by Jeff Shelby
“You here for a cookie?” she practically yelled.
Every head swiveled in my direction.
I tried not to wince. I’d wanted to watch unnoticed for a bit; not just to see how the activity went, but so that I could observe Mary, too.
It had been a few days since Arthur’s death, and Mary’s black attire was gone. She wore tan slacks and a fuchsia blouse in its place, with a thick strand of pearls looped around her neck. So much for being in mourning. Her white curls were a little less tight today, and she’d taken great care with her make-up. Eye shadow, blush, powder, lipstick; I was pretty sure she’d even applied mascara.
Billie shuffled in my direction, holding a small plate of freshly baked cookies. She held it out to me with shaky hands.
They were still warm, the chocolate all gooey and melty. I bit into it. “Delicious,” I proclaimed after swallowing the first bite down.
“We’re taking these to the dining room for lunch,” Billie announced. “Dessert today is rice pudding.” She shuddered.
“You’re not a fan of rice pudding?”
Her face screwed up. “Not when it taste like cardboard.”
I fought the grin spreading across my face. “I’ve had the pudding,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. “It’s not that bad.”
She raised her brows. “Miss Sunny, it’s about the worst thing I’ve ever tasted here.” She glanced at the other women in the room. “We’ve decided that it’s our duty to use our time here in this kitchen to benefit the lives—and taste buds—of others.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded emphatically. “We’re starting with the pudding. Offering an alternative.”
I wasn’t sure health code regulations would allow the dining room to serve any of the food prepared in the residents’ kitchen during actual meal times, but I didn’t want to quell her enthusiasm. “And what’s after that?”
Billie’s eyes twinkled. “I don’t know but I’m sure we’ll think of something.” She gave me one last smile before turning toward the table where Connie was seated. There were a few residents at another table, playing cards, their eyes occasionally drifting to the golf game tuned in on the television.
I shifted my attention back to Mary. She’d finished with the tray and another resident—Flora, I thought—was getting ready to slide it into the oven. Mary’s eyes caught mine and I took that as my cue to make my way toward her.
“Cookies taste great,” I told her, along with the other ladies gathered behind the counter.
“It’s my special recipe,” the woman who I was pretty sure was Flora said. “Handed down from my mother.”
“Well, they’re delicious,” I told her.
She practically beamed. “The secret is to use all brown sugar. And extra vanilla.”
Mary began to load a small plate with cookies.
“Who are those for?” I asked.
She nodded toward a table. “Billie only took a few. They’re going to need more. Earl and Frank both have a pretty big sweet tooth.”
I watched as she took the cookies over to the table. Earl immediately grabbed one and bit into it, and a shower of crumbs fell into his thick beard. He brushed them aside and reached for another. Even from where I was standing, I could hear him lavish praise on Mary.
I watched in both fascination and surprise as she blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl. Was this the same woman who had been devastated by her almost-fiancé’s death just a few days earlier? Because the way it looked to me, she was happily flirting with the man currently complimenting her baking skills.
I stepped in front of Mary as she started her return to the kitchen area, now clutching an empty plate. Billie had returned hers, too, and had left so she could go freshen up before the noon meal.
Surprise flickered in Mary’s eyes when she realized I wasn’t getting out of her way. “Did you need something, dear?”
I offered what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. You know, after everything that has happened.”
She waved a hand in the air. “I’m fine,” she said breezily.
“You are?”
She nodded.
“But Arthur—”
“Arthur is gone.” She was almost nonchalant about it.
“But—”
“I can’t waste my time pining for something already gone,” she said firmly. “Life is much too short for that. Especially at my age.”
I couldn’t argue with her there.
But her attitude struck me as odd. She’d been really shook up after Arthur’s death. How could her attitude have changed so quickly? Had her initial reaction all been a ruse? Had she even been upset over his death?
Probably not, if she’d been the one to poison him.
If someone actually had poisoned him, I reminded myself.
I made a concerted effort to not roll my eyes. I was being ridiculous. And I was realizing that I was spending far too much time focusing on something that didn’t actually concern me.
My job was to provide activities for the residents, not to play detective and try to solve nonexistent crimes.
But even as I thought this, I didn’t march out of that room.
Deep down, I knew why I was invested in searching out answers...and it had very little to do with Arthur Griggs.
It had everything to do with me.
It had to do with finding purpose, with finding something that required me to think and brainstorm and look for answers outside the box. Those were things I should have been doing in my job, and I would have...if Anne had let me.
Instead, I was gumshoeing my way through an incident that probably wasn’t suspicious at all. There was more likely than not a very reasonable explanation for why those leaves had been on Arthur’s plate.
And it almost certainly did not point to the idea that someone had poisoned him.
But at that moment, I didn’t much care for logic.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
Mary startled. “What? Ask me?”
I nodded. “You were sitting with Arthur that night, correct?”
