Maine lobster-we have it flown in. And…I don't know the name of the woman I delivered it to. I had an extension to call…”
“Do you remember it?”
Mark shrugged. “No.”
“Would there be a record of it here?”
He shook his head. “Our phone order-taking system is pretty haphazard.”
“Where did you deliver it?”
“In the front parking lot. The woman came out from one of the side doors, not the main entrance. She wore dark glasses and a sun hat. She gave me a nice tip.”
“Would you know her if you saw her again?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“What if I showed you pictures?”
“I'm sorry. All of you…” he chuckled, “look alike to me.”
“Thanks a lot.” I was discouraged, but tried one more time. “No distinguishing characteristics: height, weight?”
Mark shook his head repeatedly. “What is this all about?”
“There is a clause in the Silver Acres contract that restricts residency to people who don't eat Maine lobster. My job is to ferret out the violators.”
Before Mark could react to that, Sandra said, “How about that other round of beer you owe us?”
CHAPTER 9
Saturday morning I got a call from a woman named Hazel. She was a member of the bridge club, but she didn't come all the time. I had a vague association of a face with that name. My memory wasn't good enough to connect names with the faces of all the people I saw occasionally.
Hazel said she had some information for me and that she couldn't tell me about it over the phone. She sounded very mysterious. She didn't want to meet at her apartment or my apartment, either, so I agreed to meet her outdoors beside the duck pond. Didn't Howard Hughes used to meet people at midnight in cemeteries? At least this meeting wasn't that clandestine. The duck pond had one permanent resident, named Louie, who couldn't fly. The other ducks summered somewhere north of us, but in the fall and spring flocks would stop here for a few hours or a few days on their way to wherever it is that ducks migrate.
Wooden benches with metal frames faced the duck pond, where residents could sit and wait for the ducks to come. I recognized Hazel when I saw her; she was already seated on one of the benches. I sat down on the same bench, but not too close to her, as she had instructed me over the phone. She looked small and furtive.
She looked around before she spoke, apparently checking for spies. The only potential spy I saw, other than Louie, was a squirrel who might be wired for sound, but I didn't voice this thought, fearing that Hazel might take it seriously.
Finally, she said, “It's about Ida Wilson.”
“What about Ida?” I asked when she lapsed into silence.
“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
