by Alan Cook
“You know, Lil,” Tess said, “maybe it's time we turned this over to the police. You've had your fun playing detective, but we're at a standstill. And if there has been a murder, it's our duty to tell what we know.”
“As usual, you're the sensible one,” I said. “But I suspect that if we don't want to get on Carol's bad side we'd better go through her, since she's in charge here. If I were younger I'd pursue this more vigorously. But as it is, I seem to get a new ache or pain every week.”
“Growing old is not for sissies.”
CHAPTER 8
“What you've told me is very interesting,” Carol said, pouring me a second cup of coffee. “But I suspect there's a reasonable explanation for all of it.”
“That would be nice,” Tess said, munching on a peanut from a mug on Carol's desk that had UNC printed on the side.
Didn't Carol know that peanuts also caused life-threatening reactions in some people, as I had found out from the book on allergies I had been reading. Silver Acres was not a peanut-free zone. “What do you think the explanation is?”
“I think that whoever put the shellfish in the casserole feels so mortified about what happened that she can't bring herself to admit it. I doubt that there was anything sinister about her motives. She probably felt that the shellfish would brighten up the dish.”
“But why do it in secret?” I asked.
“Oh, you know how women are. It was Harriet's recipe and she might have objected to someone tampering with it.”
“So she waited until the casserole was brought over to the recreation room. But how did she know the fire alarm was going to go off, unless she set it off herself.”
“No, it was an accident. But it was serendipity, in a morbid sort of way. Although I'm sure, whoever she is, she was planning to put the shellfish in, anyway. The fire alarm just made it easier to do without ruffling Harriet's feathers.”
“And then when Gerald died,” Tess said, “whoever did it couldn't bring herself to tell anybody.”
“Exactly. So we don't have to worry about this, anymore. And, Lillian, you can go back to playing croquet. I understand that you and your partner are the favorites to repeat as champions again this year.
“If one of us doesn't choke to death,” I said.
She smiled and said, “By the way, I'm going to a dance recital tomorrow with your son.”
“So I heard. I hope you have fun.”
“Are we on for noon?” asked a voice from the doorway I recognized as that of Joe Turner, the facilities man.
I turned around to gaze at his sleek body and unruly black hair, as I do every chance I get, and wondered what he meant by “on.”
“Yes we are,” Carol said.
“I'm jealous,” I muttered, and she laughed again.
***
“I think it all fits,” Tess said as we walked back to our apartments. “Carol's explanation has me satisfied.”
“But not me,” I said. “She's telling it the way she wants it to be because a murder would be bad public relations for Silver Acres. For one thing, what she said doesn't explain the 13 diamonds.”
“But you didn't bring them up. She doesn't know that the deal was fixed.”
“She would have had some glib explanation for that, also. It's obvious that she doesn't want the police brought into it.”
“Lil, you've got to put your ego aside for a minute and admit that Carol may be right.”
“It's possible, but she may be wrong, too.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I don't know.”
***
“I'm doing this under protest,” Sandra said as she wheeled her red Toyota along the Silver Acres road at something above the 20 mile-per-hour speed limit. “I'm not in the habit of frequenting bars, and you aren't, either. And you know how Dad feels about you doing crazy things like this.”
“You didn't tell him, did you?” I asked, momentarily alarmed. Albert was such a killjoy.
“Of course not. You know he wouldn't have permitted it.”
“You look beautiful, Honey,” I said, changing the subject as Sandra pulled onto the main road. “That light green is a perfect color for you.” She wore a minidress that went so well with her blond hair and blue eyes that I wished I could take credit for the looks in our family, but I'm afraid that goes to Milt, my late husband.
“Thanks. That pantsuit looks great on you, Gogi.”
“I'm glad you and your Dad gave it to me.” I usually protested that I didn't need any more clothes, but once in a while they put their feet down. The pantsuit had been a joint Christmas present. I had to admit I looked pretty sharp in it for an old lady, and it hid my legs, which give away my age faster than anything else. “We're just two single women, out on the town.”
“Women don't usually hang out in bars without men, unless they want to be picked up.”
“If anybody tries to pick us up, we're waiting for our dates. Although it's been 30 years since anybody has tried to pick me up—maybe 40. The only thing I'll do is scare away any man who might want to talk to you.”
“Gogi! I do not want to meet a man in a bar. I'm not looking for a one night stand.”
“This is a high-class bar. It's part of the best seafood restaurant in Durham. Who knows, you might meet the man of your dreams there.”
Sandra had left Winston with Audrey, who runs the small daycare center he stays at while she teaches. I was paying the extra charge. I needed Sandra on this escapade for two reasons: because I don't drive any farther than the market and Albert's farm, especially at night, and because I couldn't very well go to a bar alone.
I was finally following up on the tip from Ophah, the receptionist at Silver Acres, who had told me a week ago that a young man named Mark delivered a package from a seafood restaurant in Durham to a resident on the morning that Gerald died. It had slipped my mind at the time, since I hadn't been planning a murder investigation, but now that I was in the middle of one I figured I'd better follow up every lead.
