Free Heaven Preserve Us by Cricket McRae

Manners said it was acceptable to telephone people.
     
    However, Miss Manners didn't know Tootie Hanover was such
an early riser, and I did.

     
NINE

    CALADIA ACRES WAS A nursing home on the north edge of Cadyville where Tootie Hanover had lived for several years. I'd met her
the previous fall when her son Walter died. He had been our
neighbor. A facility that was intimate in a small-town way, Caladia
Acres emphasized casual comfort in an attempt to overcome the
sterile medical atmosphere found in most nursing homes. When I
walked in, the air was thick with the scents of yeast and spices.
Yum. The residents had been served cinnamon rolls for breakfast.
    Ann Dunning, the nurse at the reception desk, nodded a hello
and told me I'd find Tootie holding court in the library. I waved at
a couple of the residents I'd grown fond of from my frequent visits, and they lifted their hands in greeting. Passing behind the
three women and two men who sat with their eyes glued to a dramatic, tear-filled scene from some daytime soap opera on the big
screen at the end of the room, I slipped into the tiny room they
called the library at Caladia Acres.
     
    The space was only large enough to hold a small settee and two
chairs. All four walls held shelves of books, including on each side
of and above the door, and around the single window in the north
wall. A various hodgepodge of nonfiction and fiction, from literary masterpieces to light romances, how-to, history and biography,
with a fair amount of religious works thrown in by some fervent
benefactor, the books didn't seem to have any particular order or
arrangement. I knew from experience, though, if a particular volume needed to be found in the collection, Tootie Hanover could
put her hand on it within seconds. When she wasn't in her room
or the dining hall, she gravitated to this room, with its spare light
and the scent of old ink on yellowing pages.
    When Ann told me Tootie was holding court, I'd expected to
find her with a few people, but only one other woman sat in the
small room with her. In contrast to Tootie's tall elegance and patrician features, her companion was short and solidly built, clad in
mustard-colored polyester top and bottom, and sported short, unnaturally black curls above an attractive round face. Tootie's signature gray braid coiled on her head like a crown, and she wore a
forest-green silk sweater over black slacks. That woman could
show more style in a day than most people could muster in a year.
    "Sophie Mae, come in. Have you met Betsy Maher?"
    I closed the door behind me, glad it was solid wood and shut
out most of the volume from the television down the hall.
    I smiled at the woman sitting opposite Tootie in the leatherbacked rocking chair. "I don't believe so. It's nice to meet you, Mrs.
Maher."
    "Please, call me Betsy."
     
    "I'll be happy to. And I'm Sophie Mae. Reynolds," I added,
since Tootie hadn't mentioned my last name. Which, come to
think of it, was a little odd, since Tootie was a stickler for good
manners.
    Tootie's eyebrow raised just a fraction. "Betsy," she said, "is
Andy Maher's mother."
    It was the first time I'd ever heard Cadyville's Police Chief, Andrew Maher, called "Andy." I grinned, delighted at Tootie's resourcefulness. "Really. You must get to hear some fine tales from
your son.
    Betsy Maher's brown eyes twinkled. "He does manage to provide me with a certain amount of entertainment. Sometimes it's
hard to get him to tell me the really juicy stuff, though. If he had
his way, I'd only get to hear about kittens being rescued from trees
and commendations for bravery." She winked. "Luckily, he doesn't
usually get his way, and I also get to hear about the woman who
whacked her husband over the head with his own bowling ball."
    This time I was the one raising my eyebrows. Betsy Maher was
a pistol all right.
    Tootie settled back in her chair and took a sip from the steaming cup of tea that had