Dead by Dinner Time Page 8

  “I am not a bad cook,” she said, enunciating each word. Her face was as red as a tomato. “That man just liked to have something to complain about. He lived for it. If it wasn’t the food, it was going to be something else.”

  For someone who had just claimed not to think or know anything about the residents, she was sounding pretty well versed when it came to discussing Arthur Griggs.

  She slapped the clipboard with her open palm, and the sound made me jump.

  “I am done answering questions,” she announced. “I have work to do.” She looked down her nose at me. “I would think you should be working, too, right? Providing therapy or whatever it is you claim to do?”

  I forced myself to take careful, measured steps out of the kitchen rather than bolting to the safety of my office.

  I knew two things after my brief conversation with Lola.

  There was absolutely reason to suspect that she might have had something to do with Arthur’s death. The animosity she felt toward him radiated off her.

  And she definitely still was not my favorite person.

  FOURTEEN

  I didn’t normally break the law.

  But desperate times called for desperate measures.

  I left the dining room, convinced Lola might be hiding something. It was no secret that Arthur Griggs had not been a fan of Lola’s cooking; in fact, he’d apparently been pretty vocal about his grievances.

  Denise had mentioned that he’d filed numerous complaints, which meant those reports were probably on file somewhere.

  And I wanted to get my hands on them.

  I knew exactly where I would find them.

  Anne’s office.

  But it wasn’t as though I had free range to sift through employee records. After all, I was an employee myself.

  There was no way Anne would hand over a file, nor did I expect her to. I wouldn’t if I were in her shoes.

  But Anne was on a tour with the family of a prospective resident, which meant her office was empty.

  I knew this because I was standing in her vacant office, a spreadsheet for her in my hand, staring at the placard she always left on her desk that indicated she was on a tour and would be back shortly.

  I glanced from her desk back to the open door. And then, I extended my foot and gently nudged it shut. Not all the way, but just enough so my actions would be hidden from view.

  I hurried over to her filing cabinet before I could change my mind. Lola’s file was easy to find. My hand shook as I pulled the manila folder from the drawer. I stood next to the cabinet and opened the file. Right on top, there was a stack of sheets paper clipped together. All complaints. As I thumbed through them, I noticed that most were from one person.

  Arthur Griggs.

  I skimmed the contents. All were handwritten, a spidery scrawl that was hard to read, but I could make out the gist of what he’d written. Tough meat, watery gravy, lumpy potatoes, soggy vegetables, rubbery eggs, limp bacon. He had something negative to say about nearly every food Lola had ever served.

  Just behind the stack of complaints was a printed summary, and I read those carefully. It referenced a meeting Anne had held with Lola just a couple of weeks earlier. According to the notes, Anne had shared the criticism from “concerned residents,” and had offered Lola the chance to provide commentary of her own. She’d defended her cooking, pointing out that it was impossible to please everyone in an environment with two hundred residents. Everyone had unique tastes, she said.

  I agreed.

  The last sentence read: “No disciplinary action taken at this time.”

  I thought about these words.

  Anne had clearly decided that there wasn’t much merit to Arthur’s complaints. Judging from the stack of comment sheets in Lola’s file, he had been the only one to take the time to write down his critique of her food. There was no indication, other than Anne’s phrase “concerned residents” that indicated anyone else had complained. For all of Anne’s shortcomings, especially when I thought about how she interacted with me, I had to admit she’d handled the situation with Lola fairly diplomatically. She hadn’t necessarily sided with the cook, but she hadn’t rushed to judgment, either. One unhappy and vocal resident did not mean there was a problem for everyone. A problem for him, certainly, but not a problem that seemed to be shared by the masses. Other residents might have grumbled about the food, but none of them had taken the time to fill out comment cards about it, and the fact that nothing else was in Lola’s file seemed to indicate it had stopped at that: grumbling.

  It certainly seemed that Lola had every right to be upset and angry with Arthur, but his comments hadn’t resulted in any disciplinary action. She didn’t have anything to fear from him, at least in respect to her job security.

  I restacked the sheets of paper, trying to make them as neat as possible, when I noticed another piece of paper in her file. The words stamped across the top made me freeze.

  DISCIPLINARY ACTION REPORT

  I yanked the sheet to the top of the stack.

  Two words jumped out at me.

  Food tampering.

  I scanned the page, trying to pull out the most pertinent details, but there was something else I was focusing on.

  The sound of Anne’s voice as she walked down the hall and back toward her office.

  I shoved the paper back where it belonged and jammed the file back in the drawer. I sprinted to one of the chairs positioned across from her desk and dropped on to it just as she crossed the threshold.

  To say she was surprised to see me was a massive understatement.

  “Sunny,” she said with a slight frown. “What are you doing?”

  I stood up and thrust the report I’d brought with me in her direction. “This is for you.”

  Her eyes narrowed behind her green glasses. She turned to look at the people who’d stepped into the office with her. A couple, close to my own parents’ ages. They were probably shopping around for retirement communities for an aging parent of theirs.

  “This is Sunny Springfield,” Anne said to the couple. “She is our activity director here at Oasis Ridge.”

