Free Outwitting Trolls by William G. Tapply Page A

lovable—father-in-law. Still, he is my children’s grandfather, and he helped Ken and me out when we were getting started.”
    â€œWith money, you mean?”
    â€œThat’s right,” she said. “We couldn’t have done what we did without Charles’s help. Buying the house and the land, buildingthe kennels and the hospital, getting the business up and running. We all pretended it was a loan, and maybe we would’ve eventually paid him back, but then we got divorced and money was a different kind of issue, and I’m sure Ken didn’t give Charles a penny of what we owed him. Not that he needs it.”
    The village of Ashby, Massachusetts, was a straight shot north-westerly on Route 119 from Sharon’s place in Acton. Ashby was the last town before the New Hampshire border, and it had the feel of a rural New Hampshire village.
    Charles Nichols’s assisted living place was a big rambling two-story redbrick structure at the end of a long country road. It sat on the edge of a meadow that sloped up to a woody hillside. To the north a range of round-topped mountains pushed into the sky. A pretty little rocky stream meandered alongside the building, and there were paved walkways and patios along its banks so that wheelchair-bound residents could sit out there and listen to the water music and bask in the sunshine.
    The stream looked like it would hold trout, and seeing it reminded me that springtime had come to New England, and soon the trout would be rising to mayflies, and that reminded me once again that it was time to call Charlie McDevitt and J. W. Jackson and Doc Adams and make some fishing plans.
    A sign directed us to the visitors’ parking area, and from there another sign pointed to the entrance.
    A fortyish woman sat behind a desk in the foyer. When we walked in, she looked up, smiled, and said, “May I help you?” She wore a plastic nameplate over her left breast. Her name was Joan Porter. Her smile was well practiced and automatic.
    â€œWe’re here for Charles Nichols,” Sharon said. “I’m his daughter-in-law.”
    Joan Porter looked Sharon up and down, glanced at me, thenturned back to Sharon and gave her that professional smile. “Charles is in the dayroom. Do you know where it is?”
    Sharon shook her head.
    â€œDown that corridor and around the corner on your right,” she said with a vague wave of her hand. “They’re watching the Red Sox game.”
    â€œHow is he?” Sharon asked.
    â€œCharles is a lovely gentleman,” said Joan Porter, “and he rarely complains. He’s recovering from his accident.”
    â€œAccident?” asked Sharon.
    â€œYou didn’t know?”
    Sharon shook her head.
    â€œHe fell and broke his wrist a couple of weeks ago,” said Joan Porter. “He’s been having some pain, not sleeping well, and of course a man his age, he heals slowly.”
    â€œWhy did he fall?” asked Sharon.
    Joan Porter frowned. “Excuse me?”
    â€œI meant, how did it happen?”
    â€œHe was alone in his room. People Charles’s age, they tend to lose their balance.”
    â€œNobody was with him when it happened?” asked Sharon.
    Joan Porter shook her head. “It was in the evening. He was alone. In his own room. In the independent living wing.”
    Sharon nodded. “This is my friend Brady Coyne, by the way,” she said. “He’s a lawyer.”
    Joan Porter held out her hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you.”
    I gripped her hand.
    â€œPlease don’t sue me,” she said.
    I smiled quickly.
    â€œOh,” she said. “I bet everybody says that to you.”
    â€œJust about everybody,” I said.
    â€œDown this corridor, is it?” asked Sharon.
    Joan Porter nodded. “Before you jump to conclusions,” she said, “you should talk to Charles’s physician.”
    Sharon turned and