Page 57 of Power of the Mind

Winifred checked her watch again and glanced over her shoulder into the living room. Jane was doing something provocative with her hips that I wasn’t sure passed for exercise—or a PG rating for that matter—but what did I know?

“All right. I suppose we can chat. Let me turn off Jane.”

Winifred turned and jog-bounced toward her TV. She got three steps and pivoted, not missing a beat. She had barely broken a sweat and breathed easily. “Now, hold on. Don’t take this wrong, but I shouldn’t invite strange gentlemen into my house without seeing some ID. You understand? Anyone can claim to be an investigator, but I think I’ll need to ask for proof first.”

“Absolutely. No problem.” I nudged the brick wall beside me, but he didn’t move. “ID,” I hissed under my breath.

“What? Forget yours again?” he mumbled.

“Diem. I will sit on your lap and make you discuss your feelings if you don’t show this lovely woman your ID.”

Diem couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if he tried. Without arguing, he unearthed his wallet and displayed his credentials.

Still jogging in place, Winifred examined them.

“I left mine in the car,” I explained. She didn’t seem all that concerned.

“Did someone hire you to look into Allan’s death?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s Winnie, sweetie pie. Ma’am makes me feel like a grandmother.”

“It’s a personal investigation.”

“Are you family?” She seemed skeptical.

“No. We’re looking into a few incongruities.”

Winifred handed Diem back his ID and waved us in. “Have a seat in the kitchen. I’ll be right there.”

Jane’s obsessive counting stopped as Diem and I took chairs at a four-seater dinette. Winifred appeared, no longer bouncing, and aimed for the fridge. “You don’t mind if I make myself a smoothie while you talk, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“All you have is your health, boys. Gotta take care of your body. Life’s too short to begin with. I told Allan that all the time. He was hard to convince.” She piled a bunch of spinach and a handful of strawberries onto a cutting board before plucking a banana and mango from a nearby bowl. From a high cupboard, she removed a glass jar of honey.

“Were you friends with Allan?” I asked.

“Oh, we were more than friends, if you know what I mean. Now, don’t be thinking we were a couple. It wasn’t like that. It was casual as you please. In my younger days, that would have gone over like a sinking ship, but it’s acceptable today, and Allan and I had an informal agreement. What do you kids call it?”

Fuck buddies, but I wasn’t about to say that out loud. “Um… I don’t know.”

Winifred snapped her fingers. “Friends with benefits. That’s it. We were friends with benefits.”

Diem groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“That’s… great. So, um… Yeah, moving along. You told the magazine reporter that you didn’t think Allan killed himself.”

“Well, of course he did, but not without influence. No siree-bob. Not my Allan. He wasn’t suicidal.” Winifred added the chopped spinach, strawberries, banana, mango, and honey into the blender before digging almond milk from the fridge and free pouring.

“Now, see, Allan was having some minor health struggles. Arthritis can be a real bitch to deal with, pardon my language. You never know who’s going to get hit with those types of problems, and Allan’s joints would swell up something fierce. Especially if the weather changed. The heat was particularly bad. So, I introduced him to healthier eating and exercise. People underestimate what a good diet and cardio can do for the body. But poor Allan suffered regardless. I won’t lie. Sometimes, when we were having a little roll in the hay in the middle of the afternoon, he would complain about my being too rambunctious. He said his old joints couldn’t keep up.”

Diem made a choking noise in his throat, and because I knew the surly man well enough by now, I stepped on his foot before he made an unsavory comment. I didn’t want to imagine fifty-six-year-old Winifredrolling in the hayany more than he did.

Winifred pointed a paring knife in our direction. “Now don’t you laugh. I’m a firecracker in the sack. Did you know some women don’t hit their sexual peak until their early forties?”

“Can’t say I did.”

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