A Good Day to Pie

by Carol Culver

  I was afraid he was going to wait and follow me to find out where I was going with my leftover pie. Knowing him, he might suspect I had plans. I said I’d forgotten something and went back to the lounge, where I watched something on television for five long minutes. When I couldn’t wait another second, I walked slowly to the front desk. No Sam. I checked out a map of the facility with the residents’ names printed next to their apartment. I jotted down Edward’s number as well as Bob Barnett’s. I just hoped I wouldn’t send Bob into a relapse with a piece of pie and a few questions. Surely he’d be glad to help my efforts to remove him from the suspect list.

  Then back in the small kitchen off the dining room I ignored the Rocky Road Pie, still hurt by Sam’s “white blobs” description, and cut two slices of Butter Pecan Apple Crumb Pie. I could have offered a piece to Sam, but I couldn’t take another of his refusals. He obviously wasn’t a pie person and nothing I could do would change him so I decided to quit trying. Butter Pecan Apple Crumb is traditional and irresistible at the same time, in my opinion. It had been so popular tonight there wasn’t much left.

  I was sliding the pieces on plates when Grannie startled me by bursting into the small kitchen.

  “You’re coming to line dancing, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m just packing up.”

  “You have to stay. You know who’s here? Mary’s grandson Blake. He’s just as nice and polite as he could be. Which proves to me that his grandmother wasn’t murdered at all. She died of natural causes. I ought to know since I was there.”

  I frowned. But I didn’t ask her to explain that bewildering piece of logic.

  “He just asked me if I’d seen you,” she said.

  “You think he’s worth staying for?” I asked with a knowing smile. Grannie was a sucker for a good-looking man, which is partly why she was married more than once. Each time to a strikingly handsome man. Her luck was that Husband Number Two was not only good looking but rich too.

  “In case you haven’t seen him since high school, he’s a hunk, as you young people say. And soon he’ll be rich.”

  “I guess you’re referring to Mary’s will, but I don’t think anyone knows what’s in it except her lawyer and I don’t imagine he’s talking. I thought we all agreed she’d left her fortune to the dogs.”

  “Whatever,” Grannie said with a smile. How like her to be thinking about me and my future when hers was in peril. If I were her and accused of murder, I’d be holed up in my apartment sobbing myself to sleep at night. Not her.

  “Mary might have set aside a few million for Blake,” Grannie said. “He’s the only one she ever had a good word for in the whole family. So I say you should stick around. Line dancing is fun and it’s good exercise. And Blake needs a reason to stay in town a little longer, maybe for good.” She stopped and looked at the two pieces of pie I’d sliced. “Or do you have other plans?”

  “Just cleaning up here,” I said airily.

  “What were you and Sam talking about?”

  “The usual. His job, my job. Life in Crystal Cove.”

  “How does he like his job?” She asked this as if she hadn’t recently spent time with him in a job-related activity and wasn’t the least bit worried about Sam’s objectives.

  “It seems he likes being back in the Cove. I guess he wishes no one would die on his watch. Then he could concentrate on crime prevention and set up his community outreach programs, like maybe a cop school for ordinary citizens. I understand it’s all the rage these days.” Actually I had no idea if it was all the rage, but it should be. And Sam was the perfect guy to bring it to Crystal Cove.

  “That’s a great idea,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to learn to shoot a gun.”

  I didn’t ask her who she wanted to shoot it at.

  “How’s your friend Bob doing?”

  “He’s better. He should be. You should see the line of visitors he has.”

  “All women?”

  “That’s only natural,” she said. “Women are the usual caregivers. I just hope he isn’t getting overtired.”

  I didn’t mention his ED condition and I didn’t ask about their relationship, though I wondered if it had survived his illness and Mary’s interference and her demise. I didn’t mention either that I intended to be one of his visitors tonight, if I could get in.

