Code Blue

Book 37: Sisterhood

by Fern Michaels

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Suspense

Synopsis

The newest action-packed, ripped-from-the-headlines adventure in The Sisterhood from #1 bestselling author Fern Michaels.

The Sisterhood: a group of women from all walks of life bound by friendship and years of adventure. Armed with vast resources, top-notch expertise, and a loyal network of allies around the globe, the Sisterhood will not rest until every wrong is made right.

Theresa Gallagher has never met her Aunt Dottie, though she remembers her mother’s stories about the wild sister who left home at seventeen. When a letter arrives from one of Dottie’s neighbors, telling Theresa that her aunt is now incapacitated and in a nursing home, Theresa decides to fly out to Arizona to see her.

The staff at the Sunnydale Care Facility seem pleasant and efficient, but Theresa finds it strange that she’s only permitted to “observe” her elderly aunt from a viewing room. It’s the first of several red flags that lead Theresa to start asking questions. Is it just coincidence that as soon as she does, her car is almost run off the road?

Theresa contacts her attorney friend, Lizzie Fox, who just happens to be connected to a group of women uniquely posed to get answers. Soon the Sisterhood is on the case, uncovering evidence that at Sunnydale centers all over the country, seniors are mistreated, duped, and drained of their savings. But no one is beyond justice—not when the Sisterhood’s extraordinary women are involved, making wrongs right as only they can . . .

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Theresa Gallagher peered at the registered letter the postal worker handed her. She did not recognize the return address, nor did she know anyone in Tempe, Arizona. As she scribbled her signature on the green card, her fuzzy memory clicked in. She recalled her mother telling her and her sister Margaret about their Aunt Dottie, who left home at seventeen “and moved out west.” Dottie had been the rebel of the family, and trouble hung around her like a humid day in July.

Dottie had been caught shoplifting on more than one occasion. Smoking in the girl’s bathroom in high school was another one of her “stunts,” as her father liked to call them. Truancy was also one of Dottie’s specialties. Her parents tried pleading, then bargaining, and eventually moved on to threats. Their father was growing more impatient by the day and swore if Dottie got into trouble one more time, he was going to send her away. But Dottie didn’t wait for trouble to find her again. At sixteen going on seventeen and looking like she was twenty, Dottie packed her bags and left home with no forwarding address. A short note was left on the kitchen table: Heading out to find myself, since no one seems to like who I am here.

Dottie’s mother Agnes was undoubtedly horrified. Her husband, Floyd, was relieved. As far as he was concerned, Dottie was going to ruin his marriage. He and Agnes would be up until all hours of the night arguing about what to do with their oldest daughter. Her father wanted to send her to a juvenile facility, but Dottie never got into the kind of trouble that would cause a judge to send her to a detention center. She never harmed anyone or committed a felony. Agnes insisted it was simply a matter of rebellion and wanting attention. The situation put enormous pressure on the family. It was inevitable that sooner or later someone, or something, would blow a valve.

It wasn’t that her father didn’t love her, but he grew to resent her—something that could eventually turn to hatred if she kept it up. He had had enough of leaving work to fetch her from the security guards at the local department store. What made matters worse was the gossip. Floyd Carpenter was attempting to build his plumbing business and knew his customers were developing their opinion of him as a father. She was always getting in trouble; Floyd worried that the next thing would be her getting pregnant. She didn’t have a regular boyfriend, but hung around a few unseemly types, the types that would surely end up in jail. Floyd truly believed Dottie’s departure was for the best. He hoped that she would find a better circle of friends and turn her life around. If not, the family wouldn’t have to suffer through her shenanigans.

Agnes blamed her husband for Dottie’s exit. He blamed her for Dottie’s bad behavior.

Months passed before they got word from her via a postcard from New Mexico. It said little except how beautiful the scenery was. She signed it with a capital D. No Love, Dottie, no Miss you, no nothing except a scribbled letter of the alphabet. Life in the Carpenter family went on, but Dottie’s absence didn’t bring the peace that Floyd anticipated. The tension between Agnes and Floyd remained. It was thick. You could cut it with a knife.

