The Babbling Brook Naked Poker Club - Book One (4 page)

Eddie is the community’s resident hunk.
Although we’re in Ohio, Eddie manages to look like he’s just waded
ashore, leaned his surfboard against a beach shack, and run his
fingers through his sun-bleached hair.

Lately, we’ve had several encounters, and
I’ve begun to wonder if he’s running into me on purpose. Once he
stopped me with a touch on the arm to talk, and he didn’t remove
his hand until I backed away. Another time, he leaned toward me and
blew in my ear.

“Hey, hey, pretty girl.” His hand snaked out
to circle my wrist, and I quickly backed out of touching distance.
“Where you going in such a hurry?”

“Outing in ten minutes.” I plastered my
professional smile in place and tried to step around him, but he
moved to block me.

I stepped to the other side. Again, he
blocked me.

“Sorry, Eddie. I don’t have time to dance
right now.”

“I’m not interested in dancing, pretty
girl.” With that he grabbed me by the shoulders, pulled me against
his chest, and kissed me.

When he tried to stick his tongue in my
mouth, I bared my teeth and growled. Squirming, I tried to free
myself, but his grip was too strong. Then I heard the sound of a
nearby door opening.

Eddie must have heard it too. He released
me, and with a grin, finally let me pass.

Shaking, I hurried away, scrubbing at my
mouth and trying not to gag. He’d tasted of old coffee and stale
cigarettes.

I knew reporting him to management was a
nonstarter. He’d likely claim I’d thrown myself at him, not the
other way around. And looking at him, who would believe I
hadn’t?

Josephine

Unsettled by Devi Subramanian’s unauthorized visit to my apartment
and still worried that she would tell someone about the painting, I
went to join Lill, Myrtle, and Edna for our regularly scheduled
poker game. Now that my cover had been blown, I didn’t like leaving
the painting unattended, but my only other option was to invite
everyone to my place—a truly dreadful idea.

When I reached the lobby, I checked the
schedule of activities and saw that Devi was on an outing. That
meant the painting was safe, at least for the time being. Somewhat
reassured, I joined the other three.

“Before we get started,” Myrtle said, “I
want to ask your opinion about something.”

She jiggled like she needed to pee until
Edna said, “Well, what is it?”

Today Myrtle was wearing a magenta top that
made her look like a bougainvillea bush in riotous bloom. It was,
however, a vast improvement over Edna’s ensemble, a tired brown
sweater and tan slacks.

“It’s that Eddie Colter. You know, he’s been
so helpful about doing my shopping.”

“Then what’s the problem?” I said, trying to
move things along.

“Yes. What is it you want our opinion
about?” Lill asked.

Myrtle frowned. “It’s just that the last few
times he’s shopped for me, he gave me the wrong change. At first it
was only off by a dollar or two, but this last time it was more,
and I wondered what you think about that.”

“Is it off by too much or too little?” I’ve
discovered with Myrtle it’s always a good idea to clarify.

“Too little, and this week it was a whole
five dollars short.”

“Did you say anything?”

“Yes, I did. Later, when he came by to help
with my medications.”

“He helps with your medications? Isn’t that
Louisa’s job?” Not that I needed or wanted that kind of help. But I
liked to know who was who and what their roles were.

“I suppose. It’s just, he is very
good-looking.” She tittered, and I tried not to snort.

The man has a fake tan and dark roots. I
suppose the muscles are real enough, although, personally, I don’t
find that kind of distorted body type the least bit appealing.

“I didn’t mention it earlier because the
amounts were so small.”

“How did he respond?”

“He looked annoyed, then he asked how much
he owed me. I told him, and he scratched his head and said if I was
such a good accountant, he’d maybe have me keep track of everything
for him. Then he handed me a five-dollar bill. I felt funny taking
it since someone else had to have gotten too much change, and that
would mean Eddie was the one out of pocket.”

“Did you take it?” I was intrigued, despite
my intention not to be.

Myrtle shook her head. “I told him I
couldn’t do that to him, after he’d been so nice. He laughed and
put the money back in his pocket.” She sat back with an expectant
look.

