Dead by Dinner Time

by Jeff Shelby

  “Did you check on him?”

  She frowned. “Of course I checked on him. What kind of person do you think I am?” Her expression clouded. “I could tell pretty quick that he wasn’t breathing. I called to Lola and Ruth, and then I tried the Heimlich on him. But he wasn’t even conscious. I was pretty sure he hadn’t choked.”

  “Ruth? Why did you call out for Ruth?” Lola was the cook, so it made sense that Denise would summon her for help, but Ruth was another resident, and I didn’t think she’d had any type of medical career in the past.

  “She was helping serve tonight,” Denise told me. “Patty’s out sick, remember? And Lola was upset that residents were complaining about the wait times at lunch. Ruth had offered to help during the noon meal so I asked if she’d be willing to step in during dinner.”

  I imagined that probably made Ruth’s night.

  Until someone died.

  I glanced over at the table where Arthur and Mary had been seated.

  “And Mary wasn’t with him?” I asked.

  “Of course she was. Those two are always together,” Denise said. “But she stepped out. I think to the ladies room.”

  That was exactly what Mary had told me.

  I took a deep breath. It sounded like maybe Arthur had suffered a massive heart attack. Or an aneurysm. Or something else that had rendered him lifeless in seconds. It at least sounded like he hadn’t suffered, which was a good thing.

  But I was still sad that he was gone.

  I looked one last time at the table. The two plates of food were still there, Arthur’s half empty. Mary’s mug still had the teabag sitting in it.

  My thoughts immediately returned to Mary.

  She and Arthur had been each other’s meal date for months, pretty much ever since Mary had moved to Oasis Ridge. I wondered who she would sit with now. Who she would talk to. What she would do with all of her time, and who she would do it with.

  Anne’s frequent words played in my mind.

  Change isn’t always a good thing.

  I hated it to admit it, but in this case, she was absolutely right.

  FIVE

  My arm muscles were aching.

  It was the next day and I was trying to keep things as normal as possible. Chair Yoga had just ended and I had offered to help Jackie, our volunteer from Yoga Moves, a local yoga studio, restack the chairs in our Activity Room. She’d pulled a muscle in her shoulder and was trying not to aggravate it.

  Unfortunately, my shoulder and arm muscles were also screaming in protest after lifting and then stacking the twentieth heavy metal chair.

  “Thank you so much,” Jackie said. “I just know I couldn’t have managed to put those away on my own.”

  “No problem,” I said, rubbing my arm muscles. “You didn’t get them set up, did you?”

  She shook her head. “Goodness, no. One of the aides here offered to help. Aidan, I think?” She slung her rolled up purple yoga mat over her good shoulder. “Nice young man, about your age.”

  “That’s him.”

  She smiled. I knew she was close to fifty based on the volunteer application she’d submitted, but she honestly didn’t look a day over thirty. Long blond hair, a beautiful complexion, and a body that was better toned than my own. I wondered how much of it she attributed to her yoga-filled, vegan lifestyle and how much of it was simply good genetics.

  Jackie left and I started getting the room ready for one of our afternoon bingo sessions. We usually had a half dozen or so on the schedule for each week, mostly because it was one of the activities Anne actually approved of. Start time was usually at four o’clock, which gave residents a good forty-five minutes of playing time before packing up and heading down for the dinner meal.

  I set out the bingo cards and the wheel, and pulled the prize cart from the supply closet. We had a number of high school and college kids who volunteered to run the games, and I was grateful for this. It was hard enough for me to block out so much time on the calendar to host bingo times, especially when there were so many other things we could be scheduling instead. I couldn’t imagine how high my resentment might go if I was actually forced to run the activity.

  Taylor, one of the high school volunteers, walked into the room with her backpack still strapped to her back. I knew she came straight to Oasis Ridge from school.

  We said hello and chatted for a few minutes, and then I got out of her way. She’d been volunteering at Oasis Ridge longer than I’d been employed there, so I knew she was well versed in what to do.

  I left the room and was heading back down to my office when I saw Denise marching toward me. She motioned for me to come over.

  “Psst,” she whispered loudly, as soon as I was within hearing distance.

  I furrowed my brow. “Why are you whispering?”

  She motioned again, beckoning me to come closer.

  “Seriously, Dee. What are you doing?”

  “I found something.” She was trying to be discreet but her voice was more like a stage whisper.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Her dark eyes were wide. “After you left the dining room last night,” she said. “Something weird.”

  We found lots of weird things in the dining room. Dentures. Pills. Even travel-sized bottles of liquor that residents surreptitiously dumped into their drinks. Some of those things ended up in the lost and found. Some did not.

  “Okay...” I waited.

  She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the small hallway that led to the upstairs public restrooms.

  “What are you doing?”

  She put her hand to her chest. “I found something at Arthur’s table when I was cleaning up last night.” She took a deep breath. “Leaves.”

  “Leaves?” I repeated. “Like leaves from outside?”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t know. Maybe.”

  I stared blankly at her. She was whispering about leaves? “You’re not making any sense.”

