and stared at the open lock.
I had solved the problem of opening the filing cabinet. I had met the challenge and now I should quit snooping. I told myself that I was still technically not a criminal. I walked back to the door of the office and took another look around outside. Not a creature was stirring....
While I had the opportunity I should just find out if I was correct in my assumption about the contents of the cabinet. I pulled open the top drawer. Hanging file folders filled the drawer, with tabs sticking up. The first tab read, “Alt, Lucille.” Lucille resided at Silver Acres. I was right! These were the resident files.
The folders were in alphabetical order by last name. What were the last names of the four members of the bridge club lunch committee? My short-term memory failed me again. I couldn't remember any of them. Since there were several hundred folders and I wear bifocals, which are not terribly useful for this kind of work, it would take too long for me to read the labels one by one.
I did remember Gerald's last name—Weiss. It took me a few seconds to determine that his folder was in the bottom-most of the four drawers. I finally located it and pulled it out. My hands were really shaking now. I placed the folder on top of Carol's desk and scooted back to the door of the office—well, walked back as fast as I could. Still clear.
I sat down at the desk and opened Gerald's folder. It contained, among other things, the application he had filled out for Silver Acres. His full name was Gerald Fillmore Weiss. He had written his wife's name—Katherine, and beside it “deceased” and a date. His address in California was there, along with the names of several friends he listed as references, who were professors at the University of California at San Diego.
I came to his medical profile. Under allergies he had listed “shellfish,” just as Carol had said. I suddenly realized that I should be copying some of this down. There was a notepad on Carol's desk, but I didn't see a pen or pencil. I went out to the reception desk and after fumbling around, found a pen in my purse. I grabbed it and hurried back into Carol's office.
I had to be careful not to write so fast that my handwriting became illegible, especially since my hands still shook. I filled several of the small sheets of the notepad. As I wrote I calmed down and my handwriting improved. I copied information about education, degrees, hobbies, awards—the Nobel Prize being prominent. I didn't want to leave out anything; there was no telling what would be helpful.
A noise from the reception area broke through my concentration. It sounded as if somebody was entering the front door from outside. I panicked. While trying to close Gerald's folder with my shaking hands I spilled its contents onto the floor. I got down on my hands and knees, desperately trying to sweep them up and replace them in the folder. Some of the papers had sailed under the desk and I had trouble reaching them.
After an eternity I got everything back into the folder and closed it. I crawled the few feet to the file cabinet and realized that it would take me too long to find the correct location for the folder in the drawer so I stuffed it into the front and pushed the drawer shut. What about my notes? I didn't have any pockets so I slid them down the front of my slacks.
As I forced my creaky body to stand, two people entered the office.
Carol Grant said, “Lillian, what are you doing here?”
Albert said, “Mother, what in hell is going on?”
CHAPTER 10
I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see Carol Grant's Mercedes when I arrived at Albert's farm for Sunday dinner. I should have expected that she would be the flavor of the week. It had become obvious the night before as they took turns chewing me out, their voices blending together in beautiful harmony.
The only thing I could think of while they conducted their tirade was that it reminded me of the times I
I had solved the problem of opening the filing cabinet. I had met the challenge and now I should quit snooping. I told myself that I was still technically not a criminal. I walked back to the door of the office and took another look around outside. Not a creature was stirring....
While I had the opportunity I should just find out if I was correct in my assumption about the contents of the cabinet. I pulled open the top drawer. Hanging file folders filled the drawer, with tabs sticking up. The first tab read, “Alt, Lucille.” Lucille resided at Silver Acres. I was right! These were the resident files.
The folders were in alphabetical order by last name. What were the last names of the four members of the bridge club lunch committee? My short-term memory failed me again. I couldn't remember any of them. Since there were several hundred folders and I wear bifocals, which are not terribly useful for this kind of work, it would take too long for me to read the labels one by one.
I did remember Gerald's last name—Weiss. It took me a few seconds to determine that his folder was in the bottom-most of the four drawers. I finally located it and pulled it out. My hands were really shaking now. I placed the folder on top of Carol's desk and scooted back to the door of the office—well, walked back as fast as I could. Still clear.
I sat down at the desk and opened Gerald's folder. It contained, among other things, the application he had filled out for Silver Acres. His full name was Gerald Fillmore Weiss. He had written his wife's name—Katherine, and beside it “deceased” and a date. His address in California was there, along with the names of several friends he listed as references, who were professors at the University of California at San Diego.
I came to his medical profile. Under allergies he had listed “shellfish,” just as Carol had said. I suddenly realized that I should be copying some of this down. There was a notepad on Carol's desk, but I didn't see a pen or pencil. I went out to the reception desk and after fumbling around, found a pen in my purse. I grabbed it and hurried back into Carol's office.
I had to be careful not to write so fast that my handwriting became illegible, especially since my hands still shook. I filled several of the small sheets of the notepad. As I wrote I calmed down and my handwriting improved. I copied information about education, degrees, hobbies, awards—the Nobel Prize being prominent. I didn't want to leave out anything; there was no telling what would be helpful.
A noise from the reception area broke through my concentration. It sounded as if somebody was entering the front door from outside. I panicked. While trying to close Gerald's folder with my shaking hands I spilled its contents onto the floor. I got down on my hands and knees, desperately trying to sweep them up and replace them in the folder. Some of the papers had sailed under the desk and I had trouble reaching them.
After an eternity I got everything back into the folder and closed it. I crawled the few feet to the file cabinet and realized that it would take me too long to find the correct location for the folder in the drawer so I stuffed it into the front and pushed the drawer shut. What about my notes? I didn't have any pockets so I slid them down the front of my slacks.
As I forced my creaky body to stand, two people entered the office.
Carol Grant said, “Lillian, what are you doing here?”
Albert said, “Mother, what in hell is going on?”
CHAPTER 10
I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to see Carol Grant's Mercedes when I arrived at Albert's farm for Sunday dinner. I should have expected that she would be the flavor of the week. It had become obvious the night before as they took turns chewing me out, their voices blending together in beautiful harmony.
The only thing I could think of while they conducted their tirade was that it reminded me of the times I
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