by Meg London
She looked up, noticed Emma and began making her way in Emma’s direction.
“That girl was a friend of yours, wasn’t she?” she said in hushed tones. “The one who brought the cupcakes to Mrs. Porter’s party?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think it’s fair, her being blamed when it wasn’t her fault.”
Emma wondered what the girl was getting at. “What’s your name?’
“Gladys. Gladys Smit. Named after my grandmother. On my mother’s side; we don’t have much to do with Pa’s family.” She looked into Emma’s face searchingly. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“I honestly don’t know what to do.” She began to pleat her apron, running the fabric through her fingers again and again. “I didn’t tell the police about it because I didn’t want to cause trouble. You know what I mean?”
Emma nodded silently.
“Because honestly, I’m sure she had a perfect reason to be out there, and it didn’t have anything to do with, you know, what happened.”
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“With that girl dying and all.”
“Oh, of course.” Emma frowned. “Do you mean you saw someone go outside to the garden that afternoon?”
“Yes. And I thought I’d talk to her and get her advice. You know, kind of figuring she’d laugh and say to go ahead, tell the police, she had nothing to hide. But she didn’t.”
“Who was this?” Emma asked.
The girl gave a laugh that ended in a stifled sob. “She said I ought not to tell anyone ever what I saw because it would cause needless trouble and that I was selfish and inconsiderate for only thinking about myself at a time like that.”
“Who was this?” Emma asked again.
Before Gladys could answer, Marjorie came sailing up to them. “Gladys, the teapot needs filling. Please see to it immediately.”
Gladys took off at a trot toward the kitchen.
Emma spent the rest of the evening trying to catch up with Gladys again but never did manage it. Finally it was time to leave, and she stuck her head into the kitchen one more time.
“Are you looking for something?” Marjorie asked, coming up behind Emma and making her jump.
“Is Gladys still here?”
“Gladys? Whatever do you want with her?” Marjorie sniffed.
“I wanted to ask her something.”
“I’m afraid you’re too late. She’s already gone.”
As Emma gathered together the rest of her things, she wondered who Gladys had been talking about. Had someone merely gone out to the garden for a completely innocent purpose, or had it been the killer picking the deadly foxglove flower?
EMMA was behind the counter of Sweet Nothings the next morning when the door flew open and nearly ricocheted off the hinges.
“Emma, you’ve got to come help!” Arabella was red-faced and panting.
“What’s happened?” Emma dropped the nightgown she was folding.
“It’s Pierre. He pulled the leash right out of my hand and bolted.” Arabella’s voice quivered as if she were going to cry.
Emma knew how much Pierre meant to Arabella. She made him special meals and even allowed him to sleep on the bed with her, although he had a second duplicate toile dog bed at home right next to Arabella’s antique four-poster.
“You sit down, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Arabella collapsed onto the love seat and Emma dashed out the door. The street was quiet and empty. None of the shops were open yet. Emma looked right and left, but there was no sign of Pierre.
She heard a loud voice coming from across the street. Someone inside the Gallery was shouting. The shouts were followed quickly by several sharp barks that Emma thought sounded an awful lot like Pierre.
Arabella came out of Sweet Nothings to join Emma on the sidewalk.
“That sounded like Pierre, didn’t it?” she asked hopefully. “He must have gone after that dreadful Bertha again.”
“Yes, it sounded like it was coming from the Gallery.” Emma pointed across the street.
She took Arabella’s arm, and together they crossed the street. The door to the Gallery wasn’t locked, so they pushed it open and Emma peeked in. The bark had been Pierre’s alright.
Emma pushed the door open farther and she and Arabella walked in. Zimmerman had Pierre by the scruff of the neck and was berating him loudly. Pierre was ignoring him in favor of sniffing Bertha, Zimmerman’s dachshund. Bertha was obviously relishing Pierre’s affections, and no one was paying any attention at all to Zimmerman’s blustering.
