| |
I hustled back to the kitchen before Lola could see me.
My heart was racing, and not from the spike of adrenaline the fire had created.
No, it was because I was fixated on Lola’s words.
Denise was still talking with the firefighters, and to my surprise, Anne was now standing with them. She spoke animatedly, using her hands, pointing to the stove and the wall closest to it.
“...a professional cleaning crew is already on the way,” Anne was saying. “I’m confident we’ll have this kitchen back up to speed in no time.”
The older firefighter nodded. “It’s a good thing you had who you did in the kitchen. They managed to put this out before any real damage could occur.”
Anne’s smile looked forced, fake. “Indeed. We are very grateful for Lola’s heroism.”
I raised my eyebrows. Heroism? For putting out a fire she herself caused?
Denise noticed me.
“It looks like everything is under control here,” she said. “I’ll go tell the residents we’ve ordered pizza for lunch and to head either poolside or to the activity room. We should be able to accommodate everyone between those two locations.”
“You’re ordering pizza?” I asked.
“No.” Denise jerked a thumb at Anne. “She is.”
She grabbed my arm and propelled me out of the dining room.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m going to tell them their cheese and pepperoni are on the way,” she said. “But first I’m gonna make sure you call the police. Don’t you go thinking I forgot what we were doing before all hell broke loose.”
“Wait.”
“No,” she barked. “No more waiting.” She lowered her voice and hissed, “We know Ruth did it!”
I stopped, yanking my arm out of her grip. We were almost to my office. “No, we don’t,” I said firmly.
Her brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? We found the plant!”
“Lola was on the phone.” I wasn’t going to beat around the bush and I wasn’t going to keep anything from her, either. “She said something odd.”
Denise folded her arms. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
I told her.
Her reaction was much the same as mine had been.
Until it wasn’t.
“Let’s call the police and report them both,” she announced.
“What? No.” I shook my head.
“Maybe they worked together,” Denise said. She threw her hands up. “Maybe they worked with everyone. Maybe every single person in this building had a hand in killing that man. All I know is we need to report it. Now.”
“Denise!”
We both turned to look behind us.
Anne was hurrying in our direction.
“Oh, Denise, the pizzas are here,” she said. She looked a little frantic. “I need your help with getting it served. The last thing I need is for our residents to burn themselves handling hot cheese.”
“Hot cheese?” I echoed.
Anne nodded. “The cheese on pizzas can be extremely hot, especially for those with fragile skin.”
I was pretty sure delivery pizza was going to be lukewarm, at best.
But I wasn’t about to say something that would prevent Denise from leaving me alone.
“You’d better go,” I said sweetly.
Her eyes were like daggers. Friendly daggers, but daggers, nonetheless. “We are not done,” she warned. “This conversation is not over.”
Anne’s gaze flickered with concern. “Is everything alright?”
Denise opened her mouth but I talked over her. “Everything is just fine,” I said, smiling brightly. “Isn’t that right, Denise?”
“For now,” she practically growled. She stormed off, ready to intercept the dangerously hot pizzas.
“I have a restoration crew on the way,” Anne said to me. “Looks like a good wipe down of the kitchen is needed, and they’ll bring some fans and air ionizers to make sure the smoke particles are removed. We should be ready to serve breakfast in the morning, but dinner will have to be brought in. Probably sandwiches. I don’t recall what activities we have scheduled today but they may need to be modified.”
I hadn’t given a second thought to the schedule, and not just because of the fire.
“Of course,” I said with a nod. “Whatever we need.”
“I’m going to make sure everyone is situated with lunch.” She pursed her lips. “We may need some extra help today with the residents. There are bound to be a few who are out of sorts because of the kitchen mishap. I assume you’ll be willing to help as needed?”
I bristled at the suggestion that I might not be. “I’m always willing,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m heading to my office but just say the word and I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”
She gave me a curt nod, and I didn’t know if it was just her way of trying to look professional or if she was upset with me for some reason.
Either way, I didn’t really care.
All I wanted to do was lock myself in my office and try to figure out what the heck was going on with Arthur’s case.
I let myself into my office and closed the door behind me.
I sank into my chair, sighing on my way down.
Arthur’s case.
I couldn’t believe I was referring to it as a case.
I wasn’t a detective.
And I still had absolutely no idea what had happened to him.
There were lots of dots to connect; this, I knew. I pulled a sheet of paper from my printer and picked up a pencil. Quickly, I jotted down what I knew about what had happened to Arthur, and who might have been responsible.
Should I have been working instead? Yes.
Should I have gone out to the pool or up to the activity room to make sure everyone was being taken care of with their new makeshift lunch? Probably.
