Polly Dent Loses Grip (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery)

by S. Dionne Moore

  Stark in its oppressiveness, a thought jolted me. Suicide. Could Polly, irritated and disappointed after Mr. Payne’s news, have committed suicide? On a treadmill? The absurdity of the idea made me grin. LaTisha, honey, you’d better get a grip on yourself, thinking fool thoughts about little old women and treadmills of death.

  Wide awake now, curiosity at full sail, I slipped into my clothes and palmed my room key. The hallways were wide and white, an oak banister ran the length of each side, about wrist height. I sucked air into my lungs in a rhythmic breathing that never failed to relax me, picturing the tension easing with each exhale.

  On the main floor common area, a TV blared a rerun to its audience of empty chairs and stark walls, and one lone woman slumped in an oversized armchair. As if my breathing somehow interrupted her sleep pattern, she snuffled awake, strange pale eyes staring a hole right through me.

  “Good morning, Miss Mitzi,” I whispered.

  Her solemn expression faded to a smile. “Couldn’t sleep while counting sheep?”

  A little of this rhyming stuff went a long way. If I had to listen to Mitzi all day, I just might need a nice softly-padded cell. “It’s a strange place. My mind won’t adjust and settle down.” I choked on my poor choice of words. Like telling someone you didn’t approve of the atmosphere of their home. “I thought hoofing myself around the building might help me get to sleep.”

  She tilted her head from side to side. “Did you take the time to think on my rhyme?”

  Dr. Seuss, meet your match. “I have. Can you tell me what you mean? Does ‘A dark shadow at the door,’ mean something or someone?”

  Mitzi’s smile widened, her eyes sparkled. “Someone.”

  I waited for her to explain, but she seemed to enjoy stumping me. “So what you’re saying, the poems, they’re riddles?”

  “Riddles, rhymes, taking up time. Mom used to say that. Mixed up words that made no sense.” She pressed her palms together. I watched as her expression became distant, as if she’d slipped from her surroundings to an area of pure delight. Joy weeped from her expression, giving birth to two fat tears.

  I’d lost her somehow. My throat swelled as I watched her cover her face and sob over some undefined sorrow. God in your mercy, comfort her heart. I don’t know how Hardy would ever survive this if his mother went this route. His tender heart would shatter, for sure.

  After a while, Mitzi’s hands fell to her lap. Quietly, slowly, I reached out to touch her hand. She lifted her head, and I saw the blankness of her stare, her hand stark white against my black skin. She squeezed real tight. As if I was her grip on reality.

  When Hardy finally rattled his bones from bed, I’d already gone to the grocery store and back and had hot water waiting for mother, and a poached egg, toast, and hashbrowns for Hardy. He dug in with a vengeance.

  “Eat that up before Momma comes out or she’ll want to eat it too. We’ve got to get her used to going to the cafeteria.” I whispered all that, then sprayed Lysol in the air for the second time to do away with the smells of homecooking. We could have eaten downstairs, but the meals weren’t cheap for non-residents.

  Hardy ate like a vacuum. Slugged back his juice like a man caught in the desert sun, and belched loud enough to cause his mother to holler at him from the other room.

  “I taught you manners, boy, don’t be forgettin’ them. What you all cooking in there anyway?” She appeared in the doorway, nose pointed at the ceiling. “And whatever you’re spraying isn’t working, LaTisha. Hashbrowns, poached eggs, and toast.”

  Hardy gave me a wry grin. “You gotta admit, she’s good.”

  I planted my hands on my hips. “Bet you can’t tell me what kind of toast.”

  Matilda pulled up beside me at the sink and raised one eyebrow. “Wheat toast this morning, though you normally buy five-grain. Now,” she pivoted on her heel, “I’m heading down to get my breakfast.”

  When she shut the door, Hardy started chuckling like a hyena. “I never thought I’d see the day when LaTisha Barnhart met her match, but I guess Momma’s the one.”

  I huffed at him. “You get in that bathroom and put a shine on your tooth.”

  He went, laughing the whole way.

  I was anxious to go downstairs and find out what the police had concluded about Polly’s fall, suspecting they had determined it was an accident.

