by Alan Cook
“I take a walk every morning when the weather's good. I pass Ida's apartment.”
Hazel looked at me as if that had great significance. I didn't remember passing her in the morning. She must be one of the clockwise walkers, also. I said, “Ida goes for a walk every morning too. She walks her dog.”
“But I start before she does. When I pass her place her light is on, but she's still there.”
She became silent again. I wanted to tell her to spit out whatever she was trying to tell me, but she was busy looking over her shoulder.
Satisfied that nobody threatened our privacy, she said, “Several weeks ago I saw somebody else through her kitchen window on two different days.”
“Who did you see?”
“I saw a man, but I didn't recognize him for sure. I was surprised, of course, but I figured that Ida could have whoever she wanted in her apartment, so I didn't think anything more of it.” She gave me a crafty look.
I said, “I think who she has in her apartment is her business and nobody else's.”
“True. Unless it leads to murder.”
“Why don't you just tell me what you know,” I said, trying to cut through the melodrama.
“One morning the man came out of Ida's apartment as I approached and walked away fast. He didn't see me in the dark but I got a good look at him because he went close to a streetlight.”
“Who was it?” I asked, anticipating her answer.
“It was Wesley Phipps.”
“Are you sure?” If she thought she was going to shock me, she was right. The fastidious Wesley, who doted on his sick wife?
“There's nothing wrong with my eyesight,” Hazel said, indignantly, but she was pleased at my reaction.
“But he's married.”
“His wife's an invalid and has been for years.”
True, but how could he sneak out on her at night? And what did Ida see in him, anyway? He was not exactly a prime specimen of manhood. “Okay, I believe you,” I said, “but what does this have to do with murder?”
“Isn't it obvious? Ida was supposed to be the girlfriend of Gerald. Gerald must have found out about her and Wesley and threatened to tell Wesley's wife. So they killed him.”
Just like that. “What makes you think Gerald was murdered?”
“Everybody in the bridge club knows Gerald was murdered. And everybody knows you're trying to solve it. Somebody put the shellfish in the casserole on purpose, in order to kill him. Either Ida or Wesley. They did it after the fire alarm went off. I was just trying to help.” Hazel looked hurt.
I suspected that “everybody” was limited to busybodies like Hazel, but she had told me something I didn't already know, assuming she was a reliable source. I thanked her for her assistance. She made me swear that I wouldn't tell anybody she had told me this and said we had to leave separately.
That was fine with me. I walked away first. After I had gone a few yards I looked back at her. She still sat on the bench, staring at the pond. I wondered what Louie thought of her.
***
Ophah, the Silver Acres receptionist, didn't work on weekends. Volunteers from among the residents filled in at the front desk to answer questions and guide visitors. I usually sat there from 2 to 4 p.m. on Saturdays. On Saturday morning I traded with the man who had the 8 to 10 p.m. shift on Saturday evenings.
Not much happened at the front desk Saturday evenings. Residents who could get out and about were out on their own or with relatives and friends. Those who couldn't were safely ensconced in front of their television sets. No delivery people came to the front door and very few visitors.
Thus, as I sat at the front desk at 8:05 p.m., I was completely alone and silence reigned, apart from the ubiquitous hum of the air conditioning system. I opened a drawer that I knew contained a ring of emergency keys. One of them fit the lock to Carol Grant's office. Carol, who sometimes came in on weekends, would not be here tonight. She was out with Albert.
I sidled over to her office door, which was not far from the reception desk. Keeping one eye on the main corridor and one eye on the parking lot through the front windows, I tried one key after another until one fit. I rotated it in the lock and heard a click. I turned the handle and swung the door slightly open.
I poked my hand through the dark doorway and found the light switch with my fingers; I turned it on. Having gotten this far, I was afraid to go in. I had been a law-abiding citizen all my life. An invisible barrier called a conscience kept me from entering the office. I turned off the light, shut and locked the door, returned to the reception desk and put away the keys.
A half-hour later I took the keys out again and played with them awhile. Finally, I picked them up and returned to Carol's door and opened it. I told myself that all I was going to do was to look around. I turned on the light and after one last sweeping glance of the area to see if anybody was in sight, walked timidly in.
I was interested in the four-drawer metal file cabinet beside the credenza, that I had seen the day before when Tess and I had talked to Carol. I was quite sure that's where the residents' folders were kept. The drawers were unlabeled and the cabinet was locked.
I tried all the keys on my key ring but none of them fit this lock. With almost a sigh of relief I retreated to the door. I hadn't really done anything wrong yet and this was an omen telling me not to. I would return to my station again.
But I didn't. I stood in the doorway for a while, eyeing the file cabinet. I found that my brain was running by itself, in problem-solving mode. Where did Carol keep the key to the cabinet?
She might keep it on her own personal key ring, of course, but that was unlikely. She might keep it in one of the drawers of her desk. I walked around to the business side of the desk and found that all the drawers there were locked. None of the keys on the ring fit these locks, either.
