Polly Dent Loses Grip (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery) (22 page)

Is it any surprise he can read my mind? “You’re going to get down to business and fill my ears with your news, is what you’re going to do.”

He shuffled right into my arms and squeezed me as tight as the circle of his arms could reach around my size twenty-four waist. “I love when you talk to me like that.”

I breathed in the scent of him and rubbed my cheek along his grizzled hair. “It better be good, too.
”

He pulled away and we entered the living room. “Momma’s downstairs with a gang of women doing a craft thing.”

“I passed them in the common area on the way up.” I crossed my arms, hoping to prod the conversation along a bit. Hardy could get contrary when he knew something I didn’t. “You talk to Thomas like I asked?”

Hardy planted himself on the sofa and leaned way back. “Nope. How’d your doctor’s appointment go?”

A question I wasn’t expecting, and one that defused me real quick. I didn’t want to think about the doctor, or his probing, or his concerned look and the tests or their pending results. No use stirring the pot when trouble would brew whether I talked about things or not.

“We’ll know after the tests come back.”

Hardy’s eyes narrowed at me and we sat in locked silence for a full minute. I wouldn’t look at him. Didn’t want to be gazing into those eyes I knew so well. That knew me so well. But Hardy wouldn’t push me. Not now at least.

“Didn’t get hold of Thomas, but Manny and I chewed the fat for a long while.”

His change of subject allowed me to take air into my lungs again. I shot him a hard look. “Manny Wilkins?”

“Yup. Said he didn’t recognize Thomas right at first, but did some digging around and managed to scrounge up an old picture. Manny’s son brought him over his collection of newspapers with articles about Thomas during his capture and trial.”

It gelled in my brain. The scrapbook he’d been looking through in the library. “He found something in those papers.”

Hardy quirked a smile. “He’d been combing through the things every
day, until yesterday in the library when he found a small story about Stanley Phipps. It appears his wife of ten years didn’t care to be a jailhouse widow and put in for a divorce.”

“So?”

“So. . .his wife’s name was Pauline Phipps.”Hardy’s eyes glinted into mine.

Pauline. . .Polly? My heart began to beat real hard. “Let me guess, her maiden name was Dent.”

But that wasn’t all. Hardy had another shell to lob my way.

“Manny said one of the residents saw Otis Payne in the kitchen with Hilda, and they weren’t shredding broccoli.”

“You don’t shred broccoli.”

Hardy shrugged. “I’m no cook, how would I know what you do with the stuff?”

“You sure have eaten it all these years. Don’t you pay attention?”

“With a beautiful server like you, why would I notice something like broccoli?”

“Syrup’s for sure dripping from your tongue. What trouble have you gotten into?”

“I leave trouble to you.”

To be honest, I was stirring trouble in my brain right then and there. I had some investigating to do. If Otis Payne and Hilda Broumhild were shredding broccoli together, then why was he begging Louise to stay with him on the stairwell? Why, for that matter, would he care to stay with Louise at all if he was aware of her fling with Mr. Footsie? It all came back to hush money. Louise knew something about Otis that required him to pay her big bucks to keep her quiet.

It just didn’t gel. Something wasn’t right. The whole relationship between those two didn’t make sense. Did she want him to get money so if she divorced him she could get at least half?

Hardy dug around in the pocket of his pastel plaids and unearthed a piece of paper folded small. “Got me a note right here that someone left under the door last night. I knew you’d be wanting to read it through.”

Now why did all the good stuff happen when I left?

He unfolded the note until it was only halved then, with a flick of his wrist, he whipped it open and presented it to me like a maitre d’ allowing a patron to ogle a fine wine.

MRS. BARNHART, I’D LIKE TO TALK TO YOU AGAIN. THINGS ARE GETTING OUT OF HAND FAST. SM

Hmph! My chance to redeem myself. Humble myself even. My stomach roiled at the thought. Humility rubs me wrong. I can do it, but it’s pain and agony all the way. Sweet Jesus, forgive me.

Hardy stuck his neck out over the note to look me in the eye. “Who’s SM?”

“Our friendly CNA, Sue Mie.” I folded the note back into the postage stamp size it was originally. “She’s a private investigator.”

Hardy’s mouth formed an O.

I warmed to my subject like a house ablaze. “I found out the other night. Wanted to tell you then, but I couldn’t find you. She thinks Dr. Kwan pushed Polly Dent because she’d found out something.”

I paused, wondering how to tell Hardy I’d blown my opportunity to work with Sue.

He sank down onto the sofa, expression knowing. “Why do I have a feeling you played Barney Fife and shot yourself in the foot?”

“Only thing shooting was my mouth
,
and I backed her into a corner. She refused to tell me what she’d found out about Dr. Kwan and Polly.”

“You played tough-gal and lost.”

I glared at him.

Hardy patted the cushion next to him. “Come nest with me, my pigeon.”

The air went out of my defiant sails and I plopped beside him. He promptly bounced high in the air, acting like the momentum of me sitting sent him airborne. Somehow it didn’t strike me as funny. Instead tears pressed in on me. Hardy patted my leg and I pulled him in close against my chest.

I swallowed hard. “I’m ashamed of myself. Really. I had no use being so, so
—
”

“Pigheaded?”

I sniffed back the tears.

“Cocky?”

The tears started flowing anyhow.

“Mean?”

I gave his ear a good tug.

“Ouch!”

“You’ve no business harassing me when I’m spilling salt everywhere.”

“I was just trying to find the right agitate.”

