t much like her locum.”

I made my way through heavy traffic to the Olive Grove.  My mother met me at the entry, carrying an overnight bag. 

“I need to move out,” she said.  “Now!  Please!”

“Hey, hey!”  I put an arm round her shoulders.  “I’ll take you back to my place if you want.  But I think we should talk first.  Please.”

It took ages to return upstairs to her apartment.  I saw what she meant. The number of people with walkers awaiting the tiny lift was ludicrous and I was reminded that someone on Google had referred to retirement villages “farming the elderly”.

There was a letter pushed under her door.  She picked it up, glanced at the envelope and handed it to me.  

“I’ve seen one of these before,” she said.  “You might like to open it.”

And of course it was exactly the same offer from management that Anna had received.  “Leave within 3 months and we’ll halve the 10% deduction.”  

My mother – for heaven’s sake, her name is Emma– poured me a wine, and we settled down.  Or I did.  Emma still seemed pretty agitated. Perhaps it was time.

“I have to tell you,” I said, cautiously, “that Marian has been in touch with me.  The people here are a bit concerned that you’re over-reacting.  I mean, this is a place for older people and the statistics show that, well ..”

My mother plonked her glass down with a thud.  “Well, thank you, Pete.  You think I didn’t realise that older people die???  And what the hell would Marian or anyone else here know?  They never see me these days.  I avoid that bloody lift and only go downstairs to collect my mail.”

She buried her face in her hands.  “If you don’t believe me …”

“I don’t know what to believe.” It felt cruel but she’s always valued the truth.

“Yeah, I know.  Look, there’s no point, probably, but I’ve tried to find out all I can about these new owners, because it’s since they’ve taken over.  They’re called Golden Years and they’re not listed among the RVA members.”

“But I checked..”  And realise I’d checked the owners at the time she moved in, and not the new ones.  “But you said it’s not quite a year since they bought the place. Maybe it takes that long to register?”

“Maybe.  Anyway, it’s all a bit pointless. You’re right, I really don’t have any long-term choices.  And I am probably over-reacting. So off you go, and I’m sorry I panicked over nothing. And anyway, I have some stuff I need to finish before tomorrow.”  She gestured to the pile of papers by her computer.

We finished our drinks and shared a real hug.  I left feeling much relieved.

And I had a couple of real murders to investigate.  One, involving a child, was even more depressing than usual and I wondered ruefully if my mother was right.  It wasn’t a brilliant idea to become a copper.  

It was about a month later that I visited Emma and chanced on Marian Cronberg in the reception area. 

“I’m glad to see you,” she said. “We’re still worried about your mother’s … well … medical issues.  Have you managed to accept them yet?”

I shrugged.  “I do have a couple of questions, if you have a moment.” I sensed she was bracing herself.  “Who decides when a patient should move from here?

“We don’t use that word here.  These are our residents – part of our family.”  

“But who decides?”

“Well, of course, if the resident is well,  then they make the decision, but you’ll appreciate that there are times when we have to step in.”

“We?”   

“Well, I do, initially, with the doctor’s help, but ultimately, serious decisions have to be referred to the owners.”

“Do they visit often?”

“Not as often as we could wish, but then they have just acquired another couple of retirement complexes so, as you’ll appreciate…  they leave a lot to us. We are both veryexperienced.   I do hope you find that reassuring.”

By now, the lift had arrived and she was assisting people out of it. Slowly. I could see why my mother avoided it.  In fact, I could see why she wanted to move.  Perhaps it was time I helped her to do that.  And of course, any new village would want a medical certificate. Which could be a good thing.

New village.  I spent an hour or two that evening, poring over brochures I’d picked up from the local real estate agency. There were very few possibilities but there were one or two, if I helped. And she desperately needed something to look forward to. 

Then I saw it. The agent’s name on most of the brochures, including those for the Olive Grove, was Jason Cronberg. I’d  seen that surname very recently.  On a lapel badge.  

I didn’t sleep much that night and was back at the Olive Grove very early the next morning, feeling quite excited at the prospect of telling Emma that I was helping her to move. Today.

Marian Cronberg was just closing my mother’s apartment door behind her. She didn’t see me.  She was holding a kidney dish in which there were some cotton swabs and an empty syringe.  And she was smiling. 

                                        …………………

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