  She finally gave up on trying to drag me to line dancing or set me up with Blake. When she left, I put the pie I’d cut into my basket and headed to the elevator. While waiting, I heard the honky-tonk music and saw flashing lights coming from the recreation room across the hall. A man named Big Dave was calling the steps. I tried to blend into the scenery so no one would drag me in to join them. I did wonder as I rode up to the third floor how these sophisticated rich oldsters had gotten into dancing to music like “Bus Stop” and “Electric Boogie.” I was just glad it wasn’t me.

  I found Edward’s apartment at the end of the hall on the corner, meaning he’d have a large place with two big balconies. I knocked but no one answered. I looked at my watch. It wasn’t that late, unless you were ninety-something and you’d had a hard day of fighting off upsetting changes at your retirement home like weight-lifting classes and casino parties that threatened your genteel life style. On the other hand, if I lived here I might hide out in my quarters to escape line dancing too.

  When he finally came to the door I was startled by his appearance. I’d pictured an old guy in flannel pajamas and a full set of dentures. This man was wearing a Playboy smoking jacket, belted at the waist, in red satin lined in black, and an ascot tie around his neck. I swear he looked like an older version of Hugh Hefner and just as dapper. This was the old fogie?

  “Hello,” I said cheerily. “I’m Hanna Denton. Louise Denton’s granddaughter. We haven’t met but I heard you weren’t at the dinner this evening so I brought up a piece of pie. Butter Pecan Apple Crumb. I made it myself.”

  “How thoughtful,” he said after taking a moment to digest my opening statement. “Won’t you come in? I thought pie baking was a lost art.”

  “Not at all.”

  “That looks delicious,” he said, taking the plate out of my hands. “Better than the usual dessert here.”

  I wished Sam could hear that. There were some things old people could teach the young. Like manners. It didn’t matter if he liked pie, wanted any, or thought it was unhealthy. All that mattered was to act like you liked it. I might learn nothing about Mary’s death from this old geezer who dressed like Cary Grant, but it was worth the trip to the third floor. I went in and sat down in a stiff-backed chair at his invitation. I noticed all the furniture was dark and heavy. There were windows on two sides of the room. The view of the cove and the golf course must be beautiful during the day.

  “You’ve lived here quite a while then?” I asked.

  “Twenty-odd years. I’ve seen people come and go, mostly go. Who did you say your grandmother was?”

  “Louise Denton. She’s relatively new. When she retired I took over her pie shop.” I paused. “She plays Bridge.”

  “My wife and I played Bridge,” he said. “She wasn’t very good at it. So many women consider it as a social function. A chance to gossip. Which is why we lost so often.” He shook his head. “She didn’t understand that Bridge is much more than that. It’s a way of life, a challenge, the last communal campfire before the end of life. If you get my meaning.”

  I nodded although I wasn’t sure I got his meaning. “Do you still play?” I asked.

  “Not anymore. I would if they’d take it seriously. But they don’t. I’m not a people person and I try to avoid the women around here who only live to socialize.”

  “My grandmother takes Bridge seriously,” I said, feeling like I had to stand up for her. “She plays either for money or for points to advance to the next level. She was playing with Mary Brandt the day she died at the Bridge table.”

  “That woman,” he exclaimed. “Was she any good?”

&nbs
p; “At Bridge? I don’t know. I know she was suspected of cheating.”

  “Then she deserved to die,” he said.

  I thought it was a bit harsh of him, but I imagined he was thinking of the argument he’d had with Mary over the dress code. He didn’t mention it.

  “I understand the police are investigating Mrs. Brandt’s death. They call it a murder. My grandmother is worried that they suspect her of killing Mary.”

  “Why is that?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair. “What would she have to gain?”

  “They were playing against each other. Without Mary as an opponent, my grandmother would have a better chance to move ahead in the state tournament.”

  The Tiffany lamp on the table cast a shadow on his gaunt lined face so I couldn’t tell what his expression was. Was he shocked? Sad? Oblivious? Or totally in agreement that eliminating a Bridge opponent was understandable and desirable?

  “But you believe your grandmother is innocent.”

