“She should. Sharp received a big salary.”
I tried again. “Have you and Mary discussed her assuming the administrator’s position?”
Grandpa pushed away his sorbet glass. “I’m ready to go.”
His comment made me uneasy. He saw Mary as the natural replacement for Trent and Betty. I knew this revelation would keep me awake tonight long after the coffee’s caffeine wore off. Could my grandfather …? No. Impossible.
We pulled into the circular drive before nine, and Harlan Gramford and his two bichons waited near the front desk. He shifted the dog he held to the crook of his arm so he could shake hands with Grandpa.
“John Nolan, glad to have you back. Sunset has missed you.” He moved the dog a little closer, and Grandpa scratched the dog’s ears.
“I’ll grab his suitcases and help him get settled. We had a great dinner on the way back from Boston.” I noticed Grandpa’s puzzled expression and grabbed his arm. “Grandpa, help me with your luggage.”
I remembered the old saying about loose lips sinking ships. Had I made a critical mistake by mentioning a fictitious trip to Boston?
CHAPTER 13
I couldn’t sleep, so I pulled out my laptop and looked at my suspect list. I started with the dead woman, Betty Boyd. Detective Hardy believed she killed Sharp, and closed the case. Yes, Betty had a previous relationship with Sharp and worked with him in a company that failed. After Sharp implicated her in wrongdoing, she served prison time. Then she ended up with Sharp at Happy Days. Did she suspect he might fleece the facility and use her as the scapegoat again? Maybe the detective was right, but doubt pricked the assumptions.
After Betty, I stared at Will Tomlinson’s name. He believed he was Trent Sharp’s heir, and he needed money to get his project off the ground. I’d witnessed an argument between Will and his uncle Trent the morning of the murder, and Sharp’s last will and testament devastated the young man.
Next, Noelle Rollins. She loved Will and wanted him to succeed. She also believed Sharp led the movement to remove her father from his job, which caused his despondency and despair. But Noelle? I wanted to mark her off the list, but there she was, my childhood friend, the woman who worked with me, who taught me yoga, and a prime murder suspect.
Mary’s out-of-character outburst in our private conversation moved her up on the list. I’d discounted her because she was a God-fearing woman who taught me Bible lessons. But she’d lambasted Sharp for organizing the church funds’ theft and placing the blame on her husband. She said she’d forgiven Sharp, but I knew from personal experience that sometimes we humans like to take back our forgiveness. We chew on our anger again and savor the deliciousness of being wronged. Could her bottled-up rage spur her to commit murder?
I deliberated about Harlan Gramford. His partnership with Sharp might have been on shaky ground. He seemed invested in the facility, but was the program on the up-and-up? Logan’s investigation, the one he wouldn’t explain to me, centered on senior living facilities in the New England area.
Logan? I added his name. He rented my grandfather’s house from Sharp. He bragged about his reputation for finding a scoop, for getting the story, doing research pieces. Nothing criminal about that. He sat at the table with Sharp that morning, but I couldn’t come up with a solid motive to put with Logan, or maybe I didn’t want to look.
My fingers flew over the keys. Jane Mills also sat with Sharp that fateful morning. She was Sharp’s love child, but he’d rejected Jane and her mother. The Sharp family trust paid off her mother, and Jane admitted she had an inkling that she was Sharp’s daughter. She also hinted she knew about Trent’s changing his will.
I had to list my grandfather as a suspect too. The man I loved in my childhood could never commit murder, but he was different now. He had a motive. Make that plural. Trent Sharp had tricked him into the bad church investment and orchestrated Grandpa’s losing his home and self-respect. Sharp continued to live lavishly while Grandpa and his friend’s widow and daughter, Mary and Noelle, struggled. Motives piled up on the debit side for him.
I slammed down the laptop’s cover. I should make it easy for myself and go with Detective Hardy’s findings that Betty murdered Sharp and that her death was a heart attack. Shouldn’t I?
