Until the Iris Bloom: A Novel

By Tina Olton

Tidy Bourbon is a ninety-two-year-old who, despite cognitive challenges, is hoping to live out her remaining days as the independent woman she has always been. Unfortunately, there are those who would like nothing more than to thwart that goal.

First, theres her tenant and sometime care provider, who is arrested and thrown in jail, leaving Tidy improvising to fill the financial and social void left behind. Next, a social worker appears and attempts to get Tidy to move to a senior facility, which will never happen. And then there are the bums down the street, who have a special interest in her personal and financial vulnerability.

Until the Iris Bloom shares the poignant tale of an elderly woman who struggles physically, medically, emotionally, and psychologically when her only remaining support disappears into the legal system. This is a story of how elders may struggle to preserve dignity among the indignities and seek comfort among the discomforts of later life. The story addresses what needs to be considered if it appears our hopes for independence and diginity cannot be fulfilled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532012389

Tina Olton

Tina Olton is a retired financial manager who reinvented herself by training to become a counselor and advocate for elders. She lives with her husband, Stephen Salmon, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where she is happily fulfilling her new purpose in life. Until the Iris Bloom is her debut novel and second book.

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Copyright © 2017 Tina Olton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. As in most fiction, the literary perceptions and insights may be based on experience. In this work, all names, characters, places and incidents, however, are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-1237-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1238-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902272

iUniverse rev. date: 05/09/2017

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Acknowledgments

For all elders who are struggling to maintain their physical and mental strength, their dignity, and their independence, including the scores I have met who inspired this story

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Prologue

S he leaned on her cane as she looked out her window onto the street, watching the Mercury Grand Marquis pull up in front of her house. What? A Marquis? She put a hand to her face to confirm that her thick lenses were indeed covering her ninety-two-year-old eyes. It was a Marquis, her kind of car—big, tanklike. She had a tank car herself. People said she shouldn’t drive it, but what did they know?

The Marquis driver exited his sedan and stood on the far side of the car, examining her house and adjacent property. He adjusted a dizzyingly bright blue-and-red herringbone tie, as if preparing for an important business meeting. But there was no business meeting at her house. Was there?

She squinted down at the man. Too young to be a business executive; a child, in a dark-gray suit and light-blue shirt with that horrible tie. His luxuriant, wavy brown hair, streaked by the sun (or something else), had the look of being combed often. He thinks he’s somebody, all puffed up. What would Ivan think? Puffed up? A smile played at her lips.

No, Puffed Up’s nothing to do with me. She thumped her cane as if to punctuate her thought.

Then again, when she’d woken that morning, she’d put on her best white wool slacks, a fuzzy red sweater, and her black-and-red baseball cap. She usually dressed up when visitors came calling. Had Ivan told her about the visitor? No, she didn’t think so; nobody that young, in that ghastly tie, could be coming her way.

She retreated from the window, shuffling with careful steps in her pink fluffy slippers, to a nearly threadbare couch.

Ivan should be here to remind her if things were happening. Where the hell is he? With a sulky sigh, she lowered her frail frame onto the lumpy cushions.

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The white Marquis was not Reed Johnson’s favorite wheels (he far preferred his girlfriend’s canary-yellow Lexus two-seater), but in the real estate business you needed a car—plain, practical, but posh—for whizzing clients around in comfort from property to property.

This morning Reed was meeting the owner of the house before him, in hopes of becoming her agent. A prime asset on Main Street in the small town of Oakmont, the house had good sales potential and might land him a decent commission. Marilyn, of Green Tree Realty, had passed on the opportunity. As the owner’s former agent, Marilyn had lined up several different buyers ready to grab the well-positioned property. But as soon as any deal had been negotiated, the owner had backed out. Frustrated, Marilyn had gladly handed the whole mess to Reed, who coveted a sale in the neighborhood.

The town of Oakmont was an unincorporated slice of the Northern California coast, sandwiched between two restless cities to the north and south. The waters of Perkins Bay kept the western boundary intact, and to the east, a regional park blocked the creeping fingers of development. The town, known for bars and brothels in its earlier days, now attracted more legitimate businesses, which in turn lured a broader base of residents.

