Part 3 — Mae Walks Out
I called 911 from the restroom stall before I even opened the text. Then I read it. “Paula. It is Grandma. Do not let Darlene know you got this. I am at Oak Terrace in Bossier City, room 14. A nice aide lent me her phone.”
Detective Marcus Boone met us in the parking lot. Inside the funeral home, Gerald broke down in under two minutes. He admitted the death certificate was false and that Darlene had paid him $12,000 to keep the lid closed.
Room 14 was at the end of a quiet hallway. My grandmother sat by the window in her purple church dress, sharp as a tack, with her purse in her lap. “About time, baby,” Mae said. “Hand me my glasses.”
Darlene had moved her to Oak Terrace in June under a false name, telling the staff Mae was “an old family friend.” That gave her access to Mae accounts and to the house. The death story was only meant to stop anyone from looking.
You cannot bury a woman who is still reading the newspaper.
Darlene was arrested before the funeral reception ended. She was charged with fraud, forgery, and financial exploitation of an elderly person. Gerald lost his license and cooperated with the investigators. The big diamond ring Darlene never explained turned out to have been bought with Mae savings, and a judge ordered it returned.
A doctor examined Mae the same afternoon. Her health was excellent, her mind was perfect, and her blood pressure was better than mine. The doctor wrote that on her chart in ink.
The court froze Darlene accounts and placed the house in a protective trust. The attorney general office handled the restitution.
Mae insisted on attending her own memorial. She called it a gumbo supper, and she held it at the church on the following Saturday. “So everyone can see I still look better than them,” she told the pastor, who laughed until he wept.
She wore purple, of course.
That evening, in her own kitchen, she handed me the wooden spoon. “Stir slowly,” she said. “And never trust a man who does not tip his waitress.” Then she laughed, and the whole house smelled like home.