  “They were on his plate,” she hissed.

  “Like as a seasoning? Parsley or something?”

  “I don’t think so.” Her frown was deep. “We served enchiladas last night.”

  I had absolutely no idea why she was freaking out.

  “Uh, cilantro? That’s a Mexican seasoning, right?” I didn’t think Lola used cilantro, since some people really hated the taste and because so many of the residents didn’t like their food to be savory, but it was still a possibility. And I also didn’t see why it mattered.

  “Lola doesn’t use cilantro,” Denise said firmly.

  At least I’d been right about that.

  Denise fished around in her pants pocket and pulled out a small, snack-size baggie.

  “What is that?”

  “The leaves.”

  “You took them?” I glanced at the bag she was holding. “And...put them in a baggie?”

  She nodded. “Darn right I did. Those leaves don’t belong in our dining room.”

  “Denise,” I began, but she cut me off.

  “This ain’t cilantro, Sunny. I just know it.”

  “Basil?” I suggested.

  She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think it’s food.”

  I folded my arms. “What exactly are you saying?”

  “I don’t know.” Her gaze shifted from me to the baggie in her hands. “I just have a funny feeling about this.”

  “What kind of funny feeling?”

  She hesitated.

  I cocked my head. “A funny feeling about what, Denise?”

  “A feeling that something might have happened to Arthur.”

  I sighed. I was pretty sure I knew where she was going with this.

  “Something did happen to Arthur,” I pointed out matter-of-factly. “He died.”

  She nodded emphatically. “I know. But everyone thinks he died of a heart attack or something. But what if he didn’t?”

  “You watch too much television,” I told her.

  I started to walk awa
y but she stopped me, putting her hand on my arm. “I do watch too much Law & Order,” she admitted. “But hear me out.”

  “I already did.” I tried to shift my arm out of her grip but she was holding on pretty tight.

  “What if Arthur didn’t die of natural causes?” she asked.

  I stopped. Slowly, I turned around to face her, a small ball forming in my gut. “What?”

  Her eyes were huge again. She swallowed. “What if someone killed him?” She held up the baggie. “With this.”

  SIX

  “Start talking,” I ordered.

  Denise and I were sitting in the dining room at one of the empty tables. Dinner was going to be served in about twenty minutes so I knew we didn’t have much time. I’d poured myself a cup of coffee and Denise had grabbed a water bottle from her personal stash in the fridge in the employee break room and we were parked at one of the tables, far enough away from the clatter coming from the kitchen as Lola bustled about.

  “I already told you everything,” she said.

  “No, you didn’t.” I took a sip of coffee. “You haven’t said a single word about why you think Arthur’s death is suspicious.”

  Denise rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  It really wasn’t. All Denise had done was show me a baggie with two tiny leaves in it. I wasn’t a master chef or anything, but even I could tell that the items in question looked an awful lot like an herb. Parsley. Cilantro. Which was exactly what I’d suggested to her when she shoved the bag in my face.

  “You showed me a baggie with leaves in it,” I reminded her. “Did you show them to Lola? Ask her if she’d used anything like that in the enchiladas?”

  Denise’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “Of course not.”

  “Why wouldn’t you? She’s the one who cooks the food. She could clear this up in no time.” I put my hands on the armrest, intending to push myself into a standing position, but Denise shoved me back down.

  “Hey,” I objected with a frown. “What are you doing?”

  She slid her chair closer and leaned in. “Look, you don’t know all the drama that goes on here.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Did she seriously not think I wasn’t privy to the gossip and rumor mill that operated at Oasis Ridge? I’d discovered pretty quickly that working in a retirement community was an awful lot like being back in junior high. There were catty girls—in this case, women—and petty gossip, and it seemed as though someone was always mad at someone else. I might not be serving residents meals three times a day like Denise was, but I heard my fair share of the goings-on when I supervised or led activities.

  “There’s always drama,” I said.

  “Not like this.” She shook her head. “This is...this is...” She looked to the ceiling, trying to think of the word she wanted. “Nefarious.” She sounded triumphant.

  “Nefarious?” I repeated. “Two tiny leaves on a plate are nefarious?”

  “If someone put them there to kill him they are,” she said firmly.

  I cupped the mug sitting in front of me and tried to remain patient. It was becoming increasingly difficult. I’d always liked Denise, but I couldn’t fathom how she was jumping to these weird conclusions about Arthur and the other residents.

  “What kind of things have you heard?” I finally asked. Maybe once she gave me some details, I could talk some sense into her.

  Her brow wrinkled. “What are you talking about?”

  “You mentioned drama. What kind of drama have you witnessed?”

  She played with the cap on her water bottle, twisting it off and on. Her nails were long and tapered, a shocking hot pink. “I hear things no one else does,” she said cryptically. “I’m like a fly on the wall during meal times. You wouldn’t believe the things I overhear in this room.”

  “Try me,” I said.

  She opened her mouth but then her gaze shifted from my eyes to behind me, and I turned around.