Reed noted several properties on the block in the process of being renovated or rebuilt. On one side of his new interest, the construction of a two-story professional office building showed signs of completion, and on the other side, a mom-and-pop dry cleaner advertised its transformation into a Polish restaurant. He would find a buyer for the house in a flash, as it was the only remaining home in the area and the neighborhood was hot.

Marilyn had listed the house as a teardown, and as he exited the Marquis, Reed acknowledged her good judgment: the building was too small for a business, and as a residence—well, really, who’d want to live next to a Polish restaurant?

Marilyn had warned him about the owner. Eccentric, she’d called her, and unpredictable. Reed thought Marilyn tended to be too ladylike in her selling approach. A little starch, he thought, that’s what’s needed.

He finished fiddling with his tie, stepped around the car to the sidewalk, and almost gagged. What was with the green front porch? Bright green, spearmint green—the steps, the entire stoop, all painted a brilliant green. A blob of bubble gum stoop. Definitely have to redo the entrance, he grumbled. The exterior paint, once white, was now dirty gray and blistered with old age. The whole facade presented as tacky. He was beginning to feel deflated from his earlier excitement about the property. Would he have to restage the entire house?

And herein lay the problem: if the house was a teardown, there was no reason to put any money into sprucing it up for a sale. But he’d have to face that issue when the time came; the time now was five minutes past his appointment.

On the green porch Reed punched the doorbell. A voice within—a screeching, not unlike a hawk, he mused—announced the owner’s presence. Quit your ringing. I’m coming.

Why it took so long, he didn’t understand, but presently shrill words emanated from the other side of the door. Hold on; I’m getting it. The latch clinked, and subsequent tugging eventually sprang the sticky door. A disembodied voice blasted at his chin, Who the hell are you?

Distracted by the green stoop, Reed had missed the all-but-opaque screen that now blocked his view of the woman inside. Mrs. Bourbon. He felt suddenly unbalanced and didn’t know why. I’m Reed Johnson from Royal Realty. We have an appointment this morning, nine o’clock. Talking to a screen with a voice behind it—not his usual style.

You’re not exactly on time, but come in. Still through the screen, the voice said, I’m Tidy, and from a farther distance, Guessing you know that.

She’s leaving me at the door, Reed raged. What woman would do this to me? He wrenched open the outer gate, stepped up into the house, and caught a first glimpse of his prospective client. He was seized by the sight.

Slight and stooped, she walked the bowlegged shuffle of old people afraid of falling and trying to keep their balance. Her costume (there was no other word for it) broadcast old-fashioned, and the incongruity of the baseball cap—well, it was laughable. And don’t even mention the pink fluffy slippers. Eccentric was an understatement.

She had stopped her forward movement at the edge of the living room and, without turning, mumbled, I’m old, and it’s hard to know why I’m still here. Must be the Lord don’t see fit to let me move on and can’t figure out what to do with me. So I’m figuring it out for myself. Always have done. No one tells me what to do or messes with my life. If you’re here to tell me what to do, you better think different. She stood immobile, her back to Reed, who was stuck behind her in the pocket-size front hall.

Reed drew in a long breath and wondered why the Lord hadn’t seen fit to at least move her into the next room. Mrs. Bourbon, I’ve come to talk about selling your house.

What makes you think I want to sell my house? Her voice had risen a pitch or two.

A bead of sweat sprouted on his forehead. The close space of the hall brought on a touch of claustrophobia. You told me on the phone you did, Reed huffed. Her prattle and now the provoking challenge irritated him. It’s a good time to sell, Tidy, ah, Mrs. Bourbon … May I call you Tidy? He reflected on which was more ridiculous: Tidy or Mrs. Bourbon?

"You call me anything you want. My mama named me Teresa Madeline Eugenia, but other folks been calling me Tidy since my girlhood down Louisiana way. I keep my room so neat, don’t you see. My last name supposed to sound like the French snobs, Bour-bon. She pronounced the second syllable nasally. Too much trouble to spell, so I just say Bourbon, like the drink. More likely be spelling Tidy now." She guffawed at her own humor and resumed her march into the living room, leaning heavily on her cane.

