The Babbling Brook Naked Poker Club - Book One

by Ann Warner

  I closed my laptop and stepped between her and the painting, forcing her to look at me. But after a brief glance, her gaze returned to the painting.

  Although it terrified me, it was also both impressive and surprising that she would so immediately recognize Edward Hopper’s work. While distinctive, it’s definitely not as well-known as Picasso’s or even Wyeth’s.

  “Does management know you have such a valuable painting hanging on your wall?”

  Enough. I maneuvered her toward the door. “Of course not, because it’s not. It’s an excellent copy. Painted for me by an artist I met years ago who needed money.” I stopped improvising abruptly, my mouth suddenly too dry to swallow.

  Although I wanted to order her not to mention the painting, I knew that would only add to her certainty it was the original she rightly suspected it to be.

  It was particularly upsetting to have this happen now, after all my efforts to keep the painting a secret—always paying the storage unit fees from my Aardvark account, maneuvering to recover the painting after the move to Brookside, and the continuing struggle to keep visitors to a minimum.

  And if my son did force a visit on me, my plan was to stash the painting under my bed, although it might be tricky for me to handle on my own. Of course, that might not be necessary since I doubted if either my son or his wife would recognize the painting’s value.

  But I didn’t want to take any chances. If they were to recognize the painting, I’m quite certain Jeff would give me no peace until it was back under lock and key in a vault some where. And it’s already been shut away far too long.

  Damn Thomas.

  And damn this Devi person.

  I glared at her, and after a moment, she inclined her head. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Mrs. Bartlett, but if you ever need any help, let me know.”

  Although I wanted to tell her I wasn’t “up to” anything, I decided I’d already used up my quota of misrepresentations for the day. But her words and the tone of her voice did have one effect.

  They did ease my fear. If only slightly.

  Chapter Six

  Devi

  I left Josephine Bartlett’s apartment, thinking about the painting and my responsibility to Brookside’s management in its regard. I doubted they knew it was there, and they needed to know. For starters, there were insurance and security considerations.

  But, although I hadn’t given Mrs. Bartlett my word not to tell, I’d implied it. Besides, both she and the painting would be safe as long as only the two of us knew it was there, hiding in plain sight. And I could help her keep it safe by volunteering, as I did this morning, to be the one to speak to her whenever that became necessary.

  I figured she had to love the painting a great deal to be willing to risk having it in her apartment, and that’s a kind of love I understand. There was a painting of a medieval lady at the Winterford Art Institute that I’d visited every day, pretending it belonged to me, and that daily visit to “my” lady was one of the things I missed most when I had to leave Chicago.

  So, was I going to report the painting? My head began shaking as if I were carrying on a conversation with someone. It made me realize I was going to keep Mrs. Bartlett’s secret.

  With that decision made, I glanced at my watch to see I had only fifteen minutes before I needed to be at the front door to usher a group aboard the Brookside shuttle bus for a trip to the grocery store. I was thinking about that, and hurrying, when Eddie Colter stepped out of an adjoining hall into my path.

  Eddie is the community’s resident hunk. Although we’re in Ohio, Eddie manages to look like he’s just waded ashore, leaned his surfboard against a beach shack, and run his fingers through his sun-bleached hair.

  Lately, we’ve had several encounters, and I’ve begun to wonder if he’s running into me on purpose. Once he stopped me with a touch on the arm to talk, and he didn’t remove his hand until I backed away. Another time, he leaned toward me and blew in my ear.

  “Hey, hey, pretty girl.” His hand snaked out to circle my wrist, and I quickly backed out of touching distance. “Where you going in such a hurry?”

  “Outing in ten minutes.” I plastered my professional smile in place and tried to step around him, but he moved to block me.

  I stepped to the other side. Again, he blocked me.

  “Sorry, Eddie. I don’t have time to dance right now.”

  “I’m not interested in dancing, pretty girl.” With that he grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me against his chest, and kissed me.

  When he tried to stick his tongue in my mouth, I bared my teeth and growled. Squirming, I tried to free myself, but his grip was too strong. Then I heard the sound of a nearby door opening.

  Eddie must have heard it too. He released me, and with a grin, finally let me pass.

  Shaking, I hurried away, scrubbing at my mouth and trying not to gag. He’d tasted of old coffee and stale cigarettes.

  I knew reporting him to management was a nonstarter. He’d likely claim I’d thrown myself at him, not the other way around. And looking at him, who would believe I hadn’t?

  Chapter Seven

  Josephine

  Unsettled by Devi Subramanian’s unauthorized visit to my apartment and still worried that she would tell someone about the painting, I went to join Lill, Myrtle, and Edna for our regularly scheduled poker game. Now that my cover had been blown, I didn’t like leaving the painting unattended, but my only other option was to invite everyone to my place—a truly dreadful idea.

  When I reached the lobby, I checked the schedule of activities and saw that Devi was on an outing. That meant the painting was safe, at least for the time being. Somewhat reassured, I joined the other three.

  “Before we get started,” Myrtle said, “I want to ask your opinion about something.”