“Is that all?” I said.

“It’s just that when I asked him to shop for
me this week, he said he was booked up. It occurred to me that
maybe he’s been shorting me, and when I noticed, he dropped
me.”

“Does he charge you anything to shop for
you?” Edna asked.

“It’s part of his duties. So he shouldn’t
get extra, but most of us give him small tips.”

“And you think Eddie is using the shopping
as an opportunity to supplement his income over and above the
tips?” It seemed pretty small potatoes to me, frankly.

“It might be worth checking,” Lill said. “I
doubt most people will keep track the way Myrtle does.”

“I suppose it could be an interesting
exercise.” After all, we’d about plumbed the depths of naked
poker.

“What do you think we should do?” Myrtle
looked at me, and I wondered when she’d appointed me the queen.

“I suppose we could each put together a
shopping list for Eddie and then check our change.”

“But he may know we’re Myrtle’s friends and
tell us he’s booked up, like he did Myrtle,” Edna said. It was an
excellent point, actually.

“Do you know who he’s shopping for besides
you, Myrtle?”

“Well, Bertie, of course.”

“Of course.” The updates on Myrtle’s romance
were almost as boring as her stories about her beauty contest
experiences.

“You know, he might be on his guard with
Bertie, now that you’ve raised the issue,” Lill said. “Is there
anyone else?”

“I’m sure there must be, but I don’t know
who they are.”

“What day does he do the shopping?” I
asked.

“Thursdays. And he delivers everything by
noon.”

“Okay. Here’s what we do. On Thursday, we
deploy our forces to see who gets a delivery, and then we check if
they got the right change.”

“Deploy our forces?” Edna said. “Really,
Josephine. You sound like an army general.”

“It’s a good idea,” Myrtle said. “He comes
in the back entrance, don’t you expect? And Josephine’s apartment
overlooks the parking lot. We could meet there Thursday morning and
keep watch.”

That was certainly slick of Myrtle, but I
had no intention of being so blatantly forced into hostessing. “I
have a better idea. I’ll keep watch, and the three of you pick
strategic locations to wait. Then I’ll let you know when he
arrives.”

“How will you let us know?” Myrtle
asked.

“You all have cell phones, don’t you?”

“I don’t,” Myrtle said.

I sighed. “Can you borrow Bertie’s?”

“I suppose.”

“Are we settled on a plan then?” I said.

The others nodded, and I proceeded to deal
the first hand.

Lillian

After Myrtle’s report of Eddie’s doings, I pulled out my folder of
staff handwriting samples to discover I had nothing written by him.
So, how could I get him to write something for me?

I fixed myself a cup of tea, and while I
sipped it, I said a prayer. By the time I finished both tea and
prayer, I had an idea. First, I searched out a card from my supply
of all-purpose cards, the ones that come in the mail from one of
those charities. I had some with pictures of wolves, which seemed
appropriate. I picked the thinking-of-you card and put it in my
purse along with a pen. Then I wrapped my right hand with
gauze.

When I was ready, I went searching for
Eddie. He usually hangs around the lobby as we come in for dinner,
and although it was a little early for dinner, that was, after all,
better for my purposes. I smiled with satisfaction to find him, as
expected, sitting in the corner of the lobby, using his phone. I
walked over to him and waited until he looked up.

“Mr. Colter, I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re glad, Lillian,” he said
with that smile that’s as fake as his hair color. Or maybe that’s a
false assumption. Something I intend to find out.

“I want to send this card to my friend, but
you see, I’ve injured my hand and I can’t hold a pen. I thought,
that is, if you wouldn’t mind, you could write the message for me?”
I held out the card and the pen, and he took them.

“What do you want me to write?”

“Let’s see. How about . . .” I
dictated the rambling message I’d decided on. After a couple of
short paragraphs, I judged I’d pushed his patience to the limit.
“Just sign it Lill.”

He did so and handed me the card. I thanked
him, stuffed it into my purse, and headed in to dinner, patting
myself on the back for my resourcefulness.