  “Hurry up!” I yelled afater Hardy. Every time I wanted to hot-foot it somewhere, it seemed like he shifted into low gear. I missed my broomstick. Back home we had a system. I had a broomstick standing by the hall table on the first floor. Whenever Hardy ran late, I’d use it to tap on the ceiling to let him know he was taking too long. It annoys him no end when I do that, cause, you see, I don’t have to patch the holes in the ceiling.

  Thinking about home made me wish I could stir up a batch of pot stickers--my newest yummy treat. Maybe a nice batch of spice cookies and a deep dish lasagna. Cooking always helps me think, and I sorely needed some good thinking time.

  “You got that look in your eye,” Hardy observed, smacking his lips and blowing his fresh toothpasty breath on me. “Can’t resist me now, can you?”

  What had gotten into this boy? “Sure I can. Now let’s get.”

  He pouted all the way down the hall. When we got on the elevators, I could see his pooched lip. Poor man. I coiled my arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, landing a kiss on his lips. “There now. You taste as sweet as chocolate.”

  “As good as Gerad’s Belli?”

  It took me a minute. “You mean Ghiradelli.”

  His eyes sparkled. “I thought it was mighty funny to name a chocolate after someone’s gut.”

  When we finally made it off the elevator, I was surprised to find Otis Payne sitting beside Thomas Philcher and Gertrude. Wasn’t Sunday a day off anymore? Maybe Polly’s fall meant writing out more reports and such, and Sunday was the day to do it.

  Thomas looked forlorn. He’d probably heard the news of Polly’s demise only this morning. Beside him, Gertrude sat, unusually quiet, even kind of sad looking.

  “Missing Polly?” I asked the group, though I was looking at Gertrude.

  “I can hardly believe she’s gone,” Gertrude whispered. Her agonized tone spoke volumes. Interesting she didn’t seem so down about it when Thomas hadn’t been there last evening. Maybe she was depressed because he was so obviously saddened by the news.

  Thomas continued to stare at the gnarled head of his simple wooden cane.

  “The police didn’t stay long last night,” Otis offered, his eyes hard on me. “After talking to everyone, they ruled it an accident and said there was no further need for investigation.”

  “I’m sure your wife will be relieved to hear that.”

  Otis looked surprised. “My wife?”

  “She was here yesterday to visit you. When I told her what had happened, she seemed distressed.”

  “Why, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “She is easily upset by such things. A tender spirit, you might say.”

  I might not say that. If she’d talked to him, she sure hadn’t mentioned dropping by. I tried to reign in my suspicious mind by telling myself it was possible they hadn’t talked much the night before. Everyone seemed relieved at the news of the police declaring Polly’s death an accident. There would be no investigation. I could finish getting Momma settled and go home.

  Otis got to his feet real sudden-like. “I have some work to do. Thomas.” He clapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Hang in there.”

  Mitzi’s strange poem came back to me.

  “ A dark shadow at the door. Polly Dent on the floor. Not everyone plays fair. Life for him is solitaire.” She’d said it meant someone. If only she wasn’t sick. The other rhyme floated through my brain. “ Not too nice. Little sugar, mostly spice. Since the death of mouse, a few months later and there goes her spouse.”

  Mindless ramblings. Gertrude would know about Mitzi’s state of mind. “How’s Mitzi this morni
ng? I found her asleep in this chair late last night.”

  “She creeps around here most nights. Drives me crazy. We used to room together, but I’m a light sleeper, so it didn’t work out.”

  “Does she always rhyme everything like that?”

  Gertie’s smile was genuine. “She sure does. She taught at the University of Colorado. Loved poetry, even as a child. She self-published a couple books of her poems.” She laughed. “She has this thing, used to drive me crazy but I’m used to it now, where she’d meet a person, then kind of invent a rhyme describing their personality or something about them.”

  “Really?” My heart slapped up against my ribs. This must be important. Had to be. “How long has she been doing it?”

