Polly Dent Loses Grip (A LaTisha Barnhart Mystery) by S. Dionne Moore

blankness of her stare, her hand stark white against my black skin. She squeezed real tight. As if I was her grip on reality.

 
 
    When Hardy finally rattled his bones from bed, I’d already gone to the grocery store and back and had hot water waiting for mother, and a poached egg, toast, and hashbrowns for Hardy. He dug in with a vengeance.
    “Eat that up before Momma comes out or she’ll want to eat it too. We’ve got to get her used to going to the cafeteria.” I whispered all that, then sprayed Lysol in the air for the second time to do away with the smells of homecooking. We could have eaten downstairs, but the meals weren’t cheap for non-residents.
    Hardy ate like a vacuum. Slugged back his juice like a man caught in the desert sun, and belched loud enough to cause his mother to holler at him from the other room.
    “I taught you manners, boy, don’t be forgettin’ them. What you all cooking in there anyway?” She appeared in the doorway, nose pointed at the ceiling. “And whatever you’re spraying isn’t working, LaTisha. Hashbrowns, poached eggs , and toast.”
    Hardy gave me a wry grin. “You gotta admit, she’s good.”
    I planted my hands on my hips. “Bet you can’t tell me what kind of toast.”
    Matilda pulled up beside me at the sink and raised one eyebrow. “Wheat toast this morning, though you normally buy five-grain. Now,” she pivoted on her heel, “I’m heading down to get my breakfast.”
    When she shut the door, Hardy started chuckling like a hyena. “I never thought I’d see the day when LaTisha Barnhart met her match, but I guess M omma’s the one.”
    I huffed at him. “You get in that bathroom and put a shine on your tooth.”
    He went, laughing the whole way.
    I was anxious to go downstairs and find out what the police had concluded about Polly’s fall, suspecting they had determined it was an accident.
    “Hurry up!” I yelled afater Hardy. Every time I wanted to hot-foot it somewhere, it seemed like he shifted into low gear. I missed my broomstick. Back home we had a system. I had a broomstick standing by the hall table on the first floor. Whenever Hardy ran late, I’d use it to tap on the ceiling to let him know he was taking too long. It annoys him no end when I do that, cause, you see, I don’t have to patch the holes in the ceiling.
    Thinking about home made me wish I could stir up a batch of pot stickers--my newest yummy treat. Maybe a nice batch of spice cookies and a deep dish lasagna. Cooking always helps me think , and I sorely needed some good thinking time.
    “You got that look in your eye,” Hardy observed, smacking his lips and blowing his fresh toothpasty breath on me. “Can’t resist me now, can you?”
    What had gotten into this boy? “Sure I can. Now let’s get.”
    He pouted all the way down the hall. When we got on the elevators, I could see his pooched lip. Poor man. I coiled my arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, landing a kiss on his lips. “There now. You taste as sweet as chocolate.”
    “As good as Gerad’s Belli?”
    It took me a minute. “You mean Ghiradelli.”
    His eyes sparkled. “I thought it was mighty funny to name a chocolate after someone’s gut.”
    When we finally made it off the elevator, I was surprised to find Otis Payne sitting beside Thomas Philcher and Gertrude. Wasn’t Sunday a day off anymore? Maybe Polly’s fall meant writing out more reports and such, and Sunday was the day to do it.
    Thomas looked forlorn. He’d probably heard the news of Polly’s demise only this morning. Beside him, Gertrude sat, unusually quiet, even kind of sad looking.
    “Missing Polly?” I asked the group, though I was looking at Gertrude.
    “I can hardly believe she’s gone,” Gertrude whispered. Her agonized tone spoke volumes. Interesting she didn’t seem so down about it when Thomas hadn’t been there last evening. Maybe she was depressed because he was so obviously saddened by the news.
    Thomas continued to