  She jiggled like she needed to pee until Edna said, “Well, what is it?”

  Today Myrtle was wearing a magenta top that made her look like a bougainvillea bush in riotous bloom. It was, however, a vast improvement over Edna’s ensemble, a tired brown sweater and tan slacks.

  “It’s that Eddie Colter. You know, he’s been so helpful about doing my shopping.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” I said, trying to move things along.

  “Yes. What is it you want our opinion about?” Lill asked.

  Myrtle frowned. “It’s just that the last few times he’s shopped for me, he gave me the wrong change. At first it was only off by a dollar or two, but this last time it was more, and I wondered what you think about that.”

  “Is it off by too much or too little?” I’ve discovered with Myrtle it’s always a good idea to clarify.

  “Too little, and this week it was a whole five dollars short.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  “Yes, I did. Later, when he came by to help with my medications.”

  “He helps with your medications? Isn’t that Louisa’s job?” Not that I needed or wanted that kind of help. But I liked to know who was who and what their roles were.

  “I suppose. It’s just, he is very good-looking.” She tittered, and I tried not to snort.

  The man has a fake tan and dark roots. I suppose the muscles are real enough, although, personally, I don’t find that kind of distorted body type the least bit appealing.

  “I didn’t mention it earlier because the amounts were so small.”

  “How did he respond?”

  “He looked annoyed, then he asked how much he owed me. I told him, and he scratched his head and said if I was such a good accountant, he’d maybe have me keep track of everything for him. Then he handed me a five-dollar bill. I felt funny taking it since someone else had to have gotten too much change, and that would mean Eddie was the one out of pocket.”

  “Did you take it?” I was intrigued, despite my intention not to be.

  Myrtle shook her head. “I told him I couldn’t do that to him, after he’d been so nice. He laughed and put the money back in hi
s pocket.” She sat back with an expectant look.

  “Is that all?” I said.

  “It’s just that when I asked him to shop for me this week, he said he was booked up. It occurred to me that maybe he’s been shorting me, and when I noticed, he dropped me.”

  “Does he charge you anything to shop for you?” Edna asked.

  “It’s part of his duties. So he shouldn’t get extra, but most of us give him small tips.”

  “And you think Eddie is using the shopping as an opportunity to supplement his income over and above the tips?” It seemed pretty small potatoes to me, frankly.

  “It might be worth checking,” Lill said. “I doubt most people will keep track the way Myrtle does.”

  “I suppose it could be an interesting exercise.” After all, we’d about plumbed the depths of naked poker.

  “What do you think we should do?” Myrtle looked at me, and I wondered when she’d appointed me the queen.

  “I suppose we could each put together a shopping list for Eddie and then check our change.”

  “But he may know we’re Myrtle’s friends and tell us he’s booked up, like he did Myrtle,” Edna said. It was an excellent point, actually.

  “Do you know who he’s shopping for besides you, Myrtle?”

  “Well, Bertie, of course.”

  “Of course.” The updates on Myrtle’s romance were almost as boring as her stories about her beauty contest experiences.

  “You know, he might be on his guard with Bertie, now that you’ve raised the issue,” Lill said. “Is there anyone else?”

  “I’m sure there must be, but I don’t know who they are.”

  “What day does he do the shopping?” I asked.

  “Thursdays. And he delivers everything by noon.”

  “Okay. Here’s what we do. On Thursday, we deploy our forces to see who gets a delivery, and then we check if they got the right change.”

  “Deploy our forces?” Edna said. “Really, Josephine. You sound like an army general.”

  “It’s a good idea,” Myrtle said. “He comes in the back entrance, don’t you expect? And Josephine’s apartment overlooks the parking lot. We could meet there Thursday morning and keep watch.”

  That was certainly slick of Myrtle, but I had no intention of being so blatantly forced into hostessing. “I have a better idea. I’ll keep watch, and the three of you pick strategic locations to wait. Then I’ll let you know when he arrives.”

  “How will you let us know?” Myrtle asked.

  “You all have cell phones, don’t you?”

  “I don’t,” Myrtle said.

  I sighed. “Can you borrow Bertie’s?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Are we settled on a plan then?” I said.

  The others nodded, and I proceeded to deal the first hand.

  Chapter Eight

  Lillian

  After Myrtle’s report of Eddie’s doings, I pulled out my folder of staff handwriting samples to discover I had nothing written by him. So, how could I get him to write something for me?

  I fixed myself a cup of tea, and while I sipped it, I said a prayer. By the time I finished both tea and prayer, I had an idea. First, I searched out a card from my supply of all-purpose cards, the ones that come in the mail from one of those charities. I had some with pictures of wolves, which seemed appropriate. I picked the thinking-of-you card and put it in my purse along with a pen. Then I wrapped my right hand with gauze.

  When I was ready, I went searching for Eddie. He usually hangs around the lobby as we come in for dinner, and although it was a little early for dinner, that was, after all, better for my purposes. I smiled with satisfaction to find him, as expected, sitting in the corner of the lobby, using his phone. I walked over to him and waited until he looked up.