  Recreational therapist, I silently corrected. I smiled and transferred the report to my left hand so I could shake their hands. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Anne cleared her throat. “Did you not see the sign on the desk?”

  I glanced at the placard. “I did,” I said. “I just wanted to make sure you got this.”

  Suspicion lurked in her eyes but I knew she wouldn’t say anything in front of this couple. She wanted new residents more than she wanted answers from me.

  She took the form without comment and placed it on her desk. “Did you need anything else?”

  “Nope,” I said brightly. I turned to the couple. “I hope you enjoyed your visit. We have so many wonderful activities available for residents, and a lot of new ones coming down the pipeline soon.”

  “Oh?” The woman, a petite lady with blonde hair just starting to go gray, perked up. “What kinds of activities?”

  I stole a furtive look at Anne. I could plant the seeds now, vocalize some of the ideas Anne had shot down, so she could see how potential residents and their families might react to those ideas.

  “Sunny, I believe you’re needed up in the activity room,” Anne said quickly.

  “I am?”

  She nodded. “Bingo is starting soon. One of the gals mentioned something about missing cards? Our residents can’t play bingo without cards, can they?”

  I knew she was talking out of her rear end, but I grudgingly took the hint.

  Because it got me out of there.

  I said goodbye to the visiting couple and headed back toward my own office.

  But as I walked, all I could think about was one thing.

  Lola Covich had tampered with food once before.

  And she just might have done it again.

  This time, with deadly consequences.

  FIFTEEN

&nbs
p; I went home at the end of the day exhausted.

  Whether it was still getting used to the workday after vacation or Arthur's death or Anne's seeming constant disapproval of me, I walked into the apartment and collapsed on the couch. Megan wasn't there and I assumed she was with Dylan. Normally, a twinge of jealousy would've pinched at me, but this time, I was glad to have the place to myself. I needed to decompress.

  Which would've been far easier if my mother would've stopped calling.

  I missed the first call because I'd left my phone in the living room when I'd gone in the bedroom to change my clothes.

  I ignored the second call because I'd gone out to the kitchen to grab a bag of chips and a soda and didn't feel like talking to her

  But I answered the third call because I knew she'd keep calling every five minutes until I picked up because she would've convinced herself that something had happened to me.

  I tapped the phone, leaned back into the couch, and stuck my hand into the bag of chips. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Sunny,” she said, then sighed. “I'm so glad you answered. I was convinced something had happened to you.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Did someone report me missing?”

  “No, but I phoned your office and got your voicemail,” she replied. “So I assumed you'd gone home for the day, which meant you'd be available via your cellphone. But then you didn't answer and I was concerned.”

  “You know the phone isn't attached to my hand, right?” I asked.

  “Are you eating something?” she said. “You're crunching something in my ear.”

  “Potato chips,” I told her. “Salt and vinegar.”

  “Really? It's almost dinnertime, isn’t it?”

  I rolled my eyes. I hadn't lived with my parents for almost ten years, but my mother always made it seem as thought I had just moved out. She had an opinion about nearly everything I did and most of those opinions involved her thinking I should do the opposite of whatever she was opining about.

  “It's an appetizer,” I said. “Anyway, what's going on down in Winter Park?”

  “Your father has some news,” she said. “Hold on. He's going to pick up the other line. Herb! Herb! Sunny's on the phone! Go get on the other line!”

  I sighed, careful to keep my sigh away from the speaker, lest my mother inquire as to why I was sighing.

  The line crackled for a moment. “Hello? Sunny? Are you there?”

  “I'm here, Dad.”

  “Of course she's there,” my mother said. “I told you she was.”

  “How are you, kid?” he asked.

  “I'm fine, Dad. How are you?”

  “Sunburnt,” he said. “Dave Jankowicz and I played 18 holes this afternoon and I burned my forehead because your mother lost my visor.”

  “I did not lose it,” she protested. “And I found you three others to wear, but you refused.”

  “Because I wanted the visor I always wear,” he countered. “It fits the way I like it to fit. But now I'm covered in aloe vera and sucking down Advil like candy.”

  “He's exaggerating, Sunny,” my mother said. “He's slightly pink and he's had two ibuprofen. He's perfectly fine.”

  “Probably have Stage 6 melanoma now,” he barked.

  “I don't think there's a Stage 6, Dad.”

  “I'm probably the first!”

  The entire conversation was a microcosm of my parents’ relationship. Somehow, between all of the bickering and back and forth-ing, they'd managed to stay married for thirty years. And despite the bickering and back and forth-ing, I really did believe they loved one another. It was hard to imagine them married to anyone but each other.

  Which didn't exactly sound like a compliment.

  “What did you have to tell me, Dad?” I asked. “Mom said you wanted to tell me something.”

  “Right,” he said. “Okay. Are you sitting down for this?”

  “She has a bag of potato chips,” my mother said. “She is most definitely sitting down.”

  “I wish I was allowed to have potato chips,” he grumbled. “You should send me some, kid.”

  “They'll never get to you,” my mother said.

  I threw my head back on the sofa, wishing I'd ignored that third call. “Dad. You have news.”