There was a small refrigerator beside the file cabinet that wasn't locked. I opened the door, but there was nothing inside except a container of orange juice.
A wooden cabinet was attached to the wall above the credenza. Its four doors had no locks. I opened each one in turn. I saw books and notebooks, but nothing of interest, and no keys. I idly reached my hand up and felt the top of the cabinet, which was at arm's length above my head. The flat board that formed the top was slightly lower than the top edge of the front vertical panel that hid it. As I ran my fingers along this board they came into contact with something hard.
My fingers closed and I brought a small key ring down to eye level. Sometimes being taller than average pays off. My hands shook as I tried the keys in the filing cabinet lock. The second one worked and the push-lock popped out, startling me. I quickly put the key ring back in its place and stared at the open lock.
I had solved the problem of opening the filing cabinet. I had met the challenge and now I should quit snooping. I told myself that I was still technically not a criminal. I walked back to the door of the office and took another look around outside. Not a creature was stirring....
While I had the opportunity I should just find out if I was correct in my assumption about the contents of the cabinet. I pulled open the top drawer. Hanging file folders filled the drawer, with tabs sticking up. The first tab read, “Alt, Lucille.” Lucille resided at Silver Acres. I was right! These were the resident files.
The folders were in alphabetical order by last name. What were the last names of the four members of the bridge club lunch committee? My short-term memory failed me again. I couldn't remember any of them. Since there were several hundred folders and I wear bifocals, which are not terribly useful for this kind of work, it would take too long for me to read the labels one by one.
I did remember Gerald's last name—Weiss. It took me a few seconds to determine that his folder was in the bottom-most of the four drawers. I finally located it and pulled it out. My hands were really shaking now. I placed the folder on top of Carol's desk and scooted back to the door of the office—well, walked back as fast as I could. Stil
l clear.
I sat down at the desk and opened Gerald's folder. It contained, among other things, the application he had filled out for Silver Acres. His full name was Gerald Fillmore Weiss. He had written his wife's name—Katherine, and beside it “deceased” and a date. His address in California was there, along with the names of several friends he listed as references, who were professors at the University of California at San Diego.
I came to his medical profile. Under allergies he had listed “shellfish,” just as Carol had said. I suddenly realized that I should be copying some of this down. There was a notepad on Carol's desk, but I didn't see a pen or pencil. I went out to the reception desk and after fumbling around, found a pen in my purse. I grabbed it and hurried back into Carol's office.
I had to be careful not to write so fast that my handwriting became illegible, especially since my hands still shook. I filled several of the small sheets of the notepad. As I wrote I calmed down and my handwriting improved. I copied information about education, degrees, hobbies, awards—the Nobel Prize being prominent. I didn't want to leave out anything; there was no telling what would be helpful.
A noise from the reception area broke through my concentration. It sounded as if somebody was entering the front door from outside. I panicked. While trying to close Gerald's folder with my shaking hands I spilled its contents onto the floor. I got down on my hands and knees, desperately trying to sweep them up and replace them in the folder. Some of the papers had sailed under the desk and I had trouble reaching them.
After an eternity I got everything back into the folder and closed it. I crawled the few feet to the file cabinet and realized that it would take me too long to find the correct location for the folder in the drawer so I stuffed it into the front and pushed the drawer shut. What about my notes? I didn't have any pockets so I slid them down the front of my slacks.
As I forced my creaky body to stand, two people entered the office.
Carol Grant said, “Lillian, what are you doing here?”
Albert said, “Mother, what in hell is going on?”
CHAPTER 10
I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see Carol Grant's Mercedes when I arrived at Albert's farm for Sunday dinner. I should have expected that she would be the flavor of the week. It had become obvious the night before as they took turns chewing me out, their voices blending together in beautiful harmony.
The only thing I could think of while they conducted their tirade was that it reminded me of the times I had bawled Albert out when, as a youngster he had done something naughty. Now the positions were reversed. I felt like a bad little girl.
I had admitted to looking into Gerald's folder (Carol would have discovered that anyway since I had replaced it out of sequence and the contents were messed up) and contritely promised not to break into her office again, but I had not admitted to taking notes. I walked carefully so that the paper in my slacks wouldn't rustle. And after thinking about my disgrace during a sleepless night, I felt now that I should have put up a better defense.
Sandra and Winston came out to greet me. I gave them both hugs and Sandra said, “Gogi, you must have been really bad last night. I've never seen Dad so upset. And you know that Carol Grant is here?”
I nodded.
“Dad told me before she came that if he and she weren't such good friends, Carol would kick you out of Silver Acres.”
“So he's taking the credit for saving me, eh? I'd like to see her try it.”
Sandra put a restraining hand on my arm. “If I may offer a word of advice, I think it would be a good idea if you were sweet to both of them.”
I reluctantly agreed that she gave good counsel, although I didn't say so. We got my baked goods out of the car and walked toward the house.
Sandra said, casually, “By the way, Mark called me yesterday.”
“Mark?” The name sounded familiar. “Oh, you mean the guy at the bar. How did he get your number?”
