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I didn’t toss the baggie in the trash immediately.
But not because I didn’t want to.
And not because Denise had pleaded one last time with me to not do anything rash. I had a funny feeling that she’d wanted to knock me upside the head to try to bang some sense into me, but duty—and hungry residents—called, and she’d marched off into the kitchen, clearly more than a little upset with my parting words to her.
No, I held on to it because I knew that if I threw it out in the dining room receptacle, she’d have no problem fishing it out. And handing it right back to me.
I left the dining room, saying hello to residents as more began to trickle in for the evening meal. I could smell the fish sticks cooking in the industrial-sized ovens in the kitchen, and I was pretty sure Lola was serving au gratin potatoes with it, judging by the cheesy, buttery smell that accompanied it.
I made my way to my office, intent on finishing up some lingering paperwork before I headed home. Megan had told me the night before that she didn’t have plans with Dylan tonight, so we’d decided to go grab a burger and beer at the diner a few blocks from our house.
I stepped into my office and was fishing the baggie out of my pants pocket when there was a short rap at my door.
Anne was standing in the doorway.
Frowning.
“Hi, Anne.” I quickly shoved the baggie back into my pocket.
“A resident was injured during yoga today.”
My stomach dropped. Chair yoga had been something I’d championed for months, bringing Anne study after study that demonstrated how beneficial it was for senior citizens. I’d scoured local yoga places, looking for someone who might volunteer their time in teaching a class so I wouldn’t need to have Anne approve a budget for it.
She’d finally agreed to allow it, but only after I’d subtly planted the idea with Billie to start a petition asking for more low-impact exercise options.
And now someone had been injured.
Great. It was just the excuse Anne would need to shut it down.
“Excuse me?”
She marched into my office, her hands planted firmly on her wide hips. “A resident was injured,” she repeated.
I frowned. “Who? How?”
“Norma Chomsky.”
I immediately conjured up an image. Short and plump, with thin gray hair and bifocals.
“How was she injured?”
“She slipped and fell. Bruised her knee.”
“It’s chair yoga, Anne. How could she have slipped and fallen?”
Anne’s lips tightened. “When she was going there. She fell. Couldn’t even participate today.”
I took a deep breath. “That’s terrible that Norma fell, but I think it’s important to note that she didn’t actually injure herself doing yoga.”
“She injured herself going to your yoga class.”
How was it my yoga class?
“If the class wasn’t offered, she wouldn’t have been walking toward the activity room and she wouldn’t have been injured.”
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of her argument.
But I knew how that would go over.
I breathed in and out a couple of times, trying to get my emotions—and my temper—under control.
“What would you like me to do about it?” I asked. “Cancel the class? There are twenty residents who participate on a weekly basis. Twenty residents who might be rather upset if the class goes away.”
A look of uncertainty crossed her face. “Twenty?”
I nodded. “There have been a couple of class times with more. Jackie was talking about adding a second class option so she could accommodate more residents.”
Anne’s brow wrinkled with a frown. “She doesn’t think she’s going to get paid for that one, does she?”
“No,” I said smoothly. “She just wants to do what she can to help ensure an enriching quality of life for our residents.”
Anne’s frown deepened, and I wondered if she could hear the thinly veiled criticism in my words. Because the implication was definitely there: by wanting to cancel the class, Anne did not want to ensure those same things for the residents at Oasis Ridge.
“Hmm,” she harrumphed. “Well, I guess we can hold off on making any permanent decisions.”
I raised an eyebrow. There was no “we” making the decision. It was her, and her alone.
“The class is on probation,” she announced.
I wondered if she had been a principal before coming here.
She turned to go.
“Anne, wait.”
Slowly, she spun back around.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. “You haven’t heard anything more about Arthur Griggs's death, have you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
I bit my lip. I didn’t know what I meant. I didn’t even know why I was asking her.
Oh, who was I kidding? I was asking because Denise was awash in conspiracy theories and I wanted to put my friend’s mind at ease.
And I was asking because I wanted to know, too.
“I just meant if you’d been told a cause of death or anything.”
“Why does it matter? He was seventy-seven years old.”
She said this so matter-of-factly, I cringed. As if the elderly were just expected to die.
I wondered for the thousandth time what she was doing running a retirement community.
“So it was natural causes?” I pressed. “A heart attack or something?”
“I have no idea,” she said. Her lips thinned. “Why? Have you heard something to the contrary?”
“No.” My hand tightened on the baggie in my pocket.
I could tell from the look on her face that she didn’t believe me. “If you’ve heard something, I need to know about it.”
Did I really want to show her what Denise had given me? Tell her my co-worker’s insane and unsubstantiated theory?
No. Absolutely not.
But I also wanted to know if she had any hint of anything odd about Arthur’s death. If anyone would know, it would be her, seeing as how she was the executive director of the facility.
“Someone mentioned that there was something weird on Arthur’s table,” I said instead.
“Something weird? Like what?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I just overhead a few of the ladies talking today.”
“Who did you hear this from?” she asked sharply. “What exactly did they say?”
Yeah, she had definitely been a principal at some point in her life.
“It was a group of women,” I lied. “I don’t know who. The room was crowded and I was already talking with someone else.”
“And they said they saw something weird on his table?” She was clearly confused by this. “What does that even mean? What were they suggesting? That he was...poisoned or something?”
“I honestly don’t know. I just thought I’d ask to see if you had any details on the cause of death.”
“I do not,” she said firmly. “I imagine that information will be disclosed to his family, if they even do an autopsy.” Her eyes locked on mine. “I don’t like that residents are speculating on the cause of death.”
She also didn’t like chair yoga. If she worried about ending that class, I didn’t know what she thought she could do to stop grown adults from gossiping. Even if those adults she was worried about hadn’t actually been the ones to bring up the leaves on Arthur’s plate.
“Rumors like that are bad for Oasis Ridge,” she continued. “The last thing we need is for people outside of our community to get a bad impression of this place. It’s bad for business.”
Of course it was.
“It was just talk,” I said. “And you know the residents. They’ll be on to gossiping about something else tomorrow.”
She didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps. But you keep your ears open now. Let me know if you still hear people discussing Arthur, and speculating on how he died. We’ll need to nip that in the bud.”
“Uh, sure. Of course.”
She nodded, seemingly satisfied that she’d said her piece and that I was complying. “I’ll be keeping my eye on the yoga class,” she said as she headed for the door. “We can’t have any more accidents. Consider this your one and only warning.”
My middle finger felt like a trigger, ready to spring into position. I shoved my hands further into my pocket to keep from acting on my impulses.
The baggie rustled against my fingers.
It was going in the trash the minute Anne was out of my office.