  Gertrude looked to Thomas. He answered, “Yep,ever since I’ve been here. I got here before Gertrude. Mitzi’s been here longest.” Thomas tapped his cane against the floor and guffawed. “She’s the one who first dared to call that foreign fellow ‘rat face.’ She kind of rhymed it. Everyone got it but him.”

  “Chao was his name,” Gertrude mumbled. “Sue Mie’s uncle. Don’t you remember, Thomas?”

  Thomas’s smile was beatific. This guy oozed charm.

  “Does he still live here?” I asked.

  Gertrude warmed to the subject. “Nah. He fell over dead in the hallway, had everyone scared. Thought for sure someone else would die of a heart attack. Mitzi went around for weeks afterward repeating some silly poem about a mouse no longer in the house.”

  My blood ran cold in my veins. Mouse. “ . . . since the death of a mouse, a few months later and there goes the spouse.”

  Chapter Nine

  I holed up in the room all morning working to decipher those poems. Gertrude had divulged far more than she knew. I explained about Mitzi’s poems to Hardy as he gummed up his sandwich, brow creased in think mode.

  “Mitzi’s old, LaTisha. Probably just making stuff up to keep you jumping.” Hardy snapped open the local paper I’d bought on my trip to the grocery store, as if his declaration ended the debate.

  “But why?”

  A grunt was the only reply I received. He turned the page, hand groping for the sandwich plate, finding it, then disappearing behind the paper again. The sandwich returned to the plate another bite smaller.

  “Hardy. Put down that paper and look at me.”

  “Please, LaTisha, I’m eating.”

  Very funny. I could just imagine his smug smirk over his little jibe. “You’re gonna be sucking your food through a straw if you don’t talk to me.”

  He bent back a corner of the paper, enough to make eye contact. “Are you threatening me, Mrs. Barnhart?”

  “I don’t make threats, I make promises.”

  His eyes glittered. “After seven babies you should know I’m a lover, not a fighter.” He eyed my plate. “Why aren’t you eating?”

  Even when I made the sandwich, the idea of eating it hadn’t appealed to me. I sipped at my glass of water instead. “I need to talk, and you need to listen to me.”

  He frowned but folded the paper and put it aside.

  “Gertrude said Mitzi enjoys poetry. Then Gertrude says Mitzi often makes up these rhymes about people, and that she creeps around the building at night. What if the poems she said to me mean something? What if she saw something?”

  “You’re really reaching.”

  “I can see motives in some of these people.”

  Hardy rubbed the rim of his plate. “I don’t.”

  “Otis Payne’s wife acted real strange the other day. Did you know she’d come by to visit her husband? But she hot-footed after I told her he was being questioned by the police about Polly’s fall.” Even as I spoke, I realized what Hardy said was true. I didn’t have one solid motive. I kept talking anyway. “And why was Polly in that exercise room after hours?”

  Hardy pushed aside the empty lunch plate, licked his finger, rolled it in the bread crumbs and popped it into his mouth. “Best to let it go, LaTisha, I think finding Marion has made you think murder is behind every dead body.”

  I didn’t want Hardy to be right. I really didn’t. Though the investigation had about killed me, solving Marion’s murder was the most satisfying thing I’d done since watching my youngest graduate from high school.

  What I needed to do was get out and talk to people. Do some digging.

  “If Polly lived here a long time, she probably knew a lot about the other residents.” This from Hardy, Mr. You-don’t-have-a-motive. “Could be worth bending some ears over.”

  “Whistling a different song now.”

  “No. But figuring out those poems would be like solving a mini-mystery.”

  A diversion. He saw them only as a way to satisfy my curiosity. “This isn’t sudoku,” I huffed.

  Hardy leaned back in his chair. “What’s the first line?”

  “A dark shadow at the door.”

  “Is that literal? Dark, meaning skin color? Or did she really only see a shadow?”

  “You think she saw you there when you talked to Polly?”

  He shrugged. “Could of. I didn’t see anyone in the hallway, but I also wasn’t paying attention. But what door is she talking about?”

  “The next line is, ‘Polly Dent on the floor,’ which makes me think it’s the door to the exercise room.”

  “Could be.” Hardy’s hand rasped down his cheek. “But what if she saw Polly somewhere else on the floor? You’re assuming she saw her dead in the exercise room.”

