Earl grumbled the whole way to chapel.

“Come on,” Gloria urged. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know,” Earl said. “I’m not the religious type.”

“That’s between you and God,” Gloria said. She added, a twinkle in her eye, “Not that I won’t do what I can and try to help tip the scales.”

She said it in a good-natured way, but it still made Earl uncomfortable. He was also uncomfortable with how things were turning out. The more time he spent with Gloria, the more he found himself wanting to spend time with Gloria. He wondered what his late Barbara would have thought about that. (He wondered what Gloria’s late husband would have thought, for that matter.)

The service at chapel was smaller than Earl expected. Just a few people. Four, in fact, including Gloria and him. Five if you counted the person leading the service. The place smelled of lilacs.

He asked, “Do you mind if we stick closer to the back?”

“Normally I like to sit close to the front,” Gloria said. “But you’re the guest.”

In the last row, Gloria moved the chair on the end to make a place for Earl’s wheelchair. She sat in the chair next to him.

Earl looked around the small room. Four rows of chairs, some banners on the bare white walls. Up front, a small glass table with a wooden podium on top of it. Smooth music emanated from small speakers mounted on the side walls. To Earl’s ears, it sounded like a flute accompanied by acoustic guitar.

“Not much of a crowd,” Earl said. “I thought more people went to church.”

“This is just a chapel service.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Every weekday morning, someone comes in to share a little devotional.”

“Is that like a sermon?”

“Eh.” Gloria pursed her lips, nodding her head from side to side. “More of a thought for the day.”

“So it’s not religious.”

Before she could come up with a whole reply, the speaker got up to start. While he read something from the Bible, Earl’s attention wandered.

Barbara had been the churchgoer. She had joined the committees, she had gone to the Sunday school parties, and she had attended the special events.

Barbara had never been pushy about Earl going with her. He sometimes accompanied her on Sunday mornings—afterward she wanted to stay and chat with people, maybe even go to lunch with them. He just wanted to get home.

It hurt to think about it. If he had known he was going to lose her so soon, he would have done a lot of things differently.

“What did you think?” Gloria’s voice snapped Earl back to the present.

“What?” He shook off his reverie. “Um, fine. It was fine.” He hoped there wasn’t going to be a quiz.

“I have to go to the office soon. Did you want to get something to eat?”

***

When they got to the cafeteria, Earl was relieved to see someone different handling the food. Looking at his options under the glass, he found it hard to choose. Everything smelled so good. In the end, Earl got the special—meat loaf—and Gloria got a salad.

“When do you have to be at work?”

“About an hour. The receptionist has her lunch at twelve thirty.”

Earl tried to be polite. “So, do you work there a lot?”

“A few hours here and there. I cover for the regular receptionist for her lunch and also when she needs to be out of the office for something.”

“I guess it’s pretty handy to live in the same building where you work.”

“Yes, it’s pretty nice.” They ate in silence, focusing on their food a few seconds. Then, looking Earl in the eyes, Gloria asked, “So what did you really think?”

Earl stopped chewing. “Think?”

“About the chapel service.”

He chewed a little more while he struggled to come up with an answer. Finally he had chewed all he could and swallowed. “It was fine.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“Just now?”

“During chapel.”

Ouch. He thought he had been more discreet than that. He took his fork and knife and cut up some more of his meat loaf into smaller pieces. “I was thinking about how Barbara used to drag me to church.”

“She was a Christian?”

“Yes.”

“How about you?”

Earl cut his meat loaf into even smaller pieces. He wondered how long he could do that before he broke it up into its original ingredients. “I guess you could say that God and I are not exactly on speaking terms.”

“You’re never too old to start.”

Earl put the fork and knife on the table. “He’s already taken everything that matters to me. I don’t have anything left to give.”

“It’s not like that. The world is what takes it from us. The Lord wants to help us through it.”

Earl grunted. “Well, He hasn’t exactly been doing a bang-up job.”

“You can’t blame God for your losing your wife. When she died, He was sad, too. Besides, you’re still here. You’re still alive.”

Earl pushed back his plate. “I guess I better get back home.”

“Oh.” Gloria couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Of course.”

She started gathering up their dishes. “I’ll help you get back to your apartment.”

“I can make it.”

She stopped. “Are you sure?”