  “Right,” he said. “Okay, kid. I sold the company.”

  I sat up straight. “You what?”

  “I sold the company,” he repeated. “Couple of guys from Miami have been working on me for about six months. I put them off at first because I couldn't believe anyone would want to buy a sprinkler and irrigation business. With the global warming and all.”

  “Climate change, Dad. And what does that have to do with you selling your business?”

  “Aren’t we all gonna be underwater in a few years anyway?” he asked.

  “Dad, I—”

  He cut me off. “But those guys were persistent. I had lunch with them two weeks ago and they gave me a number that sort of made my eyes pop out of my head.”

  “They really did,” my mother said. “He thought he was on a TV show or something.”

  “But I still said no,” he continued, ignoring her. “I just didn't think I was the retiring type. But then they called back last week and doubled their offer. Literally doubled it. So I'm retiring early. Until your mother drives me out of the house.”

  “Herb, stop.”

  My entire childhood had been a series of lessons on irrigation and sprinkler installation. During the summers, I'd done everything from helping lay lines to working in his office. He'd started the company right out of high school, just one guy offering to install sprinklers, and grown it into a company with thirty employees and billboards on the highway. He'd worked hard to grow it and he'd always been proud of what he’d created. And I couldn't believe he'd sold it.

  “Wow,” I said. “Dad...that's incredible.”

  “You're telling me,” he said. “Can't believe these dummies want to write me a big, fat check. But I'm gonna take it.”

  “What will that mean for everyone?” I asked. “Your employees and the office and everything?”

  “Not a darn thing,” he said. “I made sure nothing would change for at least three years. It's part of the sale agreement. They'll keep the name, the employees, everything. Everyone wins. Especially me. As long as I can keep your mother from blowing all of our newfound cash at the nail salon or wherever the heck she goes. Probably have to take away her debit card.”

  “Good luck with that,” my mother said. “And we're going to go on a cruise. Just like you did.”

  “A cruise?” I said. “Really?”

  “Really,” she answered. “I had two stipulations if he wanted to retire. The first was that he wouldn't just play golf every single day of the week.”

  “I'm limited to three days per week,” he said. “Unless the skin cancer does me in first.”

  “And the second was that we take a European cruise because he's been promising that we'd do that for years,” she said. “So, I'm booking the trip next week. I'm hoping you might be able to give us some tips, based on your trip.”

  Yeah. Don't get accused of murder.

  “Um...” I said, at a loss for words.

  “You don’t have to give them all to me right now,” my mother said. “Just start thinking of things we need to know. Peggy is a big cruiser, as are Vern and Martha, so I’m sure we’ll be talking to them, too. But I know you’ll have some good advice. You probably joined a whole bunch of those Facebook groups to get ready.”

  I wanted to tell her that people her age were probably the ones joining cruise groups on Facebook, but I kept quiet. That kind of suggestion would probably land me a Skype call and an urgent request to show her step-by-step how to join one.

  I pushed the bag of chips off my lap. “Wow. That is all...I don't know what to say.” I really was sort of speechless still. “Congratulations, Dad.”

  “Thanks, kid,” he said. “I'll keep busy. Probably do some consulting of some
kind. And now we'll have some more time to come and visit you, too, if you'll have us.”

  “You're welcome here anytime,” I said. “You know that.”

  “Helen!” he barked. “Hang up the phone and come in here. I want to show you something.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Sunny, I'll call you tomorrow, alright?”

  “That's fine, Mom,” I said. “Bye.”

  The line clicked.

  “Is she off?” my father asked, lowering his voice.

  “Uh, I think so.”

  “Alright,” he said. “Look, gotta make this quick. If you need help with your student loans or anything like that, you let me know. I'm not kidding. These chuckleheads are paying me a fortune.”

  “Dad, you don't have to do—”

  “I know I don't,” he said quickly. “But I can. We didn't have the money when you went to school and I felt guilty about that. So you and I are going to have a conversation about paying those suckers off, alright?”

  “Dad, you really don't—”

  “And don't say a word to your mother,” he said. “This is between me and you. I want to do it, kid. Alright?”

  It was incredibly kind of him to offer, but I still wasn't sure I wanted him to. “We can talk about it,” I finally said.

  “Good,” he said. “What? Yes, Helen, it's right there. It looks like the window might be cracked. What? A cobweb? I guess my eyes might be going.” He chuckled. “Alright, kid, I'm gonna let you go. Just wanted you to hear the news.”

  “I'm very happy for you, Dad. Really. It's awesome.”

  “Thanks, kid,” he said. “We'll be up there soon for a visit. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  We hung up and I set the phone down next to the bag of chips.

  It was a lot to process. I couldn't picture my father without his company. It was an odd concept. But he sounded genuinely happy, and I knew how hard he'd worked to build, grow, and sustain something that was his. It sounded like he'd been rewarded for all of the years of blood, sweat, and tears. He deserved it.

  And it made me consider my own career.

  I loved the job, but not where I was at with it. I loved working with people, but working for Anne was not how I envisioned the position. I had no problem with gaining experience, putting my time in and working toward a more senior position, but I didn't want to hate showing up for work.