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

could just imagine his smug smirk over his little jibe. “You’re gonna be sucking your food through a straw if you don’t talk to me.”
    He bent back a corner of the paper, enough to make eye contact. “Are you threatening me, Mrs. Barnhart?”
    “I don’t make threats, I make promises.”
      His eyes glittered. “After seven babies you should know I’m a lover, not a fighter.” He eyed my plate. “Why aren’t you eating?”
    Even when I made the sandwich, the idea of eating it hadn’t appealed to me. I sipped at my glass of water instead. “I need to talk , and you need to listen to me.”
    He frowned but folded the paper and put it aside.
    “Gertrude said Mitzi enjoys poetry. Then Gertrude says Mitzi often makes up these rhymes about people , and that she creeps around the building at night. What if the poems she said to me mean something? What if she saw something?”
    “You’re really reaching.”
    “I can see motives in some of these people.”
    Hardy rubbed the rim of his plate. “I don’t.”
    “Otis Payne’s wife acted real strange the other day. Did you know she’d come by to visit her husband? But she hot-footed after I told her he was being questioned by the police about Polly’s fall.” Even as I spoke, I realized what Hardy said was true . I didn’t have one solid motive. I kept talking anyway. “And why was Polly in that exercise room after hours?”
    Hardy pushed aside the empty lunch plate, licked his finger, rolled it in the bread crumbs and popped it into his mouth. “Best to let it go, LaTisha, I think finding Marion has made you think murder is behind every dead body.”
    I didn’t want Hardy to be right. I really didn’t. Though the investigation had about killed me, solving Marion’s murder was the most satisfying thing I’d done since watching my youngest graduate from high school.
    What I needed to do was get out and talk to people. Do some digging.
    “If Polly lived here a long time, she probably knew a lot about the other residents.” This from Hardy, Mr. You-don’t-have-a-motive. “Could be worth bending some ears over.”
    “Whistling a different song now.”
    “No. But figuring out those poems would be like solving a mini-mystery.”
    A diversion. He saw them only as a way to satisfy my curiosity. “This isn’t sudoku,” I huffed.
    Hardy leaned back in his chair. “What’s the first line?”
    “A dark shadow at the door.”
    “Is that literal? Dark, meaning skin color? Or did she really only see a shadow?”
    “You think she saw you there when you talked to Polly?”
    He shrugged. “Could of. I didn’t see anyone in the hallway, but I also wasn’t paying attention. But what door is she talking about?”
    “The next line is, ‘Polly Dent on the floor,’ which makes me think it’s the door to the exercise room.”
    “Could be.” Hardy’s hand rasped down his cheek. “But what if she saw Polly somewhere else on the floor? You’re assuming she saw her dead in the exercise room.”
    “Yeah, but why would she think it’s so important to tell me this thing if she didn’t think there was something strange going on?”
    “Early dementia, LaTisha. You can’t forget that part.”
    He didn’t believe any of it. I could tell, and for the first time doubt scratched at my brain. “What do you know about dementia?”
    “Alzheimers is the most common form of Dementia and affects the cells in the brain, causing them to deteriorate at a higher rate than those not having the condition. Some of the symptoms include, forgetfulness, usually accompanied with confusion, difficulties retaining knowledge of function, such as cooking. Patients will not only forget the pot on the stove, but that they were even cooking. Inability to recognize numbers or do simple math. Spatial and temporal orientation problems, personality changes, mood swings , and language problems.”
    I was impressed. “And how do you know all that?”
    He flashed his tooth in an affable