Polly Dent Loses Grip (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery) (8 page)

“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
M
omma 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
M
omma’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?”

“That’s my mother,” Hardy confirmed.

“She is listed as diabetic and should have received a diabetic meal.”

“How can we be certain?”

Hilda replaced her clipboard. “I don’t serve the meals . . . is it Mrs. Barnhart?”

“Call me LaTisha, please.”

Another flash of the grillwork. “We do our best to ensure the residents remain within their dietary guidelines.”

“A mistake could happen.”

Her smile wilted a bit. “There are many factors to consider. We often find that the residents buy food products they shouldn’t, or their family brings them candy and such even though it’s against policy. In spite of the fact that we have mid-afternoon and evening snacks, many of the residents either aren’t aware of, or not capable of sticking to the foods best suited for their body’s needs.”

I’d definitely have to have another chat with Sue Mie. Maybe the snack she’d given me for Matilda wasn’t the right one. Mistakes must be common. Certainly human, but mistakes can cost lives, and I didn’t want to be forgetting that either. As I tried to think of a way to bring up Otis Payne and his alibi, Hardy piped up and solved my problem.

“You heard about Polly Dent’s death? It happened about the time Mr. Payne was taking his dinner hour in here.”

Hilda’s laugh sounded a bit too gay. Mental note made. “The girls and I were eating our dinner when Polly came in to get Mr. Payne. He’d just sat down. He told Polly she’d have to wait, but she insisted. He left for a while
—
”

“How long?”

Hilda’s gaze skittered off to the left
.
“Probably five minutes. Then he came back and finished up his meal.”

Oh, really? Doesn’t sound like Otis, old boy, was completely honest with his so-called alibi. And he left with Polly . . . my brain was heating up. A miscommunication or something more?

Hardy and I exchanged a look. The slick feel of victory was all mine. Maybe Mitzi had seen a thing or two. At worst, it meant nothing; at best, it meant foul play. Hardy’s expression was best interpreted as a maybe-I-was-wrong-after
-
all. If my girdle hadn’t been so tight, I might have done a victory shimmy.

Hardy grabbed my hand on our way out. “Did I tell you you’re the smartest, cutest lady I know?”

“I was beginning to wonder if you remembered.”

“Never forgot it. Not once since the day we united in holy deadlock.”

I hauled him into another hug, and we laughed ourselves silly. When we settled ourselves down, I sent him back upstairs to check on his momma and ventured off on my own to find a familiar face. I had me a whole list of people that I needed to talk to, and the first one I spotted would be my victim.

I didn’t recognize anyone in the common area, and Mr. Payne’s office was empty. Dinnertime would be a good opportunity to talk to other residents. No doubt they’d all come out for that event. The area where I had encountered Mitzi showed no evidence of activity, except a deck of cards laid out as if someone had interrupted her game of solitaire
,
and a few board games.

Life for him is solitaire.

Obviously a man. Probably someone Mitzi had known for quite a while to make such a judgment. Otis? Thomas? Maybe one of the residents I had never met. What would it mean for someone’s life to be like the game solitaire? I rejected the most obvious reasoning. No way could it mean someone lonely. That explanation didn’t feel right.

Not everyone plays fair. Life for him is solitaire.

Translation: Life was all about him. His wants. His needs. And he didn’t play fair. That kind of selfishness could be found in every man I knew. Woman too. Unless they were full up with
the
Lord. He leaves no room for selfishness of any kind.

I puffed out a frustrated breath and began to prowl around the building. Instead of heading back toward the common area from Otis’s office, I continued down the hallway past the exercise room, soon realizing the hallways wrapped around in a huge octagon.

The hallway ended at double doors. A keypad indicated this must be the nursing section of Bridgeton Towers, where residents live who require higher levels of care. A few nurses were clearly visible, but I knew I wasn’t getting into that section no way, no how.

I retraced my steps, noticing a hallway just before the exercise room and turned into it, surprised to find an elevator straight ahead, a large room off to my left and a door on the right, adjacent to the elevator.

I stabbed at the button on the elevator a few times
.
It
was locked. Probably a service elevator. The other door was locked too. It would have led somewhere behind the exercise room was my best guess.

The other door opened into a large room, the scent of fabric softener and the hum of machines clued me in to what the room was used for. A home wouldn’t be a home if there wasn’t dirty laundry to be done.

I heard a dryer door being open and the hum stopped. I pushed
the
door wider to get a better look inside. A middle-aged man stood in front of the dryer, pulling out clothes and tossing them on a nearby table. He left the door open a crack and started sorting his white clothes. I noticed his gnarled and bent hands as he struggled to fold a T-shirt.

“Hello there,” I greeted.

His head snapped up. “Hi,” he responded, returning his attention to the T-shirt.

A tad shy perhaps. Perhaps embarrassed.

I advanced a step and debated whether to offer my help. Despite his disability, he seemed fully capable of taking care of himself, and I didn’t want to offend that sense of self-reliance. I aimed for something basic. I beamed my brightest
.
“I’m touring around trying to figure out where everything is. My mother-in-law just moved in.”

His lopsided grin came slow but was warm and welcoming. “I saw you moving her stuff in yesterday. I’m across the hall. Name’s Darren.”

Ah. It clicked then. The door peeker.

“You been here a long time, Darren?”

His hand tremored, spilling the top T-shirt he was folding into a heap. He stared down at the jumble and blew out a breath. “It takes me a little longer to get things folded sometimes.” He picked up the shirt, shook it out and began again.

“I had seven children. Folding became a specialty of mine, if you want some help.”

“Been here seven years,” he offered.

“Mr. Payne seems like a good director.”

He finally got the T-shirt wrestled into form and started on another. I suspected his non-answer to my offer of help was his way of saying thanks, but I’m capable. His non-answer on Mr. Payne just made me plain curious. “I’ve met Gertrude Hermann, Thomas Philcher
,
and Mitzi Mullins. Polly Dent too.”

He’d tackled another T-shirt by then and added it to his pile. “It’s really sad about Polly. Some people didn’t like her.”