“Yes, that's right.”
“I hope it was fitting to include that hand on Gerald's memorial display in the main hallway. I'm not sure. Some people might think it's a bit unfeeling.”
I kept quiet. I have been accused of being insensitive on occasion and I'm sensitive about it.
When I didn't say anything, Carol said, “Don't worry about it. I know Gerald was an avid bridge player. I'm not a bridge player myself, but I'm aware that a hand like that is very unusual.”
“ Very unusual.”
As we walked out of Carol's office, Ophah, the Silver Acres receptionist, was briskly returning to her desk from some errand. “Hi Ophah,” I said, “is the mail ready yet?”
“About 30 minutes,” she said with a southern accent that I could at least understand, as opposed to those of some people, including the housekeeper who cleaned my apartment.
Ophah had a commanding presence and controlled everything within her sphere of influence, which included the mailroom, with unmatched efficiency. “You were talking to Carol about Mr. Weiss, weren't you?” she said. “That was a terrible thing. He was such a nice man. He always winked at me.”
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing that can be done for him now,” Tess said. “But how is your son? Is he playing baseball?”
“Oh, Lord yes, he's playing in a summer league. He hits the ball so far. Hank Aaron is his idol. I watch Mark play every chance I get.”
“I bet he'll play in the major leagues some day.”
Since Ophah knew everything that went on she might be able to answer a question for me. I asked, “Were you here when the fire alarm went off on Wednesday-the day Dr. Weiss died?”
“I was at lunch. It must have happened just after I left. I went to lunch a little early.”
“Did anything unusual happen that morning?”
“It depends on what you mean by unusual. A young man came in and said he had a delivery from a restaurant. He asked to use my phone to call one of the residents. He had a package, all wrapped up. I remember because he was real handsome and he said his name was Mark, just like my son.”
“Who was the package for?” I asked.
“I don't know. He made the call, himself, and I didn't hear him say a name. After he hung up he went out to the parking lot and I didn't see him again. So at least he didn’t set off the alarm, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”
I wasn’t sure what I was fishing for. “Do you know what restaurant he came from?”
“He said it was in Durham-some seafood restaurant-but I don't remember which one.”
CHAPTER 3
As I drove out of the woods at the end of the mile-long, unpaved road, the expanse of the Morgan estate lay before me, with its green acres of neatly-mowed lawn. My son Albert had a sit-down mower and mowed the lawn himself when he couldn't convince anybody else, Tom Sawyer-like, of the pleasures of bouncing around and being deafened for several hours.
The purple of the flowering crepe myrtle bushes contrasted with the green of the lawn and the trees. Albert's small red barn completed an idyllic scene that any landscape artist would love to paint. But an artist I'm not.
Our family's regular Sunday dinner gave me an opportunity to enjoy my family for the afternoon-and then to go and live my own life. Today I also wanted to forget about Gerald Weiss choking while holding a perfect bridge hand. I resolved not to talk about it, even though I had been thinking about Gerald, against my will, and wondering what had really happened.
I parked my 15-year-old Mercedes beside Albert's pickup truck, near the garage of his modern two-story house, which was large enough to give shelter to many more people than one. My granddaughter Sandra's little red Toyota was already there-she had driven over from her nearby condo-as well as an unidentified fourth vehicle. I only knew that it didn't belong to Winston, my great grandson; he was one year old.
Albert's yellow Labrador retriever came bounding up to the car so I opened the door and released my own dog, a part-husky named King, who immediately ran off with him, glad of the opportunity to romp with her buddy. I had named King after the great lead dog of the fictional Sergeant Preston, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, even though she was a female. She had been fixed, so she wasn't going to produce any mixed-breed puppies.
Winston came toddling along the sidewalk from the front door, babbling words that only he understood. Since he had recently learned to walk, I was afraid he might fall on the concrete, but he navigated it with surprising ease.
I scooped him up-he was almost too heavy to scoop-and said, “Hello, Darling, how's my big boy?”
Winston had elevated my status at Silver Acres, where many of the residents were great grandparents. He babbled some more and showed me the ball he carried. He pointed to Sandra, who followed him. “Is that your mommy, Sweetie?” I asked him. I can talk to babies with the best of them. I gave Sandra a hug.
She said, “You look great, Gogi.”
She's a good liar. She called me Gogi when she first learned to speak, and it stuck. She's also a single mother, having divorced the no-good bum she married almost before the ink dried on the certificate. I warned her about him, but who listens to grandmothers.
I said, “Thanks, Honey, so do you.” At least I told the truth. Sandra had the family blond hair and blue eyes and still wore her hair long, down to her waist. “Summer vacation agrees with you,” I continued, seeing her tan legs below her shorts, shaped by her daily runs. “Would you like to help take in the pies and rolls?”
Sandra and Albert both liked to cook, thank goodness, so I usually contributed baked goods to our traditional Sunday dinner. The heavenly aroma of baking bread reminded me of my own little grandmother, who could turn out perfect loaves from the imperfect heat of an oven in a wood stove.
On our way to the front door, with Winston toddling ahead again, I asked, “Who else is here?”
“A colleague of Dad's from the university, a certain Dr. Maria Enriquez. She specializes in one of the sciences, as I understand it. Just so that you won't be surprised, she's a bit, uh…darker than we are. But she is gorgeous. Dad sure has good taste in women.”
“I don't care if she's chartreuse, as long as she's good to him.” Why is it that young people suspect all of us oldsters of being prejudiced? Albert was also single, making our family zero spouses for four generations, and he played the field. I wished nothing more for Albert and Sandra than that they become well married.
Upon entering the kitchen, hot with summer and cooking, I saw that we were having scallops. I searched my mind, trying to remember whether scallops were shellfish, but then told myself: Lillian, quit being silly. You aren't the one with the allergy to shellfish. Again I tried to banish the picture of a choking Gerald from my mind.
Dr. Enriquez was younger than Albert and casually dressed. She wore a tennis outfit-Albert was an avid tennis player-with a shirt that buttoned at the top; however, she had forgotten to button the buttons. But our dinners were casual. Pretty soon they might become clothing optional.
“Albert has told me so much about you, Mrs. Morgan,” Dr. Enriquez gushed, after he introduced us.
“Nothing good, I hope,” I said, glancing at him. I doubted that he was in the habit of talking about his mother to his girlfriends.
She continued, “I love your hair. What do you use?”
“She pours ink on it,” Albert said, probably jealous because his own hair was thinning. “That's what gives it the blue tint.”
“I don't want to look like everybody else at Silver Acres,” I said.
“Well I think it's beautiful,” Maria said. “And you're so slim. I need to get your secret.”
“You have to be thin to live long enough to get into a retirement community,” Albert said. “The fat ones die off too soon.”
Albert could stand to lose a few pounds. I said to Maria, “You obviously don't need any of my secrets.”