Of course I had forgotten his name was Mark, but I did remember that he had the same name as that of Ophah's son. Tess knows everybody's family history so I asked her the name of Ophah's son. With this information I started calling seafood restaurants in Durham. On the sixth call, to the Sea Chantey, I got a hit. A young man named Mark tended bar during the evening shift, several nights a week. Since the delivery was made during the day it was a long shot, but it was all I had. That's where we were headed now.
We arrived about 7:30. There was ample parking in front of the restaurant, which had a brick front and the solid look of an establishment that served above-average food. As we approached the front door I told Sandra to let me do the talking. Inside, three couples waited in the reception area. A young lady in a long skirt talked on the phone and wrote rapidly on a chart that sat on a dais.
She hung up, looking harried, and said, “Good evening. Do you have reservations?”
“Actually, we're waiting for somebody,” I said. “Uh, don't you have a bar where we can sit for a few minutes? I need a drink.”
“Right through there,” she said, briskly, pointing to the doorway to our right.
“Is Mark on duty?” I asked, in what I hoped was an offhand manner.
She nodded. “He's tending the bar.”
We walked through the doorway. A sprinkling of couples sat at small round tables, the men and women absorbed in each other. A dozen men and one or two women sat in front of a big-screen television set, on which a baseball game was in progress. A few more men slumped on barstools, their eyes also focused on the TV screen.
We stood for a minute to let our eyes adjust to the dim light. I looked behind the counter. The handsome man mixing drinks must be Mark. A waitress served beer to one of the tables of men.
“Let's sit at the bar,” I said to Sandra, who made a face. I led the way to the end of the bar away from the television set, where several stools stood empty. I let Sandra have the end s
tool. She sat down on it carefully, tugging at her skirt, which was too short for a schoolteacher.
Mark had short, dark hair and was close to Sandra's age—thirtyish. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up almost to the elbows and he moved with speed and dexterity as he mixed drinks.
When he finished an order he bustled down to our end of the bar and said, “What can I get for you ladies?” as he placed paper napkins in front of us.
“Draft beer,” Sandra said in a voice that was meant to tell him that she didn't usually frequent places like this.
“Same,” I said, giving him my best smile, but he was still looking at Sandra.
He produced two tall glasses and filled them carefully from the tap, not cheating us with excess foam.
I had my wallet out when he set them in front of us, but he said, “Would you like to run a tab?”
“Sure,” I said, thinking this would give us more chances to speak to him. “Are you Mark?”
He nodded, surprised. “How did you know?”
“I've heard about you,” I said, trying to sound mysterious. A roar from the baseball fans partially drowned out my voice. I was about to add something more when he excused himself and hustled to fill more orders.
Sandra sipped her beer and said, “It's going to be hard to get his attention while the game of the week is playing. Those guys are drinking a lot of beer.”
They made a lot of noise, too. I hoped that Sandra's presence would bring Mark back to our end of the bar, but I wasn't about to tell her that. She would say that she didn't date bartenders. In fact, it seemed as if she didn't date anybody. After one mistake, perhaps nobody was good enough for her now.
I wondered whether I would have to knock over my glass to get some attention, or ask Sandra to sit on the bar and show off her legs, when Mark wandered back, this time with a more casual manner.
He said, looking at Sandra, “What brings you ladies here?”
“We're waiting for someone,” Sandra said, stiffly.
“Anybody I know?”
“We're waiting for Godot.”
“I'll tell you how I know your name,” I said, trying to counter Sandra's coldness. “You made a delivery to Silver Acres last week on Wednesday, and Ophah, the receptionist, told me how handsome you are.” I could feel Sandra cringing beside me.
Mark flashed me a bright smile and said, “That's right. I came in here to pick up my check and I was asked to take an order there since I live near you.”
He left again before I could ask a follow-up question. Sandra said, “Gogi, how could you? Now he thinks we're on the make.”
“At my age, I can say anything I like. But at least we're making progress. And what can it hurt? Why don't you pretend that you are on the make for once in your life?”
“With a bartender?”
She shut up as Mark returned. He said, “Since it's obvious that you're not interested in watching the baseball game, I feel it's my duty to entertain you until your escort arrives.” He spilled some toothpicks out of a container onto the bar-top and started arranging them in rows in front of Sandra.
“What is this, some sort of a con game?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said with a grin, “but it has a mathematical basis to it, which you might appreciate since you're a teacher, although probably an English teacher.”
“How did you know that?”
“By your attitude toward me—treating me as a lower form of life—and the literary allusion you made. Certainly not by your hair. No teacher of mine ever had hair that long. Or that blond.”
And probably not a face as red as Sandra's had become.
“So, what do you teach?”
She practically whispered the word: “English.”
“All right! I'm working on a Ph.D. in physics at UNC.”
“Oh.” Sandra looked as if she wished she were in Antarctica studying penguins.
“But I've got to eat too, so I work here.”
My ears had perked up at the word “mathematical.” I had written a book about mathematical games. Mark arranged four rows of toothpicks, 7, 5, 3 and 1, respectively.