When Detective Hardy arrived for his morning crumpet, I asked to stop by his office after work. If Trent Sharp had changed his cheating ways, as the country-western song lyrics said, the detective might offer an unbiased opinion.
After the shift, I perched on a stool near Noelle’s work station and removed my green, yellow, and pink striped apron.
“What a day.” I exhaled an exaggerated sigh.
Noelle groaned an agreement. “When you’re busy out front, we’re twice as busy back here. We do your orders and also outside deliveries. I’m off to see Will.”
I’d biked to work, so rather than go to my garage apartment and then back downtown, I elected to head straight to Detective Hardy’s office.
His secretary gestured to the office on the left. “He’s expecting you.”
I knew the police receptionist. She was a scone and strawberry jam regular at the tea shoppe, whose two daughters lived locally. The older one was at loggerheads with her teenage son, and her younger girl’s marriage was going through a rocky patch. Information a waitress could glean astonished me. I knocked on the door bearing Hardy’s name.
“Come in. You smell like Tea by the Sea’s bake shop, my favorite fragrance.”
“I came straight from work. I have a question about Trent Sharp.”
“Why?” His abruptness startled me.
“Curiosity. I hear things at work. Some folks mentioned Sharp had changed recently. I thought you’d know.” Would a compliment encourage him to share information?
“Sharp began attending the men’s Bible breakfasts at my church each week. I think his original intent was to promote vacation home leases. But then he started listening to God’s Word.” He pointed to the chair opposite the desk. “Why are you asking? You’re not still nosing around, are you?”
I reverted to the childish habit of crossing my fingers before I answered. “No.”
“Good. Don’t stir up mischief.” He checked his watch.
“I’m interested because people seemed to love Sharp or hate him, which I find unusual.”
“Ladessa, the case is over. I served as Sharp’s prayer partner, and he told me he intended to make restitution to those he’d wronged, beginning with Betty Boyd.”
“Did Betty know she’d get money if Sharp died?” I tilted my head and gave him my best innocent look.
“I don’t know.” The detective glanced at his watch again. “Sharp repented a couple weeks after school started. I remember because my daughter began kindergarten this year. And it’s time for me to pick her up. Anything else?”
I followed him from the office. What a fool I’d been! Detective Hardy had kids, at least one, which meant he probably had a wife. How could I be so wrong? I obviously couldn’t tell the difference between flirting and being polite. I said goodbye to the secretary, the scones and strawberry jam lady, zipped my jacket, and tugged on my gloves before biking home.
Detective Hardy was married. Some sleuth I was. And what about Logan? Was he being kind, or did he like me?
I’d neglected to share two critical remembrances with the detective. The Happy Days folks had returned to the tea shoppe to use the restroom before the punkin’-chunkin’ demonstration, and I’d only locked the front door for the event. Restaurant workers or regulars could have slipped in or out the back entrance before the police arrived. I’d seen Trent Sharp’s nasal spray on the table when I served their order, but the vial was gone when I discovered his body. Unfortunately, anyone could have removed the murderous nasal spray and planted it in Betty’s tote bag.
I spied Logan’s car when I turned the corner toward home. I should ask him flat out if he was married and if he had a kid in kindergarten. I didn’t want to be mistaken abou
t him. As my list of suspects waxed, my possible love interests waned.
I raced up the steps and turned on the shower, waiting until the steam coated my tiny bathroom mirror before stepping under the soothing spray. I was dressed, but my hair was still towel turbaned when I heard four knocks, a pause, and then two more.
I slipped my feet into fuzzy cat slippers and opened the door to gorgeous, good kisser Logan Hernandez.
“Logan, are you married?”
“What?” He took a step backward then shook his head. “Uh, no. I’m not married.”
“Good to know. Come in.” I pulled the door a full ninety degrees and allowed him to pass.
“Should I come back later? Do you need to do something with your hair?” He studied the purple towel wrapped around my head.
