Free "T" is for Trespass by Sue Grafton Page B

rendition, telling her who I was, what had happened to Gus, his move to the nursing home, and the need for someone, namely her, to come to his aid.
    She said, “You’re kidding.”
    â€œThat’s not quite the response I was hoping for,” I said.
    â€œI’m three thousand miles away. You think it’s really that big of an emergency?”
    â€œWell, he’s not bleeding out or anything like that, but he does need your help. Someone has to get the situation under control. He’s in no position to take care of himself.”
    Her silence suggested she wasn’t receptive to the idea, in whole or in part. What was wrong with this chick?
    â€œWhat sort of work do you do?” I asked as a prompt.
    â€œI’m an executive VP in an ad agency.”
    â€œDo you think you could talk to your boss?”
    â€œAnd say what?”
    â€œTell him—”
    â€œIt’s a her…”
    â€œGreat. I’m sure she’ll understand the kind of crisis we’ve got on our hands. Gus is eighty-nine years old and you’re his only living relative.”
    Her tone shifted from resistance to mere reluctance. “I do have business contacts in L.A. I don’t know how quickly I could set it up, but I suppose I could fly out at the end of the week and maybe see him Saturday or Sunday. How would that be?”
    â€œOne day in town won’t do him any good unless you mean to leave him where he is.”
    â€œIn the nursing home? That’s not such a bad idea.”
    â€œYes, it is. He’s miserable.”
    â€œWhy? What’s wrong with it?”
    â€œLet’s put it this way. I don’t know you at all, but I’m reasonably certain you wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that. It’s clean and the care is excellent, but your uncle wants to be in his own home.”
    â€œWell, that won’t work. You said he’s not able to care for himself with his shoulder like it is.”
    â€œThat’s my point. You’ll have to hire someone to look after him.”
    â€œCouldn’t you do that? You’d have a better idea how to go about it. I’m out of state.”
    â€œMelanie, it’s your job, not mine. I barely know the man.”
    â€œMaybe you could pitch in for a couple of days. Until I find someone else.”
    â€œMe?” I held the phone away from me and stared at the mouthpiece. Surely she didn’t think she could drag me into it. I’m the least nursey person I know and I have people who’d back me up on the claim. On the rare occasions when I’ve been pressed into service, I’ve bumbled my way through, but I never liked it much. My aunt Gin took a dim view of pain and suffering, which she felt were trumped up purely to get attention. She couldn’t tolerate medical complaints and she thought all so-called serious illnesses were bogus, right up to the moment she was diagnosed with the very cancer she died of. I’m not quite as coldhearted but I’m not far behind. I had a sudden vision of hypodermic syringes and I thought I was on the verge of blacking out, when I realized Melanie was still wheedling.
    â€œWhat about the neighbor who found him and called 9-1-1?”
    â€œThat was me.”
    â€œOh. I thought there was an old guy who lived next door.”
    â€œYou’re talking about Henry Pitts. He’s my landlord.”
    â€œThat’s right. I remember now. He’s retired. My uncle’s mentioned him before. Wouldn’t he have time to look in on Gus?”
    â€œI don’t think you get it. He doesn’t need someone ‘looking in on him.’ I’m talking about professional nursing care.”
    â€œWhy don’t you contact social services? There has to be an agency to handle things like this.”
    â€œYou’re his niece.”
    â€œHis great-niece. Maybe even great-great,” she said.
    â€œUh-hun.”
    I let a silence fall