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“Start talking,” I ordered.
Denise and I were sitting in the dining room at one of the empty tables. Dinner was going to be served in about twenty minutes so I knew we didn’t have much time. I’d poured myself a cup of coffee and Denise had grabbed a water bottle from her personal stash in the fridge in the employee break room and we were parked at one of the tables, far enough away from the clatter coming from the kitchen as Lola bustled about.
“I already told you everything,” she said.
“No, you didn’t.” I took a sip of coffee. “You haven’t said a single word about why you think Arthur’s death is suspicious.”
Denise rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”
It really wasn’t. All Denise had done was show me a baggie with two tiny leaves in it. I wasn’t a master chef or anything, but even I could tell that the items in question looked an awful lot like an herb. Parsley. Cilantro. Which was exactly what I’d suggested to her when she shoved the bag in my face.
“You showed me a baggie with leaves in it,” I reminded her. “Did you show them to Lola? Ask her if she’d used anything like that in the enchiladas?”
Denise’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “Of course not.”
“Why wouldn’t you? She’s the one who cooks the food. She could clear this up in no time.” I put my hands on the armrest, intending to push myself into a standing position, but Denise shoved me back down.
“Hey,” I objected with a frown. “What are you doing?”
She slid her chair closer and leaned in. “Look, you don’t know all the drama that goes on here.”
I raised my eyebrows. Did she seriously not think I wasn’t privy to the gossip and rumor mill that operated at Oasis Ridge? I’d discovered pretty quickly that working in a retirement community was an awful lot like being back in junior high. There were catty girls—in this case, women—and petty gossip, and it seemed as though someone was always mad at someone else. I might not be serving residents meals three times a day like Denise was, but I heard my fair share of the goings-on when I supervised or led activities.
“There’s always drama,” I said.
“Not like this.” She shook her head. “This is...this is...” She looked to the ceiling, trying to think of the word she wanted. “Nefarious.” She sounded triumphant.
“Nefarious?” I repeated. “Two tiny leaves on a plate are nefarious?”
“If someone put them there to kill him they are,” she said firmly.
I cupped the mug sitting in front of me and tried to remain patient. It was becoming increasingly difficult. I’d always liked Denise, but I couldn’t fathom how she was jumping to these weird conclusions about Arthur and the other residents.
“What kind of things have you heard?” I finally asked. Maybe once she gave me some details, I could talk some sense into her.
Her brow wrinkled. “What are you talking about?”
“You mentioned drama. What kind of drama have you witnessed?”
She played with the cap on her water bottle, twisting it off and on. Her nails were long and tapered, a shocking hot pink. “I hear things no one else does,” she said cryptically. “I’m like a fly on the wall during meal times. You wouldn’t believe the things I overhear in this room.”
“Try me,” I said.
She opened her mouth but then her gaze shifted from my eyes to behind me, and I turned around.
Mary was in the dining room, slowly making her way toward us. She wore all black. Black pants, a black sweater. A black veil was pinned to her white curls.
“Mary.” I stood up to greet her. “How are you?”
Her mouth puckered. “As good as can be expected, I guess.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
Mary gave a slight nod to acknowledge the sympathies I’d extended. “We were going to get married, you know,” she said.
“Married?” I repeated. How on earth had I missed that bit of news?
“That’s why I’m dressed this way.” Her voice was wobbly, and I worried that she might break down in tears. “To properly mourn him.”
“Of course.” I paused for a moment, trying to think of the most tactful way to ask the next question. “Will there be a service for Arthur?”
She stiffened. “I don’t know,” she clipped. “His family is making all of the arrangements.” She said the word ‘family’ as though it were a dirty word.
“His family?” I repeated.
“His daughter.” She sniffed. “That woman hasn’t seen her father in years and yet she is the one deciding on his final resting place. The hymns to sing at his service. What kind of coffin and headstone he’ll receive.”
It was obvious how much this upset Mary, and I couldn’t blame her for feeling that way. She and Arthur had been close, and if they’d been able to get married before he passed, she most likely would have been the one making those decisions. I could only hope that Arthur’s daughter had spoken to her father at some point so at least his wishes could be taken into consideration.
“Anyway,” Mary said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief she produced from her pants pocket. It, too, was black. “I’m sure the service will be fine. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
I nodded. There didn’t seem to be much else to say.
She glanced toward the table she and Arthur had shared, and she shivered. “I...this is the first meal I’ve come to since...since he died.”
“Where did you have breakfast and lunch?” I asked.