He looked up when he heard Emma and Arabella enter.
“This dog of yours is a nuisance.” He gave Pierre an extra shake.
Arabella raised her chin and drew herself up. “Well!”
“Well, indeed. This cur here”—Zimmerman gave Pierre another shake—“barged in and began, ahem,” he cleared his throat, “bothering my poor Bertha. And not for the first time, either!”
“That cur, I’ll have you know, is a purebred French bulldog. His father took Best in Show at Westminster.”
Zimmerman looked anything but impressed. “It makes no never mind to me. I won’t have him messing with my Bertha.”
“He was hardly messing with her.” Arabella took Pierre’s leash from Zimmerman and wound it tightly around her hand. “Bertha would be a most unsuitable match for my Pierre Louis Auguste, I assure you.”
And with that she turned on her heel and dragged Pierre out of the Gallery. Emma had no choice but to follow behind.
* * *
EMMA made herself a cup of green tea and poured Arabella her favorite coffee brew—a Sumatran blend that she sent away to New York for. Pierre had slunk off to his dog bed, trying to look as if he’d been there all along and none of this had actually happened. Finally, Emma’s heartbeat returned to normal, and she could see that Arabella’s hands had stopped shaking.
“Testy old fellow,” was all Arabella said further on the subject.
“Shouldn’t Sylvia be here by now? It’s her day for bra fittings, isn’t it?” Emma consulted an appointment book she kept under the counter.
“I think so. I suspect she’ll be along any moment now.”
Just then the door swung open, and Sylvia entered, brutally yanking her oxygen tank over the threshold.
Both Emma and Arabella looked up. Sylvia’s face was puckered into a scowl worthy of a Halloween mask, and one of her hoop earrings was missing.
“Good heavens, what’s wrong?” Arabella half rose to her feet.
“That Decker woman”—Sylvia stabbed the air with a nicotine-stained finger—“has renewed her campaign against me. She’s insisting that I’m responsible for the things going missing at Sunny Days, and she tells everyone who will listen.”
“Today is beginning to feel more like a Monday than a Wednesday,” Arabella muttered.
“I’m going to move out of that place. Angel’s still got that apartment over the shop for rent.”
“Won’t that upset your children? I really do think it’s best you stay. You’ve been enjoying yourself, haven’t you?”
“What about Earl?” Emma added. “He’d miss your company and your card playing.”
Sylvia looked sheepish. “I might not have any choice.”
“What do you mean?” Arabella asked sharply.
“I kind of had a bit of a dustup with that Decker woman.”
“Dustup?” An extremely wary expression came over Arabella’s face.
“Yeah. I couldn’t take it anymore. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s being unjustly accused. Aren’t we supposed to be innocent until proven guilty?”
Sylvia glared at Arabella, her one earring quivering with indignation as if in sympathy with its owner.
“Exactly what did you do?” Arabella looked at Emma in alarm.
“I just sort of cuffed her on the ear. I didn’t draw blood or anything. The way she carried on y
ou’d think I’d sliced her open with a knife.”
Arabella shuddered at the graphic image.
“What happened then?”
“That fool Crystal Davis came running and insisted on having the nurse, then the doctor. And now they’re saying they want to have me tested for dementia. Me!” She pointed at her chest. “That Decker woman is the one with dementia, if you ask me.”
“Oh dear,” was all Arabella said.
“We’ve got to find out what’s really going on,” Emma said. “I’m volunteering there tonight. Another ice cream social. Hopefully I can get away and do some digging.” She put her arm around Sylvia. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry.”
* * *
EMMA pulled into the parking lot at Sunny Days and sat for a moment. She tried Liz on her cell again—she’d called her several times earlier as well—but there was no answer. She had the feeling that Liz was ducking her calls. Could she really have misunderstood Emma’s meeting with Walker at the Coffee Klatch?
Emma sighed. She was tired, but she’d promised to help dish out ice cream, and she really had to look into what was going on with Sylvia.