“Well, somewhere in our conversation I must have mentioned that I went to UNC because he looked me up in the alumni directory.”
“Very enterprising. But of course you don't go out with bartenders.”
Sandra had the decency to blush. “Gogi, he isn't just a bartender. But...but I did apologize to him for my behavior. And he did ask me out.”
As we went into the house I put on my best smile and my humblest demeanor. I kissed Albert, shook hands with Carol and immediately busied myself helping with dinner. They made no mention of my sins of the night before.
Albert and Carol acted as if they'd known each other for a long time, with intimate smiles and touches and shared little jokes. I liked Carol better than Maria, even if she did think I was a few bricks shy of a full load and a potential danger to the community. For one thing, she wore more clothes than Maria and kept her shirt buttoned.
At dinner, I tried to appear witty and intelligent, and above all, rational. I complimented Carol on her management of Silver Acres and her choice of cars, since we both drove Mercedes. She, in turn, praised my rolls and my apple pie.
And my dog, King. She said, “He's such a beautiful dog. And I wouldn't expect him to be so gentle.” King lay quietly near the dining table.
“Oh, she has her urges. If I let her I'm sure she'd gobble up some of the bunnies at Silver Acres.”
“You know, that's not a bad idea. Excuse my French, but those damn bunnies have been eating our plants. One of these days I'm going to declare open season on them.”
“And I was going to ship all my rabbits over to Silver Acres,” Albert said, “thinking they'd have a good home there. Better they munch on your plants than my garden.”
While she was eating a piece of my pie, Carol said, “Lillian, I've been talking to Albert about you.”
Uh oh, I thought, here it comes.
“Albert told me something about your life. You have led such an adventurous life, with all your travel and everything, it's no wonder you find Silver Acres boring. He said you have thousands of slides from your trips. That gave me an idea. Why don't you put together a series of slide lectures for the residents. They would love it.”
And it would keep me busy so that I couldn't get into trouble. But anything to stay on Carol's good side. Actually, I did have some great slides. And they were already well organized. It wouldn't take much work. I told her I'd be glad to give travel lectures.
I had been meaning to ask Carol a question and this seemed to be a good opportunity, while everything was sweetness and light. “You mentioned that Gerald's will left most of his money to charity. Do you know which ones?”
“I only know one,” Carol said, smiling. “He left some of his money to Silver Acres. After all, we are a nonprofit organization and since we pledged never to evict a resident for financial reasons we can always use donations.”
But apparently they could evict residents for unruly behavior. I had better reread the rules and regulations.
“It wasn't meant to be a nonprofit organization,” Albert said. “It just turned out that way.”
I snorted. I had heard that old joke before. I asked, “How much did Gerald leave to Silver Acres?”
“I'm not sure, but I think it's about $100,000.”
“That's better than catching the plague,” Albert said. “I wish I could find a few donors like that for the UNC History Department. We need to endow a chair for me so I don't have to worry about where the money to pay my salary is coming from.”
Gerald was a generous man. I wondered what organizations or persons were the beneficiaries of the rest of his estate.
CHAPTER 11
One of the names I had copied from Gerald's file was that of an attorney. A hand-written note next to the name had stated that he was the executor of Gerald's will. I had also copied a phone number.
I called the attorney’s number on Monday morning and after convincing his secretary to connect me with him because I was considering redoing my will I asked him about the contents of Gerald's
will.
When he told me he couldn't give me that information, I said, in my best bluffing manner, “I believe all probate records are public information so you won't be breaking any laws. I am particularly interested in the bequest to Silver Acres because, as a resident I am concerned about its long term solvency since I intend to live here the rest of my life.”
He told me to wait a minute and put me on hold. Silence. No stirring music played to entertain me, such as you get when you call an airline. Of course the airlines are trying to keep you from hanging up and humming to the music of a competitor. After a minute he came back on the line and said, “Silver Acres will get $500,000.”
“Five hundred thousand?” I asked. “I heard it was $100,000.”
“It was, originally, but I found a codicil with Gerald's effects raising it to $500,000. I didn't have anything to do with it, but it looks legitimate. It was signed by two witnesses and dated several weeks ago. I will check with the witnesses, of course, to make sure these are their valid signatures.”
“Uh, what other bequests did he make?”
The attorney rattled off several bequests to nonprofit organizations and then ended by citing an amount of $100,000 to a Ms. April Snow, a grandniece living in San Diego, California. When I casually asked for it he even gave me her address and telephone number.
“Is that the only money going to a person?” I asked.
“As far as cash payout, yes. But there was another typed codicil with the will, dated about two weeks ago. It says that a loan of $25,000 Gerald made will be forgiven if he dies before it is paid off.”
“Does it say who the loan was to?”
“A Mrs. Dora Flymore. But I couldn't find any loan agreement in his files, saying that she owed him this money.”
I gulped. “So this note is also a legal part of the will?”
“If it's legitimate. It has also been signed by two witnesses. If I can validate their signatures then I would say it is legally part of the will.”
“Can you tell me who the witnesses are?”