Should I have tried to plan some impromptu activities for the residents, to keep them engaged and their minds off the disruption to their typical routine? Absolutely.
But still I sat there, my hand flying across the paper.
The way I saw it, there were three suspects. Well, four, actually, if I considered the one alternative Denise hadn’t ever mentioned.
Mary had been with Arthur the night he died. And she’d had a motive of sorts, if I believed that she was truly so mad at him over refusing to get married that she’d decided to kill him.
But I had a hard time thinking this, especially after my conversations with her. Sure, she was upset that things had stalled out with Arthur, and she’d tried to move on and even feign indifference, but my most recent conversation with her had signaled to me that she hadn’t felt vindictive toward him. And now? Now she was just...sad.
Ruth felt like a stronger suspect. She had motive and she had access to the plant that had been found on Arthur’s dinner plate—even though she didn’t seem to know the first thing about the plants she had growing in her apartment. She’d also been at the scene of the supposed crime, since she’d volunteered to help serve when Patty was out sick. She really was the most logical choice if I had to name someone I thought most likely to have done the deed.
But then there was Lola.
The words I’d just overheard out in the hallway replayed in my head. She’d referred to Arthur as evil. And she said she’d taken care of him.
I stared at the pad of paper, thinking. That sounded pretty ominous to me, and it was about as close to a confession as we had. She clearly had motive, and she had access to Arthur’s food. She was there on the evening he died. The only piece was missing was her access to the plant.
But I remembered what I’d read about the plant when I’d searched online after meeting up with Aidan. It was a common plant in gardens. Granted, the sites did say that it could be difficult to grow in this part of Florida due to the hot summers, but it wasn’t impossible. Maybe Lola had some growing in her house or in her yard, too.
I sighed. There was the fourth option, too, the one that I’d already thought about but that Denise hadn’t seemed to consider.
Maybe Arthur had done this to himself.
Aidan had said the leaves were supposedly bitter, so wouldn’t he have tasted it? He was always complaining about the food, so a newfound nastiness would probably have been a source of contention for him, to the point where he might have refused to eat it.
But if he’d purposely laced his food with the express intention of killing himself? I imagine he would have forced it down despite how awful it had been to tolerate.
It was definitely something to consider, but there was one big thing missing with that particular scenario.
Motive.
Why would Arthur have wanted to kill himself? There had been no evidence that he was sick or suffering from any type of mental or physical ailment. And even though he hadn’t wanted to get married, I doubted he would have taken such extreme measures simply to avoid tying the knot.
I rubbed my eyes. I was missing something.
I just didn’t know what.
Frustrated, I shoved the sheet of paper aside.
I wasn’t just frustrated with the case.
I was frustrated with myself.
I did indeed need to focus. But I needed to concentrate on my real job instead of pretending to be a detective.
And I needed to decide exactly what to do about what we did know, because I was well aware that Denise would be knocking down my door as soon as she had a free minute, demanding we call the police.
I reached for the closet file on my desk, determined to lose myself in something other than Arthur’s possible poisoning. A distraction might be good. Might help me focus my mind elsewhere so that when I came back to it, I might see it with fresh eyes. And I might have a better idea of how to handle Denise.
I scanned the contents of the folder. It was for a game night coming up in a couple of weeks, an idea I’d come up with called “Guess Who.” The idea was pretty simple. Residents who were interested in participating submitted a short bio with bullet points about their lives. Players would use these clues as a scavenger hunt of sorts, gathering them and trying to guess who each person was before they ran out of clues and ended up at that resident’s apartment. I loved the idea for its simplicity, but also for the connections it had the potential to create. Residents would learn more about each other, which was always a plus when living within a community-based environment, and they would also be on their feet or wheeling around in search of clues. Physical activity was something I often tried to encourage, but my options were limited, especially since Anne was always worried about injuries and liability.
I thumbed through some of the sheets that had been turned in. There was one from Mary, and I read through her bullets carefully. She was a former schoolteacher. Forty-five years of teaching elementary-age children. She used to decorate cakes as a hobby, and then as a side hustle. Her pies and cookies had won blue ribbons at the county fair. No mention of a husband or any children. I now knew why.
Ruth’s form was next. Her list was long, mostly jobs she’d done. She really had been a jack-of-all-trades. Waitressing, of course. But she’d sold real estate. Taught ballroom dance. And worked as a tax preparer.
She’d also been married four times.
I almost smiled. This did not surprise me.
I picked up the form underneath hers. It belonged to Earl Lipinski.
I scanned his info, noting he was widowed and had both children and grandchildren. There was a mention of his love for gardening, which he’d told us when he’d found us skulking around Ruth’s apartment. I skimmed his work history.
I paused.
Re-read a sentence.
And then stopped cold.