by Alan Cook
“And you said Gerald's copy of the note mysteriously disappeared.”
“I don't know how mysterious it was but the lawyer said he hadn't found it. Anyway, the fact that she owed Gerald money gives Dora a theoretical motive. Let's move on to other evidence. Ida—I believe the word is, allegedly—sleeping with Wesley, our beloved bridge leader. If Gerald had found out and threatened to tell Wesley's wife...”
“Now it sounds like a soap opera.” Tess made more notes. “Wesley could be an assistant or an accessory, or something. Instead of narrowing down the motives and suspects, it seems like they're expanding.”
“I know,” I admitted. “I guess I'm not cut out for this detective business. I prefer everything to be mathematically precise. And there's one more thing that I've only just touched on with you. Ellen used to live in San Diego and was married to an economist who worked with Gerald. And...Gerald apparently took credit for work Ellen's husband had done that helped Gerald get the Nobel Prize.”
“Aha! The plot thickens, as they say. So there's a revenge motive for Ellen. Didn't you say you talked to Ellen's son in San Diego? I wonder how she likes that.”
It didn't take us long to find out. A few minutes later the phone rang; it was Ellen. She got right to the point. “My son said that you talked to him.”
I admitted it.
“How dare you sneak around behind my back? How dare you talk to my son as if I were a murderer?”
“I didn't say you were a murderer. I didn't even say that a murder had been committed. But I did tell him something that you had neglected to, namely that his father, your husband, got screwed by Gerald. And, while we're on the subject, you conveniently forgot to tell me and others that you knew Gerald from before Silver Acres.”
“It was none of your damned business. I'm going to sue the pants off you for accusing me of murder.”
“I'm not accusing you of murder. You're the one who's doing that. Look, Ellen, the smartest thing you can do right now is bring everything about your relationship with Gerald out in the open. Until you do that there are people who will be suspicious of you.”
The silence lengthened and I wondered whether she was still there. Then she said, “And just who should I confess to?”
“Me.” I realized that probably wouldn't sell so I added, “And Tess. She's a neutral observer.”
“She's your friend.”
“True, but she's trying to keep me from flying off the deep end. I'll tell you what; come on over to my place for lunch.”
***
Typically, when I made lunch for myself, I would throw together a sandwich or a bowl of soup and be done with it. But Tess and I decided to do it up right. We took a quick trip to the supermarket and then, between her cooking ability and my talent for baking we prepared a feast, with a salmon dish, Caesar salad, hot rolls and apple pie for dessert.
Ellen arrived, wearing a red jacket over a white blouse, and blue slacks. I had to admit that she was one of the better looking women at Silver Acres, even with her dyed hair, but you have to understand that if we had held a beauty contest nobody would have won.
Tess had counseled me against firing questions at Ellen as soon as she walked in the door, on the theory that she might be more open with us on a full stomach. We ate at my small table, which seats four comfortably—but no more—and talked about trivial things.
As the meal progressed I used my growing powers of observation to note Ellen's body language. I could see her relax; her muscles lost their tenseness and her shoulders settled perceptibly, like an over-inflated tire when you let some of the air out.
She started talking while eating apple pie a la mode. “I met Max when we were both graduate students at the University of Michigan. We got married two weeks after he received his Ph.D. His first job was teaching at a small college in Ohio, but then he was offered a job at the University of California at San Diego. We were thrilled because both of us had always wanted to live in California.”
Ellen stopped talking and ate a piece of pie. “I love apple pie,” she said.
I glanced at Tess; she gave me a signal to keep quiet.
“At first I taught high school,” Ellen continued, “but then I started having children and quit teaching. I didn't teach again until my youngest boy—Michael—started school.
“After Max had been at UCSD a few years, Gerald joined the faculty. Max and Gerald hit it off immediately. They collaborated on several papers that were published in various places. Then they decided to write a book together.”
“Fiat Money Madness,” I blurted out before Tess' warning look could stop me.
“That's right.” Ellen nodded and savored a spoonful of real vanilla ice cream. When you get to be our age you can treat yourself once in a while without feeling guilty. “They both thought it had a lot of potential. They divided up the chapters...they worked very well together.”
Ellen said the last in an ironic tone. She looked as if she was about to say something more, but then she paused and sipped her coffee. She swallowed and continued, “Just when the book was about ready for publication Max had his stroke. He became completely incapacitated. Gerald was sympathetic and said he would handle everything regarding the book.
“I let him do it; I was overwhelmed with taking care of Gerald and teaching. I still had kids in school and I had to have money coming in. Max did receive a modest advance for the book. He had already signed the publishing contract when he got sick. I was looking forward to seeing the book in print. But when I saw my first copy I was completely shocked.”
“Because Max's name wasn't on it,” I said.
“There was no mention of Max anywhere in the book.” Ellen looked from one of us to the other, her eyes blazing, her body shaking, reliving the moment from the past.
An awkward pause ensued; I didn't know what to say. Finally, Tess asked, “Did Max receive royalties?”
“Yes, over the next several years he...I received royalty checks, but they were never large. If you know anything about the writing business you know that very few people make a living from it.”
