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

stare at the gnarled head of his simple wooden cane.
    “The police didn’t stay long last night,” Otis offered, his eyes hard on me. “After talking to everyone, they ruled it an accident and said there was no further need for investigation.”
    “I’m sure your wife will be relieved to hear that.”
    Otis looked surprised. “My wife?”
    “She was here yesterday to visit you. When I told her what had happened, she seemed distressed.”
    “Why, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “She is easily upset by such things. A tender spirit, you might say.”
    I might not say that. If she’d talked to him, she sure hadn’t mentioned dropping by. I tried to reign in my suspicious mind by telling myself it was possible they hadn’t talked much the night before. Everyone seemed relieved at the news of the police declaring Polly’s death an accident. There would be no investigation. I could finish getting M omma settled and go home.
    Otis got to his feet real sudden-like. “I have some work to do. Thomas . ” H e clapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Hang in there.”
    Mitzi’s strange poem came back to me.
    “ A dark shadow at the door. Polly Dent on the floor. Not everyone plays fair. Life for him is solitaire.” She’d said it meant someone. If only she wasn’t sick. The other rhyme floated through my brain. “ Not too nice. Little sugar, mostly spice. Since the death of mouse, a few months later and there goes her spouse.”
    Mindless ramblings. Gertrude would know about Mitzi’s state of mind. “How’s Mitzi this morning? I found her asleep in this chair late last night.”
    “She creeps around here most nights. Drives me crazy. We used to room together, but I’m a light sleeper, so it didn’t work out.”
    “Does she always rhyme everything like that?”
    Gertie’s smile was genuine. “She sure does. She taught at the University of Colorado. Loved poetry, even as a child. She self-published a couple books of her poems.” She laughed. “She has this thing, used to drive me crazy but I’m used to it now, where she’d meet a person, then kind of invent a rhyme describing their personality or something about them.”
    “Really?” My heart slapped up against my ribs. This must be important. Had to be. “How long has she been doing it?”
    Gertrude looked to Thomas. He answered, “ Yep,e ver since I’ve been here. I got here before Gertrude. Mitzi’s been here longest.” Thomas tapped his cane against the floor and guffawed. “She’s the one who first dared to call that foreign fellow ‘ rat face. ’ She kind of rhymed it. Everyone got it but him.”
    “Chao was his name,” Gertrude mumbled. “Sue Mie’s uncle. Don’t you remember, Thomas?”
    Thomas’s smile was beatific. This guy oozed charm.
    “Does he still live here?” I asked.
    Gertrude warmed to the subject. “Nah. He fell over dead in the hallway, had everyone scared. Thought for sure someone else would die of a heart attack. Mitzi went around for weeks afterward repeating some silly poem about a mouse no longer in the house.”
    My blood ran cold in my veins. Mouse. “ . . . since the death of a mouse, a few months later and there goes the spouse.”

 
 
 
    Chapter Nine
    I holed up in the room all morning working to decipher those poems. Gertrude had divulged far more than she knew. I explained about Mitzi’s poems to Hardy as he gummed up his sandwich, brow creased in think mode.
    “Mitzi’s old, LaTisha. Probably just making stuff up to keep you jumping.” Hardy snapped open the local paper I’d bought on my trip to the grocery store, as if his declaration ended the debate.
    “But why?”
    A grunt was the only reply I received. He turned the page, hand groping for the sandwich plate, finding it, then disappearing behind the paper again. The sandwich returned to the plate another bite smaller.
    “Hardy. Put down that paper and look at me.”
    “Please, LaTisha, I’m eating.”
    Very funny. I