Agnes didn’t pretend that Dottie was coming back. She knew in her heart she might never see her daughter again. She went to church every week and prayed her child would be safe, but that was all she could do. She peeled the posters off Dottie’s bedroom walls, painted the walls a bright shade of yellow, and took the room for herself. She and Floyd never slept in the same room ever again, and rarely spoke to each other.

JoAnne was grateful she only had one more year of high school before she could leave for college. She had hopes to go someplace not too close to home, but not on the other side of the country. She worried about her mother. She believed her mother would die of a broken heart, and at the age of fifty-five, Agnes passed away from a pulmonary embolism. By that time, JoAnne was married with two daughters, Theresa, and Margaret, and lived fifty miles away.

When Theresa and Margaret were growing up, JoAnne rarely spoke about her long-lost sister, especially in front of other relatives. JoAnne thought it was a blemish on the family. As far as she was concerned, Dottie abandoned her, leaving the family torn to pieces. An occasional Christmas card would arrive, leaving a vague and dead-end trail. JoAnne saved the cards and the envelopes to try to determine Dottie’s whereabouts, according to the postal mark. They were always from somewhere out west. Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona. It was JoAnne’s private secret, and a souvenir from her sister.

Theresa hadn’t heard Aunt Dottie’s name in years … until now. The letter was from a neighbor of Dottie’s, informing Theresa that their aunt was now in a nursing home in Tempe, Arizona. The neighbor said she was able to track down Dottie’s last known relatives, and thought the family should be made aware of the situation.

Theresa immediately phoned her sister Margaret, and they debated what to do. “We don’t know her,” Margaret said.

“But now that Mom is gone, we’re her only family,” Theresa responded.

“What do you think we should do?” Margaret asked, but truthfully, she was inclined to do nothing.

“We should go to Tempe to see her. Make sure she’s okay.”

“Are you crazy? I can’t just drop everything to fly to Arizona,” Margaret protested.

Theresa argued that if their mother were still alive, she would want to know. To help.

“Okay, fine. I’m still not going, but if you want to go, I’ll pay for half of your airfare.”

Theresa knew that was the best she was going to get and booked a flight to Phoenix for the following week. In the meantime, she hoped she could find a few missing pieces to this puzzle.

Theresa recalled there were some of her mother’s belongings in the attic. They had been sitting there for decades, ever since her mother died. She had meant to go through them but would always put it off. She pulled down the disappearing staircase that led to the area she rarely visited. If she needed something, she usually asked her husband, Brian, to fetch it, but this was a personal mission.

She gingerly climbed the ladder-type steps and grabbed the pull chain that turned on the exposed light bulb. There were dozens of bankers boxes marked with names and dates, an old wooden rocking chair, and more hastily marked boxes of various sizes. A colonial-style maple headboard and footboard from decades ago were resting against a small nightstand. Theresa spotted an old steamer trunk that belonged to her mother. Inside were boxes of photos. She cleared a space on the attic floor and began to go through them. There had to be over a hundred of them. Some were black and white; others were from Polaroid cameras, many of which were faded. All of the photos were of people she didn’t recognize, except for one attached to a few postcards with a rubber band. It was a photo of her mother when she was in her early teens, standing next to a young woman, two or three years older. Theresa was able to make out a scribble on the back of the photo that read Ditzy Dottie and Me. The postmarks on the postcards were smudged, but she could make out one of the dates: 1971. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

As Theresa squinted at the photo, she noticed the woman next to her mother was wearing a small, art deco style ring on her left hand, and remembered her mother telling her that Dottie swore she would never take it off. It had been a gift from their grandmother when Dottie had turned sixteen. Theresa continued to sift through the memorabilia, but the photo was the only thing that contained a clue. When she was convinced there was nothing left to find, Theresa tossed everything back into the chest. Something for another day. Maybe. Maybe never.