Everyone was gathered in the activity room when Emma arrived. She spotted Catherine Decker immediately and was relieved to see that she didn’t bear any bruises, cuts or scrapes from her confrontation with Sylvia. It couldn’t have been that bad after all. Catherine was surrounded by a group of extremely solicitous-looking residents who kept shooting glances across the room to where Sylvia and her friend Earl stood all by themselves. It was pretty obvious whose side the residents had taken.
Emma skirted the crowd and went up to Sylvia.
“Now I know what it feels like to be a pariah or one of the untouchables.” Sylvia gave a harsh laugh, but Emma could see the hurt in her eyes.
“Never mind, my dear. We’ll show them all.” Earl tapped the floor with his cane for emphasis.
A table was set up with a row of ice cream cartons, and someone stood behind each of them save for one. Emma grabbed an apron from the utility closet and took up her station behind a giant container of butter pecan ice cream. She smiled as she dished out generous scoops, but her mind was elsewhere. She felt terrible for Sylvia and was glad that she had Earl on her side.
Finally all the ice cream had been dished out, and the residents were seated at the tables, many with their napkins tucked under their chins. Emma tossed her apron in the laundry cart and edged out of the room.
The hallway was empty. Ice cream socials were hugely popular, and only illness or death kept the residents from attending. Emma walked down the hall, not quite certain what to do. Most of the doors were closed, and after twisting one or two knobs, she realized that most were locked as well. If someone was stealing from the residents, they had to be doing it while the resident was in the room. How on earth would they get in otherwise? Emma couldn’t imagine any of the septuagenarians or octogenarians that lived at Sunny Days picking a lock or scaling the front of the building and going in through the window.
She was about to turn around and go back when she noticed one of the doors opening. That was odd. She would have bet that everyone was already in the activity room. The door opened extremely slowly, and someone peeked a head around the edge.
It was Crystal Davis.
What was she doing coming out of one of the residents’ rooms? She had something in her hand, and when she saw Emma, she tried to hide it.
“What are you doing here?” Crystal demanded.
I could ask you the same thing, Emma thought.
“Volunteering.” Emma had learned over time that sometimes the best answer was the shortest one.
Crystal looked doubtful but didn’t say anything. Emma was trying to get a glimpse of whatever it was she had so swiftly tucked out of sight. Crystal nodded and began to edge past Emma, transferring the object in front of her as she went past, but Emma was able to get a glimpse of a fairly new-looking digital camera.
Why was Crystal hiding it? Unless it wasn’t hers…Emma had to stop herself from exclaiming it out loud. Was Crystal the one stealing items from the residents’ rooms? She had a passkey and easy access. Crystal continued down the hall, and Emma decided to follow her.
Emma followed behind Crystal until they came out to the reception area, at which point Crystal went into her office and closed the door. Emma loitered behind a potted palm for as long as she dared and was rewarded when Crystal emerged ten minutes later, leaving the door ajar.
Emma didn’t hesitate. As soon as Crystal was out of sight, she slipped through the partially opened door and into Crystal’s office. It was a small, windowless room with a desk in the corner and filing cabinets lining the other walls. Crystal had done little to make it comfortable beyond an old, fraying postcard from Florida taped to her computer monitor. A door at the back of the room led to a much larger office with a big picture window. Emma supposed that was where Jessica Scott had worked.
There was no sign of the camera, and it hadn’t looked as if Crystal was carrying anything with her when she left. A metal cabinet stood in the far right corner—the kind used for hanging up coats and stashing umbrellas. Emma turned the lever and eased open the door.
A sound outside the room made her jump, and she stopped and held her breath. A shadow went by the open door, but no one looked in. She was safe. She eased the cabinet door open the rest of the way, and gasped when she saw the contents.
