Page 47 of Welker

Welker and Moira took a moment to pull the needed ingredients from the bags in the back of the car, then followed Margaret toward her house.

There was a low, woof, from the other side of the door.

Margaret went up her front steps with a vigor that decried her years. “That’s my baby,” she crooned, then raised her voice. “It’s just me, Guinie,” she sing-songed. “And I’ve brought company.” She turned the knob, and walked in.

Turned the knob? Moira and Welker exchanged concerned looks before stepping in and receiving head-butts from the oldest, grumpiest looking dog Welk had ever seen. The pup’s girth made it seem like she might have been living on cheese and crackers, as well.

The pooch received her requisite head scratches, farted, then turned to huff and puff her way down a hall.

Moira gave a half-laugh after that explosive exit, but she wasn’t going to let the cause of their combined consternation, go. “Margaret, you don’t lock your door?” she asked, beating Welk to the punch.

Margaret laughed. “Seriously? Of course not. I’ve lived here for over seventy years, and nobody’s bothered me yet.”

“Yet, being the operative word, Margaret,” Welker added dourly.

“You officers are far too suspicious.” She fluffed them off. “I listen to the news. Did you know there were less than two-tenths of a percentage of break-ins in Maine households last year? That is a higher chance than getting hit by lightning, but not nearly as bad as the odds of dying in a car crash.”

Welker and Moira looked at each other, blinked, then convulsed in merriment.

Margaret was proving to be quite the pistol.

“Margaret, you’re right, but we’d both feel better if you promise to lock your door from now on.” Welker sighed, coming slowly down off his laughing jag.

“Well,” she shrugged, “since the two of you are taking pity on an old woman and keeping me company, I guess I can comply.” She beckoned them toward a doorway that led into a perfect, jaw-dropping 50’s kitchen, complete with green pastel GE appliances, and a Kelvinator fridge.

“Wow. These all work?” Moira asked incredulously as she and Welker placed the food on a black and chrome kitchen table and stared.

“Of course, dear,” Margaret answered, opening a drawer that was overflowing with all kinds of junk. She began digging around. “Now where could they be…?”

“What?” Welker asked, distractedly, still gaping around in awe.

“My house keys. I know they’re here somewhere.”

Welker didn’t bother with a censorious comeback. He knew it wouldn’t do any good, and besides, Margaret was clearly trying to comply with their request.

“Aha!” she finally acclaimed. “Here they are.”

The keyring she withdrew held four keys, and advertised a kind of root beer that Welker had never heard of. How long, exactly, had her locks been out of circulation?

She pulled off two. “One for you,” she held it out to Moira. “And one for you.” She offered Welker the second, then tugged off a third and tucked it into the purse she’d set onto the white Formica counter, that… Yes, had boomerangs on it.

“Now we all have the proper access, so in case I need you for anything, you’ll be able to get in.”

Welker pocketed his key. “I’m going to make sure the lock still works,” he told them as he headed back toward the door.

“If it’s stuck, there’s some spray lubricant in the cellarway,” Margaret called out.

Of course there was. Welker shook his head in amusement and left the ladies to cook.

Twenty minutes later, with the gaseous Lady Guinevere as his helper, the newly greased lock worked perfectly, and the scent of deliciousness—which had eventually overtaken the flatulence odor—drew him back to the kitchen.

“Smells good,” he said, eyeing the pans on the stove, appreciatively.

“I’ve never cooked in cast iron before,” Moira marveled, “but now I’m going to have to get some. It sure beats all the nonstick crap I’ve been using.”

Welker’s mother had several old, black skillets which she guarded jealously. Welk, her favorite son—her only son—had never been able to cajole her into gifting him one. Maybe once she met Moira…

Nope. Sabira, to Welker’s knowledge, hadn’t been able to get her hands on any, either

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