I knew. “Did you confront Gerald?” I asked.
“Of course. He had the audacity to claim that Max's contribution hadn't been that great. He said Max was getting half of the royalties and that I should be satisfied with that.”
“But none of the credit,” I said.
“I should have sued him, of course, but I didn't have the heart—or the time—or the energy. When he received his Nobel Prize I wouldn't go to the dinner at the University honoring him and I never did congratulate him.”
“I'm curious about one thing,” Tess said. “How did you and Gerald both end up at Silver Acres?”
Ellen laughed, shortly. “I see now that I made a mistake. Gerald came here first, after his wife died. I was still working, still putting kids through school. After Michael, the last one, graduated from dental school I told them, “Okay, you're on your own.” I stayed in our house for a few more years, but it was too big, too lonesome.
“Believe it or not, one of the reasons I came here was because Gerald picked it. Whatever else I can say about him, he always did his homework, so I figured that if he had selected Silver Acres it must be a good place. I thought I could put the past behind me and coexist with him.”
“And play bridge with him just the way you used to,” I said.
Ellen smiled a grim smile. “I suppose so.”
“Was Gerald the one who was dealt the hand of 13 diamonds you saw once before?”
“I'm sorry?” Ellen looked blank.
“You told me that you had seen a hand of 13 diamonds dealt once before, a long time ago.”
“Not me. You must be thinking of somebody else.”
All right, play that game, I thought. I had another point to make. I said, “Back when Max and Gerald were working together, you must have invited each other over for dinner.” Ellen's expression became guarded so I continued, quickly, “So you obviously knew about hi
s allergy to shellfish.”
Ellen pushed her chair back from the table and stood up. “I have to go,” she said, coldly. “Thank you for lunch.” She marched past us and out the door, without looking back.
Tess watched the door close behind her and then got up and retrieved her yellow pad. She riffled through several pages, stopped at one and said, “When you talked to Ellen on the croquet course she told you that she didn't know about Gerald's allergy to shellfish because they weren't close friends.”
I said, “I think we're seeing a pattern of lying here.”
CHAPTER 17
“Thank you for inviting me, Lillian,” Mark said as he and Sandra and I lined up to be seated in the Silver Acres dining room. “This place looks very elegant.”
Elegant may have been too strong a word, but the food was nourishing and there were tablecloths on the tables. I figured Mark was a starving student, even though he had somehow managed to scrounge together enough money to fly to San Diego, and so any place where he could get a free meal would look elegant to him.
I hoped that Sandra could see past his current penury, because of course after he obtained his graduate degree his earning power would be substantial. I liked Mark, even though Sandra still seemed to have reservations about him.
Winston had been entrusted to Grampa Albert for a few hours. Albert made a good grandfather and enjoyed his time together with Winston, but like me he wanted to be able to love him and then leave him with his mother.
I asked the student waitress to seat us in a corner. My reasoning was that we would be able to look at other diners without being obvious about it. We read our menus and carried on light conversation while I scanned the dining room with one eye.
After I saw two of the people I was looking for come in with separate groups, I figured it was time for us to go to he salad bar. I led us by way of the table where Ida had just been seated with another lady, who I didn't know.
“Hello, Ida,” I said, breezily, as we came to her table. “I hope we'll see you at bridge club tomorrow.” I had volunteered to be Wesley's assistant with the bridge club, and one of my jobs was to count how many people would be attending each meeting so that we would know how many tables we would have and whether the number of players was divisible by four.
Ida responded affirmatively, and I said, “I'd like you to meet my granddaughter, Sandra and her boyfriend, Mark.” Both of them shook hands with Ida, who then introduced us to her dinner partner, whose name I didn't quite catch.
From there we went on to a table where Dora was sitting with two other women. I went through the same process with Dora, who said that she would be attending bridge club. Then the three of us continued to the salad bar, filled our plates and returned to our table. I noticed that Mark filled his plate to overflowing. During the meals he had eaten with us in San Diego he had not stinted on food.
As we dove into our salads Mark shook his head. “The first one is too big,” he said, “and the second is too little.”
“I thought we all looked alike to you,” I teased.
He grinned and said, “I'm never going to live that down, am I?”
Well, if Mark hadn't delivered the lobster to Ida or Dora, could he have delivered it to Harriet or Ellen? Their body sizes were both between those of Ida and Dora. Neither had yet made an appearance in the dining room.
During the main course our conversation turned to Gerald's bridge hand of 13 diamonds. When I explained to Mark that it had been a fraud and wondered out loud how the decks could have been switched, he said, “In addition to my other dubious talents, I'm somewhat of a magician and have practiced sleight-of-hand. Maybe we can figure out how it was done. Tell me the exact sequence of events in dealing a bridge hand.”
“The dealer deals all the cards, one at a time, starting with the person to his left and moving clockwise around the table.”
“His left or her left,” Sandra said. She still worried about sexist pronouns.
“Before that,” Mark said. “Where does the dealer get the cards?”