Theresa had a lot to do before she left for Arizona. Part of her preparations included checking the website of the care facility. See what kind of place it was. When she searched Sunnydale, an impressive website appeared touting the many services the facility offered, from Senior Living to Assisted Living to Long-Term Care. They also had a rehabilitation center for post-operative “clients.” She noticed they didn’t use the word “patients” when describing the multi-tiered accommodations.

Theresa continued to peruse the site. The company had three Sunnydale complexes, one in Arizona, one in New Mexico, and one in Florida, all with similar lodging. She clicked on the Tempe, Arizona location. The photos were impressive, as was the virtual tour. The place was luxurious. It looked like a five-star resort or a well-appointed gated community.

A long circular driveway ran from the security checkpoint to an impressive building called Manor House. The lobby resembled that of an upscale hotel, with a wood and slate front desk. The video led her down a hallway to the left of the welcome counter to an exquisite restaurant with an adjacent patio. The smooth disembodied voice listed some of the many activities they provided for their “guests.” The patio was lined with tall vegetation that obscured any view of the other buildings, and the tennis, pickleball, and shuffleboard courts. There was even a putting green within the outdoor activity area. Theresa leaned into the back of her chair and wondered: Did she have the right place? She then clicked on an aerial view that exposed several other buildings separated by a long line of foliage and landscaping, and another wide drive. There was a small clinic, rehab, and long-term care on the opposite side of the roadway. They were distinctly separated from the senior living and assisted living quarters.

The camera drone took her above the duplexes that lined the roads, which were dotted with golf carts.

Theresa continued to read the multitude of positive reviews and the company’s mission statement: Life is a series of transitions. We are here to guide you through them with ease. Make the most of your journey with us. She smirked. That surely didn’t say much, but she supposed a picture is worth ten thousand words. She then speculated how Dottie could afford to live in a place like that. What she did know was that she knew nothing about her aunt or her life. But that was about to change.

The following week, Theresa arrived in Phoenix, rented a car, and checked into her hotel located close to Sunnydale. It was late in the afternoon, and Theresa was still on Eastern time and decided to shower, order room service, and call it a day. Her plan was to get up early, get a few steps in, and then drive to Sunnydale. It was time to close the familial gap.

The next day she typed the address into the GPS and drove toward Sunnydale. The trip took a little longer than she expected. The place could almost be considered off the grid. That would explain why they had a mini-clinic on site.

When she approached the security gate, a guard asked if she had an appointment. She did not. He asked the purpose of her visit, and she told him she was checking on her Aunt Dottie. Dottie Carpenter. The man in the crisp white shirt and freshly pressed slacks tapped her name into his tablet.

“I will have to phone the main office.” He tucked his head into the small guard building. Theresa couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, but she could tell there was an issue by the expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you are going to have to make an appointment.”

Theresa furrowed her brow. “With whom?”

“Janet Turner. She is the head nurse.”

“And how do I get in touch with Ms. Turner?” Theresa did not like the feeling she was getting. The young man seemed a bit nervous. He pulled out a small card and handed it to Theresa through the driver’s side window. “Visiting hours are from ten to twelve and then three to five.”

Theresa thanked him, turned her car around, and drove to the main highway. It was about a mile to the nearest gas station, where she pulled over and dialed the number on the card.

“This is Turner.” It was one of those voices that could have belonged to a man or a woman with laryngitis. A smoker? Theresa thought to herself. Or someone sang contralto in a choir? She resisted the temptation to laugh.

“Hello. My name is Theresa Gallagher. I am here to visit my Aunt Dottie. Dottie Carpenter.”

“Yes, so I heard.” Not only was her voice grating, but it was also terse. “You cannot simply show up without an appointment,” the woman barked at her. “And we have no record of any family members in her file.”

