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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,