Page 63 of Too Old for This
My call to Norma goes unanswered, and I’m sent back to the hotel operator. She asks if I want to leave a message. I hold my phone up to the speaker on the computer, scroll through my prerecorded responses, and clickPlay.
The same male voice says, “Can you try the lobby bar, please?”
“One moment.”
It takes several rings for anyone to pick up. A young voice answers and gets straight to the point.
“Bar.”
Play.“I’m looking for a guest. Her name is Norma Dixon. She’s in her fifties, dark hair, looks like a smoker?”
“Hang on.”
I have no idea how busy the bar is on a Friday or how difficult it would be to find a customer. I sit on hold, no music, for two minutes.
“Hello?” a woman says. “This is Norma Dixon.”
Play.“Don’t believe him.”
“What? Who is this?”
“You can’t believe anything he says.”
“Who the hell is this?”
Norma sounds a little frantic. I pressPlayone last time. “Stop asking the wrong questions.”
Click.
I roll my eyes at myself. At the drama of it all. Norma seems to like questions and riddles and thinking too hard about inane encounters with strangers. This should keep her busy for a while.
It would be easier if I could kill her, but that isn’t an option right now. You can’t have multiple people die or disappear after stopping by your house. Even the worst detective would figure that out. But what I can do is try to confuse Norma and throw her suspicion somewhere else. Same thing I did with Tula.
The trick is not confusing myself. Given my recent mistake with the phone, I have to be extra careful.
That brings up another problem: how to keep track of everything without leaving a pile of evidence lying around. I can’t exactly put a handwritten list on my refrigerator.
Murder has become exhausting. If I were youngnowand I met Gary and went home with him, and if he said the same things to me…he might be alive. Or I would’ve called the police and told them he slipped. I wouldn’t have walked away—not with cameras in the bars, phone tracking, GPS, traffic cams. They would find me. I wouldn’t be able to deny I was with him or that I went to his house. On top of allthat…the DNA, hair, fibers, body fluids, fingerprints, and who knows what else.
With a sigh, I put on a pair of plastic gloves and take out another new purchase: a box of note cards. Cheap, blank, plain white. I use my printer for the message, which seems like the best way. Handwriting is risky, and so is cutting out letters and pasting them together like a TV serial killer.
But like all electronic gadgets, the printer is a tricky beast. It takes me three tries to position the message in the center of the card.
CHAPTER 35
Sheila and Bonnie were serious about going to lunch. After Sunday service, we head to our favorite family-style restaurant. Bonnie persuades the hostess to give us a booth in the far corner, away from all the children. A rather impressive feat on a weekend.
The restaurant has kept some of the old diner customs in place, like the overturned coffee cups on the table. We turn them right side up, and a waitress comes by to fill them. The menu is much different, though. Not as much grease. All three of us order the senior special: an egg-white omelet with spinach, no bacon or sausage, a fresh bowl of fruit, and whole grain toast, no butter.
I am the only one not wearing a dress or a hat. Sheila has been giving my outfit the evil eye all morning.
“Your behavior is concerning,” she says.
Bonnie places her hand on Sheila’s wrist. “What she means is, we’re concernedaboutyou.”
I shake my head, giving them a firm tsking. “You can stop with all the concern. I haven’t been diagnosed with anything other than old age. And since I live alone, I’ve decided it’s better to start making arrangements now, while I’m still in good health.”
Sheila purses her lips. Bonnie sips her coffee. At our age, the future is unpleasant to talk about.