“Well, yes, but I’d gone to the ladies room.”
“Yes, I remember you saying that. But before that, you were sitting with him, right?”
She gave a reluctant nod.
“Was there anything unusual in his behavior that night?” When she didn’t answer, I added, “Did he seem like he wasn’t feeling well? Say anything that might lead you to believe he was sick?”
“He wasn’t sick,” she said firmly.
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. He would have told me if he was. Always a complainer, Arthur was.”
I bit back a smile. Some people were just like that. “What do you remember about that last meal?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to be evasive, but I also didn’t want to come right out and ask her about the leaves on Arthur’s plate. “You had already started eating, right? Denise had brought your food early because you were already seated?”
Her expression darkened. “Denise didn’t bring it, Ruth did. And no, I hadn’t started eating.”
“No?”
Her curls bounced as she shook her head. “I don’t like Mexican food. Too spicy.”
“But Arthur had? Started eating, I mean?”
“Of course.” She snorted. “He always ate like a horse. Even though he absolutely hated Lola’s cooking. Like I said, he was always one to complain.”
I tried to be diplomatic. “It’s hard to please everyone when you’re cooking for a crowd.”
“It’s also hard to please no one,” she pointed out. “Arthur had been on a mission for months to make changes in that kitchen, to get us all better food. He complained to the management, and he even drummed up support among residents to get that woman fired.”
“Lola?”
Mary nodded. “And it seemed to be working.�
� Her shoulders sagged. “I just wonder if anyone is going to continue the crusade now that he’s gone. That was about the only thing he was good for,” she said bitterly.
A new piece of the puzzle had just appeared. One that I hadn’t even known existed.
“Arthur was trying to get Lola fired?”
Mary’s nod was more emphatic this time. “Absolutely. He was convinced that was the only way we were going to get better food. Complaining and filling out suggestions wasn’t working. He was ready to resort to desperate measures.”
Desperate measures.
I mulled this over.
I wondered who else might have been ready to resort to desperate measures.
Perhaps someone who was worried about losing her job?
I didn’t know, but I intended to find out.
THIRTEEN
I had to wait to talk to Lola.
I knew it would be a disaster if I went to the kitchen close to mealtime, and we were minutes away from the noon meal. I’d have to wait until the afternoon lull, that time between lunch and dinner.
My stomach was a bundle of nerves so I skipped eating in the dining room and just grabbed a soda from the machine in the staff lounge. Just thinking about eating something from Lola’s kitchen suddenly had my insides jittery.
Of course, I didn’t have a shred of evidence that proved Lola was connected to Arthur’s death.
Mary had simply mentioned Arthur’s disdain for Lola’s cooking, and the fact that he’d been actively campaigning for her removal. I’d been the one to try to make the connection between the possible poisoning and the cook who had access to the food.
And sure, it might have been a bit of a stretch, but no more so than any of the other people I’d considered as potential suspects in what may or may not have been an intentional poisoning.
I spent the lunch hour and the better part of the afternoon holed up in my office, going over attendance information at our various events and entering them into the spreadsheet I’d created, trying to keep my mind off the mystery I was sure was more a product of my imagination than an actual reality. Once I finished with that project, I moved on to a stack of comments cards I needed to go through. I read through each of them, taking note of what the residents had to say about the different activities they’d participated in.
By the time two o’clock rolled around, I’d finished most of my paperwork and Lola was still firmly on my mind. No amount of work had quelled my desire to go and talk with her.
I debated the wisdom of going to see her. I tried to remind myself that it wasn’t any of my business, and it wasn’t my problem to solve.
But none of that mattered.
Denise was in the dining room, swapping out some of the tablecloths for fresh ones.
“You didn’t come to lunch.” Her voice held a note of accusation.
“I had some work to do in my office.”
She frowned. “You don’t usually pass up a free meal.”
“I’m not usually backed up after being on vacation for a week,” I pointed out.
She acknowledged this with a nod. “You figure anything out about Ruth?” she whispered.
I hesitated. Did I tell her that Ruth had led me to Mary? And that Mary was now leading me to Lola?
I was back to that same question that I always had when it came to Denise: how much did I really want her to know?
“Not really,” I said.
Her shoulders slumped.
“But I’m working on it,” I promised, feeling bad about not being as forthcoming as I probably should have been.
“What are you doing in here now? Grabbing coffee?”
I nodded emphatically. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.” I marched over to the machine and grabbed a cup from the tray positioned nearby.
I peeked into the kitchen. I could just see Lola, standing off to the side, with what looked like a clipboard in her hand.
I heard a buzzing sound and then the swish of fabric. I turned around. Denise had pulled her phone from her pocket and was swearing under her breath.
“Everything okay?”
She gave me a look. “It’s never okay when my brother calls me.” My face must have registered alarm because she rolled her eyes and said, “If Deshawn is calling, it means he needs money.”