I had to think about that. “Ordinarily, the cards are shuffled by the player to the dealer's left, who then places the deck on the table at the dealer's left hand. The dealerperson picks up the cards and offers them to the person on his/her right to cut. After the cards are cut the dealer deals them.”
Mark got a chuckle out of my phrasing, even if Sandra didn't. He said, “So three people actually handle the cards before the deal. And I believe you said this was the first deal of the afternoon so the cards must have just been taken out of a box.”
“Actually, the cards were sitting on the table already. Wesley, our president, took the decks out of the box when he set up the tables.”
“But they were shuffled afterward, so that eliminates Wesley from the picture. Since this was the first hand, the activities you just mentioned: shuffle, cut and deal must have happened one right after another, bang-bang-bang.”
“True.”
Mark scratched his head. “Gerald was the dealer. Tell me who was sitting to the left and right of Gerald.”
“Ida sat on his left and Ellen, whom you haven't met yet, sat on his right.”
“Two ladies. Actually, in a case like this it would have been easier for one of the two other than the dealer to make the switch. And the fact that they are ladies actually gives them an advantage.”
“I don't see why being ladies gives them an advantage,” Sandra said.
“Because ladies carry purses. In addition, Gerald, as the dealer, would have attention focused on him while he was dealing, making it difficult for him to dispose of the switched deck. Here is a possible scenario: One of the two ladies, either the shuffler or the cutter, has another deck and a purse sitting in her lap. At the crucial moment she creates a diversion, directing people's attention away from her, sweeps the deck from the table into her purse and substitutes the other deck, all in the blink of an eye if she's been practicing.”
“Wouldn't the person making the switch need an accomplice to create the diversion?” Sandra asked.
“Probably not. Because timing is so critical it's better for the switcher to create the diversion herself because she knows exactly when to do it. All she has to do is to say something that gets people to look away from her.”
Our young waitress arrived to take our dessert orders. She offered us a choice of cake, ice cream or fruit. I usually ordered an apple or an orange, figuring that I ate enough rich desserts of my own baking.
Mark said, “Does the cake taste as good as you look?”
The girl smiled, self-consciously, and drawled, in a local accent, “It tastes yummy. I had some, myself.”
Sandra frowned and I surmised that Mark's engaging manner with women was still a sticking point with her.
While we waited for dessert, I took the kids on the rest of our rounds. We went to the table where Ellen sat with another woman. I was concerned about how she would receive me so I just said, “Ellen, I'm taking a count of bridge players for tomorrow. Are you planning to be there?”
She said yes without smiling so I didn't introduce Sandra and Mark. We went to the table where Harriet and two other women were eating. She also said that she would be present at the bridge club. I did introduce Sandra and Mark to her and we got introduced to her dinner mates, in turn.
Before we left, I said, “By the way, Harriet, would you like to be my partner tomorrow? I think it's a good idea to change partners once in a while and I've always wanted to play with you.”
“I'd like that very much,” Harriet said. “I usually played with Gerald while he...was alive. Since then I've been playing with Laura. Confidentially,” she lowered her voice as though people were listening, “I don't like the way she bids.”
“We'll sic Tess on her,” I said. “Tess will straighten her out.”
When we returned to our table I glanced at Mark to get his reaction. He said, “I can't eliminate either one of them on the basis of size. I'd like to see them s
tand up.”
“If we wait long enough, they'll do that,” I said. “What about hair color?” Ellen had reddish-brown hair; Harriet's hair was white.
“Remember, the woman I delivered the lobster to wore a sun hat that completely covered her hair. If she had any loose ends sticking out I didn't notice them.”
I ordered coffee and we dawdled over dessert. Finally, the ladies in question did stand up and leave, one at a time. Mark's final judgment after he watched them was that he could have delivered the lobster to either one of them.
CHAPTER 18
On Wednesday morning I told Tess that I wanted to play with Harriet as a partner for that afternoon's bridge session, instead of her. She could play with Laura, Harriet's usual partner. Tess acquiesced, knowing I was up to something.
As part of my assistantship to Wesley I numbered the partnerships and set up a schedule so that each partnership played a certain number of hands against every other partnership during the course of the afternoon. Wesley was glad to let me do this because as a retired CPA his forte was rows and columns of numbers, not logic.
I needed two things to happen for my plan to work. One was out of my control, namely that Ida and Ellen were still partners. I could have asked Ida at dinner the night before but when I talked to her I hadn't put my plan together yet. That came after Mark expounded on deck-switching techniques. And even though I had talked to Ellen after that I wasn't about to ask her. Since Ellen and Ida had been partners for at least two years, the odds were in my favor.
The other thing, which I had at least partial control over, was that when Harriet and I played against Ida and Ellen, we would play at the same table and in the same positions as the day of Gerald's death. I was substituting for Gerald.
I arrived at the recreation room early and found Joe Turner, the handsome facilities manager, busily measuring with a retractable tape measure. He had his back to me and I self-consciously patted my hair and wished I didn't look like an old lady.
I tried to think of a clever way to start a conversation, but what came out was, “Are you going to enlarge the room to hold more bridge tables?”
