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Mary Uhlrich was exactly where I thought she would be.
Because she was attending one of the activities I’d planned for the week.
I found her and a few other residents in the community kitchen, a smaller area off the activity room. She was sitting at the counter, scooping small mounds of cookie dough on to a waiting cookie sheet.
I smiled as soon as I walked into the room, and it wasn’t just because the aroma of baking chocolate chip cookies was making my mouth water and my stomach grumble. No, seeing the residents gathered around the kitchen area, chatting and stirring ingredients and sliding finished cookies onto cooling racks filled my heart with happiness. This was something engaging, something comforting for the individuals who lived here. Something familiar and productive, an activity that hadn’t been created just to fill time but to provide them with a sense of community and purpose instead.
It was moments like these that made me feel like I was doing what I’d set out to do: find ways to enrich people’s lives. I just wished they weren’t so few and far between.
I stood close to the doorway, watching surreptitiously for a moment. Becky, one of the home health aides, was standing in the kitchen with the residents, doing her best to stay out of their way. Connie, another aide, was sitting at one of the tables, scrolling through her phone. I knew she was probably bored, and I knew there were probably a dozen other things both of these women could be doing, but since Anne had insisted on that three-to-one ratio, they were both stuck there.
Even though it was clear that the residents had everything under control.
Billie Applegate was at the sink, washing dishes. She picked up a dishtowel as her eyes swept the room and met mine. She waved.
“You here for a cookie?” she practically yelled.
Every head swiveled in my direction.
I tried not to wince. I’d wanted to watch unnoticed for a bit; not just to see how the activity went, but so that I could observe Mary, too.
It had been a few days since Arthur’s death, and Mary’s black attire was gone. She wore tan slacks and a fuchsia blouse in its place, with a thick strand of pearls looped around her neck. So much for being in mourning. Her white curls were a little less tight today, and she’d taken great care with her make-up. Eye shadow, blush, powder, lipstick; I was pretty sure she’d even applied mascara.
Billie shuffled in my direction, holding a small plate of freshly baked cookies. She held it out to me with shaky hands.
They were still warm, the chocolate all gooey and melty. I bit into it. “Delicious,” I proclaimed after swallowing the first bite down.
“We’re taking these to the dining room for lunch,” Billie announced. “Dessert today is rice pudding.” She shuddered.
“You’re not a fan of rice pudding?”
Her face screwed up. “Not when it taste like cardboard.”
I fought the grin spreading across my face. “I’ve had the pudding,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. “It’s not that bad.”
She raised her brows. “Miss Sunny, it’s about the worst thing I’ve ever tasted here.” She glanced at the other women in the room. “We’ve decided that it’s our duty to use our time here in this kitchen to benefit the lives—and taste buds—of others.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded emphatically. “We’re starting with the pudding. Offering an alternative.”
I wasn’t sure health code regulations would allow the dining room to serve any of the food prepared in the residents’ kitchen during actual meal times, but I didn’t want to quell her enthusiasm. “And what’s after that?”
Billie’s eyes twinkled. “I don’t know but I’m sure we’ll think of something.” She gave me one last smile before turning toward the table where Connie was seated. There were a few residents at another table, playing cards, their eyes occasionally drifting to the golf game tuned in on the television.
I shifted my attention back to Mary. She’d finished with the tray and another resident—Flora, I thought—was getting ready to slide it into the oven. Mary’s eyes caught mine and I took that as my cue to make my way toward her.
“Cookies taste great,” I told her, along with the other ladies gathered behind the counter.
“It’s my special recipe,” the woman who I was pretty sure was Flora said. “Handed down from my mother.”
“Well, they’re delicious,” I told her.
She practically beamed. “The secret is to use all brown sugar. And extra vanilla.”
Mary began to load a small plate with cookies.
“Who are those for?” I asked.
She nodded toward a table. “Billie only took a few. They’re going to need more. Earl and Frank both have a pretty big sweet tooth.”
I watched as she took the cookies over to the table. Earl immediately grabbed one and bit into it, and a shower of crumbs fell into his thick beard. He brushed them aside and reached for another. Even from where I was standing, I could hear him lavish praise on Mary.