With a small gasp of relief, Reed escaped from the front hall. Right, well, Tidy it is, then, and I don’t mind telling you, Tidy, it’s an excellent time to be selling, especially along Main Street. He doggedly carried on with something he understood better than dotty old ladies. The neighborhood is heading for a major turnaround, and everyone will be wanting to buy in here. Reed warmed to his sales pitch.

They had progressed, if slowly, to the middle of Tidy’s tiny living room. She had been trudging for the couch along the opposite wall, but at that moment she whirled to confront Reed, startling him to a standstill. And just who is everybody? she snapped.

Now eye to eye, he had his first full view of Tidy and, in particular, her relatively youthful face. She could be sixty—Marilyn had said ninety-two. High cheekbones, few wrinkles, bright eyes. Pale dark skin or dark white, he wasn’t sure which it was. The baseball cap, askew, had no control over her uncombed gray wisps, which stuck out in disarray—so unlike his fastidiously managed mane.

You realize you’re the only residence left on this street. He wanted Tidy to understand the importance of her isolation. She lived alone here. Why not relocate?

Tidy resumed her trek across the living room, once again making for the graying couch. Forgive me if I move slow, she said. Have to watch every step I take so I don’t fall. Still got my big feet from when I stood tall and straight, but I’m not tall anymore, and big feet can have me tripping, so I go slow.

Reed groaned, not quite audibly, and his shoulders drooped.

Tidy reached the end of the couch and turned, tiny step by tiny step, until she was positioned for sitting. But she didn’t sit. Her head came up, and she stared at Reed standing before her. Her vacant expression momentarily unhinged Reed. She recovered quickly and plopped herself into the cushions long molded by her backside. She dropped her cane, and it crashed against the coffee table. You sit on that ottoman so I can see your eyes, she said. I know a man by his eyes.

The footstool lay squeezed between the TV and a heavy oak-and-steel coffee table that stretched the length of the couch. The furniture in the room was so … packed in, Reed noted, so unwieldy and … graceless. With some effort, he remembered his cause and straightened his back. Starch, he reminded himself, and he sat on the stool as instructed.

He scanned his surroundings. As the small structure was only one story, Reed could survey the entire floor from his perch on the stool. A few feet from where he sat was the bedroom, door open, revealing her bed, with lilac sheets, unmade. To the rear of the combined living and dining rooms, a short hall led to the back entrance. At the end of the hall were laundry machines. The whole of the inside was colorless, except for a comparatively new and outrageously purple carpet throughout. And somewhere along the way, Reed noticed, she’d lost the penchant to be tidy. Piles of newspapers, mail (opened and unopened), church bulletins, and calendars covered every horizontal surface apart from the floor, which was dotted with bits of who knew what. Some of it looked like oatmeal.

These hideous features—interior and exterior—would make pricing the property tough. Reed’s forehead creased with a frown. Who would pay for a building they were going to demolish? He turned his attention back to Tidy and found her glaring at him, her dark eyes piercing, her expression resolute, the line of her thin lips straight and taut. She had been watching him make his inspection, he realized, and he sensed she didn’t like it.

Not without some sensitivity, Reed imagined Tidy upset with the prospect of selling the house she had lived in for decades and decided to alter his approach. You know, your property will sell for good money inside of a week. Right on Main Street, it’s a prime spot for new retail.

Just why I should stay. Keep them developers from turning around everything, like you saying. Who wants a downtown full of nail salons and swanky restaurants? The street surely needs some home life too. She sat straighter in defiance of the restaurants and nail salons. Her hands moved incessantly as she talked, plucking at her pant legs, ranging up the sweater sleeves to her shoulders.

Her constant motion unsettled Reed—again.

Do you have a price in mind for your house, Tidy? Reed asked, trying to get back on track.

I’m not selling. I thought I told you.