Theresa was about to give the woman the “long-lost aunt explanation,” but decided to push ahead with a visitation request. “She’s been away for a long time. Her neighbor got in touch. May I please see her this afternoon?”

There was a long pause, and then the raspy voice continued, “Your aunt is in very poor health.”

“Yes, I understand. All the more reason to see her.”

Another pause. “I must warn you, she is not in good health.”

Theresa refrained from saying, I heard you the first time. Instead she simply repeated, “I understand.” Plus, she has no clue that I even exist, Theresa thought. She was glad she brought the photo with her. It could serve as a good introduction.

After another long pause, Nurse Ratched barked into the phone again. “You will have to come back tomorrow.”

“But I am visiting from Virginia. I came out here specifically to see her.”

“Well, you should have phoned ahead. Be here at ten.” And that was the end of the call. Aunt Dottie would have to wait another day.

Theresa admitted to herself that she may have made a hasty decision to come here, but it felt right at the time. It hadn’t occurred to her there would be restrictions or tough regulations just to visit a relative. Accepting that there was little she could do to change the circumstances, she decided to take in some of the local scenery. Sedona was a little over a two-hour drive, so that was out of the question. Instead, she drove to the Desert Botanical Garden, home to over fifty thousand plants.

As she drove west, she marveled at the buttes and Usery Mountains that jutted above the Sonoran Desert in the distance. She engaged her hands-free dialing and phoned her sister to let her know that her trip had been delayed by a nasty nurse, and she would have to stay at least another day. Her next call was to Brian to let him know the same. In the beginning he thought she was going on a wild-goose chase, but after Theresa showed him the photograph, he softened to the idea. Not that he could or would stop her. Considering the current circumstances, she could very well be on a wild-goose chase.

It took about a half hour before she pulled into the parking lot of the gardens. She blinked several times, then swore she saw steam coming up from the asphalt. The announcer on the radio mentioned it was “a record-breaking heat,” which slapped her in the face when she opened the car door. She remembered what one of her friends said: “But it’s a dry heat.” Theresa chuckled to herself. Dry. Wet. It was awful. How did people live here?

Within the first fifteen minutes, Theresa realized she had picked a bad day for walking around outside, even with a hat. She felt dizzy and went into the gift shop to buy a bottle of water. The clerk looked at Theresa’s beet-red face. “Not from around here, are ya?”

“How can you tell?” Theresa practically ripped the cap off and took a long swig.

“Nobody from around here would venture out in this temperature.”

“Don’t you worry about people fainting?” She took another swig.

“We have a lot of people checking in throughout the day. But most visitors come either early morning or evening.”

“I should have called ahead.” Theresa realized her planning skills needed improvement.

The clerk handed Theresa a complimentary ticket. “Next time, come early.”

Theresa thanked the well-tanned woman and drained the bottle. It wasn’t even noon, and she had no idea what to do for the rest of the day. She turned to the woman and asked, “Can you recommend something that I can do that won’t bake or fry me?”

The woman chuckled. “Is there a pool at your hotel?”

Theresa grinned. “Yes, there is. And a spa! But I am going to call ahead! Thanks again.”

Theresa quickly moved across the parking lot and got into her steamy car. How do people live here? she asked herself again. She rolled down the windows, cranked up the air-conditioning, and booked a ninety-minute Himalayan salt stone massage and a deep moisturizing facial. She wondered how much time the woman behind the counter had spent in the sun. You could make a belt out of her skin.

It took most of the entire drive back to the hotel before the interior of the car temperature was below eighty degrees. Everything had a shimmer, as if she were looking at a mirage. Theresa remembered her high school earth science teacher explaining that this optical phenomenon wasn’t the heat cooking the brain, but the bending and reflection of light that passes through layers of air with different temperatures. She smirked. She actually remembered something from high school that she thought she had no use for. At least she wasn’t losing her mind. Not yet.

When she pulled into the hotel driveway, a valet dashed toward her car. He was dressed in red shorts, a white shirt, and a visor with the hotel logo printed on it. “Terrible day for working outside,” she noted.