  Mary was in the dining room, slowly making her way toward us. She wore all black. Black pants, a black sweater. A black veil was pinned to her white curls.

  “Mary.” I stood up to greet her. “How are you?”

  Her mouth puckered. “As good as can be expected, I guess.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Mary gave a slight nod to acknowledge the sympathies I’d extended. “We were going to get married, you know,” she said.

  “Married?” I repeated. How on earth had I missed that bit of news?

  “That’s why I’m dressed this way.” Her voice was wobbly, and I worried that she might break down in tears. “To properly mourn him.”

  “Of course.” I paused for a moment, trying to think of the most tactful way to ask the next question. “Will there be a service for Arthur?”

  She stiffened. “I don’t know,” she clipped. “His family is making all of the arrangements.” She said the word ‘family’ as though it were a dirty word.

  “His family?” I repeated.

  “His daughter.” She sniffed. “That woman hasn’t seen her father in years and yet she is the one deciding on his final resting place. The hymns to sing at his service. What kind of coffin and headstone he’ll receive.”

  It was obvious how much this upset Mary, and I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way. She and Arthur had been close, and if they’d been able to get married before he passed, she most likely would have been the one making those decisions. I could only hope that Arthur’s daughter had spoken to her father at some point so at least his wishes could be taken into consideration.

  “Anyway,” Mary said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief she produced from her pants pocket. It, too, was black. “I’m sure the service will be fine. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  I nodded. There didn’t seem to be much else to say.

  She glanced toward the table she and Arthur had shared, and she shivered. “I...this is the first meal I’ve come to since...since he died.”

  “Where did you have breakfast and lunch?” I asked.

  “In my room. I wasn’t very hungry.” She pulled herself up to her full posture and cleared her throat. “I know this will be difficult but I have to do it. I have to come back. Face this.”

  I gave her an encouraging smile. “You’ll do just fine, Mary. It will be okay. You’re a strong woman.”

  She gave me a weird look. “I’m talking about sitting in the dining room. Alone.”

  I felt the heat rush to my cheeks.

  Of course.

  Duh.

  A tall, thin man walked into the room, making all of our heads swivel in his direction. I was grateful for the distraction.

  Earl Lipinski headed straight toward our table with a smile on his face. It wasn’t actually visible, considering the heavy white beard it was hidden underneath, but I could tell by the way his eyes crinkled that it was there.

  “Mary,” he said, holding out his hands to her. The smile had vanished, instantly replaced by a look of concern. “How are you?”

  “I’m alright.”

  He held her hands in his. “You look lovely,” he told her. “I’m sure Arthur is watching you right now. You’ve made him proud.”

  Mary’s eyes misted. “Do you think?”

  “I don’t think, I know,” Earl said. “And I know something else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Arthur wouldn’t want you to eat alone.” He let go of her hands and executed a stiff bow. “Would you allow me to escort you to dinner?”

  Mary’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh...well...” She sounded flustered. “If you want to.”

  “I insist.” He placed his hand on the small of Mary’s back, and Denise and I both watched as he guided her to a table. It was a different table than the one she would sit at with Arthur.

  “See what I mean?” Denise hissed.

  “What?”

  “All the drama and craziness that goes on here!”

  I stared at her. “Earl offered
to eat dinner with her because she just lost her dining partner. The man she was apparently going to marry. How is that considered drama?”

  Denise rolled her eyes. “Not that! The way she was dressed! Did you see that? Who does that? Who wears all black—including a veil—when they weren’t even married to the guy that died?”

  “I thought it was kind of sweet.”

  Okay, so it was also a little weird, too, I had to admit. But I didn’t know what traditions and customs Mary lived by. Maybe it was normal to wear black when you mourned the loss of any loved one.

  “I’m telling you, the only people who are supposed to wear black are widows and close relatives. And with widows, they’re supposed to wear it for an entire year.” She sniffed. “Mary ain’t no widow. They weren’t married!”

  “I think she is perfectly capable of deciding how she chooses to mourn.” I hoped Denise could hear the reprimand in my voice.

  Denise grabbed her water bottle and stood up. “I need to get to work,” she said.

  I took one last sip of my coffee. “Me, too.”

  I picked up my cup and got to my feet, too. “I know this whole situation has gotten your attention, but I really think it was just...just life.”

  From the look on Denise’s face, she wasn’t buying it.

  “Nope,” she said, confirming my thoughts. She reached into her pocket and before I knew what was happening, she was pressing the plastic baggie into my hand.

  I balked. “I don’t want this!”

  “Well, neither do I.”

  I tried giving it back to her but she held tight to her water bottle with one hand and shoved the other back into her pants pocket.

  “Take it back,” I told her. “Throw it away.”

  “No way.” She shook her head vehemently. “It might be evidence.”

  “Then you keep it.”

  “Are you insane?” she said incredulously. “You know what’ll happen to me if I get caught with that?”

  “What are you even talking about?”

  “I am a black woman,” she announced, loud enough so that both Mary and Earl turned in our direction. She lowered her head—and her voice. “You know what the police will think if they find a baggie of leaves on me?”