Thirteen Diamonds

CHAPTER 6

Every morning about sunrise I walked King a mile around the perimeter road of Silver Acres. On Wednesday morning I started before the sun rose so it was still relatively cool out. Relatively. But at least bearable for King, with her Arctic coat.

Two cute bunnies sat on the grass near the road, insolently staring at King and not showing any fear. I had trained King to ignore them when she was on a leash. However, if a bunny had the temerity to show itself on Albert's farm when she was there it would be gone in a couple of bites.

I walked clockwise around Silver Acres. Ida Wilson, Gerald's other “girlfriend,” walked counter-clockwise. I knew there must be a psychological reason why some people walked clockwise and others counter-clockwise, but none of the scholarly residents had written a paper about it.

I had not seen Ida since Gerald's death, one week before, but this morning she appeared out of the dawn shadows, heading toward me, her little dog scuttling ahead. This dustmop had attempted to attack King in the past so I kept a tight hold on King's leash, fearing the repercussions if she ever forgot her pledge to be good.

Usually Ida and I said hello and kept going, but I stopped after our greetings and said, “How are you getting along?”

“All right.”

Ida's dog pulled on its leash and yapped at King, who stood just beyond its reach; King didn't acknowledge its existence. Ida was taller than my above-average height, and heavier, and could easily control the pup, but I backed up a couple of steps since Ida didn't seem inclined to pull her dog away, and the beast, apparently annoyed at being ignored, yapped louder and strained harder.

I searched for words of condolence and finally said, “Gerald's death was such a shame.”

“A shame? Gerald's death was criminal!”

The force of Ida's words hit me like a strong gust of wind. I recovered my balance and asked, “Why do you say that?”

“You must have heard that the crab in the casserole killed him. That was no accident.”

Not having expected this response, I quickly reevaluated my approach. I said, “I heard it was shellfish. Why do you think it was crab?”

“I checked at the market. Crab legs are on sale there. It adds up.”

Was she playing detective too? “But why do you say it was no accident?”

“Isn't it obvious? Whoever put the crab in the casserole was trying to kill Gerald.”

“I thought nobody knew about his allergy to shellfish.”

“The murderer did. I'm not saying who that was, but I have some ideas.”

I suddenly decided I didn't want to be a detective. I had once heard someone say that you shouldn't ask a question if you didn't want to hear the answer. This was such a time. But somehow I heard myself saying, “As an attorney, I know you wouldn't conceal evidence. If you know something, you should tell it.”

“It's not hard to figure out. The casserole was put together in Harriet's apartment. The other people there were the members of the committee: Ellen, Dora and me, but Harriet did most of the work on the casserole. Just because none of us saw her put the crab in means nothing. She carried the casserole over to the recreation room and we left her apartment before she did. She could have had the crab meat sitting in her refrigerator, ready to dump in.”

“Why would Harriet want to kill Gerald?”

“Because Gerald liked me better than he liked her.”

“Why didn't she try to kill you?”

“I don't know. I guess I can thank my lucky stars she didn't. But I aim to keep an eye on her.”

“Have you told anybody else your suspicions?”

“You mean the police? I don't have any evidence that would stand up in court. Harriet won't be the first murderer to go free.”

“Did you know that Gerald was allergic to shellfish?”

“No, he never told me.”

“Then why do you think he told Harriet?”

Ida shrugged.

I had an urge to ask Ida if she and Gerald had slept together, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Ida pulled the little dog away from where it still eyed King malevolently, and walked on. I stood for a moment, in a daze. I liked Harriet better than Ida. I preferred that Ida be the murderer, possibly because I didn't like her dog. This wasn't coming out right. Reality wasn't always convenient. Maybe I should drop the whole thing.

I wanted to find the answer to one more question before I went back to my normal life. At a decent hour, after most people were up, I called Wesley Phipps, the president of the bridge club, and asked him who kept the cards we played with. After finding out that he kept them I made an appointment to go over to his apartment.

Wesley and his wife, Angie, had a two-bedroom apartment that was larger than my one-bedroom model. Angie had some degenerative disease and was confined to a wheelchair, but the apartment was spotless. She treated me like a formal visitor, seating me on the sofa and having Wesley serve me coffee and little cookies on the coffee table. I can make a pig of myself with sweets, so I took two cookies and then didn't look at the plate again.

