Polly Dent Loses Grip (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery) (5 page)

 
H
e
blinked rapidly. “What do you want?”

Not the kindest conversation starter, but I’d cut the man a break. “Is Mitzi Mullins all here?” I tapped my head to clarify my question.

He slumped into his seat. “Early dementia.”

“Can you let me in to see Polly?”

He frowned at me. “Why on earth do you want to see her?”

“To look at the scene before the police get here.”

He bounced his fingertips on the table and exhaled. “Yes,” he kind of hissed that last letter. “But don’t touch anything. Don’t even get close to her.”

“The doctor arrive yet?”

Otis’s brow creased. “Arrive?” Then his brow cleared. “Why, yes, he did. He’s already seen the body.”

Seemed mighty fast examining to my mind, but I kept that to myself. A doctor I’m not, so how would I know? Besides, Otis had neatly sidestepped something and I had a mind to poke at him a bit on the subject.

“You never answered my question earlier. Where were you around the time of Polly’s fall?”

He let out a long, slow breath. “Early dinner in the cafeteria. Mrs. Broumhild can verify that. Was in there the whole time.”

“Didn’t Hardy say he’d seen you with Polly?”

Otis flinched. “Did he? Probably before I went in for my dinner.”

I’d check it out just to be sure. But later. All I really wanted to do right now was get into that room and get it over with.

He thrust himself to his feet and motioned me to follow, looking a little rabid-eyed, if you know what I mean. If he didn’t calm down, he might have a heart attack. I wished Hardy was with me for moral support.

As soon as Otis’s hand rested on the doorknob of the exercise room, I braced myself. I averted my eyes from Polly as much as possible, scanning the area around the treadmill. The air held a certain unpleasant scent, precursor of what was to come should Polly remain in the room.

Otis toyed with his key, lips tightly pressed together. “Why don’t I shut the door and wait for you out here? That way I can make sure no one interrupts. Don’t get too close, I’ll watch you through the glass.”

Was that a warning? I put my hands on my hips and faced him square on—message sent.

He sucked in a breath, gulped, then backpedaled out the door. Message received.

Breathing a prayer for strength, I began to process each area, noting the lay of the equipment, the floor, the towel rack, a pan of white powder next to a dirty clothes hamper. A couple of chairs, purple vinyl, if you can stomach the thought of that. A small trashcan filled with papercups from the watercooler and some powdery residue.

I retreated a few steps until my back touched the door to the room, blocking old Otis’s view, though not on purpose. Mirrors covered the entire right and rear walls of the room, with a watercooler in the corner closest to a rack of towels.

I processed the area around Polly first, easing myself into looking her over, starting with the treadmill she’d fallen from. Identical to the other two in every way, including the presence of white powder on the handgrips and sprinkles apparent on the carpet. The baby powder, I guessed. The belt of Polly’s treadmill had a chunk taken out of it on the right side, the belts on all three of the machines looked well worn. The emergency key dangled from Polly’s hand. On the other two machines, the key was held in place by a little plastic shelf. Seemed normal enough, though exercise gave me the hives and the idea of having an intimate relationship with a treadmill or any other device of torture went contrary to my slogan of eat, drink
,
and be buried. Not that I imbibed anything stouter than grape juice, mind you, but good food was at the top of my list.

Except right here and right now, as my eyes turned to look over the body. My stomach clenched hard.

Polly’s foot rested on the lower portion of the treadmill, as it had been earlier. I shifted my weight, sucked in a breath, quelled a gag, and forced myself to do a quick check of the rest of her body. My change in position revealed the glint of something metallic close to Polly’s left hand, but not quite hidden by the edge of the neighboring treadmill. Something I hadn’t seen in my quick look through the window earlier.

I edged closer and squinted to see. It looked like a gum wrapper. I glanced over my shoulder. Otis’s face pressed up to the glass, his eyes missing nothing. I gave a little wave and sauntered a couple of steps closer.

He pecked a warning on the glass.

Stuff it. I was going to find out about that wrapper one way or another.

Another step brought me within reaching distance, my mind spinning, trying to grasp a good excuse to use so I could grab that wrapper. If I bent over, Otis
would
barrel through that door and drag me out thinking I was up to something. Was he really that worried about disturbing the scene, or was it my presence that had him on edge?

I decided to use the old got-a-scratch excuse. It was lame, sure, but when hose battle against the hairs on my legs, itching happens. Besides, it was all I could conjure up. I pretended to really be giving Polly the once over, though my eyes were on that wrapper the entire time. Then, when I’d done enough play-acting, I bent over. Problem is, petite is not happening with this body, and my hands only made it to my kneecap. My hose rebelled against the pressure and tidal waved downward. No choice but to ignore that problem and do a scratch. Time was wasting.

I sure could use Gertrude or Hardy or Matilda showing up in the hallway about now and distracting my
observer
. But that didn’t happen. A deep, masculine voice happened. I could hear Otis carrying on the conversation through the doorway. Their voices lowered a notch. They could whisper away, because Otis wouldn’t be carrying on a conversation unless he was facing the person. Translation: He wasn’t looking my way anymore.

I seized the opportunity to squat down and grab that wrapper with as much speed as I could muster. The muscles in the back of my thighs screamed a protest. I’d certainly pay the price tomorrow.

I held the wrapper to my nose, the faint scent of peppermint. Looked like those old Tic Tac wrappers from a couple years ago. Might mean something. Might not. I let it fall from my fingertips, disappointed, and decided I’d had enough. Time to retreat.

