“I'll take whatever you're offering,” Corrine chirps. “I just like being wanted.”
“Geeee-odd, Corrine. And you say I suck at negotiation?”
“What negotiation?”
Agnes spirals her finger around her ear and points at Corrine. I notice a bumper sticker on her walker that reads, My amygdala is my favorite scapegoat.
With a pink brain on it.
“Here,” Carol says, handing Corrine her folder. I motion for Carol to take a seat.
She shakes her head.
I cock my eyebrow.
Her nonverbal reply says, Oh, please. You can do better than that.
She is Marie Jacoby's daughter, after all. She doesn’t cower easily.
I change my expression to pleeeeease, and add a belly rub for good measure.
Her eyes jump to my hand. Guilting people into doing stuff for me because I'm pregnant with twins has turned out to be far easier than I expected.
“Fine,” she hisses, taking a seat and turning to Agnes and Corrine. Her finger comes out, like she's scolding an errant child. “I'm going to explain the job, and you're going to listen.”
Corrine smiles sweetly.
Agnes rolls her eyes.
“We own assisted living homes as well as retail spaces, resorts, and restaurants. It's the assisted living homes that require your help. Quality control is important, but we also need to track other issues. How women are treated versus men. Minorities, immigrants. LGBTQIA seniors. People who don't speak English well. Income level. All of those factors and more. We need to track customer service in every way possible.”
“Sounds like a lot of detail. My memory is great, but Corrine's is absolute crap.”
“Hey!” Corrine objects.
“Am I wrong?”
“About what?”
Agnes tilts her head and gestures at her friend. “See?”
“Actually,” I interject, “that's what we need. Authenticity. Genuine senior citizen behavior.”
“Well, you've come to the mother lode,” Corrine says, glaring at Agnes. But her expression falters, concern creeping in. “But we don't need jobs. I've got my late husband's pension and social security. And I can't come into Boston every day. Heck, Agnes isn't even allowed to drive anymore–”
“HEY! THAT'S PRIVATE, CORRINE!” Agnes bellows.
“You talk about getting pissed on during sex and suddenly you're offended I told the truth about losing your driving privileges?” Corrine says in a smug voice.
Carol looks at me and whispers, “This will be you and Shannon in sixty years.”
“I hate you,” I hiss back.
“Corrine. Agnes,” Carol says smoothly. “This isn't a regular job. We'd need a commitment of about one to two mystery shops per week, especially when we're dealing with theft issues in stores and have time windows we're focused on. You do need transportation, though. Do you have someone who could drive you there, reliably?”
They both frown.
Until Corrine lights up, her hand going into the air, finger pointing up.
“I know!” She looks at me. “What about Gerald?”
“Gerald?”
“You know. Gerald Wright? Your husband's chauffeur?”
“I know who Gerald is. What about him? You know him?”
“We take sculpting courses from him at the Westside Center for the Arts. And he's a professional driver. Why not have him drive us to these mystery shops?”
“Damn it, Corrine, there you go again.”
“What?”
“Just when I've written you off as a typical dumb blonde, you go and get a great idea. Why didn't I think of that?”
“Because you're an angry old bat who only thinks about herself?”
“No. That doesn't explain it.”
“Gerald has a job, Corrine,” I explain.
“Can't your husband spare him four times a month?”
“No,” Carol says firmly, in a voice that surprises everyone. Even Agnes doesn't argue.
“In order to do these jobs, you need three things: transportation, a smartphone, and a younger family member to go with you and evaluate how family members are treated.”
“I am not bringing my daughter along! She might like one of these homes and decide to put me in it!” Agnes shouts.
“My children all live far away,” Corrine says in such a mournful voice, I'm close to tears.
“And I have no use for those smartphones. My grandson tried to teach me how to use that Facetime thing and I ended up turning it on while I was washing my pits,” Agnes adds.
My tears turn to nausea.
“Hey!” Corrine chirps. “What about Cassie?”
“Cassie? The woman who was just here?” I ask.
Corrine nudges Agnes. “Cassie's not in police school now, and she doesn’t have a regular job. She could be our driver. She knows how to use a smartphone.” Corrine turns to me. “Why does she need one?”
“To answer questions about the mystery shop in the app. Quietly take pictures and upload. Add video when needed.”
“Oh, we definitely need Cassie, then. Would Anterdec pay her to help us? She's smart. She was studying to be a cop.”
“A cop?”
“She's not anymore,” Corrine says quickly. “But she wants to be a private investigator.”
“Actually, mystery shopping and PI work overlap,” Carol says, giving me a look I quickly understand. She thinks hiring Cassie is worth it.
So do I.
And if she might be willing to do some shops on her own, we could really make it worth her while.
Suddenly, someone's phone goes off, the ring tone the opening bars of “It's Raining Men.”
“Gawd,” Agnes groans, reaching into her purse, finally pulling out a flip phone that looks like something from 2004. When she opens it, the buttons are huge.
“Can you read that, Corrine?” she asks, squinting at the display screen. It's so big, I can read it from across the desk.
I could probably read it from the Grind It Fresh! Counter two blocks away.
Corrine digs through her own purse, finding readers. Except she already has readers on the top of her head.
Two pairs, in fact.
“It says, I'm in the lobby, Grandma. Call when you're ready.”
Agnes looks at me. “Are we ready?”
Carol and I lean toward each other. “Why don't you take Agnes and Corrine into your office,” I say, formulating a plan on the fly. “Meet with Cassie. See if there's a way to make this work for everyone. We really do need smart, trustworthy shoppers for our properties and so far, we've had nothing but trouble with the elder shoppers.”
“It's not their fault they keep dying, Amanda.”
“I don't mean that! But transportation is an issue for so many. And this is such an important evaluation. We need to know that our elders are being cared for with compassion and kindness, and the only way to do that is to have people like Agnes and Corrine rise to the occasion. They're special.”
“We are?” Corrine gasps, hands clasped over her heart.
“You heard that but you don't hear me half the time?”
“I hear nice things loud and clear, Agnes.”