Wesley, in addition to being president of the bridge club, was also president of the residents' association. He was balding, red-faced and overweight, which was not typical of Silver Acres residents. But he doted on Angie and took good care of her. Without his help, she would have to live in the building that provided skilled nursing care.

I chatted with Angie and Wesley for a few minutes. I am not big on small talk and began to get antsy so I produced the 13 diamonds I had taken from Gerald's memorial and asked Wesley, “Did you pick up the rest of this deck, by any chance?”

“Why yes,” he said, leaving the room and coming back with a box of cards. “I took all the cards and score-pads after the commotion about Gerald died down, just like I always do.”

“That was a terrible tragedy,” interjected Angie, who was not a member of the bridge club. “It must have been awfully hard to watch.”

I murmured something and Wesley said, “I saw you pick up Gerald's hand and I was going to ask you for his cards, but then I saw the 13 diamonds and realized their significance. And when I saw them on his memorial I thought it was appropriate. For a bridge player to die with a perfect hand, that is the ultimate. I will always envy Gerald.”

“Just don't imitate him,” Angie said.

“May I see the other cards?” I asked. Wesley handed me the box. It was one of those standard playing card boxes that had the geometric design of the backs of the cards reproduced on the box. I compared the design on the box to that on one of the 13 diamonds. It was close but not quite the same. I compared more cards from Gerald's hand with the box. Same result. I pulled the rest of the deck out of the box. Those cards had the same design on their backs as did the diamonds, so together they made up a complete deck.

Is this the box these cards originally came in?” I asked.

Yes. I buy all the cards and keep track of them all.”

He was one of those fastidious people and I was sure he did.

“Look at this.” I showed Wesley the differences between the backs of the cards and the design on the box.

He said, “I can’t understand it. All the decks are the same. I bought them all at the same time.”

He lumbered into the other room and returned with several more decks.

We inspected those decks. Their designs matched their boxes, which matched the box that contained Gerald's deck. Only the design on the cards that had produced Gerald's perfect hand was different from that of any of the other decks or boxes.

Wesley kept saying, “I can't understand it,” as we became convinced of the difference.

“What if this deck has been switched with the original deck?” I asked him.

“But who would do a thing like that?” Wesley asked, his face becoming almost purple. “And how?”

“Who? The person who wanted Gerald…to get a hand of 13 diamonds.” I had almost used the word “murdered.” “How-or when-I’m not sure.”

“But…but,” he sputtered, “do you mean it was all a joke? That the hand wasn't real?”

“It looks that way.”

“But I don't think that's funny. Especially, in view of the consequences.”

“No, it isn't funny. However, I think we, the bridge club, should do something as a sort of permanent memorial to Gerald. What if we had the 13 diamonds framed and hung in the recreation room?”

“Well…I don't know,” said Wesley.

“We don't have to tell anyone else that the hand isn't real. Then only we and the perpetrator will know.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“One of the three women at Gerald's table, most likely, but what does it matter? It's over and done with now. It was just a joke.”

“I'll bring it up at the bridge club this afternoon,” Wesley said. “We'll take a vote on it.”

“And would you save the rest of the deck, along with the original box? Just in case there is ever any question regarding the legitimacy of Gerald's hand.” I knew that if it was ever needed, Wesley's testimony at a trial would be believed.

The bridge club did not eat lunch before play started. The lunch committee had been disbanded by common consent. Instead, Wesley conducted a short business meeting. The members voted to have the 13 diamonds framed as a permanent memorial to Gerald. We also had a minute of silence in his memory.

Then we played bridge, as usual. We played shuffle-and-deal instead of duplicate bridge because some of the members didn't want the cutthroat competition that duplicate engenders. I noticed that Ida and Ellen were still partners. Harriet, whose partner had usually been Gerald, was playing with a woman whose name I didn't remember.

Our custom was to have each partnership play a certain number of hands against every other partnership. When Ida and Harriet played at the same table I watched them from my table out of the corner of my eye, but I didn't see any sign of bad feeling between them. They were good actors.

When serious bridge players get together, they are models of complete concentration and even the ones who said they didn't like to play competitively got into the spirit of the game. I bet that most of the people there forgot about Gerald as the afternoon progressed and they bid and played their hands. By the end of the afternoon, activity at the bridge club had returned to normal.