Mrs. Bourbon, he said, having trouble keeping a testy tone from his voice, when I called the other day to ask if I could visit to talk about selling your house, you said yes.

I said you could visit. I didn’t say you could sell my house.

His hands, hanging limp on either side of the ottoman, curled into tight balls. Tidy … he began, but a sudden rattling to the rear of the house interrupted him. He glanced up as the door of the back landing swung open to reveal a man of medium height and substantial bulk. Reed couldn’t tell if the fellow staggered or swaggered as he turned to close the door.

Approaching the main room, the bulk appeared not young, not old. He moved with a peculiar gait, swinging left and right, like an elephant. Swagger. His badly cut black hair stuck out from his skull at odd angles. A thick black beard, trimmed short but nevertheless unkempt, filled his lower face. His rumpled clothing—ill-fitting pants, T-shirt, bomber jacket, all shades of black and gray—looked slept in. Heavy black glasses made him appear more like a distracted professor than the bum Reed presumed him to be.

Ivan, Tidy squawked, get in here. This man wants to sell my house. Just last week I’m telling you I’m too old to be moving. I’m ninety-two, and I’m staying in my house till the day I die.

On the ottoman, Reed slumped. This was worse than Marilyn had portrayed. And who was Ivan? Marilyn hadn’t mentioned him.

Ivan’s my tenant, lives in the back room. Ivan, this here’s … What’d you say your name was, mister?

Ivan, I’m Reed Johnson, Royal Realty. He rose from the ottoman, extending his hand. Bum or not, he’d be polite.

What you thinking, Tidy? Ivan’s voice, deep, with a thick Slavic accent, slushed his words together. Why’d you let this man in? You no want to sell the house. He lunged forward into the room, his feet spread wide, not unlike Tidy’s own gait, to keep from falling.

Stagger, Reed amended his former assessment and lowered his proffered hand. Bum was one thing, drunken bum quite another; apparent Russian drunken bum was not within his experience and might be cause for caution.

Tidy exploded, Oh, Lord, you been drinking again. Here it is still morning. You sorry, no-good son of a bitch … I can hardly talk you are so terrible. She rose from the couch and, ignoring her cane, teetered as she moved awkwardly around the coffee table toward the center of the small living room, which had grown smaller with the increase in population.

Reed stepped back toward the wall. He sensed these two characters were about to duke it out, but looking at the frail old lady and the drunken hulk, he wasn’t sure what kind of duel it might be. To his astonishment, the rumpled Russian approached him instead. You heard ’er. She not selling. You leaf now.

Ivan, you’re being rude. You don’t tell people what to do in my house. Tidy’s voice turned shrill. My house! You think you’re something here? You’re nothing but shit and drunk, just plain drunk. The air of the room swirled with the vitriol.

Reed sensed the opportunity to advance his cause had ended and figured he might as well move on. Having backed himself against a wall, however, he had few escape routes available in the small space. Dodging to the right, he risked knocking Tidy off balance, but shifting to his left, he would face the Russian straight on. Being young and still ever so slightly chivalrous, Reed turned toward Ivan.

Ivan, I’m glad to have met you, and I think— Ivan’s right fist came up more swiftly than Reed could have imagined. The impact, feeling something like a brick, landed just below his left eye. He heard the splintering of his cheekbone. The nerves of his facial skin seared as a couple of bulky finger rings inlaid with chiseled rocks coursed down toward the corner of his mouth. A warm, acidic liquid seeped into his lips. Although his vision to the left was now obscured, to his right he caught the blur of Tidy moving faster than her earlier shuffling would have suggested.

She swept up a clump of newspaper from the coffee table and flailed at Ivan’s shoulder. You goddamn drunk. Whack, whack, she flogged the debilitated hulk.

For all her weak demeanor and apparent frailty, Tidy in a rampage resembled a gray-haired dust devil. Within moments Ivan collapsed. In his inebriated state, he was the frail one, and he quickly succumbed to Tidy’s barrage—at any rate, in turning to escape, he lost his balance and crumpled to the floor.

In the midst of the fracas, neither Tidy nor Ivan saw Reed reach for the phone.