  “Yeah, but why would she think it’s so important to tell me this thing if she didn’t think there was something strange going on?”

  “Early dementia, LaTisha. You can’t forget that part.”

  He didn’t believe any of it. I could tell, and for the first time doubt scratched at my brain. “What do you know about dementia?”

  “Alzheimers is the most common form of Dementia and affects the cells in the brain, causing them to deteriorate at a higher rate than those not having the condition. Some of the symptoms include, forgetfulness, usually accompanied with confusion, difficulties retaining knowledge of function, such as cooking. Patients will not only forget the pot on the stove, but that they were even cooking. Inability to recognize numbers or do simple math. Spatial and temporal orientation problems, personality changes, mood swings, and language problems.”

  I was impressed. “And how do you know all that?”

  He flashed his tooth in an affable grin. “Read a pamphlet on it yesterday.”

  “Here I thought you were digging and finally struck genius.”

  He winked. “Did that a long time ago when I married you.”

  “I hear you sugar-talking me.”

  The light left his expression and he leaned forward. “You feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look all wore out.”

  “I need to get back to my house.” To my kitchen, is what I really meant.

  “Four, five more days, babe, and Momma should be settled in real good.”

  “You worried about her being here now that Polly had that fall? Gertrude also mentioned that Sue Mie, the nurse lady who you ran into yesterday, her uncle was here and he fell. They think he had a heart attack after the hall railing pulled out from the wall.” Asking him about Polly’s fall reminded me that I had to look into what had been served in the cafeteria that could have led to Momma’s sugar spiking. While I did that, I would check out Otis’s alibi.

  “Sometimes things happen like that.” He did a little scratch along his nose. A significant scratch. Married to him for as long as I’ve been, this particular scratch was the one that told me he was struggling for composure. One of those little nervous give-a-ways that most people have and, once used to seeing their reactions, anyone close to them can see what they’re thinking.

  He had it in his head that his momma might meet a terrible death. I should probably explain something. You see, Hardy’s mother is all he has. When he was four, his father left them.
He’s never felt a need to find his father, and his father apparently feels the same, but I know the deep down hurt he’s carried over being left like that.

  I hitched my chair closer to him and pulled him into one of my hugs. He fit just perfect in the circle of my arms. This reminder of his vulnerability put my longing for home on the back burner. Hardy needed this, needed to know his momma was safe, happy and content, which meant I needed to shelve my selfish need for home and honor him. It was that simple.

  Chapter Ten

  Hilda Broumhild gave new meaning to cooking. Think svelte brunette with enough curves to make a CURVES AHEAD sign envious. Hardy about dropped his last tooth, and I about helped him through the process when I saw his reaction.

  “Someone should arrest her,” he mumbled.

  “Why?”

  “Cause she’s gonna make some poor old man die of a heart attack.”

  “Good thing your heart is strong.”

  “It’s not beat this hard in a long time.”

  Hilda was approaching head on. I gave her a huge smile and hissed at Hardy. “It’s not the only thing gonna be beat hard if you don’t behave.”

  He slid me a mischievous smirk. “I’m married, not blind.”

  “Hello. I’m Hilda Broumhild. Is there a problem I can help you with?”

  Got to hand it to her, her momma done raised her with pretty manners. “My mother-in-law moved in here yesterday. She ate here for the first time and experienced a spike in her sugar level. I’m wanting to know what you served.”

  She must have had these inquiries all the time from concerned family members. Without hesitation she motioned for us to follow her. “Last night we served roast beef and mashed potatoes and a slice of blueberry pie.”

  “Blueberry pie?”

  Her smile revealed nice white grillwork. “The diabetics get the same thing, but the sugar free variety.”

  “Is there a possibility she could have been given a slice that was not sugar free?”

  Hilda pushed through the double doors and into the commercial kitchen, complete with gleaming stainless steel countertops and appliances. She went straight to a wall where several clipboards hung in a row and took one down. “These have the names of patients and their dietary restrictions.” Her finger slipped down the list. “There is only one new resident listed. Mrs. Matilda Barnhart?”