“Gotta learn sometime.” He gripped the top of the wheel rims, his hands still sore, and turned for the exit. He paused and swiveled back. He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. “Thank you. For things.”

“Will I see you later?”

Earl hesitated. Then he nodded once. “I guess.” He got as far as the door before he stopped. He couldn’t just leave like this. He waited until Gloria finished returning the dishes and throwing away the trash.

When she saw him waiting, a hopeful glow curled across her face. “Forget something?”

“Where do I find Sally Brouwer?”

Her smile disappeared.

***

Earl followed the shaky directions—Gloria didn’t ask why he wanted them, and Earl didn’t volunteer any explanation—and ended up at Sally Brouwer’s apartment. He waited until a few residents passed. He didn’t want to give any untoward impressions.

Then he wheeled up to the door and reached for the buzzer. He couldn’t quite reach it, so he rapped his knuckles on the door.

There was the sound of rustling inside. A muffled voice called out, “Just a minute!”

Earl cast a worried glance each direction. Fortunately, all the other residents down this hallway were apparently out living rich, full lives. Bowling. Volleyball. Hang gliding.

The door opened and there was Sally Brouwer, her long black hair pulled back into a ponytail. She looked at him uncertainly. “Are you here to sign the petition?”

“Um.” Earl looked at her blankly. “No.”

“Oh.” She closed the door.

Earl stared at the closed door for a second, then rapped his knuckles across it again. There was the sound of rustling, then a muffled voice, “Coming!” The door opened. Sally gave him the exact same look as before.

Earl showed her his dentures. “Did I say no? I meant yes.”

Sally grinned and stepped back, opening the door wider. “Why didn’t you say so? Come on in!”

She disappeared into the apartment. Earl hesitated then wheeled inside. He didn’t get far before he ran into a pile of papers. He looked around the apartment, goggling at the stacks and stacks of papers. They were stacked on the couch, stacked on an end table, stacked on a coffee table, on a chair, in the breakfast nook—everywhere.

His hostess returned from somewhere and handed him a sheet of paper and a pen. “Wait, I’ll find you something to write on.” She got a hardcover book and handed it to him. “There.”

Earl looked at the paper. “Do you mind if I read this first?”

“It’s all very basic, really. We just want the return of Bob Barker.”

“From The Price Is Right?”

“Exactly.”

“But he did the show for some thirty years. He retired.”

“Right. So this is a petition to demand that Bob Barker return as host of The Price Is Right. Just sign on the line there.”

“I—see.” Earl looked down at the paper. He did promise. He signed his name, never more glad he had so few friends at Candlewick Retirement Community. The idea of having his name attached to this was bad enough, but at least almost nobody would recognize it.

Hand still shaking, he handed the paper back to Sally. “Here.”

His voice cracked. “Good luck.” It was all he could think to say.

“Thank you!” She took the sheet and went to a stack by the lamp. She counted down from the top, lifted the top stack, and slipped in the petition about a third of the way down.

“So—saving up for a paper drive?”

“No.” She looked puzzled. “Why would you say that?”

“All the papers.”

“Oh. These are all petitions.”

“These are all signed?”

“They’re works in progress.” Sally went to the stack by the lamp. “Like this one here is a petition for the Judds to come perform here.”

“Here—at Candlewick?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you expect them to play?”

“I don’t know, maybe the lobby.”

“And how did you expect to convince Mama Judd to come out of retirement?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Sally bit her lip. “But we can worry about that after we have the petition finished.”

“How many signatures do you need for something like that?” Earl didn’t have the heart to ask where one would send it.

“We have five so far.”

“I see.” Earl leaned over the coffee table and snatched up a handful of sheets. There were petitions regarding all manner of things: how the coffee should be served in the Candlewick cafeteria; that the TV network should air more “quality programs in the vein of Murder She Wrote and Little House on the Prairie”; that cats should be allowed to compete in dog shows; that dictionaries should have fewer words in them; that Tide brand detergent should go back to an earlier package design—

“What is this?” Earl squinted at the sheet in his hand, a petition to block the television networks from using modern technology to create brand-new episodes of Perry Mason using computer-generated images of the late Raymond Burr. It even had a few signatures.

Sally nodded. “They can do anything with computers now.”

“But who in the world do you send a petition like this to?”

She shrugged. “We’ll worry about that after we get enough signatures.”