  “Yes, of course. My grandmother is very competitive but she’s not a murderer. What really angered her was not that Mary Brandt was a superior player. It was the part about her cheating. For her and some of the others like yourself, it’s more than just a game. Not just a social occasion,” I said. “It was a very cutthroat game, and it was morally important to win and move ahead in the tournament.” I didn’t want him to think my grandmother was some flighty old lady who didn’t take the game seriously, like his wife. Grannie was a serious contender and I wanted him and everyone else to respect that.

  He laced his bony fingers together and fixed me with a steady stare.

  I felt the need to expound on the situation. “So she called Mary out when her cheating became obvious, and accused her of transmitting signals to her partner. Then Mary passed out and never recovered.”

  “That doesn’t sound like murder,” he said. Of course he would say that if he was the one who did the murdering.

  “No, not that part. But there’s a question of poison. There were pills on the table. Mary might have been given the wrong ones along with a piece of pie I made. Cranberry, not apple. It sounds as if the combination did her in.”

  “Maybe it was her time to go. Do you believe in predestination?”

  “I … I’m not sure.”

  “I do. That doesn’t mean we can’t choose our destiny. It just means that some people choose the wrong path. They can’t help it. This Mary chose to cheat at cards. She also chose to allow her grandson to violate the dress code. Hence she was punished.”

  Aha. So he did remember who she was. “You really believe that’s why she died?”

  “It seems certain, since she expired at the Bridge table. A punishment made for the crime.”

  I nodded. What else could I do? Accuse him of dropping by the card room and substituting a stronger dose of her medication to hasten her death? Or putting a hex on her? All because her innocent grandson broke the dress code? I could ask him the same question, What would you have to gain? I didn’t need to ask. The motive was so clearly revenge.

  The phone rang and he picked it up from a small end table where it stood in its stand.

  “What is it now?” he asked. “Yes, I will.” He walked to the sideboard holding the phone at his ear and surveyed a selection of small plastic containers on a silver tray. “I have it right here in front of me along with some herbal supplements and my vitamins. And a piece of pie a kind lady has just brought me. You don’t need to call every four hours,” Edward said. “My body is weak but my brain is still intact.” Then he hung up.

  “I hope you don’t bother your grandmother with reminders to take her pills,” he said to me. “Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we need constant supervision. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “It’s past my bedtime.”

  “I’m sorry to keep you up,” I said.

  “If you have any more questions about predestination, stop by and see me. I play dominoes every afternoon. Do you play?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Bridge?”

  “No.”

  “That’s too bad that you young people have no time or interest in it. Bridge is an excellent game. It’s an old game that was once known as Whist. In the 1930s I began playing Contract Bridge, as it’s known today. It’s the greatest game ever invented. Making a beautiful play, executing a perfect defense. There’s nothing like it. It stays in your mind until the next day, the next week, sometimes forever. Unfortunately, some people here at Heavenly Acres have spoiled it for the others. Perhaps you know who I mean. It has become corrupted. Not by your grandmother, if what you say is true. Once it was an oasis, an escape from the real world. A game of strategy. That was a long time ago before …” He closed his eyes and he appeared to drift off.

  I stood and prepared to leave. I noticed his medicine laid out on the sideboard. I walked over and scooped up a few pills from a tiny container marked Coumadin. When Edward opened his eyes I was startled and halfway to the door. I thought he was asleep.

  “By the same token Bridge can be a very dangerous game,” he continued as if no time had transpired and nothing had happened. “Hurt feelings, hard feelings, jealousies and hatred. Especially here on the premises these days. I wouldn’t recommend it to you.”

  Wow, what a lot of ideas he’d unloaded on me. Maybe he didn’t have many visitors. Maybe he’d been saving up his speech for the right moment. Then I knocked on his door looking for evidence to pin the crime on him. I didn’t feel I’d gotten what I wanted. But I’d tried. Had Sam tried too? I should ask Edward if he’d had a visit from a cop. But I didn’t. I’d find out from Sam.