Otis had abandoned his post
at the window
and moved down the hallway with a dark haired man with almond-shaped eyes. The way they had their heads bent together made me think they were in serious discussion. Probably over poor Polly.

Gertrude Hermann appeared
.
“Dr. Kwan. They’re trying to page you.” She glanced in my direction. I pulled the door to the gym shut real fast.

“We’re not allowed in there after hours,” she informed me.

“I know that,” I answered. She must not know about Polly. Unless, she was a good actress.

 
Dr. Kwan grabbed his pager, looked at it, then back at Gertrude. “What’s the problem?”

Gertrude enjoyed being the center of attention, that’s for sure. She looked at me as she both answered the question and gave me the news. “Your husband is worried about his momma. Thomas and I got back from our walk and I went over to introduce myself, and she was a little weird acting.”

Dr. Kwan and I hustled toward the elevators, Gertrude two steps behind, Otis returned to his office. As we neared the elevators, a gust of air hit us. Dr. Kwan and I turned to see the front doors open, two uniformed policemen entering.

Gertrude veered their direction. “Can I help you?” she boomed.

One of the ladies manning the front desk shot Gertrude a sour look and introduced herself to the police. Before I could overhear anymore, the elevator doors
popped
open, inviting Dr. Kwan and me inside. Though I chafed at the idea of Gertrude getting an earful before I could, if something was wrong with
M
omma, I needed to know, and Hardy would need me.

A peek at Dr. Kwan revealed his eyes hard on those police fellows. “You had a chance to examine Polly yet?” I asked.

 
“Yes. Yes, I have. It was a terrible accident, Mrs. Barnhart. Tragic.”

Chapter Six

Turns out
M
omma’s sugar was elevated. Dr. Kwan’s visit was brief. Hardy had taken up residence next to his mother, her feet in his lap, her head nestled on her pillow. I saw the concern in his cocoa eyes.

“Tell him to stop fussing, LaTisha. I’m fine.”

That’s like telling a hummingbird to stop fluttering. Hardy loved his momma hard, which is just as it should be.

“Why don’t you let him fuss, Momma. You’ll miss him soon enough.”

Her eyes latched onto Hardy and softened. “Suppose you’re right.”

“You feeling better now?” I asked.

“Wore out. Worn down. Nothing some sleep won’t cure.”

“If you’re hungry, I can fix something light. Grilled chicken? A small salad?” I knew a thing or two about how to cook for her since she’d lived with us as she recovered from her stroke.

Hardy perked up at the sound of food and smacked his lips. “Sounds good to me. You already went to the store?”

“No, brought a few things along. I’ll go in the morning.” It didn’t take any time to throw together the food for Hardy and me. He inhaled his and even got Matilda to eat a few bites.

I left them to try and find Sue Mie and talk to the cooks or a nurse. Someone. I couldn’t imagine that they’d feed a resident something not part of their diet and wanted to be good and sure of their methods before leaving
M
omma in their hands. All this was making me think Hardy and me should have been more careful about quality of the assisted living place. I admit, we chose the place more for its close location to Maple Gap than for any stellar reports of its care. And all this gave me an excuse to ask questions of the cafeteria lady Otis said could verify his alibi.

When I made it down to the main floor’s common area, a small knot of the elderly ringed Gertrude.

“ . . . I don’t know the facts yet, Lester,” she was saying. “The police are with Mr. Payne now. All he would tell me is that Polly is dead.”

“She was okay this afternoon,” one little lady said.

“Hopping mad about that new resident getting her apartment,” another answered.

“Well, girls,” Gertrude tried to placate, “all I can say is all that doesn’t matter now. She’s gone.”

Seems to me she should be shedding some salt right about now. On the other hand, with her and Polly spatting over Thomas, I guess they weren’t friends. But shouldn’t Gertrude at least have some remorse in her voice?

“It’s gotta be the food here. That alone could kill anyone.”

“It’s not so bad, Charlie. You’re just hard to please,” Gertrude said.

 
I slipped down the hallway a bit and poked my head into the cafeteria. Preparations for the evening meal would be in full swing, which meant the likelihood of talking to any kitchen worker was a big, fat zero.

Some sixth sense pulled me further down that hall and toward Otis’s office. The hallway door to Otis’s office was open, meaning I didn’t have to duel with Miss Pillsbury.

Instead, I heard a new voice coming from Otis’s domain. Female. Giggling laughter that conjured an image of blond roots. I expected to see a teenager, but the angle of the room prevented me from seeing more than two knees jutting into view. Very shapely knees. The voice fell to a whispery purr and because of the one-sided responses, I figured this little lady was on the phone.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I’ve never seen anyone more capable than you.”

An instinct deep in my gut told me not to bolt into the room and announce my presence. So I listened. Shamelessly. A list of possible identities filtered through my head. She could be Otis’s wife, daughter, the daughter of a resident, the wife of the son of a resident, and on and on the possibilities rolled like credits on a screen.

The purr shifted to a staccato forte. “I told you I have to have time to decide. It’s not as easy as you might think. I’ll talk to you about it later, okay?”

She did an air kiss into the phone.

I chose that moment to make my grand entrance. The woman sat in one corner of the sofa, pursing her lipsticked
mouth
as she stared into the mirror of her compact. Blond hair with dark roots. Uh-huh. Lookswise she wasn’t too bad . . . for what I’d guess to be a forty year old woman.