  “Mr. Colter, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I’m glad you’re glad, Lillian,” he said with that smile that’s as fake as his hair color. Or maybe that’s a false assumption. Something I intend to find out.

  “I want to send this card to my friend, but you see, I’ve injured my hand and I can’t hold a pen. I thought, that is, if you wouldn’t mind, you could write the message for me?” I held out the card and the pen, and he took them.

  “What do you want me to write?”

  “Let’s see. How about . . .” I dictated the rambling message I’d decided on. After a couple of short paragraphs, I judged I’d pushed his patience to the limit. “Just sign it Lill.”

  He did so and handed me the card. I thanked him, stuffed it into my purse, and headed in to dinner, patting myself on the back for my resourcefulness.

  I finished eating earlier than the people who had joined me, and I sat for a time tapping my foot in impatience to be off. My momma was a real stickler about us staying at the table until everyone, meaning my poppa, had finished eating, and it was a rule I imposed on my own children. However, after several minutes of watching the not completely silent chewing of my companions, I decided Momma would forgive me if, just this once, I broke the rule.

  Back in my apartment, I set the portable desk I use for my analyses on my dining table, and I pulled out the card. I already had my reading glasses, a magnifying glass, a lamp, a protractor, and a ruler ready to go.

  Sometime later, I sat back, rubbed my neck, and looked through my notes. It was, on balance, a most fascinating sample.

  My first observation—the extreme back slant of the writing—required only a glance. That was suggestive of a self-centered, selfish personality and was the first trait I listed on my “green sheet.” It was followed by “irritability” after I noted a thick scatter of temper ticks—short, straight strokes at the beginning of words. Additional strokes within his oval letters like a and o led me to add “deceitfulness.”

  None of that was good, although it was also no surprise. But what sent a cold finger running up the knobs of my spine was the presence of straight, rigid strokes in the loops of each p, g, and y. Paired with the temper ticks, it was a strong indicator he had aggressive, possibly violent, tendencies.

  Chapter Nine

  Devi

  Thursday morning, I once again snagged the assignment to speak to Mrs. Bartlett. It was easy to do since no one else wanted it.

  “That woman is just plain nasty,” was my boss’s opinion. Although, as much time as Candace spends interacting with the residents versus in her office on her computer, I was uncertain how she would know that.

  While I agree Mrs. Bartlett isn’t a warm, cuddly person, not like Myrtle Grabinowitz, for example, she’s potentially much more interesting. Besides, I wanted another look at the painting.

  After my third knock, an irritated voice told me to go away. I repeated what I’d said the last time, about needing to see for myself that she was okay, and the door opened a crack.

  “What do you want?”

  “Why, to speak with you.”

  She glared at me.

  “About the painting.”

  I used my sweetest tone, but I could tell from her expression she recognized a threat when she heard one, and she didn’t like it one bit. Nor did I like doing it, but it served its purpose. The door opened further, and she stepped away so I could enter.

  “Why don’t I make us a fresh cup of tea?” I said, seeing she had a half-full cup sitting next to the chair nearest the window.

  “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here? And then get out of my apartment.”

  “Could we at least sit down?”

  Huffing, she perched on the edge of a chair, and I seated myself on the couch.

  “My assignment this morning is to make sure you know your son is coming for a visit.”

  She closed her eyes, then opened them and blinked rapidly. “When?”

  “Saturday morning. The manager assured him you’re settling in nicely, but he insisted on seeing for himself. And since you’re not answering your phone . . .”

  “My son and I don’t get along.”

&n
bsp; After our last conversation, that was no surprise.

  “I consider it one of the advantages of living here,” she said. “That I don’t have to see him very often.”

  I couldn’t imagine my mother not wanting to see me. Didn’t even want to try. “We can’t stop him from visiting, but if you spoke to him occasionally, that might satisfy him.”

  “You said something about the painting?” She was obviously finished with the topic of her son.

  I wondered what caused such a rift. I love my own family dearly. “If you let me take a good look, I promise I won’t tell anyone about it.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  I had to admire her composure, although not her honesty. “Those are my terms.”

  She sat staring at me for a time. Then she shrugged. “Okay.”

  While I stood and moved closer to the painting, she looked at her watch and then out the window before going to the kitchen and making tea.

  Although final proof might require forensic testing, I was certain the painting was the real deal. Eventually, I returned to the sofa and picked up the tea she’d set there for me. I discovered it was an exceptionally fine Lapsang souchong.

  I took a second sip and smiled. “You’re full of surprises, Mrs. Bartlett. I didn’t know you could get such good tea in Cincinnati.”

  “I have it flown in from Taiwan. From my tea broker.”

  Brookside is a nice place and not inexpensive by any means, but I doubted it catered to very many people who had their own tea brokers. Of course, the painting was already a major clue that Mrs. Bartlett was not a typical resident.

  “Excuse me a moment.” She stood and looked out the window, then came and sat down and asked me where I’d learned about tea.

  “My Indian grandmother. She used to say there’s no problem so heavy that a good cup of tea won’t lighten it.”

  Josephine cocked her head and examined me. “You have a non-Indian grandmother?”