Dead by Dinner Time

by Jeff Shelby

  “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.”

  SEVEN

  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.

  EIGHT

  Anne left, but I still didn’t throw the baggie away.

  Because just as soon as she was gone, Aidan appeared.

  “Hey,” he said, his smile apologetic. “Sorry to bug you. You have a minute?”

  The way he said it, and the way he leaned up against my doorframe, made it sound like he was going to need more than just a minute

  “Sure.” I sat down behind my desk. “What’s up?”

  He hurried into my office and pulled out one of the chairs across from me.

  “I’m sorry to just come barging in but I had a couple of questions that I thought you might be able to answer.”

  I waited.

  His cheeks flushed. “Um, yeah. So I was just wondering if you know what happened to Arthur.” He glanced down at his lap. “He was someone I helped out every once in a while and well...I was sorry to hear about his passing.”

  I felt a tug of sympathy for Aidan. In some ways, he was probably closer to several of the residents than I was. Sure, I planned activities for them and did some socializing, but Aidan spent a lot more one-on-one time with the people who lived at Oasis Ridge.

  “I didn’t know you worked with him,” I said.

  He nodded. “I don’t. But there was a period of time a few months ago when he was in a wheelchair...twisted his ankle, I think. Anyway, I helped out a couple of times a week. Just with bathing and stuff.”

  I remembered Arthur’s twisted ankle. He’d wrenched it coming out of the pool after a morning swim. It had been a shock to see a man go from walking around just fine to being confined to a wheelchair within the scope of a day. He’d only needed it for a few weeks and was soon back to his spry self. But, oh, how he’d complained about being stuck in that chair. Of having to shift the table in the dining room to accommodate his new apparatus, of having to take the elevator up to the activity room instead of the stairs.

  I smiled at the memory. When Arthur was unhappy about something, I always knew he would let us know.

  “So, anyway, I heard you saw him in the dining room when...when it happened.”

  “I got there afterward,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell.”

  His brows knit together and he looked down at his shoes. “Denise said—”

  My radar instantly went up. Denise had talked to Aidan about Arthur? Why?

  I waited for him to continue.

  “She said she thought he had a heart attack,” he continued, and I felt the air rush out of my lungs in a sigh of relief.

  I nodded. “That’s what it looks like.”

  His mouth twisted, a sad sort of frown. “Just so hard to believe. He seemed so...healthy, you know?” He looked up at me. “I mean, for being a resident here.” He winced. “Wow, that sounds pretty terrible, doesn’t it?”

  I gave him an understanding smile. “I know what you mean. And, yes, Arthur did seem fairly healthy. I guess it just goes to show that you never know...”

  I let my voice trail off. You never knew what? When you’d drop dead? When the meal you were eating would be your last?

  I needed to work on my tact.

  “Alright.” Aidan stood up, apparently satisfied with our discussion even though I hadn’t provided much information. He stepped backward, ready to head toward my door. “Well, I guess if you do hear anything could you let me know?” His voice cracked.

  “Of course.” I stood up and walked around my desk. I held out my hand, which felt incredibly awkward, but I wanted to offer some sort of gesture of comfort to the man standing in front of me. He was clearly shaken by Arthur’s death. I didn’t know him well enough to offer a hug, but I thought a handshake might be a kind offering.

  He stared at my outstretched hand and then slowly took it. But his eyes didn’t moved back to my face. Instead, they remained locked on my mid-section as we shook.

  I glanced down. Was my zipper unzipped? Did I have a massive hole in my shirt? Coffee stains?

  “You have something hanging out of your pocket,” Aidan said, pointing with the hand he’d just used to shake mine.

  My hand closed over the baggie and I fumbled with the plastic, trying to stuff it back in my pocket. But all I managed to do was further dislodge it and it fluttered slowly to the floor.

  Aidan bent down to pick it up. “What is this?”

  “Oh, just some leaves.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

  I bit my lip. “It’s...parsley.”

  His eyes came back to mine. I noticed for the first time that they were blue, a much deeper and darker blue than mine. And they were looking at me skeptically.

  “Parsley?” he repeated.

  I nodded vigorously.

  “Why is it in a bag?”

  I knew that I didn’t have to answer his questions. But I also knew that it probably looked a little weird that I was in possession of a small plastic baggie containing two small leaves that might be misidentified as something else.

  Contrary to popular belief, not all twenty-something year-olds smoked pot, and I had no idea what actual marijuana leaves looked like. With Aidan eyeing me curiously, I suddenly worried that the leaves in my pocket may well be mistaken for something for something much more problematic. I’d seen the marijuana logo sticker, the leaf with the toothed edges. I didn’t dare steal a glance at the leaves contained in the baggie, but I knew those had toothed, edges, too.

  “Can I have it back, please?”

  He held it out.

  I snatched it and stuffed it back in my pocket.

  He was still looking at me.

  “What?” I said irritably.

  “That’s not parsley.”

  “How do you know?”

  Aidan shoved his own hands in his pockets. “I’m a biology major. Plant sciences, specifically.”

  “Plant sciences? What on earth is that?”

  “The science of plants.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know that. I mean, what do you do with that?”

  “Uh, lots of things. My pl
an is to work in the pharmaceutical industry and help to develop plant-based drugs.”

  “Plant-based drugs?”

  He nodded. “We’re finding more and more that there are compounds in plants that are far safer than their synthetic counterparts. In addition, we are also still discovering compounds in plants that have medicinal properties. We’re really on the cusp of this new age of discovery in terms of how plants can heal us. We’ve spent a lot of time depending on scientists to develop synthetic products to treat illnesses, but there are a lot of plant-based compounds that can be just as effective and far safer.”

  I wondered who “we” was.

  But all I said was, “Oh.”

  Apparently there was a lot one could do with a plant science major.

  Probably more than someone with a therapeutic recreation major.

  I thought about the baggie shoved in my pocket.

  Denise was absolutely convinced that it was somehow related to Arthur Grigg’s death.

  I completely disagreed and thought she was being melodramatic.

  And I was standing with a man who for all intents and purposes could probably very easily identify exactly what plant it was and thus help me put all of Denise’s conspiracy theories to rest.

  If I let him.

  “Alright, well, I need to get going,” Aidan said. “I have a class to get to.”

  “Class?”

  He nodded. “Most of my classes are in the evenings so I can work.”

  “Summer school?”

  “Yeah. Trying to get this degree done finally.”

  “At Central Florida State?”

  “No. Crestview College.”

  Crestview was a swanky private university, a great school but one that hadn’t made my short list because I knew I didn’t want to be saddled with the insane amount of student debt I would accrue if I went there.

  He turned once again for the door.

  “Aidan, wait.” I pulled the baggie back out of my pocket. “If I tell you what this is, will you swear not to tell anyone?”

  His eyes widened slightly but he nodded.

  “I mean, I don’t know what it is,” I amended. “But I’ll tell you where it was found.

  He waited.