Chapter 28 - Nancy

Blackridge Senior Living Center

Blackridge, New Hampshire

Tuesday 11 March 2008

The nursing home is the most modern building on the block, compared to the brick houses and shops lining the streets. I wouldn't call it "new," but it does seem to be kept up well. There are three snow-coated transport busses on the far side of the parking lot, next to a large wheel-chair entrance.

I trail after the boys toward the door, looking worriedly up at the dark skies. While growing up, my mom and dad would take me to the River Heights nursing home on the weekends to volunteer. I got to know a lot of the patrons by name, and they would break into a grin every time they saw me. They called me "the greatest bundle of energy" they had ever seen.

After my mom died, we stopped going.

I swallow, stepping inside. The strong scent of cleaner and Febreze hits my sinuses, and I have to shake my head to be rid of the memories tied to it.

Thankfully, neither Dean nor Sam seem to notice my reaction.

"Hey Hayden," Dean says smartly, leaning his elbows on the reception desk and showing the nurse his badge. "We're here to see the art instructor."

"Wha-" Hayden starts. "I know you?" I can't tell if it's a question or a statement.

Just in case, I give him a tight smile, and nod at the name on his shirt. "Name tag," I say in explanation.

"No, no. I know you guys. You came in here yesterday." His eyes latch on me. "I don't know you, though."

"Yeah," Dean says impatiently. "Agents Wood and McKellen, remember? This is our associate, Nancy Drew. And we are here to see the art instructor."

"Yeah, yeah," he points down the hallway to our left, "I think she's still here."

I follow Dean and Sam through the double doors at the end. The room looks to be both a cafeteria and a rec room, and is empty except for a woman organizing art supplies on rolling carts to be put away. She spots us as soon as we enter the room. She wears a paint-stained apron, and her auburn hair is pulled up into a smooth ponytail. She has a smudge on her cheek.

"Can I help you?" the woman asks with a warm smile, setting down a canvas and clapping her hands together. She bounces on the balls of her feet. Her name tag reads "Elicia Hill." Her eyebrows quirk for a brief moment. "I have met you two before, haven't I?" she asks, pointing at Sam and Dean, "You're the FBI agents, right?"

"And you're the art instructor, right?" Sam asks.

"That'd be me." She stuffs her hands in her apron pockets, settling into a casual pose, and then looks over to where I am standing, "Elicia Hill, at your service." She bows her head for a moment, grinning.

"This is Nancy Drew," Sam introduces, "She's with us."

"Good to meet you," Elicia says.

Dean pulls out the picture of the sword. "We're here about this."

Her eyes widen slightly. "The reference photo Nora gave me? What about it?"

"Reference photo?" I ask.

"Yes." She takes the paper from Dean, examining the printed picture. "Normally, I do tutorials of sunsets and flowers and stuff like that. But, Nora came in last week and asked if I could show her how to paint this. I found it intriguing enough that I used it for my next class. That's the one you saw yesterday."

Sam straightens. "Do you know what made her gain interest in that particular sword?"

"No idea," Elicia says, handing the paper back, "I just assumed it was an interesting thing she'd found online. Why? What is it?"

"It's nothing," Dean lies. He looks back at Sam and I. "I suppose we need to have another visit with Nora Woodbury." Turning his attention back to Elicia, he says, "Do you know if she's around?"

Her smile fades slightly, before she forces it back. "She didn't show up for class today." She shakes her head, and bites her lip. "...Nora's seemed off recently. To be honest, I'm worried about her."

"Let me guess. Because of the deaths at Lockwood?"

Elicia nods, looking down at the ground. "Yes. She keeps rambling on about being sad about the deaths. Almost like she's… guilty." She shakes her head with a nervous laugh. "I mean, it's ridiculous."

"Would she have any reason to feel guilty?" Sam says smoothly.

Elicia's eyes widen slightly. "Of course not! Why should she? She's a poor old woman."

I smile humorlessly. "We have reason to believe she may somehow be involved. Do you know anything about her that could be at all relevant?"

Elicia blinks several times, almost rolling her eyes at our questions. "Nora is the sweetest thing. To suggest that she could be going around killing people is ludicrous. She's in a goddamn wheelchair for crying out loud."

