Poker Chips and Poison Read online

  Poker Chips and Poison

  A Silvermoon Retirement Mystery

  By Rodney Strong

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Poker Chips and Poison

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Rodney Strong

  Hitchhiker books

  Murder in Paint

  Murder in Mud

  Murder in Doubt

  Standalone books

  Troy’s Possibilities

  For children

  Karmartha, The Last Garden (published under R.G Strong)

  FRONT COVER DESIGN by Daniela at www.stunningbooksdesign.com

  Edited by Anna Golden

  Author note:

  This book was written with UK English, which differs from US English, mostly extra “u’s”.

  A kilogram equals 2.3 pounds. (That’ll be relevant later in the story)

  ONE

  ALICE EYED HER OPPONENT. The next ten seconds were crucial. The next ten seconds meant the difference between ongoing torment or a swift end. It all came down to one thing:

  Was that a poker face, or was she dead?

  Alice had to admit, around here some days it was hard to tell.

  Time was running out. She had to make a move.

  With a confidence she didn’t feel she looked at her hand, then lay the cards on the table.

  ‘Flush.’

  All eyes went to the woman sitting opposite Alice. The collective breaths of all four at the table stopped — a dangerous situation at the Silvermoon Retirement Village.

  Teresa threw her cards down in disgust. ‘All I had was a pair of tens.’

  The others at the table laughed as Alice dragged the pile of chips towards her.

  ‘Why on earth did you go all in on a pair of tens? I had more than that and I folded,’ Owen said. A tall, solid man in his early eighties, he still dressed as if he was going into the office. White shirt, short-sleeved in summer, long-sleeved in winter (but never with the arms rolled up), a dark tie which could be anything from burgundy to deep blue (but nothing gauche like yellow or heaven forbid with pictures on it), and slacks.

  ‘I thought she was bluffing. I was sure of it,’ Teresa protested.

  ‘And why were you so sure?’ Betty asked in her soft Irish accent. Despite living in New Zealand for more than forty years, it was still there and became more prominent when she was accusing someone of something. Betty was short and leathery, a lifetime of working outside on a farm had dried and darkened her skin. Alice suspected that she and Owen were involved. If Alice had had anything more than a casual desire to know she could have found out in no time, but she figured everyone here had earned the right to some privacy just by making it this far in life.

  ‘’Well, she...’ Teresa trailed off.

  ‘Rubbed my earlobe?’ Alice finished. She smiled at Teresa’s open mouthed response. ‘It’s only a tell if you don’t know you’re doing it.’ She winked and the table laughed again.

  ‘I’ll have to pay you when I get to the bank,’ Teresa said with a scowl.

  ‘None of that,’ Owen replied. ‘That’s what internet banking is for.’

  ‘I hardly think internet banking was set up to pay poker debts,’ Teresa snapped, her fluffy brown hair bouncing as she shook her head.

  It was always the same with her, Alice thought. Teresa always demanded her winnings straight away. However if she lost, which she more often did, there was some excuse about not having money on her, or being a little short until pension day. Given how much it cost to live in this place, no one believed she had to wait for her government pension to pay her debts.

  Faced with stern expressions from her friends, Teresa adjusted her glasses, then meekly lifted her phone off the table, tapped on the screen, and a few seconds later Alice heard her own phone ping. It wasn’t the first time she’d won money from those at the table. She might not know what a google was, but Alice made sure, with the help of her granddaughter, that she knew how to send money (and more importantly how to receive money) from her circle of friends.

  She made sure to lose occasionally. Not that she was a card shark, but she had spent most of her working life reading people, and found it came in useful on occasion, even in a sedate place like the retirement village.

  ‘I’m afraid I must go. This new woman is going to teach us how to make cats out of clay shortly,’ Betty said.

  Alice blinked. She could think of worse ways to spend the afternoon, but not many.

  As her friends left the room, for a moment Alice had the shared space to herself. She looked out the large window that overlooked the back garden. The retirement complex sat on an acre of prime land on one of the many tree covered hills surrounding Wellington city. It was tucked away amongst all the suburban houses and many people didn’t know the extent of the village that was at the end of the long driveway. A short trip down the hill would have taken her to a city filled with countless cafes and designer shops, but Alice didn’t drive and had no great urgency for either coffee or clothes. When she was younger and had more energy it had been different. The population had been lower, and no one on the street had had their heads buried in their phones because phones were usually attached to kitchen walls. Or maybe what had changed was how she viewed them. Back then everyone, man or woman, was a potential target. Now that she was retired, her perception had changed. Mostly.

  She sneezed. The simple act caused a different response now that she was approaching the century mark. She would never have guessed that a sneeze could cause her ribs to hurt, or a twinge to appear in her back, or occasionally make her pee. Somehow the fact she had almost no body padding left made it worse. Standing, she stretched one way, then the other and her muscles eased.

  Alice considered sitting back down but there were several residents she preferred not to run into, especially Gordon, who considered himself God’s gift to women over seventy. He was a bit handsy and at their last encounter she had only just resisted the temptation to put one of those hands in a cast. Breaking bones, unlike so many other things was more about angles and leverage than strength.