  I was left with the impression that for Edward’s generation, it was important to be articulate as well as a good Bridge player.

  “I’ll remember that,” I said and then I left. But I wasn’t sure what to remember, that Bridge was a dangerous game or that it was too bad I didn’t play this excellent and beautiful and dangerous game or that rule-breakers deserved to die. I was quite aware of just how dangerous Bridge was; it obviously led to the death of Mary Brandt. Unless Edward killed her because of what her grandson did. That had nothing to do with Bridge—or did it?

  As I walked down the stairs to Bob Barnett’s apartment, it occurred to me Edward might have been warning me not to play the “dangerous game” of Bridge or I’d meet the same fate as Mary Brandt. He had a whole arsenal of pills there on his sideboard, an overdose of which could be dangerous. Which was why his relative had called to make sure he took his medicine. But who here wasn’t on some kind of drug at their age? Even if, like Grannie, her drugs were simply harmless but effective stimulants. Anyone who lived here at Heavenly Acres could have dropped by the card room with the usual kibitzers and substituted something lethal for Mary’s stash of medicine in her little pillbox. Too bad they hadn’t been caught on the surveillance camera for Sam to see instead of Grannie. If only she hadn’t turned the damn thing off.

  What old Edward had to gain by killing Mary was the satisfaction of seeing her pay a price for violating the rules of the house. Which was no small prize. He had plenty of pills to use if that’s what killed her. He clearly didn’t like her or what she’d done here at Heavenly. Was that enough of a motive?

  I was hesitant to bother Bob Barnett, who I assumed was still recovering from his minor heart attack that had prevented him from attending the crab fest, but I had to give it a try. I was here. I had the opportunity and I had the motive, which was to find somebody other than Grannie to pin the murder on. If anybody asked, I was simply stopping by his place with the pie to see how he was. Grannie had mentioned a long line of female visitors. I hoped I could slip in with the others.

  I stood outside his door and heard voices inside. If that was Grannie, she’d probably prefer that I left them alone. If it was another woman, Grannie would probably prefer that I interrupt whatever was going on inside. What would Bob want? He was not supposed to get excited. Was he allowed to eat pie?

  I knoc
ked softly. I listened for a long moment. Then I heard someone say, “Don’t answer it.” That’s what got me. Nobody should be telling these oldsters what to do. I knocked again.

  “Anyone interested in some pie?” I said.

  A few minutes later Bob came to the door. He was wearing a dark blue terrycloth robe, striped pajamas under it, and a pair of leather slippers. Nothing on the order of Edward’s outfit, but still nice. Still appropriate to receive visitors.

  “Hi, I’m Hanna, Louise Denton’s granddaughter. I noticed you weren’t at dinner and I thought you might like some pie. Unless you’re on a diet.”

  “How nice of you,” he said with a smile. “I am on a diet, but pie is allowed. Definitely allowed. Do you know Charmaine?”

  A youngish-looking blond woman in a long skirt and a black sweater looked a little nervous. Why? Wasn’t she supposed to be there?

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  She edged around us and went to the door. “I’ll say goodnight.” She paused as if hoping someone would insist that she stay. No one did. “See you tomorrow,” she said and left.

  “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything,” I said, searching Bob’s face to see how disappointed he was I’d knocked on his door. I couldn’t tell by his benign expression. Of course I hoped I had interrupted any kind of tête-à-tête with anyone besides Grannie.

  “Ever since I’ve been ill, I’ve been more popular than before. It’s rather bewildering,” he said with a shy smile.

  How modest, I thought. He has to know he’s the hot ticket among the seventy-somethings, and no wonder. He looked much better than the last time I’d seen him lying on the patio after Mary’s memorial service. He could be quite a knockout when he was completely well and had all his parts in working order. No wonder all the women were crazy about him.

  “You’re Louise’s granddaughter,” he said. “She’s told me so much about you. How you’re taking over the pie business. If you keep up the good work, some day you may be as good as she was.”