Free Arsenic and Old Cake by Jacklyn Brady Page A

toward the basset hound next. “And this is Cleveland Bunch. He’s another of our long-term residents.”
    Strike two. That gave us one last chance for a home run.
    “If you should ever want to find Cleveland, he’ll be hanging out right here in this room watching his stories on the TV.” She put a hand to her mouth and whispered, “He’s addicted to soap operas, but don’t let on that I told you.”
    “They’re not soap operas,” Cleveland protested. “I watch my judge shows. You ever seen one?”
    I nodded, but refrained from admitting that I wasn’t a big fan.
    Gabriel said, “Good stuff,” as if he thought the on-camera antics of small claims court had some redeeming social value. I hoped he wasn’t serious.
    Silence threatened again, so I asked the first thing that came to mind. “You don’t have TVs in your rooms either?”
    “Oh, I got one,” Cleveland said, “but it ain’t hooked to the whatchacallit. The cable box.”
    “It’s like a giant paperweight,” Dontae said. “No earthly good to anyone.”
    “So what?” Cleveland shot back. “I don’t like being cooped up in there all the time. Sue me.”
    Frowning at the two men, Hyacinth lumbered to her feet. “All I’m saying is, it wouldn’t hurt you to find something productive to do. If you ask me, you ought to take a page out of the professor’s book.”
    Cleveland grinned at her and at least a dozen years fell off his face. “I didn’t ask your advice, Hy, and that’s why, right there. You won’t catch me parading around town the way he does. Instead of busting my chops, you ought to be thanking me for being normal. You don’t need more than one crazy fool wandering around this place.”
    Hyacinth turned away with another expressive roll of the eyes. “Oh, we got more than one. But who’s counting?”
    I laughed uneasily and turned to the tall man who’d been watching the exchange with a benign smile. “I certainly hope you’re not the professor,” I said, hoping that my third and last chance would be a hit. I wanted him to introduce himself as Monroe Magee and launch into his life story to boot.
    “Gracious, no!” Primrose said with a reedy laugh, and scurried over to perform the introductions. “This is Pastor Rod.”
    I really hadn’t expected fate to throw Monroe into our laps that easily, but I was disappointed anyway.
    The pastor smiled at me and leaned up to shake Gabriel’s hand, revealing a frayed cuff on the sleeve of his shirt. “Rod Kinkle,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Pleased to meet you.”
    Gabriel let out an appreciative whistle. “You have live-in clergy? That’s convenient.”
    I glanced at the others to see if they’d taken offense, but I must have been the only one who thought Gabriel’s comment was a trifle insensitive. I mean, in light of everyone’s advanced years and all.
    “Pastor Rod doesn’t live here,” Primrose explained, “but he’s around most every day. He’s just like one of the family. He likes to offer a prayer for the marriages of our guests. I hope that’s all right with you.”
    Under other circumstances, I’d have agreed without hesitation. Aunt Yolanda had raised me with a healthy respect for the Almighty. But the idea of letting the pastor pray for our make-believe marriage triggered my fight-or-flight response and drove everything else, even Monroe, out of my head for a moment.
    I flicked a panicked look at Gabriel, but he was embracing the idea as another leg on his grand adventure. “I think that would be great,” he said. “Thank you, Pastor.”
    Was he kidding?
    The two men fell into an easy conversation, but I barely heard a word either of them said. I was too busy trying to think of a way to remove us from the prayer list without giving away the fact that we’d been lying since we walked in the front door.
    I’d crossed the line this time. Blessing a fake marriage? I was going to hell for sure and practically sending an engraved invitation for God