County Emergency Services …

I nee’ schum hel’.

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The police arrived first, taking in the scene with amusement. Calls to Tidy’s house were frequent and predictable. The sight before them, however, was curious. The drunk—usually ranting at the front door, locked out—was inside, on the floor. The old lady—usually screaming obscenities from behind the front door—was screaming obscenities over the drunk on the floor, kicking him in the ribs with fluffy pink feet.

Why the old lady allowed the drunk to live with her was a little obscure, although, over the years, the beat cops had come to understand that the Russian provided some degree of comfort and security for the old lady. Today, it appeared, their craziness had escalated.

The paperwork for this melee—a lot like the other scuffles they’d filed before—would be a nuisance. The cops couldn’t ignore the punch, however, and one had to consider that the punch might have landed accidently on the old lady. Writing up the heightened action would at least make the report more interesting. And, not to forget the Realtor with the sunken left cheek—a casualty needing attention—they called an ambulance.

The officers picked three blades of dead grass from the browned front yard, one shorter than the other two. Officer Wilson pulled the stub and lifted the bracelets from his belt. His comrades hoisted Ivan off the floor and steadied him for the cuffing. They then led him out the door, down the spearmint-green porch, and into Wilson’s patrol car, carefully guiding Ivan’s large head so as to avoid any bumps.

Tidy watched the activity from the front window, her emotions moving in quick succession, irritated, amused, sad … so very sad. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles were briefly startling, although the commotion generated by them was not unknown to her, given the number of times the police had been summoned to her home previously. Today, however, the fire truck and the ambulance and the three cop cars, all together, were annoying.

She thought about the pumped-up real estate agent, barging into her living room, carrying on about selling her home. He had left her home horizontal, with bloodied face and, oh my, that hair all a mess. A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Until her eyes followed Ivan into the police vehicle.

You dumb bastard. What am I to do now?

Chapter 1

Claire

T his is a good case for you, Sergeant Jane Rios said crisply to Claire. You’re the best with these violations." Jane worked in the sheriff’s elder-abuse department. The beat cops had figured one way to shorten the paperwork was to make an immediate verbal report to Sergeant Rios. The case warranted it, they’d announced to Rios; the threat of physical violence was too serious to ignore. Sergeant Rios had agreed and thus placed her call to Claire, a volunteer social worker for the county Senior Outreach Services. Claire and Jane worked together occasionally, so they were on familiar t erms.

Why is that? Because I have such a big heart? Claire asked.

You know what I mean. You’re developing quite a reputation for getting our abuse cases resolved—and often enough into court, which makes us happy.

Claire smiled. Her work with the elderly was a new vocation, and she still doubted her effectiveness. Jane’s praise pleased her. Claire had worked for family services until two years ago, when she’d turned sixty-two and chosen to retire. Her husband of thirty years had died shortly before, and after a period of grieving and adjusting, she’d concluded it was time for something different. The Senior Outreach Services program had seemed perfect for applying her skills to a new clientele.

Okay, what’s this one about? she asked Jane.

Vic’s name is Tidy Bourbon.

Tidy? T-i-d-y? Bourbon?

So her Social Security states.

Claire allowed a chuckle. Who’s the abuser?

Guy by the name of Ivan. He rents a room from her. An alcoholic, on disability. He’s been in and out of our hands the last five or six years. I don’t understand their relationship, but we’ve had several calls about them, usually relating to Ivan’s alcoholism.

Jane explained that, over time, she’d read the files of Tidy and Ivan’s escapades as the reports had found their way to her office. She’d noted occasional concern on the part of the responding cops, but mostly the pitch looked to them like Mutt and Jeff or Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny chasing a snit with one another—a variation of the odd couple. Seeing no reason to spend more department time and money on the hoot and the Russkie, in what everyone believed to be a verbal warfare, Jane had filed the reports away—until today.

Why are you bothered enough to call me now? Claire asked.

Ivan has never shown any tendency to physical violence before, but the incident today involved an assault.

On Tidy? Claire blurted.

No, thank goodness.