“In my room. I wasn’t very hungry.” She pulled herself up to her full posture and cleared her throat. “I know this will be difficult but I have to do it. I have to come back. Face this.”
I gave her an encouraging smile. “You’ll do just fine, Mary. It will be okay. You’re a strong woman.”
She gave me a weird look. “I’m talking about sitting in the dining room. Alone.”
I felt the heat rush to my cheeks.
Of course.
Duh.
A tall, thin man walked into the room, making all of our heads swivel in his direction. I was grateful for the distraction.
Earl Lipinski headed straight toward our table with a smile on his face. It wasn’t actually visible, considering the heavy white beard it was hidden underneath, but I could tell by the way his eyes crinkled that it was there.
“Mary,” he said, holding out his hands to her. The smile had vanished, instantly replaced by a look of concern. “How are you?”
“I’m alright.”
He held her hands in his. “You look lovely,” he told her. “I’m sure Arthur is watching you right now. You’ve made him proud.”
Mary’s eyes misted. “Do you think?”
“I don’t think, I know,” Earl said. “And I know something else, too.”
“What’s that?”
“Arthur wouldn’t want you to eat alone.” He let go of her hands and executed a stiff bow. “Would you allow me to escort you to dinner?”
Mary’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh...well...” She sounded flustered. “If you want to.”
“I insist.” He placed his hand on the small of Mary’s back, and Denise and I both watched as he guided her to a table. It was a different table than the one she would sit at with Arthur.
“See what I mean?” Denise hissed.
“What?”
“All the drama and craziness that goes on here!”
I stared at her. “Earl offered to eat dinner with her because she just lost her dining partner. The man she was apparently going to marry. How is that considered drama?”
Denise rolled her eyes. “Not that! The way she was dressed! Did you see that? Who does that? Who wears all black—including a veil—when they weren’t even married to the guy that died?”
“I thought it was kind of sweet.”
Okay, so it was also a little weird, too, I had to admit. But I didn’t know what traditions and customs Mary lived by. Maybe it was normal to wear black when you mourned the loss of any loved one.
“I’m telling you, the only people who are supposed to wear black are widows and close relatives. And with widows, they’re supposed to wear it for an entire year.” She sniffed. “Mary ain’t no widow. They weren’t married!”
“I think she is perfectly capable of deciding how she chooses to mourn.” I hoped Denise could hear the reprimand in my voice.
Denise grabbed her water bottle and stood up. “I need to get to work,” she said.
I took one last sip of my coffee. “Me, too.”
I picked up my cup and got to my feet, too. “I know this whole situation has gotten your attention, but I really think it was just...just life.”
From the look on Denise’s face, she wasn’t buying it.
“Nope,” she said, confirming my thoughts. She reached into her pocket and before I knew what was happening, she was pressing the plastic baggie into my hand.
I balked. “I don’t want this!”
“Well, neither do I.”
I tried giving it back to her but she held tight to her water bottle with one hand and shoved the other back into her pants pocket.
“Take it back,” I told her. “Throw it away.”
“No way.” She shook her head vehemently. “It might be evidence.”
“Then you keep it.”
“Are you insane?” she said incredulously. “You know what’ll happen to me if I get caught with that?”
“What are you even talking about?”
“I am a black woman,” she announced, loud enough so that both Mary and Earl turned in our direction. She lowered her head—and her voice. “You know what the police will think if they find a baggie of leaves on me?”
“You do know we’re in a retirement community right now, right?” I asked. “And there are literally no cops anywhere near us.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll find me.” She huffed out a breath. “They’ll say it’s weed or something and throw me in jail.”
It felt like an excellent time to point out that the only drama I was seeing at Oasis Ridge was coming from her. But I stopped myself, because I didn’t want to discount the fears she was expressing, especially since I could tell those concerns were real. Unfounded, considering what she’d shoved into my hands and the location in which we were standing, but still very real.
With my fair complexion and red hair, I couldn’t present any more white than I already did. And I wasn’t naïve to the fact that people of color oftentimes were treated differently.
Did that mean I thought she’d be hauled to jail for being in possession of a baggie containing two small parsley leaves?
Of course not.
But if she thought that, and if she was concerned about it, it was incumbent upon me to acknowledge her feelings. Even if they felt a little overwrought.
“Fine,” I said with a sigh. I glanced down at the baggie.
Her shoulders sagged with relief. “What are you gonna do with it?”
“The same thing I told you to do. Throw it away.”