“Oh, yes.” Harriet's eyes lit up. “I always loved to cook for my husband, Bruce.”
I sprinkled bacon bits on my salad and added oil and vinegar. “Did you ever cook a meal for Gerald?”
Harriet shrugged. “I didn't have an opportunity because we eat all our dinners here in the dining room.”
Back at the table, I said, “Tell me about the delicious casserole you served at the bridge club.”
Harriet shuddered. “They say that's what killed Gerald. But there's one thing I don't understand. He was supposed to be allergic to shellfish, but there wasn't any shellfish in the dish. It was a tuna casserole. And I put the tuna in myself.”
Tess and I looked at each other. She said, “Did you know he was allergic to shellfish before…the lunch?”
“No,” she said, softly.
“You made the casserole in your apartment, didn't you?” I said.
Harriet nodded. “The other committee members helped me.”
“Did you carry it to the recreation room yourself?”
“Yes. I don't see how the shellfish could have gotten into it. Maybe Gerald ate some crab or something before the meeting.”
Tess said, “He wouldn't have done that because he knew he was allergic to it. He had put it on his medical profile.”
“Oh.” Harriet looked confused. “Now I remember. He asked me what was in the casserole and I told him. Of course I didn't mention shellfish. I didn't think anything of it at the time.” Tears came to her eyes. “I told him wrong.”
“It wasn't your fault,” Tess said, placing a consoling hand on Harriet's arm. We'd been saying that a lot lately.
“Do you have a good recipe for lasagna?” I asked, putting on a cheerful voice. “We're always talking about serving it at our family dinners on Sundays, but nobody knows how to make it.”
“Why yes,” Harriet said. “My husband had Italian ancestors through his mother's side and he loved Italian cooking.”
We spent the rest of dinner talking about good food that didn't kill anybody.
CHAPTER 6
Every morning about sunrise I walked King a mile around the perimeter road of Silver Acres. On Wednesday morning I started before the sun rose so it was still relatively cool out. Relatively. But at least bearable for King, with her Arctic coat.
Two cute bunnies sat on the grass near the road, insolently staring at King and not showing any fear. I had trained King to ignore them when she was on a leash. However, if a bunny had the temerity to show itself on Albert's farm when she was there it would be gone in a couple of bites.
I walked clockwise around Silver Acres. Ida Wilson, Gerald's other “girlfriend,” walked counter-clockwise. I knew there must be a psychological reason why some people walked clockwise and others counter-clockwise, but none of the scholarly residents had written a paper about it.
I had not seen Ida since Gerald's death, one week before, but this morning she appeared out of the dawn shadows, heading toward me, her little dog scuttling ahead. This dustmop had attempted to attack King in the past so I kept a tight hold on King's leash, fearing the repercussions if she ever forgot her pledge to be good.
Usually Ida and I said hello and kept going, but I stopped after our greetings and said, “How are you getting along?”
“All right.”
Ida's dog pulled on its leash and yapped at King, who stood just beyond its reach; King didn't acknowledge its existence. Ida was taller than my above-average height, and heavier, and could easily control the pup, but I backed up a couple of steps since Ida didn't seem inclined to pull her dog away, and the beast, apparently annoyed at being ignored, yapped louder and strained harder.
I searched for words of condolence and finally said, “Gerald's death was such a shame.”
“A shame? Gerald's death was criminal!”
The force of Ida's words hit me like a strong gust of wind. I recovered my balance and asked, “Why do you say that?”
“You must have heard that the crab in the casserole killed him. That was no accident.”
Not having expected this response, I quickly reevaluated my approach. I said, “I heard it was shellfish. Why do you think it was crab?”
“I checked at the market. Crab legs are on sale there. It adds up.”
Was she playing detective too? “But why do you say it was no accident?”
“Isn't it obvious? Whoever put the crab in the casserole was trying to kill Gerald.”
“I thought nobody knew about his allergy to shellfish.”
“The murderer did. I'm not saying who that was, but I have some ideas.”
I suddenly decided I didn't want to be a detective. I had once heard someone say that you shouldn't ask a question if you didn't want to hear the answer. This was such a time. But somehow I heard myself saying, “As an attorney, I know you wouldn't conceal evidence. If you know something, you should tell it.”
“It's not hard to figure out. The casserole was put together in Harriet's apartment. The other people there were the members of the committee: Ellen, Dora and me, but Harriet did most of the work on the casserole. Just because none of us saw her put the crab in means nothing. She carried the casserole over to the recreation room and we left her apartment before she did. She could have had the crab meat sitting in her refrigerator, ready to dump in.”
“Why would Harriet want to kill Gerald?”
“Because Gerald liked me better than he liked her.”
“Why didn't she try to kill you?”
“I don't know. I guess I can thank my lucky stars she didn't. But I aim to keep an eye on her.”
“Have you told anybody else your suspicions?”
“You mean the police? I don't have any evidence that would stand up in court. Harriet won't be the first murderer to go free.”
“Did you know that Gerald was allergic to shellfish?”
“No, he never told me.”
“Then why do you think he told Harriet?”
Ida shrugged.
I had an urge to ask Ida if she and Gerald had slept together, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Ida pulled the little dog away from where it still eyed King malevolently, and walked on. I stood for a moment, in a daze. I liked Harriet better than Ida. I preferred that Ida be the murderer, possibly because I didn't like her dog. This wasn't coming out right. Reality wasn't always convenient. Maybe I should drop the whole thing.
I wanted to find the answer to one more question before I went back to my normal life. At a decent hour, after most people were up, I called Wesley Phipps, the president of the bridge club, and asked him who kept the cards we played with. After finding out that he kept them I made an appointment to go over to his apartment.
Wesley and his wife, Angie, had a two-bedroom apartment that was larger than my one-bedroom model. Angie had some degenerative disease and was confined to a wheelchair, but the apartment was spotless. She treated me like a formal visitor, seating me on the sofa and having Wesley serve me coffee and little cookies on the coffee table. I can make a pig of myself with sweets, so I took two cookies and then didn't look at the plate again.
Wesley, in addition to being president of the bridge club, was also president of the residents' association. He was balding, red-faced and overweight, which was not typical of Silver Acres residents. But he doted on Angie and took good care of her. Without his help, she would have to live in the building that provided skilled nursing
