| |
I had to wait to talk to Lola.
I knew it would be a disaster if I went to the kitchen close to mealtime, and we were minutes away from the noon meal. I’d have to wait until the afternoon lull, that time between lunch and dinner.
My stomach was a bundle of nerves so I skipped eating in the dining room and just grabbed a soda from the machine in the staff lounge. Just thinking about eating something from Lola’s kitchen suddenly had my insides jittery.
Of course, I didn’t have a shred of evidence that proved Lola was connected to Arthur’s death.
Mary had simply mentioned Arthur’s disdain for Lola’s cooking, and the fact that he’d been actively campaigning for her removal. I’d been the one to try to make the connection between the possible poisoning and the cook who had access to the food.
And sure, it might have been a bit of a stretch, but no more so than any of the other people I’d considered as potential suspects in what may or may not have been an intentional poisoning.
I spent the lunch hour and the better part of the afternoon holed up in my office, going over attendance information at our various events and entering them into the spreadsheet I’d created, trying to keep my mind off the mystery I was sure was more a product of my imagination than an actual reality. Once I finished with that project, I moved on to a stack of comments cards I needed to go through. I read through each of them, taking note of what the residents had to say about the different activities they’d participated in.
By the time two o’clock rolled around, I’d finished most of my paperwork and Lola was still firmly on my mind. No amount of work had quelled my desire to go and talk with her.
I debated the wisdom of going to see her. I tried to remind myself that it wasn’t any of my business, and it wasn’t my problem to solve.
But none of that mattered.
Denise was in the dining room, swapping out some of the tablecloths for fresh ones.
“You didn’t come to lunch.” Her voice held a note of accusation.
“I had some work to do in my office.”
She frowned. “You don’t usually pass up a free meal.”
“I’m not usually backed up after being on vacation for a week,” I pointed out.
She acknowledged this with a nod. “You figure anything out about Ruth?” she whispered.
I hesitated. Did I tell her that Ruth had led me to Mary? And that Mary was now leading me to Lola?
I was back to that same question that I always had when it came to Denise: how much did I really want her to know?
“Not really,” I said.
Her shoulders slumped.
“But I’m working on it,” I promised, feeling bad about not being as forthcoming as I probably should have been.
“What are you doing in here now? Grabbing coffee?”
I nodded emphatically. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.” I marched over to the machine and grabbed a cup from the tray positioned nearby.
I peeked into the kitchen. I could just see Lola, standing off to the side, with what looked like a clipboard in her hand.
I heard a buzzing sound and then the swish of fabric. I turned around. Denise had pulled her phone from her pocket and was swearing under her breath.
“Everything okay?”
She gave me a look. “It’s never okay when my brother calls me.” My face must have registered alarm because she rolled her eyes and said, “If Deshawn is calling, it means he needs money.”
She hurried out of the dining room, snapping out a “hello” as she answered the phone.
I set the empty mug down and glanced into the kitchen.
I knew that it was now or never.
I hustled through the doorway.
Lola looked up from the clipboard she was holding.
“Help you?” she asked.
I tried for a pleasant smile even though my insides were beginning to quake.
Lola Covich was not my favorite person.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like her, but her gruff personality always rubbed me the wrong way. Her severe features—the beady eyes, hawkish nose, thin lips—didn’t help. And the fact that she’d gotten her cooking experience serving ten years in the Navy only reinforced my belief that she was a no-nonsense, straight shooter kind of person.
I sniffed the air. “Smells good in here.”
And it did. Sort of.
Lola’s expression was impassive. “First batch of lasagna is in the oven. Still need to make the garlic bread.”
As far as meals at Oasis Ridge went, this was one of the better ones in the rotation.
“Did you need something?” she asked. She motioned to the open cupboards. “I’m in the middle of doing inventory.”
“Inventory?”
“Food order is due tomorrow.”
“Of course.” I smiled again, but my muscles were so tense that it actually hurt to do so. “Um, I was hoping I could ask you a question or two about Monday.”
“Monday? What about Monday?” she practically barked. “I can barely remember what happened this morning, much less a few days ago.”
“Monday was the day Arthur Griggs died.”
Her demeanor didn’t change. “So?”
