A Norwood short story by D R Hood
The great pudding crisis began on a Tuesday, which was fitting, because nothing good ever happened on a Tuesday.
Elise found out at breakfast. She'd gone to the common fridge for the little cup of tapioca she saved for mornings — she liked it with her coffee, a habit forty years old — and found the shelf bare. Not just her cup. Every pudding cup in Providence Hall, gone.
"Somebody," Wilma announced to the table, clutching her pearls like they might be next, "is a thief."
Stephanie arrived then with a restock tray, took one look at the empty shelf, and said something in rapid Spanish that Elise chose not to translate. "Three nights!" Stephanie said, loading the new cups with the fury of a woman restocking a war zone. "I order extra! I count them myself! Somebody in this building has sticky fingers and it is not going to be me explaining it to dietary!"
"It's probably Gatewood," Gineva said darkly. "They're always coming down here unauthorized."
"It is not Gatewood," Esther said. "Abernathy told me the men have their own pudding situation and it's perfectly adequate."
Four pairs of eyes turned to her.
"What?" Esther said. "We talk."
It was Mooney who took charge. Mooney, 101 years old, a decade in Norwood, who had once identified a stolen pudding cup by smell alone from across the cafeteria. She set down her cards — the curly-haired volunteer helped her, gentle as ever — and said, "I'll find them."
"Find what, honey?" the volunteer asked.
"The pudding. And the culprit." Mooney's eyes gleamed. "Elise. You're my Watson."
"I don't want to be Watson," Elise said.
"You don't get a vote."
Marisol appeared with her clipboard. "Ladies, if there's been a theft I need to file an incident report —"
"We're handling it," Mooney said.
The investigation began that afternoon. Mooney held court at the corner table, Elise beside her with a notepad she'd borrowed from the nurse's station, feeling ridiculous.
Marisol eyed the notepad in Elise's hands. "Is that my notepad?"
"It's the people's notepad now," Elise said.
Suspect one: Wilma. Prime suspect, on account of being a known chocolate fiend with a history of sugar smuggling.
"I am offended," Wilma said, pearls rattling. "I have never stolen pudding in my life. I have been given chocolate, which is entirely different, and Daniel can confirm —"
"Daniel gives everyone chocolate," Esther murmured.
"—and besides, I don't even like tapioca."
"Check her room," Gineva whispered, too loudly.
"My room is clean!" Wilma said. "Unlike some people's drawers."
Mooney leaned in and sniffed Wilma's sleeve. "Innocent," she pronounced. "No pudding on this woman."
Suspect two: Gineva. Motive unclear, but she was a known hoarder.
"I have standards," Gineva said, deeply insulted. "I hoard utensils. Food goes bad. This is amateur talk."
Mooney sniffed. "Innocent. Smells like dish soap and secrets, but not pudding."
Suspect three: Esther. Alibi: otherwise occupied.
"I've been busy," Esther said, examining her nails. "Ask Abernathy."
"We are not asking Abernathy."
"Then you'll have to take my word."
Mooney sniffed anyway. "Innocent. Smells like victory."
Suspect four: Daniel, the young CNA, who went pale when Mooney crooked a finger at him.
"I didn't take any pudding, Miss Mooney, I swear —"
Mooney sniffed his scrubs, long and thoughtful. The whole table held its breath.
"Innocent," she said at last. "Smells like industrial laundry and fear."
It was Elise who noticed it, finally — or rather, Elise who noticed Mooney noticing. The old woman's head had turned, slow as a sunflower, toward the corner where the blond volunteer sat scrolling on her phone beside three half-asleep women. The girl who just needed hours. The girl nobody looked at twice.
Mooney rose from her chair with the deliberation of a queen and walked over. Elise followed, notepad forgotten.
"Honey," Mooney said. "What's your name?"
The girl looked up, startled. "Casey."
"Casey." Mooney leaned in close and breathed in. Then she smiled — not unkindly. "Tapioca. Tuesday and Wednesday."
Casey's face crumpled. "I'm sorry — I didn't — I skip lunch most days, the meal plan doesn't cover — I was going to pay it back —"
"Oh, honey." That was Elise, before she could stop herself. "Come here."
What followed was not a punishment. This was Providence Hall, and the women of Providence Hall had their own justice system. Casey was installed at their table before supper, between Wilma (who patted her hand and told her she was too thin) and Gineva (who slid her a roll and a fork from her personal collection, which everyone pretended not to notice). Esther poured her coffee. Elise cut her meatloaf.
"You put that phone away at this table," Wilma said, not unkindly. "We talk here."
Casey put the phone away. And for the first time since she'd started volunteering, she looked up — really looked up — at the four old women fussing over her like she'd always belonged there.
Stephanie arrived with a pudding cup — tapioca, the good kind — and set it in front of Casey like a peace treaty. "You eat," she said. "You are too skinny to be stealing."
"I'll split it with you, honey," Esther said to no one in particular, though her eyes drifted toward the Gatewood side of the room. "Sharing is caring."
"Don't start," Wilma said.
Mooney reclaimed her cards and her volunteer, serene as ever.
"How did you know?" Elise asked her later.
Mooney tapped her nose. "Pudding doesn't lie, Watson. People just carry it around."
Elise never did get her tapioca back. She decided she didn't mind. Some mysteries weren't about the pudding at all.
Enjoyed it? Get the Prologue and Chapters 1–2 of Before the Violet Tide free.