Sam nods. "Well, thanks anyway. We'll let you get back to what you were doing." He catches my eye and gestures his head towards the door.

Once in the hallway, Dean just sighs and shakes his head. "Nothing about this makes sense. Elicia back there is right. Nora is in a wheelchair. How could she possibly be killing people?"

"Isn't Caroline doing the killing?" I point out. "All that needs done is luring people to the mansion."

"Then who sliced the tires of that ghost hunting van?" Dean asks pointedly, "Who took the tape recording from Donovan's camera? Someone is tromping around Lockwood, and I sincerely doubt it's Nora."

"She could be faking," Sam says with a shrug, "Wouldn't be the first time."

Dean rolls his eyes.

"Well," I say, "We might as well talk to her while we're here. She's got to be involved somehow. Did you hear Elicia? Nora feels guilty. She might know something."

"Fine," Dean grumps. "I hate nursing homes."

Upstairs, I smile and nod along as the boys talk kindly to the woman. I kind of lost track of the conversation when the two of them started asking if Nora has anything of her ancestors that could bind their ghosts to Earth. Well, in not so blunt words, but as soon as they started asking about remains of DNA I stopped listening. Force of habit. I think they asked about the sword, too, but there are only so many places you can hide an entire sword without it being noticed.

My eyes catch on the closet. There are a couple of old boxes, a pair of slippers, and... a typewriter. Nervously, I glance back at Nora. She is completely absorbed in the conversation.

Slowly, I sidestep over to the closet. Sam catches my eye, looking confused, but immediately throws himself back into the chat with Nora, distracting her long enough for me to jump up on my tiptoes and grab the typewriter.

It's heavier than I anticipated, and I fall sideways, knocking into the wall with a loud thunk. The old woman starts to turn around, but Dean, having caught on, urgently shouts, "Nora!"

"...Yes?" she croaks, giving me time to regain my balance and sort myself out.

He smiles awkwardly and chuckles. "I just-wanted to make sure that you know you still look… uh, foxy." He winks at her.

"Why thank you, dear," she says, settling back into her wheelchair. "That does help the old ego. You know, when I was younger, I knew a handsome gentleman that looked rather much like you..."

Grimacing, I carefully set the typewriter on the small nightstand, pull one of the copies of "Edward's" notes from my knapsack for comparison, and write out "Mr. Hughes. Your skillset has come to my attention." Everything, including the wonky 'e,' matches exactly.

This is the typewriter used to lure those people to Lockwood.

I look up at the brothers, who immediately get the message.

"Well, Nora," Sam says with a forced smile as I yank the test page free and shove the typewriter back in the closet, "This has been a lovely chat."

"Indeed it has," she responds with a toothy smile, "Do come again, you hear?" she reaches out to caress Dean's wrist. He yanks it away and laughs nervously.

"You got it, Nora."

"No way is that lady sneaking up on people and decapitating them," Dean hisses, his expression harsh under the hallway's fluorescent lights, "She's in a wheelchair for God's sake. She could barely hear our conversation."

"It wouldn't be the first time someone feigned weakness as an alibi," Sam reminds him, "We already talked about this."

"But wouldn't she have noticed Nancy going through her room if she was 'faking?'" Dean points out, gesturing at me.

Sam sets his jaw.

I shrug. "If it isn't her, then it's someone who has access to her stuff. Does she have any family?"

"She's the last Woodbury," Sam says with a sigh.

"So it's gotta be one of the staff," Dean says. "A doctor? Nurse?"

"Or another patient," I suggest.

We all give each other a defeated look.

Sam runs a hand through his hair, and then freezes in realization. "Security cams. All we have to do is see who has access to her room."

"The security cams are 'offline for a security inspection,'" Dean mocks, making finger quotes as we walk back to the car. Well, Sam and I walk. He's doing more of a "Jack Sparrow" saunter. "Do they realize how stupid that sounds? Honestly." He goes around to the passenger's side, and holds himself up with the roof of the Impala. "Honestly."

"It could be anyone," I agree, "Nurses, doctors, visitors, staff…"

"Now what do we do?" Sam asks, setting his elbows on the car and staring off at the sky.

Dean sighs. "I don't know."