I swallowed. “So I was just wondering if you noticed anything unusual that night?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s it matter to you? You’re the activity director.”
“I’m actually the recreational therapist,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Same difference.”
It wasn’t. At all. But in truth, Anne had made sure that my job at Oasis Ridge had pretty much been limited to that of an average activity coordinator and not someone who held a degree in therapy.
I tried not to feel defeated as that particular realization washed over me once again.
And then I reminded myself that I wasn’t standing in the kitchen to defend or define my job.
I was there for answers. I straightened and took a deep breath.
“It’s my job to take part in the overall care of the residents who call Oasis Ridge home,” I said. “And you’re a part of that, too.”
She grunted. “What about Monday?”
It was now or never. “Did you notice anything different on Monday night? With Arthur?” I bit my lip. “Or, uh, with the food?”
“I don’t pay attention to the residents,” she said bluntly. “Barely see them. I’m busy in the kitchen, not serving food. Now, every once in a while I’ll help out with serving. And with Patty out sick, I did run some stuff out on Monday. But then that lady offered to help...”
“Ruth,” I supplied.
Lola snapped her fingers. “Yeah, that’s the one. She said she’d help serve so I went ahead and let her. That was about the only thing different that night.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think it was a great idea to have her serve that table but I didn’t have much choice.”
“What do you mean?”
She screwed up her face. “Because of Mary.”
I wasn’t following. “Why would that matter?”
“Because Ruth hates her.”
“Hates her?” This was news to me.
Lola snorted again. “For being the social director here, you don’t seem to know much about the social lives of the residents. I’m pretty clueless but even I knew what was going on there.” She tucked a loose strand of mousy brown hair behind her ears. The rest was captured in a severe bun—probably a hairstyle left over from her military days.
“Ruth hated Mary?” I asked. “Because of...Arthur?”
Lola nodded.
I went over what I already knew about Ruth. She’d been sweet on Arthur and he’d rejected her advances. That was the reason Denise had initially suspected her. And Ruth had told me all about how Arthur had led Mary on, telling her that he was going to marry her but then doing nothing about it.
I supposed I could see how Ruth might be resentful of Mary, and of the fact that the man she was pining for was involved with someone else.
But that seemed far less severe than hating someone.
“I poked my head out just to make sure dinner didn’t end up in Mary’s lap.” Lola let out a cackle. “Enchilada sauce can leave quite a stain.”
I was quiet, trying to process what Lola had just told me. If Ruth hated Mary, and had access to the poisonous leaves, why would she have given them to Arthur? My eyes widened. Maybe she’d doctored the food but had set the wrong plate down in front of Arthur. Maybe it had been intended for Mary, to permanently remove her from the picture so that Ruth would be free to pursue the man she loved.
Or maybe my imagination was running so wild, I was simply formulating even more outlandish theories than the ones before.
Lola tapped her clipboard with her pen. She was staring pointedly at me. “Anything else? You’re interrupting me.”
I felt my cheeks color. “Just one more question.”
She waited, her eyes so narrow they looked like tiny slits.
I screwed up my courage. “What did you think of Arthur?”
She scowled. “I don’t think anything of the residents. I told you, my job is to cook for them. Period.”
“But didn’t he complain about the food?” I pressed. I thought about what I’d heard from Mary, how he’d gotten others on board with his mission. “Did he start any kind of process? You know, to have you...” I couldn’t complete the sentence. Not after seeing the look on her face.
“I am not a bad cook,” she said, enunciating each word. Her face was as red as a tomato. “That man just liked to have something to complain about. He lived for it. If it wasn’t the food, it was going to be something else.”
For someone who had just claimed not to think or know anything about the residents, she was sounding pretty well versed when it came to discussing Arthur Griggs.
She slapped the clipboard with her open palm, and the sound made me jump.
“I am done answering questions,” she announced. “I have work to do.” She looked down her nose at me. “I would think you should be working, too, right? Providing therapy or whatever it is you claim to do?”
I forced myself to take careful, measured steps out of the kitchen rather than bolting to the safety of my office.
I knew two things after my brief conversation with Lola.
There was absolutely reason to suspect that she might have had something to do with Arthur’s death. The animosity she felt toward him radiated off her.
And she definitely still was not my favorite person.