“The object of the game is not to remove the last toothpick,” Mark said. “On your turn you may remove any number from any one row, but you have to remove at least one. Go ahead and start,” he said to Sandra.
Sandra sat immobile for about five seconds and I wondered whether she was going to refuse to play and would embarrass herself again. Then she tentatively removed one toothpick. Mark quickly removed one from another row. As they played I observed the patterns that Mark left on his turns. It jogged my memory. I may not remember what I did yesterday, but there's nothing wrong with my long-term memory.
I flashed back to the early sixties, to a strange foreign movie I had seen, called Last Year at Marienbad, one in which I hadn't known what was happening. However, one man in it had played this game over and over, with anyone who would play with him. He had used a deck of cards. And he always won. I analyzed the game afterward.
Of course Mark won. “So what does that prove?” Sandra asked, although the ice was gone from her voice.
“Would you like to play a game for a round of drinks?” I asked Mark. “Including one for you?”
He looked at me, surprised. “I don't drink on duty.”
“Okay, five dollars to you if you win. If I win I get to ask you a question.”
“Look, I don't want to take advantage of you.”
“I wouldn't worry about that,” Sandra said.
He looked at her. “All right,” he said with a little smile, setting up the toothpicks.
“One condition,” I said. “You go first.”
If that condition bothered him he didn't show it. He took three off the five-row, leaving 7, 2, 3, 1. It had been a long time since I had thought about this game. What was the key? The gears ground slowly in my head. Convert the number in each row to binary: Seven became 111; two became 10; three became 11; and one became 1. List them vertically as though I was going to add them together. I had taken a pen from my purse and did this on my napkin, hiding what I wrote. 111 + 10 + 11 + 1.
Remove toothpicks so as to leave an even number of ones in each binary column. The beer must have affected me because I drew a blank. Sandra looked anxious; she wanted to help me but didn't know how.
After a full sweaty minute I figured out the only way to do it. It was simple now that I saw it, but then most math is. With a grand gesture I swept all the toothpicks in the seven row to the floor at Mark's feet. He looked startled, but immediately removed one from the row of two, leaving 1, 3, 1.
Now my formula didn't work anymore. Had I blown it? Then I remembered. The formula allowed me to remove the last toothpick, not force my opponent to do it. There was a twist at the end. I had to use pure logic now. I removed two from the three row, leaving 1, 1, 1. I had Mark beaten and he knew it. He looked crestfallen.
“I forgot to tell you that my grandmother used to be a mathematics professor,” Sandra said, not unkindly.
“That explains it,” Mark said, perking up. “I owe you a round.”
“And an answer to my question,” I said, quickly.
“Okay, shoot.”
“Actually, two questions. What did you take to Silver Acres and who did you deliver it to?”
I was surprising him all over the place. He started to say something, stopped, then said, “It was an order of Maine lobster—we have it flown in. And...I don't know the name of the woman I delivered it to. I had an extension to call...”
“Do you remember it?”
Mark shrugged. “No.”
“Would there be a record of it here?”
He shook his head. “Our phone order-taking system is pretty haphazard.”
“Where did you deliver it?”
“In the front parking lot. The woman came out from one of the side doors, not the main entrance. She wore dark glasses and a sun hat. She gave me a nice tip.”
“Wou
ld you know her if you saw her again?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“What if I showed you pictures?”
“I'm sorry. All of you...” he chuckled, “look alike to me.”
“Thanks a lot.” I was discouraged, but tried one more time. “No distinguishing characteristics: height, weight?”
Mark shook his head repeatedly. “What is this all about?”
“There is a clause in the Silver Acres contract that restricts residency to people who don't eat Maine lobster. My job is to ferret out the violators.”
Before Mark could react to that, Sandra said, “How about that other round of beer you owe us?”
CHAPTER 9
Saturday morning I got a call from a woman named Hazel. She was a member of the bridge club, but she didn't come all the time. I had a vague association of a face with that name. My memory wasn't good enough to connect names with the faces of all the people I saw occasionally.
Hazel said she had some information for me and that she couldn't tell me about it over the phone. She sounded very mysterious. She didn't want to meet at her apartment or my apartment, either, so I agreed to meet her outdoors beside the duck pond. Didn't Howard Hughes used to meet people at midnight in cemeteries? At least this meeting wasn't that clandestine. The duck pond had one permanent resident, named Louie, who couldn't fly. The other ducks summered somewhere north of us, but in the fall and spring flocks would stop here for a few hours or a few days on their way to wherever it is that ducks migrate.
Wooden benches with metal frames faced the duck pond, where residents could sit and wait for the ducks to come. I recognized Hazel when I saw her; she was already seated on one of the benches. I sat down on the same bench, but not too close to her, as she had instructed me over the phone. She looked small and furtive.
She looked around before she spoke, apparently checking for spies. The only potential spy I saw, other than Louie, was a squirrel who might be wired for sound, but I didn't voice this thought, fearing that Hazel might take it seriously.
Finally, she said, “It's about Ida Wilson.”
“What about Ida?” I asked when she lapsed into silence.
