Mama’s pills were there, on her dresser, lined up like little soldiers. All of them, except the sedatives. I checked each bottle, checked them again. Where were they? They should’ve been there. I had just filled her prescription the other day. Everything else was there, but the sleeping pills.
Then I knew. I understood where all those pills had gone.
Mama’s heart hadn’t simply given out. She had decided she was tired of living … and knowing she planned to go, she had sent Dizzy and Gillespie along ahead of her. It was my fault, she’d said, my fault they died. It was crazy, but in a crazy kind of way, it made sense.
That’s when the tears came, when the realization hit. I had failed her so completely, to help her, to restore her hope, to get her out of there. I had failed her utterly.
The death certificate issued by the powers that be simply listed heart failure. It did not mention sleeping pills. Maybe they hadn’t bothered to check. Maybe they had just seen a very old woman and assumed she had died of natural causes.
It was a simple funeral, just the way Mama had said she wanted it. Despite her belief that she was all alone, she still had quite a few friends in the neighborhood. They showed up, many of them as frail as she was. They were all kind and supportive, and I thanked them for the love they’d shown her.
That evening, one of them stopped by. It was Mr. Edgar. He lived two floors up, and although he was in his eighties, he was often out and about. I suspected he was sweet on Mama.
“I just wanted to return this.” He held up one of Mama’s pie plates.
“Oh, thank you, but when did she—”
“The other day. She asked me to go to the store for her. I said I would if she would make me a pie.”
“Really?”
“You mean, you didn’t know? She didn’t make you one? ’Cause I bought enough for two.”
Slowly, I shook my head. The fact that my mother found the energy to make it down to the kitchen and bake two pies surprised me no less than the fact that she had asked Mr. Reese to buy the ingredients instead of asking me.
I thanked him and started to close the door, but he stopped me.
“Just one more thing,” he said. “Some cops came by to see me. Asked some strange questions.”
“About what?”
He shrugged. “It’s probably nothing for you to worry about. But they might stop by here.”
I thought it strange that he was so vague, but I didn’t push the matter. He turned around to go, but then caught himself and came back.
“I can’t believe I nearly forgot this.” He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a small bottle. It was Mama’s missing sleeping pills.
“Your mother gave me these the other day. I happened to mention that I wasn’t sleeping well, and she told me to take them. I said I didn’t need all of them, but she insisted.”
I accepted them in a daze and closed the door. Mama’s sleeping pills. She hadn’t committed suicide. She really had died of heart failure. I started down the hall but found myself standing outside Mama’s door instead. I thought about Dizzy and Gillespie, and how much she loved them.
Then I thought of that picture.
I had buried it with her. I wished I hadn’t. Partly because it would’ve been good to have: a reminder of all-too-brief happy days.
And partly because I wondered who had taken it. I knew I hadn’t.
I tried to picture it, study it.
I remembered my surprise at finding it. Surprise because I didn’t know she had it. Because I didn’t even know it existed. And because … well, it was a Polaroid.
Who in the world still uses Polaroids?
The doorbell rang again.
I thought it was Mr. Edgar or another of Mama’s neighbors. Instead, it was two detectives. They held up their badges and introduced themselves as Jacobi and Reiner.
“Yes?”
They asked about Milford, about what kind of relationship I’d had with him.
“None. I barely knew him.”
“You didn’t get along, right?” That was Jacobi. His gaze slid up and down the hallway, then returned to me.
“What’s this all about?”
“Where are your cats?” Reiner asked.
“My cats?” I looked from one to the other. “They’re both dead. Why?”
“You like to cook, to bake?”
That was Jacobi. He made a move to step around me, to walk down the hall. I stepped in front of him.
“Not really, no.”
He brought his eyes back down to me and I planted my feet, refusing to budge. He didn’t like that. He gave Reiner a nod, as if to say that some suspicion had been confirmed.
Reiner asked, “How did your cats die?”
I didn’t answer.
“We heard that you suspected poisoning,” he went on.
“And that you thought Milford did it,” Jacobi added.
Actually, that thought hadn’t occurred to me. Maybe it would have, if I hadn’t been so quick to assume that I’d done it by accident, or if Mama hadn’t indicated that she’d done it by intent.
“Why exactly are you here? It couldn’t possibly be to investigate the death of two cats.”
“Depends,” Jacobi said.
“On what?”
“On whether it was a motive for murder,” Reiner said.
“Murder?”
“Turns out Milford died from strychnine poison.”