Thirteen Diamonds

CHAPTER 5

On Tuesday, I drove a mile to the local shopping center to buy groceries for the week. Although I ate dinners in the Silver Acres dining room, I prepared my own breakfast and lunch. As I pushed my cart through the aisles of the supermarket I passed the seafood counter. I checked for shellfish, and sure enough, crab legs were on sale. If the sale had been in effect the week before, the murderer must have gotten a deal.

After I returned to my apartment and put my groceries away I walked to the main building to collect my mail from my mailbox. I stopped at the Silver Acres library, which volunteers had stocked with donations from the residents.

Out of curiosity, I checked the primitive card catalog and soon found a listing for Gerald's book, Fiat Money Madness, subtitled, Government Printing Presses and World Financial Chaos. I pulled the book off the shelf and went over to the desk where Sylvia, the volunteer director of the library was busily doing whatever librarians do.

After saying hello to her, I said, “Have you read this book by Gerald Weiss?”

Sylvia took the book from me and said, “Oh, he's the man who just died, isn't he? I heard he choked to death or something like that. It sounds grisly.” She looked at the book cover. “I'm afraid this sort of thing isn't up my alley. Give me a good mystery, anytime.”

I considered saying something about grisly mysteries, but decided against it. I checked Gerald's book out, along with a book about food allergies. I wondered whether I would be able to understand Gerald's book, but when I started to read it I found the concepts not difficult, especially with my mathematical background. The premise seemed to be that currencies backed by nothing but government promises became worthless when those promises weren't kept. That certainly had been the case in half-a-dozen third-world countries, recently.

Could that sort of thing happen in the United States? I remembered the late 1970s when inflation had soared out of control, and shuddered. Although I was far from poor, there were many people my age living on fixed incomes who couldn't afford to think about a repeat of those days.

Later, when Tess and I walked into the dining room for dinner, I excused myself and went back to the main hallway near the mailboxes. Gerald's memorial was still there, consisting of a bouquet of flowers, some appropriate words and the hand of 13 diamonds I had supplied. I picked up the cards and put them into my purse.

When I returned to the dining room Harriet Monroe had arrived and sat talking to Tess. I said hello to Harriet, and one of the uniformed waiters, recruited from the ranks of local college and high school students, led the three of us to a table.

As we marked our preferences on the menus with the pencils provided, I wondered how best to bring up the subject of Gerald with Harriet. As usual, Tess beat me to it. “Lillian and I want to express our deepest sympathy about Gerald,” Tess said. “It must have been a terrible shock to you.”

“It was,” Harriet said. “I screamed when his head hit the table. I couldn't believe it was happening.”

I remembered her scream. I said, “You were good friends with Gerald, weren't you?”

“Not as good as I would have liked.” Harriet smiled, sadly. “He was such a nice man that he attracted women like a magnet. He always treated me like a lady. Some of the things he did to help me seem small, but I really appreciated them. For example, I can't stand mice. When I had a mouse problem he set some traps for me and then when the mice were caught he disposed of them. But I wasn't the only one he liked. And I'm afraid my accomplishments don't measure up to some of the other people here. After all, I was only a housewife.”

“Don't say only!” Tess said, irritated. “I was a housewife too. We are indispensable cogs in the wheels of humanity.”

I thought I saw Harriet's problem. She was a bit tentative; she didn't exude the confidence that many of the women here did. She dressed neatly, but not as sharply as some of the others. Her hairstyle was a bit frumpy, the color a mouse gray. She wasn't quite sure of herself.

“I understand that Ida Wilson was an attorney,” I said, watching Harriet to get her reaction. “She used to be a prosecutor, didn't she?”

“I'm not sure what kind of law she practiced,” Harriet said. “All I know is that she's very smart and Gerald liked smart people.” She clicked her teeth together rapidly. I wondered whether they were really her teeth.

We got up and walked to the salad bar. As I put lettuce on my plate Harriet picked up tomato sections with a pair of tongs. I said, “You're on the lunch committee for the bridge club, aren't you? You must like to cook.”

“Oh, yes.” Harriet's eyes lit up. “I always loved to cook for my husband, Bruce.”

I sprinkled bacon bits on my salad and added oil and vinegar. “Did you ever cook a meal for Gerald?”

Harriet shrugged. “I didn't have an opportunity because we eat all our dinners here in the dining room.”

Back at the table, I said, “Tell me about the delicious casserole you served at the bridge club.”

Harriet shuddered. “They say that's what killed Gerald. But there's one thing I don't understand. He was supposed to be allergic to shellfish, but there wasn't any shellfish in the dish. It was a tuna casserole. And I put the tuna in myself.”

Tess and I looked at each other. She said, “Did you know he was allergic to shellfish before…the lunch?”

“No,” she said, softly.

“You made the casserole in your apartment, didn't you?” I said.

Harriet nodded. “The other committee members helped me.”

“Did you carry it to the recreation room yourself?”

“Yes. I don't see how the shellfish could have gotten into it. Maybe Gerald ate some crab or something before the meeting.”

Tess said, “He wouldn't have done that because he knew he was allergic to it. He had put it on his medical profile.”

“Oh.” Harriet looked confused. “Now I remember. He asked me what was in the casserole and I told him. Of course I didn't mention shellfish. I didn't think anything of it at the time.” Tears came to her eyes. “I told him wrong.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Tess said, placing a consoling hand on Harriet's arm. We'd been saying that a lot lately.

“Do you have a good recipe for lasagna?” I asked, putting on a cheerful voice. “We're always talking about serving it at our family dinners on Sundays, but nobody knows how to make it.”

“Why yes,” Harriet said. “My husband had Italian ancestors through his mother's side and he loved Italian cooking.”

We spent the rest of dinner talking about good food that didn't kill anybody.