  Following the plush carpeted hallway, brightly lit by sunshine through a skylight, Alice entered the waiting elevator and pushed the button for the second floor. From this side of the main building you could get to any level. From reception though, visitors needed to be buzzed in by a staff member. It wasn’t so much an issue of security as it was the discretion that money bought.

  Exiting into a small landing she punched her code into the panel next to the door on the left, one of only two on the floor.

  Her apartment would have rivalled the poshest hotel. The open plan living area and kitchen was filled with modern comfortable furniture, and her floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the perfectly manicured front lawn and driveway. To the left, past the kitchen, was a guest bathroom, and through a door at the opposite end of the lounge was the bedroom, complete with ensuite and walk in wardrobe, which Alice privately thought was a step too far. She routinely wore two outfits, one was on and the other in the wash, and had a third pair of pants and blouse for best. The rest was empty space.

  The bathroom was another matter. She spent much longer in the tiled, wa
lk in shower than she needed to get clean, because the multiple jets hit spots she couldn’t anymore. Sometimes she considered carrying a chair in there and drifting off to sleep. After all, if her skin turned prune-like not many people would notice the difference.

  Alice turned on the television, flicked through some channels, then turned it off again. Even with the movie channel available to all residents and playing the latest pictures from around the world, there was nothing that caught her fancy enough to sit through.

  She thought about making a snack, or better yet, having one sent up from the restaurant kitchen. Glancing at the clock she decided against it. Brunch was never a meal she’d warmed to. That’s what snacks were for, to bridge the gap between breakfast and lunch. No need to create new meals just for the sake of it.

  Alice eased her wiry frame out of the chair and walked around the couch. It wasn’t until the third rotation that she admitted to herself what was bugging her.

  She blamed Oliver. Although technically she could blame her granddaughter Amanda for introducing Oliver to her. Or she could blame Violet Tumbleton, her long dead friend, for not staying dead. But Violet was gone again, Amanda away working, so Oliver squarely took the blame.

  She thought she had been content pottering around, her previous life a fond memory, until Oliver Atkinson showed up at her door asking for help to solve a murder. Alice should have said no. He wasn’t a detective, amateur or otherwise. He was a writer (and not a bad one judging by the books she had read), a father of two under-ten-year-olds, one of which showed great promise in a life of manipulation, and a husband to an incredibly patient wife. But a detective he was not, which was probably why he had asked for her help.

  Yes, she probably should have said no. But she hadn’t, because maybe she wasn’t as content as she’d thought. And they had caught the murderer, which she’d found quite exhilarating. Now, at the age of 97, winning money from her friends at poker was no longer very satisfying.

  With a sigh Alice sat back down in front of the television and randomly picked a movie. The leading man was handsome, but couldn’t act to save himself (and had probably never had to).

  TWO

  THE BRIGHT SUNSHINE flooding through the windows did little to dispel her melancholy the next morning. Not needing as much sleep as she used to, Alice was up and dressed by 6:30. She cooked herself a poached egg on toast, took the many pills that her doctor had prescribed and that she grudgingly took, and was flicking through the morning paper that was delivered to her front door six mornings a week.

  The murder case had made the front page, and there was a quote from Detective Wilson acknowledging the public for providing vital information which led to the arrest. Alice snorted, “providing vital information” indeed. She and Oliver had solved the whole damn thing for them. All the police had had to do was show up and slap on the handcuffs.

  Alice turned to the crossword, picked up a pen and worked her way through from top to bottom. She was just working out a seven letter bird that started with B and ended in G when there was a knock at her door. Visitors were few, and those that did come were usually residents or staff of the village. There were a few of both she would be happy to avoid talking to.

  She retrieved her phone from the coffee table and opened an app to a live stream video of the hallway beyond her front door. It wasn’t something the management were aware of. Amanda had installed it for Alice when she first moved in. It made both of them feel better knowing she could check the door before opening it.

  Owen stood in the hallway, shuffling back and forth on the spot. Alice put down her phone and went to usher her friend inside.

  ‘Sorry to call around so early,’ he said, once he was perched on a kitchen stool with a piping hot cup of herbal tea in front of him.

  Alice thought he looked tired. And distracted. His top button was undone, a casual oversight to anyone else, but a concern to her.

  She let him sip his drink and order his thoughts. Owen had been the chief executive of a bank before he’d retired a decade ago. She knew he liked to compose himself and consider all angles before making a decision. Most of the time it was an endearing quality, except for when they were playing poker. His tell was that he took longer than normal to decide on a bet when he was bluffing. Weighing risks versus rewards had been ingrained in him by a lifetime of management.

  ‘Bunting,’ she finally said to break the silence.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he said with wide eyes.

  ‘Seven letter bird starting with B and ending with G. A bunting. It was in this morning’s crossword.’

  ‘Ah. I never had the time to do the crossword while I was working, and it’s a bit late to take it up now.’ He grinned briefly and she caught a glimpse of the handsome man he had been, before time and stress wore him out. The smile fell away and he looked troubled once more.

