A Clue in the Nursing Home

You are walked slowly down the plush hallway to the sunny lounge by a young woman you are pretty sure is named Scarlet. Didn’t she just say that a few minutes ago? You have never seen her before. Or was she here yesterday? You can’t be sure. Not really. You don’t know, but you’re getting used to not knowing. She seems rather sweet in that goofy “I can’t pay my bills because I’m this young and attractive, and demonstrating that to myself and others costs me a lot of money” sort of way. But you know by now that such sweetness is often a cloak. Maybe this is “on camera” sweetness. Probably she secretly wants to push you off a cliff, you think. But everyone is being watched at all times and doubtless she knows that. Her daggers may come out later. You have seen this happen before with others among your captors. Correction: You have seen this happen before with other members of the staff.

Scarlet has you sit down in an almost comfortable chair with thick protective arms and you find yourself next to an old white-haired coot with a stiff posture in the next presumably almost comfortable chair with similarly emphatic arms. You are the only two residents in this room. A t.v. mounted up on the wall is blithering on in that morning television way. These chairs are way too close. What is this, you wonder, some sort of sordid dating game for the half-dead? What do they expect of you? Are you supposed to fall in love with this old creep? You look at the way he is staring…no, leering….at you. You don’t like it one bit. The widowers around these parts are predatory. You can just tell he wants to do that thing where he moves his mouth in a disgusting way and sounds come out like toothpaste from a tube. Thicker air will pollute the nice quiet air of the room, squeezed out of a body where it has festered. Yuck. What is that called again? Oh right, talking.

Scarlet has left the room for you and the coot “to acquaint yourselves.” It is clearly as sordid as you thought. You make nice and pretend to be interested in this man you are afraid to stop staring at, lest he do something truly horrible. You just feel he has it in him. Evil is like a cheap cologne. You can always smell it. And he is reeking of it. He prates on and on. He tells you that he was in the military and achieved the rank of Colonel. And then he tells you his last name: Mustard. You are sitting next to Colonel Mustard. You feel your heart begin to beat faster. It’s like there’s a hummingbird trapped deep inside your terry cloth bathrobe.

You must not let on that you realize what is happening. Miss Scarlet has just walked you down to the lounge and sat you next to Colonel Mustard. You scan the room in terror for a candlestick, a dagger, or a rope. You realize it is improbable that a revolver or lead pipe would be left lying around. After all, you are intensely supervised in this place that costs an insane amount of money. And the vultures rarely miss a trick around here. But then you see it. A wrench rests there on the windowsill, actually gleaming in the morning sunlight. Some workman must have forgotten it. How was that missed? Oh, won’t he be in a pretty pickle of trouble when they find out? Real dutch. Has the Colonel seen it yet? You continue to exchange fake pleasantries with the old coot and hope that he has not followed your glance. You are pretty sure he has not. He is sure he is being charming as he continues to grate on your nerves with babble of his boring past life and boring dead loved ones. You must formulate a plan.

But how can you be in the game? Your last name is Szabo. “Think!” you scream at yourself inside. But then your realize the answer in a stroke of genius. You are Mrs. White! You have heard several of the staff refer you to you that way, usually as “that white bitch” or “that white pain in the ass.” It’s true that it has not been to your face, but sound carries in this building and as you have lain in your bed festering away you heard the expected labeling. You are not 100% positive but pretty sure that you have heard yourself sarcastically called “Mrs. White” by some of the staff. More than once they have also used “Betty White.” So there it is. You are indeed in the mix. People must be watching.

You are really playing the game well now. You think they will be well pleased by what comes next. Who are they? You really don’t know. You ask Colonel Mustard about his mobility. He says he has real difficulty walking and you smile a fake empathy at him and coo sympathy. But your eyes are on the wrench on the windowsill again. You wonder who will figure out the solution to the mystery. Once you do the deed. You stand up and go to the windowsill and lean against it in your thick pink bathrobe, obscuring the wrench that rests there. Your hand grips the tool behind you now as you flirt openly with the old coot in the chair. Nauseating, but it’s all part of the game. Dissimulation is key.

Yes, it is a horrible thing you are about to do. But what if he had gotten there first? He could have spotted the wrench before you. Maybe he did and was just biding his time. Then you remember that it’s actually Mr. Body who is supposed to be the victim. Isn’t it? Colonel Mustard is supposed to be just another suspect like you. It doesn’t matter though. Not really. Mr. Body is lying dead somewhere else, in some other plush room of Pleasant View Home. Probably in that pathetic excuse for a library down the hall. All those ratty donated paperbacks nobody wants to read. So if Mr. Body is dead, that leaves you and five other suspects. So there’s a one in five chance the guy across the room from you just now did it. And you smelled the evil. You did. See? You have solved the crime. So you will be bending the rules of the game just a little bit. So what? Games change like everything else. Probably they will be proud of you for figuring that out. Who are they? It doesn’t matter. They will reveal themselves in time. They will pat the back of your robe as they congratulate you for figuring it all out. “What a clever girl!”

Just then Miss Scarlet pops back into the room with a piece of carrot cake the Colonel had begged her to sneak to him. She makes him promise not to tell as it’s strictly “against the rules.” Wagging her pretty manicured finger at him. All of that disgusting theater. But there it is, she actually said it: “the rules.” The rules of the game. And then she is gone again. You know what you must do. Time is probably running out. But just now the Colonel has offered you a bite of that scrumptious looking carrot cake. And it’s your favorite. He’s holding the plate out to you in a most lecherous way. Your favorite. Or at least you think it was. Wasn’t it? So you slip the wrench into the pocket of your thick bathrobe. You will finish the game in a little bit. After a few little noshes on that forbidden cake. If you don’t forget, that is. You know that is a real problem now and might interfere with your playing the game to perfection when clearly so much is at stake.

And oh, the carrot cake is indeed delicious, so moist. You like the Colonel more each time he encourages you to go on eating. Why, he’s not going to get a single bite! He’s letting you devour nearly the entire thing. And it’s only then you realize (oh, too late!) his hand is slipping into the pocket of your bathrobe and removing what you have so carefully secreted there. He rises up now, towering above you in his full homicidal glory. Look at that horrible smile on his face! You see the military in him, finally, uniform or not. You want to cry out but you know it’s far too late and the carrot cake filling your mouth muffles your scream. Oh, what strategy! Miss Scarlet is far away by now, probably sneaking carrot cake to some old Plum or Peacock down the hall you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet, and now never will. As the wrench comes down, you remember that carrot cake isn’t even your favorite. It was actually German chocolate.