Page 34 of Too Old for This
The bingo game begins, and we whisper about the food. Someone else brought spinach dip—thank goodness it wasn’t me. The desserts are lacking as well. Compared to Bonnie’s amazing cupcakes last week, tonight’s offerings are so boring. This evening feels so normal, just another night at church, that I’ve almost stopped myself from wondering if it’s one of my last.
Yet again, I manage to play multiple rounds of bingo without winning a thing. In all the years I’ve been coming to this game, I’ve only won twice. Sheila and Bonnie have always been kind enough not to point out my bad luck. So I’m very surprised when my name is called out during the break.
“Lottie Jones,” Glenda says. “You are the winner of tonight’s raffle.”
Sheila and I had been so busy gossiping about tonight’s food I never heard about the prize. When I collect it, Glenda smiles and hands me an envelope.
“Congratulations.”
The gift is from a spa. Inside, I find a certificate for an antiaging facial. I look up to see Glenda holding her camera.
“Say cheese!”
I turn my head just in time. All she gets is a shot of my grey hair and the back of my sweater.
Glenda pushes out her lower lip and pouts. “But we have to put you in the newsletter. You know we always put our raffle winners in—”
“You can just use my name. Nobody needs to see a picture of me.”
It’s been forty years since my picture was in the news. Ilook nothing like I used to, but I still won’t take a chance. Not even for the church newsletter.
CHAPTER 18
Nothing is more boring than money. You would think the only people who say that are rich, but it isn’t true. I am not wealthy and never have been; that settlement from the city went right into buying my house. Yet money is still boring to me. Maybe because I spent so much time working at a bank.
Not once did I think about stealing any of it. Perhaps if I had been unable to put food on the table or keep a roof over Archie’s head, I would’ve done it out of desperation. But not for the thrill, because there isn’t any in money. The stakes aren’t high enough.
However…
Now that I’m being blackmailed, my opinion has changed. Why didn’t I do the boring thing and get a little extra for myself? It feels so silly that I ignored the opportunity.
I spend some time going through my meager accounts—checking, savings, a small retirement fund—and come up with $9,000. That’s how much I can cobble together for Kelsie without dipping into my house or jeopardizing my ability to eat or turn on the lights for a few more years. $50,000 is out of the question.
But I’m not giving up yet, which is why I’m sitting in a coffee shop, resisting the urge to scratch my head. This wig is so itchy. It’s muddy brown and cut in a bob. The rest of my clothes are equally boring, and my sunglasses keep slipping down. I hate every second of this.
Cops do it all the time, but they call it a stakeout. A lot of killers stalk their victims, and the ones who do seem to enjoy it. My point is, there are people who enjoy stalking and people who don’t. I’m one of the latter.
Yet here I am, sitting across from a yoga studio and waiting to see where Kelsie goes next. The grocery store? One of those superstores? Or maybe she will go right home.
Over the last few days, I’ve learned that most of Kelsie’s life revolves around work or exercise. On Saturday, she played in a community softball game. Sunday morning, she went for a long bike ride with friends, then spent the whole afternoon at the police station. Today after work, she headed straight to the yoga studio. I have yet to see her at a bar or restaurant or a movie.
I also haven’t seen any indication that she knows I’m following her. Like everyone else, she is buried in her phone most of the time, even while walking to and from her car.
What I do know is that if I’m going to kill her, it can’t be at my house. My house can’t be the last place Kelsie visits before she dies. Even a rookie cop would find the connection between Plum and Kelsie.
That stipulation, the need to kill her somewhere else, presents a problem. So far, I haven’t found a single opportunity.
Kelsie leaves the yoga studio, a purple mat tucked under her arm, and I walk outside and get into my own car. I’m careful to stay a few lengths behind hers. An easy task, since shedrives a little car that looks like a scoop of lemon ice. I can spot her anywhere.
She goes home, which is a small cottage owned by her grandmother. Property records gave me that information, along with her grandmother’s current address. She now lives at Merrydale, a full-service nursing home for people who need a lot more care than a retirement home provides. It’s not a cheap place.
Kelsie parks in the driveway, and I pull over a few houses down. It’s only seven o’clock. Someone as young as she is may still head out this evening. Once again, I am stuck in my car, which is comfortable enough for short drives but has nothing on my recliner.
At this point, I would use poison if I could. Just to get it over with. But I have no way of getting close enough without her seeing me. Not unless I break into her house.
Like stalking, breaking into someone’s house is not one of my skills. This thing with Kelsie is teaching me how small my wheelhouse is. And how out of shape I am. If I sit here all night waiting for her to go somewhere, I may not be able to get out of the car. That’s how stiff my joints will be. My only choice is to leave.
As soon as I get back home, I grab the ibuprofen. There must be a law about how many can be taken at one time, and I’m sure I break it. After that, I check my phone. It stays at home when I follow Kelsie.