The cupboard was crammed with items—radios, CD players, several MP3 players, a couple of hearing aids, umbrellas, silver picture frames and what looked to be Mr. Mason’s missing Korean War medals. Some of the items were valuable, and some had no value at all except perhaps to the owner. Why on earth had Crystal stolen them? Was it some strange compulsion—like a magpie collecting shiny objects that catch its eye?
Emma was closing the cabinet door when Crystal burst into the room.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“I could ask you the same thing! You’ve stolen these things from the residents, haven’t you?”
“I…I…” Crystal stammered.
“Haven’t you?” Emma could feel her face burn with fury. All along Crystal had been letting Sylvia, and goodness knows who else, take the blame for her thievery. “Why? Why take these things? Some of them are completely useless to you.”
Crystal began to whimper. “I can’t help it. It’s like some strange addiction. Afterward I feel…calm…and at peace.” She was crying openly now.
“Did Jessica know about this?”
Crystal nodded and wiped her nose with her sleeve. “She said if I ever quit this job, she’d tell everyone about my…taking things. I’d never get another job. Ever.”
“So that’s why you stayed even though she treated you so badly.”
Crystal nodded mutely. “I didn’t have any choice.”
No, Emma could see she didn’t have any choice except maybe one—to murder Jessica Scott.
EMMA crawled behind the wheel of the Bug and looked at the clock. She was surprised to see it was barely past seven thirty. She felt as if a lifetime had passed since she’d arrived at Sunny Days to help serve the residents their post-dinner ice cream treat.
Crystal had eventually dissolved into a puddle of tears, and Emma had been forced to try to calm her down and soothe her enough to get her to talk. They’d agreed that Crystal would leave her job at Sunny Days. As soon as she was gone, the cabinet would be opened and all the stolen goods would be revealed. If the residents got their precious items returned, perhaps no one would insist on calling the police.
Emma, on the other hand, had ideas of her own. She was going to call Gladys Smit and see if the woman she saw go into the garden at the trunk show at Deirdre’s had been Crystal. Emma was quite positive that it had to have been. Desperate to get out from under Jessica’s iron rule, Crystal had killed her persecutor. Now it was up to Emma to prove it.
Emma was about to pull out of the parking lot when sh
e thought she might as well tie everything up tonight. She pulled her cell phone from her purse, called information and got Gladys Smit’s number.
Unfortunately the phone rang and rang and rang without anyone answering it. Disappointed, Emma dropped her cell into her purse and headed back to her apartment over Sweet Nothings.
Emma’s phone rang as she was opening her apartment door. Arabella was anxious to know how the evening had gone. Emma filled her in on the details. Tomorrow she would track down Gladys and try to confirm things.
Tonight, however, she made herself some tea and toast and crawled into bed with a book.
* * *
THURSDAY wasn’t Sylvia’s day at Sweet Nothings, but Arabella was certain she could handle the shop alone and urged Emma to visit Gladys Smit as soon as possible. Emma headed out the door just before lunch, when they were least likely to be busy. She’d found Gladys’s address easily enough via whitepages.com—small garden apartments about ten minutes away. The place was quite run-down, with peeling paint and no gardens to speak of. One of the units had a wreath of fading pastel Easter eggs on the front door. It turned out to be Gladys’s apartment.
The two parking spaces in front of the unit were empty, which most likely meant that Gladys was out. Emma rang the bell anyway and waited hopefully. She thought she saw the curtain in the window twitch, but no one came to answer the door. She was turning away when the neighbor next door stuck her head out the window.
“Looking for Gladys?” She had jet-black hair permed into impossible curls that were at odds with the hard lines around her eyes and mouth.
“Yes.”
“Today’s her day for the Rowlands. She does for them every Tuesday and Thursday.” She shook her head, but her well-shellacked curls didn’t move. “I haven’t seen her around today. And not yesterday, either, come to think of it. But she didn’t say nothing about going away. Besides, where would she go?”
Emma assumed that was a rhetorical question. “You don’t happen to know where these people live, do you? The Rowlands?”
