When Kait returned—still woozy but pinker in the face—we began dispensing meds, tandem-pulling the huge cart up and down the halls. This was followed by calls for more water and Mrs. Delaney’s usual request for a candy bar. Mrs. Delaney’s blood sugar level never allowed for a Three Musketeers, but she tried valiantly anyway.

After that it was time to round our wards up for the dining room. It was a symphony of cream, taupe, gold, and chandeliers, used by all residents regardless of their level of care. I’d spent much of my time with Violet here, listening and jotting notes as she regaled me with her experiences.

My eyes landed on The Cool Kids’ Table. It had been decimated over the past year. Now a fresh group of octogenarians had colonized it like cocky high school jocks, walkers and canes notwithstanding.

I shot Kait an evil grin. “I smell mashed potatoes and gravy.”

She turned without a word and began rolling our charges up to tables, shaking napkins and dropping them onto laps as though we were in a Parisian brasserie. The serving crew delivered salads and ice water.

“Girl! Girl!” Mrs. Ledbetter had gotten her wheelchair stuck, and was employing her tender pet name for me. “Girl! I need help!”

I crossed to her side. “Yes, Mrs. Ledbetter?”

“I need a push. Put me over there with Mr. Willis.”

“Certainly.” I began propelling her. “I heard you saw the doctor.”

“Yes. I’m not pregnant.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” I positioned her next to the unfortunate Mr. Willis, whose eyes begged me silently to join the table and save him from Audrey and her terrorizing flirtation. Mr. Willis had a lovely wife who visited regularly, sometimes finding Audrey Marie Haynes Ledbetter attempting to climb into her husband’s lap. I dutifully sat down next to him and attempted to make conversation. Audrey rolled a cherry tomato toward Mr. Willis.

“I know you like these, darling,” she cooed.

“No, I don’t,” he grunted.

“You two be nice, now. I have to see about some other folks.” I excused myself and rounded the room opposite Kait, looking for spilled food and signs of choking. Lunch passed blissfully uneventfully, and we headed back for an afternoon of disgusting bodily fluids and solids.

I called Mr. Sobel’s office on my break.

“Please hold one moment,” his secretary said. “He’s been expecting your call.”

Melvin Sobel sounded like a Southern Baptist preacher on the phone, drawling friendliness and comfort. “Hello, Miz Johnson. I know you were real close with Violet, and I’m sorry for your loss. She was a great lady. I’ll miss her, too.” He paused. “Anyway, there are some things we need to discuss and I’m wondering if you could come to my office soon. We’re in downtown Birmingham.”