“I wish I could. My hair decides how it will behave. Give me a minute.” I probably scared him by asking about his marital status, but now I knew, and knowing was important.
Logan still stood on the entry rug when I returned. “Something to drink?”
“No. I have the results on your grandfather’s pills from my pharmacist friend.” He retrieved a paper from his jeans’ back pocket.
“Sit, please sit.” I plopped on the sofa and patted the cushion next to me.
He eased down and thrust the paper toward me. “Your grandfather is getting sedatives mixed in with his blood pressure, thyroid, and cholesterol pills. The lab person said those meds usually come in tablets, but your grandpa’s samples were capsules that contained what he needed and more.”
“That explains his exhaustion and sleepiness. Could the sedatives account for his disorientation, his forgetfulness?”
“Possibly. My friend suggests purchasing his prescriptions from a different pharmacy.”
“Why would a doctor do that? What reason would he or she have?”
“Might cut down on office calls,” Logan said. “I’d like to interview your grandfather. I know the facility provides meals, but would he agree to share dinner with us in his apartment? I can pick up Chinese food or take-out burgers. If my theory is right, I can connect Happy Days to other senior living facilities I’ve researched.”
“For the story that’s going to win you a Pulitzer?”
He offered a winsome smile. “I might’ve daydreamed about that possibility, but my findings will shake up an industry.”
I punched in Grandpa’s number and offered him dinner, which he accepted. He requested the local deli’s soup and sandwich combo. Unmarried Logan Hernandez and I picked up the food and drove to Happy Days.
Over the meal served on the small table in Grandpa’s cramped apartment, I broached the idea of Grandpa seeing another doctor, one not affiliated with Happy Days.
“Why? The doctor here is included. We all use him,” Grandpa protested.
“I’d pay for the doctor’s visit. After all, it’s for my peace of mind,” I urged.
Grandpa put the soup spoon down with a heavy click. “Ladessa, I won’t have you spending your money on me. My arrangements are settled. I’m fine.”
“Women!” Logan slapped his forehead. “The ladies like to fuss. Don’t they, Mr. Nolan? I have six sisters, which means I have seven women trying to tell me what to do.”
Grandpa sighed. “I pity you, son.”
Logan gave an eye roll in Grandpa’s direction. “My mother thinks she’d like senior living, complains about cleaning our big house. Tell me about your arrangements at Happy Days. I’d like to give her some advice for a change.”
Grandpa pointed to the plates and bowls. “Well, she wouldn’t have to do the dishes, clean, or cook at Happy Days. And we have washing machines and dryers too. I do my own laundry, but they’ll do it for you if you ask. Her only decision would be what activities she wanted to do.”
“My mother isn’t rich. I doubt she could afford such a swank place. When I ate here, I enjoyed a fantastic meal.” Logan stacked the dishes and placed them on the counter.
I admired Logan’s interviewing technique.
“Happy Days has a system. You sign over your house. They told me mine was worth five hundred thousand dollars, which entitled me to live rent-free for the rest of my life with three meals a day and health care. No property taxes, no repair bills, no yard maintenance, and you’re not dependent on children or grandchildren.” Grandpa glanced my way then continued. “You live at Happy Days until your death, whether you stay one day or forty years.”
Logan nodded. “What if someone gives them a cool half million then dies the next week?”
“They told me the numbers balance out. Some live a short time, others a long time. I’ll probably be one who lives a long time. Right, Ladessa?”
I threw my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I hope you’ll live a very long time.”
“Some people leave their children problems galore. The heirs have to sell the house, the contents, figure out all the financial holdings. This makes it simple. When I die, my family won’t have to worry about a thing, even a funeral. Cremation is included.”
“Like Betty?” I asked.
“Yes, like Betty. The family can have a memorial service at a convenient time, instead of that week, and there’s no concern about selecting a casket or transportation to a burial plot. I know how many details must be considered for a funeral.”
“You’ve said ‘they’ explained the procedure, the benefits. Who presented this option to you?” Logan asked.