  ‘Is it Betty?’ she guessed.

  He looked surprised. ‘Is what Betty?’

  ‘Whatever’s on your mind.’

  He hesitated, sucking on his teeth in a manner Alice found irritating.

  ‘The thing is, I don’t know if it’s even a thing. Or if it is, whether it’s a big thing or a small thing or nothing at all. Do you see?’

  ‘Not the foggiest.’

  He laughed. ‘No, I’m doing a terrible job at explaining it. You see, it’s this—’ He broke off to cough, a chest-rattling sound that echoed off the walls, and took longer than Alice liked to get under control. She had endured a similar cough recently. Colds definitely went in the cons column of growing old.

  Owen cleared his throat. ‘Sorry, some tea must have gone down the wrong way.’

  ‘I never understood that saying,’ Alice replied. ‘There’s only one way down and one way up.’

  ‘Very true. It goes on the long list of strange sayings that don’t make sense,’ Owen said.

  ‘Speaking of sayings, you were...?’

  ‘Yes, well the thing is...’ he trailed off, his face losing all colour. He swayed a little and shook his head slightly. ‘You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not feeling well, this damn flu. I think I’ll go lie down for a while.’

  Alice came around the end of the kitchen bench and put her hand on his arm. ‘You’re not looking the best, Owen. Would you like me to call Janice?’

  Janice was the retirement village’s nurse. Her office was discretely located at the back of Alice’s apartment building. Any visit to the nurse was usually fuel for the gossips tongues so tucking the office away allowed for private consultations to remain private.

  ‘No, no,’ Owen said. ‘I’m absolutely fine apart from this damn flu. I just need to lie down for a while.’

  ‘Is the reason for your visit urgent?’ Alice asked

  Owen’s face closed down as he considered her question, then with a small frown he shook his head.

  ‘Look, it’s probably nothing at all.’ He laughed. ‘I guess it was just something nagging at me, and I knew you were up and had the best tea selection in the village. It’s fine.’ He waved a dismissive hand.

  Alice helped him to his feet and they shuffled to the door, where she told him to wait. On a small round wooden table next to the door was a phone with direct lines to reception, the nurse, the kitchen, and counsellor. Apparently old people got depressed, according to Silvermoon management. Alice wasn’t an advocate for telling other people your problems unless there was alcohol involved. That was a by-product of raising a child alone in the fifties and sixties. Her motto for most of her life was “just shut up and get on with it”.

  She punched the button for reception. It was answered instantly.

  ‘Yes, Ms Atkinson?’

  ‘Vanessa dear, get someone to help Owen back to his room will you? He’s in my apartment.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s enough sass from you or I’ll tell your boyfriend about the looks you’ve been giving Craig from the gardening staff.’

  Vanessa laughed. ‘I’ll be right up.’

>   Thirty seconds later there was a soft knock and Alice opened the door. Vanessa was in her early twenties, with long brown hair and green eyes that winked at Alice when she saw her hand on Owen’s arm. Smartly dressed in a dark green uniform, her name tag read Vanessa Carson, with the rather grand title of Concierge underneath.

  ‘Come on, Mr Struthers. Let’s help you on your walk of shame.’

  ‘Oh really,’ Alice said indignantly, but her smile ruined it. She was fond of Vanessa.

  ‘I do want to talk to you, Alice,’ Owen said to her. ‘How about we have dinner later if I’m feeling better?’

  Alice did her best to ignore another Vanessa wink and nodded. ‘Of course. Get in touch if you’re feeling better.’ She watched them walk to the elevator. Owen’s apartment was in the second building, which loomed over the main one. Twice the length and with an extra floor, it was home to the majority of residents.

  ‘Vanessa?’ Alice called as they disappeared into the elevator.

  Her head popped back into view. ‘I’ll let you know when he’s back home safely.’

  ‘Thanks, and –’

  ‘I’ll set up a Dora.’

  Alice smiled as the elevator doors closed. Dora Simmonds was a resident who had lain sick in her apartment for two days, too dazed and confused to call anyone and, because her family lived out of the country, no one had checked on her. The facility operated a policy of discretion, leaving residents alone unless they asked. No one here needed full time care, so it generally worked. Except in Dora’s case. When they finally found her she was dehydrated and starving but had fully recovered. Since then management had asked all residents to check in every two days, but some of the staff had a more informal system. If they knew someone wasn’t feeling well they’d arrange to pop in on them at least twice a day. They called it ‘a Dora’, much to the real Dora’s chagrin.

  Alice made a mental note to leave a tip for Vanessa at the end of the week. Then, because her mental note system wasn’t as reliable as it used to be, she wrote it on a piece of paper and pinned it to the fridge with a magnet. Her fridge was covered in souvenir magnets. The few people she allowed into her home assumed they were from places around the world that she had visited, and technically they were. Alice had travelled far and wide in her working life, and each magnet represented a place she had visited, and a job successfully completed. It had been an exciting life, and as she studied the different shapes and colours it occurred to her that what she really missed, was working.