She hurried out of the dining room, snapping out a “hello” as she answered the phone.
I set the empty mug down and glanced into the kitchen.
I knew that it was now or never.
I hustled through the doorway.
Lola looked up from the clipboard she was holding.
“Help you?” she asked.
I tried for a pleasant smile even though my insides were beginning to quake.
Lola Covich was not my favorite person.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like her, but her gruff personality always rubbed me the wrong way. Her severe features—the beady eyes, hawkish nose, thin lips—didn’t help. And the fact that she’d gotten her cooking experience serving ten years in the Navy only reinforced my belief that she was a no-nonsense, straight shooter kind of person.
I sniffed the air. “Smells good in here.”
And it did. Sort of.
Lola’s expression was impassive. “First batch of lasagna is in the oven. Still need to make the garlic bread.”
As far as meals at Oasis Ridge went, this was one of the better ones in the rotation.
“Did you need something?” she asked. She motioned to the open cupboards. “I’m in the middle of doing inventory.”
“Inventory?”
“Food order is due tomorrow.”
“Of course.” I smiled again, but my muscles were so tense that it actually hurt to do so. “Um, I was hoping I could ask you a question or two about Monday.”
“Monday? What about Monday?” she practically barked. “I can barely remember what happened this morning, much less a few days ago.”
“Monday was the day Arthur Griggs died.”
Her demeanor didn’t change. “So?”
I swallowed. “So I was just wondering if you noticed anything unusual that night?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s it matter to you? You’re the activity director.”
“I’m actually the recreational therapist,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Same difference.”
It wasn’t. At all. But in truth, Anne had made sure that my job at Oasis Ridge had pretty much been limited to that of an average activity coordinator and not someone who held a degree in therapy.
I tried not to feel defeated as that particular realization washed over me once again.
And then I reminded myself that I wasn’t standing in the kitchen to defend or define my job.
I was there for answers. I straightened and took a deep breath.
“It’s my job to take part in the overall care of the residents who call Oasis Ridge home,” I said. “And you’re a part of that, too.”
She grunted. “What about Monday?”
It was now or never. “Did you notice anything different on Monday night? With Arthur?” I bit my lip. “Or, uh, with the food?”
“I don’t pay attention to the residents,” she said bluntly. “Barely see them. I’m busy in the kitchen, not serving food. Now, every once in a while I’ll help out with serving. And with Patty out sick, I did run some stuff out on Monday. But then that lady offered to help...”
“Ruth,” I supplied.
Lola snapped her fingers. “Yeah, that’s the one. She said she’d help serve so I went ahead and let her. That was about the only thing different that night.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think it was a great idea to have her serve that table but I didn’t have much choice.”
“What do you mean?”
She screwed up her face. “Because of Mary.”
I wasn’t following. “Why would that matter?”
“Because Ruth hates her.”
“Hates her?” This was news to me.
Lola snorted again. “For being the social director here, you don’t seem to know much about the social lives of the residents. I’m pretty clueless but even I knew what was going on there.” She tucked a loose strand of mousy brown hair behind her ears. The rest was captured in a severe bun—probably a hairstyle left over from her military days.
“Ruth hated Mary?” I asked. “Because of...Arthur?”
Lola nodded.
I went over what I already knew about Ruth. She’d been sweet on Arthur and he’d rejected her advances. That was the reason Denise had initially suspected her. And Ruth had told me all about how Arthur had led Mary on, telling her that he was going to marry her but then doing nothing about it.
I supposed I could see how Ruth might be resentful of Mary, and of the fact that the man she was pining for was involved with someone else.
But that seemed far less severe than hating someone.
“I poked my head out just to make sure dinner didn’t end up in Mary’s lap.” Lola let out a cackle. “Enchilada sauce can leave quite a stain.”
I was quiet, trying to process what Lola had just told me. If Ruth hated Mary, and had access to the poisonous leaves, why would she have given them to Arthur? My eyes widened. Maybe she’d doctored the food but had set the wrong plate down in front of Arthur. Maybe it had been intended for Mary, to permanently remove her from the picture so that Ruth would be free to pursue the man she loved.
Or maybe my imagination was running so wild, I was simply formulating even more outlandish theories than the ones before.
Lola tapped her clipboard with her pen. She was staring pointedly at me. “Anything else? You’re interrupting me.”
I felt my cheeks color. “Just one more question.”
She waited, her eyes so narrow they looked like tiny slits.
I screwed up my courage. “What did you think of Arthur?”
She scowled. “I don’t think anything of the residents. I told you, my job is to cook for them. Period.”
“But didn’t he complain about the food?” I pressed. I thought about what I’d heard from Mary, how he’d gotten others on board with his mission. “Did he start any kind of process? You know, to have you...” I couldn’t complete the sentence. Not after seeing the look on her face.