“Trent Sharp and Harlan,” Grandpa said. “And Sharp owned a real estate and rental company. Logan, mind if I ask what type of rent you’re paying for my house?”
Logan shook his head. “You don’t want to know. The rent is high, and the minimum lease is six months.”
Grandpa looked alarmed. “Ladessa, did I do the right thing?”
“Are you happy at Happy Days?” I countered.
“I guess. I miss the house. When I picture my family, I see them in the big kitchen or playing games in the family room or sitting on the porch.” He gazed into the distance as if viewing past family gatherings.
“You should get some sleep,” I said.
“I’ll walk you to the front door, give these old legs some exercise.”
Harlan sat behind the front desk and greeted us. “Our receptionist needed a break, so I offered to man the desk. You’re the last visitors. I’ll lock up after you leave.”
“I hope we didn’t inconvenience you.” My grandfather patted Harlan’s dogs.
“Not at all.” Harlan followed Logan and me to the front door and waved goodbye, or was it good riddance?
Logan spoke as soon as I scooted into the front seat. “Did you hear what your grandfather said about some residents living a short time while others live longer? He said they told him it all balances out.”
“Yes?”
“Well, the death rate in the facilities I investigated is much higher than in the general population.”
“You must have it wrong,” I said.
“I don’t.” The set of Logan’s jaw accentuated his declaration.
If Logan’s premise proved correct, I’d just left Grandpa in a dangerous situation.
CHAPTER 14
Back at the house, Logan showed me his files on various senior centers and his interviews with staff and residents. I compiled a spreadsheet for his data. The profitability spiked upward every time a resident died. I searched for a correlation between the money a resident contributed to the center and the years or months they lived after moving to the facility.
By midnight my head throbbed. “I should go. I have to be up at five thirty for work.”
“You could call in sick,” Logan said.
“I wouldn’t. I know what it’s like to work shorthanded. Maybe some new idea will come to me while I’m serving tea.” I grabbed my jacket, refused his offer to escort me, and trudged home.
Even with all of Logan’s information, the spreadsheet didn’t offer the conclusive proof he needed for his award-winning p
iece of journalism. And I wanted sufficient evidence to gain my grandfather’s release from his Happy Days contract and a proportional return of his half-a-million-dollar investment.
In the morning, the blustery wind with accompanying temperatures in the high thirties blasted me as I made my way from my car and into work. I scurried through the kitchen, stored my things, and donned my orange shirt, which, as had been the case for over a month now, clashed with my pastel-striped apron.
“Noelle, can we talk about Happy Days?”
Her face brightened. “You remembered! My interview went well. The main responsibility is organizing activities, which would be simple. I’ll add yoga, line dancing, watercolor painting, and origami to their regular classes. The director also schedules field trips and drives the van. Gramford said I’d need a special license for the bigger vehicle.”
“Did he make you an offer?” I checked the clock—three minutes until customers flooded through the door.
Noelle wrinkled her nose. “No. I told him Will and I would be a package deal. Gramford said he doubted Will could do Sharp’s job, but he didn’t say no to the idea. He promised a decision by next week. The job would boost Will’s ego.”
I gave Noelle a thumbs-up and opened the door for business. The cold rushed in with the customers, and soon the tea shoppe hummed with chatter.
An older woman at table three whispered, “An ambulance passed my house before dawn, probably going to Happy Days. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that senior living place. People die there.”
Her table mate waved her hand back and forth. “Good grief! Those people are old. You don’t go there to die. You go there to live before you die. If you ask me, they have a good time out there.”
I turned in my orders and told Noelle the prattle I overheard. “If you get a break, could you call your mom? I’d like to know she and my grandpa are safe.”
“On it.” Noelle pulled her phone from her pocket. “That’s your order for table one.”
I filled a tray and tucked menus for other customers under my arm. The locals were hungering for sweets and tea today, and earlier than usual.
The Tea Shoppe Mysteries Page 35