I watched in both fascination and surprise as she blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl. Was this the same woman who had been devastated by her almost-fiancé’s death just a few days earlier? Because the way it looked to me, she was happily flirting with the man currently complimenting her baking skills.
I stepped in front of Mary as she started her return to the kitchen area, now clutching an empty plate. Billie had returned hers, too, and had left so she could go freshen up before the noon meal.
Surprise flickered in Mary’s eyes when she realized I wasn’t getting out of her way. “Did you need something, dear?”
I offered what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. “I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. You know, after everything that has happened.”
She waved a hand in the air. “I’m fine,” she said breezily.
“You are?”
She nodded.
“But Arthur—”
“Arthur is gone.” She was almost nonchalant about it.
“But—”
“I can’t waste my time pining for something already gone,” she said firmly. “Life is much too short for that. Especially at my age.”
I couldn’t argue with her there.
But her attitude struck me as odd. She’d been really shook up after Arthur’s death. How could her attitude have changed so quickly? Had her initial reaction all been a ruse? Had she even been upset over his death?
Probably not, if she’d been the one to poison him.
If someone actually had poisoned him, I reminded myself.
I made a concerted effort to not roll my eyes. I was being ridiculous. And I was realizing that I was spending far too much time focusing on something that didn’t actually concern me.
My job was to provide activities for the residents, not to play detective and try to solve nonexistent crimes.
But even as I thought this, I didn’t march out of that room.
Deep down, I knew why I was invested in searching out answers...and it had very little to do with Arthur Griggs.
It had everything to do with me.
It had to do with finding purpose, with finding something that required me to think and brainstorm and look for answers outside the box. Those were things I should have been doing in my job, and I would have...if Anne had let me.
Instead, I was gumshoeing my way through an incident that probably wasn’t suspicious at all. There was more likely than not a very reasonable explanation for why those leaves had been on Arthur’s plate.
And it almost certainly did not point to the idea that someone had poisoned him.
But at that moment, I didn’t much care for logic.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
Mary startled. “What? Ask me?”
I nodded. “You were sitting with Arthur that night, correct?”
“Well, yes, but I’d gone to the ladies room.”
“Yes, I remember you saying that. But before that, you were sitting with him, right?”
She gave a reluctant nod.
“Was there anything unusual in his behavior that night?” When she didn’t answer, I added, “Did he seem like he wasn’t feeling well? Say anything that might lead you to believe he was sick?”
“He wasn’t sick,” she said firmly.
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. He would have told me if he was. Always a complainer, Arthur was.”
I bit back a smile. Some people were just like that. “What do you remember about that last meal?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to be evasive, but I also didn’t want to come right out and ask her about the leaves on Arthur’s plate. “You had already started eating, right? Denise had brought your food early because you were already seated?”
Her expression darkened. “Denise didn’t bring it, Ruth did. And no, I hadn’t started eating.”
“No?”
Her curls bounced as she shook her head. “I don’t like Mexican food. Too spicy.”
“But Arthur had? Started eating, I mean?”
“Of course.” She snorted. “He always ate like a horse. Even though he absolutely hated Lola’s cooking. Like I said, he was always one to complain.”
I tried to be diplomatic. “It’s hard to please everyone when you’re cooking for a crowd.”
“It’s also hard to please no one,” she pointed out. “Arthur had been on a mission for months to make changes in that kitchen, to get us all better food. He complained to the management, and he even drummed up support among residents to get that woman fired.”
“Lola?”
Mary nodded. “And it seemed to be working.” Her shoulders sagged. “I just wonder if anyone is going to continue the crusade now that he’s gone. That was about the only thing he was good for,” she said bitterly.
A new piece of the puzzle had just appeared. One that I hadn’t even known existed.
“Arthur was trying to get Lola fired?”
Mary’s nod was more emphatic this time. “Absolutely. He was convinced that was the only way we were going to get better food. Complaining and filling out suggestions wasn’t working. He was ready to resort to desperate measures.”
Desperate measures.
I mulled this over.
I wondered who else might have been ready to resort to desperate measures.
Perhaps someone who was worried about losing her job?
I didn’t know, but I intended to find out.