I finished eating earlier than the people
who had joined me, and I sat for a time tapping my foot in
impatience to be off. My momma was a real stickler about us staying
at the table until everyone, meaning my poppa, had finished eating,
and it was a rule I imposed on my own children. However, after
several minutes of watching the not completely silent chewing of my
companions, I decided Momma would forgive me if, just this once, I
broke the rule.

Back in my apartment, I set the portable
desk I use for my analyses on my dining table, and I pulled out the
card. I already had my reading glasses, a magnifying glass, a lamp,
a protractor, and a ruler ready to go.

Sometime later, I sat back, rubbed my neck,
and looked through my notes. It was, on balance, a most fascinating
sample.

My first observation—the extreme back slant
of the writing—required only a glance. That was suggestive of a
self-centered, selfish personality and was the first trait I listed
on my “green sheet.” It was followed by “irritability” after I
noted a thick scatter of temper ticks—short, straight strokes at
the beginning of words. Additional strokes within his oval letters
like
a
and
o
led me to add “deceitfulness.”

None of that was good, although it was also
no surprise. But what sent a cold finger running up the knobs of my
spine was the presence of straight, rigid strokes in the loops of
each
p, g,
and
y
. Paired with the temper ticks, it
was a strong indicator he had aggressive, possibly violent,
tendencies.

Devi

Thursday morning, I once again snagged the assignment to speak to
Mrs. Bartlett. It was easy to do since no one else wanted it.

“That woman is just plain nasty,” was my
boss’s opinion. Although, as much time as Candace spends
interacting with the residents versus in her office on her
computer, I was uncertain how she would know that.

While I agree Mrs. Bartlett isn’t a warm,
cuddly person, not like Myrtle Grabinowitz, for example, she’s
potentially much more interesting. Besides, I wanted another look
at the painting.

After my third knock, an irritated voice
told me to go away. I repeated what I’d said the last time, about
needing to see for myself that she was okay, and the door opened a
crack.

“What do you want?”

“Why, to speak with you.”

She glared at me.

“About the painting.”

I used my sweetest tone, but I could tell
from her expression she recognized a threat when she heard one, and
she didn’t like it one bit. Nor did I like doing it, but it served
its purpose. The door opened further, and she stepped away so I
could enter.

“Why don’t I make us a fresh cup of tea?” I
said, seeing she had a half-full cup sitting next to the chair
nearest the window.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here? And
then get out of my apartment.”

“Could we at least sit down?”

Huffing, she perched on the edge of a chair,
and I seated myself on the couch.

“My assignment this morning is to make sure
you know your son is coming for a visit.”

She closed her eyes, then opened them and
blinked rapidly. “When?”

“Saturday morning. The manager assured him
you’re settling in nicely, but he insisted on seeing for himself.
And since you’re not answering your phone . . .”

“My son and I don’t get along.”

After our last conversation, that was no
surprise.

“I consider it one of the advantages of
living here,” she said. “That I don’t have to see him very
often.”

I couldn’t imagine my mother not wanting to
see me. Didn’t even want to try. “We can’t stop him from visiting,
but if you spoke to him occasionally, that might satisfy him.”

“You said something about the painting?” She
was obviously finished with the topic of her son.

I wondered what caused such a rift. I love
my own family dearly. “If you let me take a good look, I promise I
won’t tell anyone about it.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

I had to admire her composure, although not
her honesty. “Those are my terms.”

She sat staring at me for a time. Then she
shrugged. “Okay.”

While I stood and moved closer to the
painting, she looked at her watch and then out the window before
going to the kitchen and making tea.

Although final proof might require forensic
testing, I was certain the painting was the real deal. Eventually,
I returned to the sofa and picked up the tea she’d set there for
me. I discovered it was an exceptionally fine Lapsang souchong.

I took a second sip and smiled. “You’re full
of surprises, Mrs. Bartlett. I didn’t know you could get such good
tea in Cincinnati.”

“I have it flown in from Taiwan. From my tea
broker.”