Page 38 of Too Old for This
“Lottie?”
“Hello, Detective. I wanted to stop by and give you something. May I come in?”
“How did you get my address?”
“The internet.”
Her face tightens, and she purses her lips as she opens the door. I step into a small entryway that opens to a family room. On the right is a hallway leading to the back of the house. Her house is overfilled, cluttered with clothes and sneakers and books. Every surface is covered with something.
I follow her through the family room, into the kitchen. An island separates the two, and the linoleum floor looks at least twenty years old.
“I hope you have a lot more than last time,” she says.
I reach into my bag and pull out another full envelope. Shesnatches it out of my hand and opens it, running her finger over the hundred-dollar bills.
“It’s another forty-five hundred,” I say. “I wanted to bring it to you straight away.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why are you so anxious to pay me?”
“Because it seems like you need it.”
Kelsie takes a step back, as if I’ve physically hit her, and it doesn’t look like she’s faking it. She must believe her desperation doesn’t show. But it always does.
“What are you up to?” she asks.
“Up to? I’m trying my best to get you the money.”
“Then where’s the rest?”
“Still working on it.”
“Work harder.” Her voice is different. Sharper and clipped.
She points to the door, ordering me out like I’m the help instead of someone who has given her $9,000.
“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” I ask. “It’s time for me to take one of my pills. Cholesterol…No, wait. This one is for blood pressure. I swear, it’s always something at my age. So many medications.”
Kelsie rolls her eyes and grabs a glass out of the cupboard. As she fills it up, I reach into my bag, but not for a pill. For my claw hammer.
She sees it a second too late.
—
My preference for this weapon came from Debbie. I never knew anything about tools or hammers or how many kinds there were until she taught me. Debbie is one of the few people who has a spot on my list of life milestones. Gary was thebiggest one, but there were others. I think about them in my most sentimental I’m-nearly-dead moments.
Before and after Gary.
Before and after Archie.
Before and after Burke.
Before and after Debbie.
She was selling some used furniture, and I stopped by her house to look at it. Archie had outgrown his bed, desk, and chair. It was all too little-boyish for him. He had reached the mature age of twelve and didn’t want all that “baby” stuff. Debbie’s son was getting ready to leave for college, and she planned to turn his room into an office. It worked out well for the both of us.
She was about ten years older than me and was in excellent shape. She wore cutoff jeans and a tight shirt, and she had a tattoo of a bird on her arm. The wrinkles on her face and neck had settled in, but her eyes had something in them. Not a spark. More like a magnet.
She also had a hammer slung in the belt loop of her denim shorts. I asked why she walked around with it.