“It’s like this every day this time of year, ma’am.”

The young man had a point. It was the middle of August; it was hot everywhere. She scooted out of his way and briskly walked into the hotel lobby. It felt like a meat locker. It was wonderful. She went into the café and ordered a light salad and then headed to the spa. That, too, was wonderful.

When she entered, she was greeted by the soothing sounds of Native American flute music and the aromas of sage and lavender. A waterfall gently glided down a red-rocked wall. She could feel the tension slowly release. A petite woman greeted her with a bow. No words were exchanged, but Theresa easily followed her cues. She was led to a private changing room where a soft, plush robe and slippers awaited. This is much more like it. A little pampering could go a long way, especially at that moment. She hadn’t anticipated being stonewalled at Sunnydale, and her quick visit to the gardens did not prove enjoyable. She undressed, donned the spa wardrobe, and retreated to a waiting area with another waterfall and padded teak chaise lounges. Another client was supine with slices of cucumber covering her eyes.

Several minutes passed, and a massage therapist nodded in Theresa’s direction. She wondered if anyone spoke. When they entered the therapy room, the masseuse whispered something to her. Theresa had to bend her head in the woman’s direction to hear her clearly.

“You are getting a Himalayan salt massage, correct?”

“Yes,” Theresa whispered in return.

“Are there any areas of your body you would like me to concentrate on?” Again, her voice was at an almost inaudible level.

My hearing? She joked to herself. “Wherever you think I need it the most.” She climbed onto the table, got situated, and let the therapist do her thing. Theresa let all the tension drain from her body as the woman gently released the knots in her neck. She realized that one doesn’t know they need a massage until they are in the midst of one. She thanked the heat for driving her indoors and drifted off to sleep.

Tempe, Arizona

Seventy-two-year-old Frida Larsen listened intently to the melodious voice of the thirtysomething woman dressed in a beige linen suit. The young woman was attractive but not glamorous and had a pleasant but businesslike air to her. She stood next to a large screen as she clicked through the slides and explained the advantages in investing money in the Sunnydale Securities Firm.

“We will allocate your monthly expenses and make sure all your bills are paid on time. This is a service I am certain you can appreciate. You don’t have to worry about writing out checks and balancing your accounts. Our service will provide the necessary transactions each month while you experience your retirement playing golf, tennis, or simply enjoying whatever strikes your fancy each and every day, worry-free. In addition, we will also allocate funds into a separate interest-bearing account so you will continue to make money on the money you already have. Our program is seamless.”

Frida raised her hand. “Do you mean you will be investing our money?”

“We can certainly provide that service in a separate account we will set up for you.”

“And what is the fee?” Frida asked.

“We charge a minimal fee of twenty dollars per month, per account.” The woman smiled broadly.

Frida furrowed her brow. “If I am understanding you correctly, if I have only one account, then it’s only twenty dollars per month.”

“That is correct.” The woman continued to smile. “It’s less than a dollar a day to have the peace of mind knowing you will never have to pay late fees for bills you may have overlooked. We take the worry out of it.”

Frida nodded and looked at the dozen others staring blankly at the front of the room.

“I have prepared a packet of information that outlines our simple program. I have also included my business card and wrote my private number on the back. I want my clients to be assured they have a direct line to me at any time.” She looked around for more hands. “You don’t have to worry, because all of our conversations are strictly confidential.” She checked the room one more time. “Thank you very much for your time, and I look forward to working with each and every one of you. Have a lovely evening.” The woman walked to the door, her quiet assistant at the ready with the brochures. As people were leaving, the well-manicured woman clasped each attendee’s hand in both of hers, intimating a personal connection.

Frida was still befuddled. She had recently moved to Sunnydale at the urging of her daughter and son-in-law. They wanted her to be close by, but not too close, and they wanted her to be in a safe environment. Sunnydale provided . . .