care.
I chatted with Angie and Wesley for a few minutes. I am not big on small talk and began to get antsy so I produced the 13 diamonds I had taken from Gerald's memorial and asked Wesley, “Did you pick up the rest of this deck, by any chance?”
“Why yes,” he said, leaving the room and coming back with a box of cards. “I took all the cards and score- pads after the commotion about Gerald died down, just like I always do.”
“That was a terrible tragedy,” interjected Angie, who was not a member of the bridge club. “It must have been awfully hard to watch.”
I murmured something and Wesley said, “I saw you pick up Gerald's hand and I was going to ask you for his cards, but then I saw the 13 diamonds and realized their significance. And when I saw them on his memorial I thought it was appropriate. For a bridge player to die with a perfect hand, that is the ultimate. I will always envy Gerald.”
“Just don't imitate him,” Angie said.
“May I see the other cards?” I asked. Wesley handed me the box. It was one of those standard playing card boxes that had the geometric design of the backs of the cards reproduced on the box. I compared the design on the box to that on one of the 13 diamonds. It was close but not quite the same. I compared more cards from Gerald's hand with the box. Same result. I pulled the rest of the deck out of the box. Those cards had the same design on their backs as did the diamonds, so together they made up a complete deck.
Is this the box these cards originally came in?” I asked.
Yes. I buy all the cards and keep track of them all.”
He was one of those fastidious people and I was sure he did.
“Look at this.” I showed Wesley the differences between the backs of the cards and the design on the box.
He said, “I can’t understand it. All the decks are the same. I bought them all at the same time.”
He lumbered into the other room and returned with several more decks.
We inspected those decks. Their designs matched their boxes, which matched the box that contained Gerald's deck. Only the design on the cards that had produced Gerald's perfect hand was different from that of any of the other decks or boxes.
Wesley kept saying, “I can't understand it,” as we became convinced of the difference.
“What if this deck has been switched with the original deck?” I asked him.
“But who would do a thing like that?” Wesley asked, his face becoming almost purple. “And how?”
“Who? The person who wanted Gerald…to get a hand of 13 diamonds.” I had almost used the word “murdered.” “How-or when-I’m not sure.”
“But…but,” he sputtered, “do you mean it was all a joke? That the hand wasn't real?”
“It looks that way.”
“But I don't think that's funny. Especially, in view of the consequences.”
“No, it isn't funny. However, I think we, the bridge club, should do something as a sort of permanent memorial to Gerald. What if we had the 13 diamonds framed and hung in the recreation room?”
“Well…I don't know,” said Wesley.
“We don't have to tell anyone else that the hand isn't real. Then only we and the perpetrator will know.”
“Who do you think did it?”
“One of the three women at Gerald's table, most likely, but what does it matter? It's over and done with now. It was just a joke.”
“I'll bring it up at the bridge club this afternoon,” Wesley said. “We'll take a vote on it.”
“And would you save the rest of the deck, along with the original box? Just in case there is ever any question regarding the legitimacy of Gerald's hand.” I knew that if it was ever needed, Wesley's testimony at a trial would be believed.
The bridge club did not eat lunch before play started. The lunch committee had been disbanded by common consent. Instead, Wesley conducted a short business meeting. The members voted to have the 13 diamonds framed as a permanent memorial to Gerald. We also had a minute of silence in his memory.
Then we played bridge, as usual. We played shuffle-and-deal instead of duplicate bridge because some of the members didn't want the cutthroat competition that duplicate engenders. I noticed that Ida and Ellen were still partners. Harriet, whose partner had usually been Gerald, was playing with a woman whose name I didn't remember.
Our custom was to have each partnership play a certain number of hands against every other partnership. When Ida and Harriet played at the same table I watched them from my table out of the corner of my eye, but I didn't see any sign of bad feeling between them. They were good actors.
When serious bridge players get together, they are models of complete concentration and even the ones who said they didn't like to play competitively got into the spirit of the game. I bet that most of the people there forgot about Gerald as the afternoon progressed and they bid and played their hands. By the end of the afternoon, activity at the bridge club had returned to normal.
CHAPTER 7
It was too hot to play croquet, but Thursday afternoon was the only time all members of the foursome were available simultaneously, perhaps for weeks. I wore a large straw hat and put sun block on my exposed arms. My light skin doesn't take kindly to too much sunlight.
I drew the line at wearing shorts to beat the heat. I was not about to put my varicose veins on display outdoors, without stockings. It was bad enough that I had to do it in the pool.
My partner was a married man named Jesse; his wife didn't play croquet. Jesse was tall and thin and moved slowly, but his hands were amazingly steady for his age, which was on the north side of 80. He played the same kind of game-steady and conservative. I played a more wide-open game than he did, taking the high-risk shots, but together we made a good team and we had won the tournament the year before.
Ellen Tooner had a female partner. I didn't know how good they were, but I had always pictured Ellen as being well coordinated because of the deft way she shuffled the cards when she played bridge, so I warned Jesse against being over-confident. Ellen was dressed neatly and conservatively with a short-sleeved blouse and long shorts. I noticed, enviously, that she didn't appear to have any varicose veins.
Ellen went first and sailed her ball through the first two wickets with a standard between-the-legs shot. Going for the side wicket, she pulled her approach shot off the mark, but she got fairly close on her last shot.
This flat surface with the manicured lawn was heaven compared to the bumpy and irregular backyard croquet courts I had played on before. Standard procedure when I was a child and going for the side wicket had been to blast the ball into the flower bed. When I brought the ball a mallet's-head in from the tulips, with luck it would be right in front of the wicket. In the present case, I hit my ball cleanly through the first two wickets and used my next two shots to hit Ellen's ball.
“Sorry,” I said as I placed my ball a mallet's-head length from hers. When I play I take no prisoners. My own son won’t play with me.
She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. Up close she looked younger than many of the other residents of Silver Acres. Her hair was still a reddish-brown color, but I'm sure she dyed it. She was still good looking in a well- preserved sort of way.
“Did Carol Grant talk to you about Gerald?” I asked her as I uncharacteristically tapped my ball to stop in front of the wicket instead of trying to hit it through.
She nodded and said, “You too, eh? She asked me if I knew about Gerald's allergy to shellfish. How could I? We played bridge together but we weren't close friends.”
I hit my ball through the wicket. “Same here. I take it that you weren't the one who put the shellfish in the