“That’s adjective.”

“Well what do you know?” He sat up straight. “What’s an adjective anyway?”

I dried my eyes on my sleeve. It was no use wasting time explaining. “Why don’t we go downstairs and try to find some trouble to get into? You need to talk to Thomas like I asked you to, and I need to find Sue Mie.”

He snapped to his feet and held out a hand to me.

It hit me then that Hardy didn’t know about Sara Buchanan.

“Hardy.”

Interpreting the sound of my voice, his hand lowered to his side.

“Sara’s cancer is back. She doesn’t have long to live.”

Hardy closed his eyes and lowered his head. I slipped my hand into his, knowing he hurt for her and the Buchanan’s real deep. Just like me. Which is why I wasn’t surprised when he squeezed my hand real tight. “Lord,” he breathed. “Oh, Lord.”

His voice choked up. My tears came on fresh as dew.

“Be with that baby, Lord. . .”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Hardy worked out his grief on the piano, his fingers weaving soulful tunes that had no words, but spoke volumes of his hurt, and probably his concern over me. The residents listened in awe, as they always did. I decided I’d better get to looking for Sue Mie before quitting time, and touched Hardy’s head on the way out of the common area to let him know I was leaving. His gaze touched mine for a full thirty seconds, before his fingers picked up rhythm and the notes caught the wind of a livelier beat. This was his way of saying he’d be okay. We’d shelve our grief and, as he’d promised after finishing up his prayer for Sara, we’d get this mystery solved and get home as soon as possible. Our one comfort was that Lela would be there for Sara real soon.

The seniors were trickling toward the cafeteria again, and I worked my way through, patting backs and sharing a smile, all the while asking if anyone had seen Sue Mie. Darren’s boyish greeting and shy grin answered my question.

“I saw her at the end of the hallway upstairs. She was playing bunco with a group of ladies.”

“How is Mitzi?”

“She’s pretty weak. I think her medication is making her sick.” Darren paused as a line of women exited the elevators, pushing their way between us in a flurry of walkers and travel knit, a.k.a. polyester. At the rear of the group, Gertrude Herrman clung to the arm of Thomas Philcher.

Her head swung from me to Darren and back again, sweeping a pitifully thin ponytail back and forth across her shoulders.

“Mrs. Barnhart! Have you found out any juicy tidbits about Polly? Dr. Kwan was sure asking about you when I had my check-up yesterday.”

“Tell him if he has something to ask about me, I’m his woman.”

Gertrude tried to tuck a stray hair into her tightly banded ponytail and failed miserably. It sprang out like the ballet dancer of a music box. She shifted her attention to Darren. He seemed to shrink back against the wall, and I remembered what he’d said about Polly talking loud to him. I could see Gertrude being intimidating as well.

“Darren, why don’t you join us this evening? Thomas and I would love to have you at our table,” she cooed.

Darren’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His gaze shifted to me, wild and a little fearful. Strange thing, that. Gertie might not be the kindest speaking lady, but fear?

“Darren’s going to take me up to check on Mitzi,” I interceded, slipping my arm around his shoulder in a protective gesture. “She’s been sick, from what he tells me.”

Gertrude nodded. “Yes, I should check on the poor dear.” Her eyes fluttered at Thomas, and she picked up his hand and slid it through her arm as if she were the man being the escort. “We could check on her after we eat. Wouldn’t that be a good idea, Tommy?”

Tommy must have worked hard to push a smile to the surface, because it was obviously strained. “That is a wonderful idea.”

Gertrude placed her hand over his where it lay in the crook of her arm and started forward, like a cruise ship pulling a tug boat. I’m guessin’ Hardy and I look a lot like that sometimes. Difference is, Hardy didn’t mind me pulling him.

As we walked back toward the elevators to the flowing music of Hardy’s latest tune, Darren got quiet. Not unusual for him, of course, but the way he kept glancing my way and being all fidgety made me think something was in this boy’s mind needing to be set free.

I waited.

The elevator dinged its arrival on the third floor, and we stepped into a throng of ladies and gents waiting to go down. I recognized the black
haired woman from our sing-a-thon a couple of days ago. She stopped me. “We’ve talked so much about how we enjoyed singing with you the other day. Could we do it again? Sally and I want to invite some of the men to round out our little choir. Your husband does play so divinely.”

“Sure we can, honey.”

“Oh
.
”
H
er face lit. “Would tonight be too soon?”

“Hardy’s down there on the piano now. You ask him and see what he thinks.”

The group huddled in the elevator stirred restlessly. Sally, Mary’s friend, held the doors open. “Come on, dear. We’re hungry.”

Mary flashed me a sparkly smile, dimmed by the reality of her yellowed teeth, but still full of heart, and hopped onto the elevator. Her dark hair a stark contrast to her other companions with heads in various shades of gray and white.

“She loves music,” Darren offered, as he pushed away from the wall. “Guess Sue and the others finished their game.” His hand uncurled to grasp at the railing in the hallway as I followed him away from the empty common area and down the hall to Mitzi’s room.

“The doctor know what’s making Mitzi sick?”

Darren hesitated for a spit-second. Now a spit second isn’t to be confused with a split second, it’s a little longer. It’s the time it takes for someone to spit and the spit to land. Our son Caleb introduced us to this term when he was at his spitting-to-look-cool stage. He didn’t stay in that stage long because Hardy has a way of warming up a boy until all the moisture in his body dries up and spit in the mouth becomes a luxury.