Earl spread the stack out on his lap. “How many copies do you make of each petition?”

“Sixty or seventy. Sometimes a hundred, if it’s popular.”

Earl looked at the stacks around the apartment. “How can you afford so many copies? These must have cost you a fortune.”

“We get free copies in the computer room. When the machine works.”

“Maybe you broke it making too many copies.”

“Not usually. In fact, Saturday was the first time I couldn’t get my copies.”

“Wait—Saturday? I thought you were at the bowling thing. Then I saw you at the party.”

“I was trying to make my copies before that. I have a life, you know. Besides, Saturday mornings are the best time to make a lot of copies without anyone complaining about somebody using up all the paper.”

Earl wondered whether he had just gotten to the bottom of the question about why the printer wasn’t working when he and Jenny were there.

As his eyes adjusted to the clutter, he also began to notice odds and ends scattered around the crowded apartment. Trinkets. Baubles. “You have a regular antique show there.”

“Maybe.” Something about the question seemed to make her nervous. “What about it?”

“Did you ever find out what happened to George Kent’s ring?”

“His ring? Why would you ask that?”

“Because you came looking for it,” Earl said carefully. “And then I got to thinking how earlier that day, Kent was showing his ring around. When he noticed you, he made a special point to—well, protect it. In fact, his special point seemed to be that he was afraid you might take it.”

“That’s crazy. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sally seemed agitated. She made a show of shuffling her various petitions, as if it was suddenly very important that she refile them in different orders. If there was a system to it, Earl couldn’t tell what it was. “I’m very busy now.”

“I can see that.” Earl tilted his head. “You were serving people at the party.”

“There were several of us serving.” She dropped her armload onto the couch and gathered up another set of papers. “I think.”

“But you served the beverages, right?”

“I may have—no, wait—George didn’t want the rum. You should remember; you both turned it down.”

“But you still served the chili. You could have poisoned him.”

Sally dropped her papers on the end table. “Poison? But George died of a stroke or something.”

“Actually, it was kidney failure. Maybe because of something you dropped in his bowl of chili.”

She pushed aside some papers and sat on the couch. She breathed heavily for a few moments. “Someone really poisoned him?”

“Maybe.”

She looked at him with indignation. “And you think I did it? Dandy was there, too. He was in and out of the kitchen.”

“But there was no love lost between you and Kent. In fact, I heard you were relieved when he died.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say!”

“Is it? I apologize for being rude.”

“Besides,” she said, lip trembling, “Dandy was the one who owed George so much money.”

Earl remembered the “double or nothing” bet between the men at the bowling tournament. “Yeah, I guess he lost some amount of money Saturday.”

“Oh, that’s not the half of it. Dandy lost money to George all the time. All. The. Time.”

***

Earl found his way back to his apartment. Without Gloria’s help it took some doing. A memory of their last conversation flickered. He tried to put it out of his mind.

When he finally got to his apartment, he called the front desk. “How can I reach a Mr. Dandy Anderson?”

“We’re really not allowed to give out the numbers.”

“Well, can you transfer me to his number?”

“Hold, please.”

The phone rang, but no one picked up. When it finally went to voice mail, Earl panicked and hung up. Then he consulted his scraps of paper and found Conroy’s number. That one got through, and a familiar voice said, “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Earl Walker.”

“Oh. Of course.” He was tentative. “Listen, I’m meeting family in a few minutes, so I can’t really talk right—”

“I was looking for Dandy Anderson.”

“Well, he’s not here.”

“I was wondering if you happened to know where I could find him?”

“This time of day, some of the fellas are in the rec center. He could be there. In fact, that’s where I’m meeting my family. Why don’t you come out?”

“Maybe I’ll do that.” There was a knock at Earl’s door. He said into the phone, “There’s someone at the door. I guess I’ll see you around.”

“See you at the rec center?”

“Sure.” Earl hung up and went for the door, where he found Jenny waiting. “Hello, College,” he grunted. “Are you coming here every day now?”

“I just came to see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine.” He hoped his grumbly voice would warn her to stay clear. “So you can be on your merry way.”

“I also wanted to talk to you.” She looked down the hall. She seemed nervous.

“If this is about Gloria, I don’t want to—”

“It’s about that poor Mr. Kent.”

“What now?”

“I know how he was murdered.”