Jane relayed the information the patrol officer had radioed to her. He stated Tidy was pretty adamant Ivan had never hit her, Jane said. Still, the whole setup is strange. Even if the guy doesn’t abuse Tidy physically, I wonder about other mistreatment—financial abuse, for instance. Ivan’s unemployment, alcohol consumption, and their living arrangement make some sort of abuse a distinct possibility.

Yes, peculiar … and curious.

Jane laughed. I have your attention? You’ll check it out?

What’s the address?

Jane repeated it for her.

Good heavens, right smack in the middle of Oakmont!

Yup, and apparently peppermint green is the color of the year, Jane said, hanging up before Claire could ask what she meant.

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Claire drove into Oakmont from the north, marveling at how well the town had maintained its charm—managing its development, retaining buildings at two stories, keeping out the housing tracts of nondescript, look-alike structures. The downtown main street was changing rapidly, she noticed. Several storefronts had been rehabilitated or razed, and the residences among the businesses had all but vanished, Tidy’s tiny dwelling appearing to be the remaining exception.

By the time she arrived at the scene, the ambulance had left, and Wilson had driven Ivan away. Officer Rickerts had stayed behind as instructed by Sergeant Rios to wait for the social worker.

Claire walked slowly toward the patrolman standing at the end of the walkway and pulled a discreet picture ID from her pocket to identify herself. Claire’s clients were often surprised to learn that she was, by some standards, old enough to be regarded elderly as well. Her parents’ genes had given her smooth, unblemished Mediterranean skin. The only creases on her face were around her dark-brown eyes, which often crinkled with amusement. Claire liked to smile; in fact, she believed in humor as a restorative and said laughing made her feel younger.

The situation ahead, however, would not be particularly cheerful.

Sergeant Rios called me with your request, Claire said to the officer. She told me you often answer calls at this address. What prompted you to suggest I investigate Ms. Bourbon’s circumstances?

Should have seen the guy in the ambulance—just left, Officer Dave Rickerts answered. He was young, tall, and well built with a thick neck, like an ex–football player. She’d want him on her side of an argument, Claire mused.

Who was he?

A real estate agent, evidently. Ivan took a swing at him—a strong jab, I would say. Could be looking at assault and battery. Tidy was madder than hops, kicking Ivan—quite a sight.

Rickerts’s nonchalance spoke of the frequency of these incidents. Jane had said the beat cops who answered the calls to Tidy’s home thought the old lady and the Russian a little local color, worth a few laughs back at the station.

Claire was not entertained. You mean Ivan laid the guy out?

More than that, Rickerts said. We’re talking blood and guts.

Oh, come on.

No, I’m not joking, he said, stiffening as if suddenly remembering Claire’s status. The vic was decked, his face bashed in. Ivan had some lethal rocks on his fingers. They might constitute a weapon, and we could have a felony.

Rocks?

Cut stones, big things, set in finger rings. Caused the lacerations.

Rings, plural? More than one?

Two, nearly identical, maybe that means weapons, plural. Rickerts’s laugh was silenced by a frown from Claire.

She tried not to show her annoyance with the attempt at humor. Violence constituted a dangerous environment for anyone, but for a frail elderly woman … And she didn’t like the mention of weapon—one or two. Okay, thanks for the account, and I appreciate you waiting for me.

Claire sighed and turned to approach Tidy’s porch. Peppermint green. She hesitated and smiled, staring at the entrance. She looked forward to meeting the woman who had added such a remarkable decorative touch to her home.

At the peal of the doorbell, hawk-like cries came from within; Claire imagined a bird flapping sluggishly toward the entrance. The latch clonked several times. Grunting, interspersed with shits, could be heard before the door finally popped opened.

The hawk screeched in Claire’s face, Who’re you? I’ve had enough messing in my life today.

Claire’s reaction was not unlike Reed’s: How do you deal with a voice, instead of a person? But Claire was more pragmatic; she was not unbalanced. "Ms. Bourbon, I’m Claire Richards from the county health services Senior Outreach Services program. The sheriff’s elder-abuse department phoned me, concerned about