Page 8 of Too Old for This
“Is it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. I’m just trying to get hold of her.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. But I’m sure she’s fine. Plum struck me as being quite determined.”
Cole laughs a little. “She is that. Okay, thank you, Mrs.Jones. I really appreciate your time.”
“Not a problem. If I think of anything else, I’ll be sure and let you know. Feel free to call if you have any more questions.”
CHAPTER 5
What did I forget? What did I miss?
At the airport, I wore a hat, kept my head down to avoid cameras, but did anyone recognize me? And that cabdriver. I had him drop me off at the wrong house, then walked home. Did he see that? Did my neighbors? Does he keep accurate records?
What if there’s some other electronic gadget I missed? Something in her body, perhaps. Don’t they make those now? A chip that was embedded, now reduced to ash, and somewhere in the cloud my house is logged as the final location.
Did I leaveanythingbehind in the car? I wore gloves the whole time, so there won’t be any fingerprints. But what about a stray hair? A fiber? Something on the bottom of my shoes?
No, no, no. I’m being silly. Everything’s fine. It’sfine.
Plum’s ashes are in a metal bucket. I’ve gone through them, picking out the bone fragments and teeth to crush and pulverize. Other than the ashes, the only thing left of Plum is the file. And no one is ever going to see that.
After a few days of this mental merry-go-round, I get a little tired of thinking about Plum. Between her body and the car and the electronics, she has dominated my life. Rush, rush, rush, get everything done.
Now I am stuck in the lull.
It’s sort of like being in the eye of a hurricane. The first part of the storm has blown through—the murder, thebody—and now there’s a period of calm until the back side of the storm arrives. Sometimes it never arrives. It all depends on how well I did the first part.
The lull gives me too much time to think.
What about the police? Do they know yet? Has Cole called them? Have they found her car? Will they be able to search flight records? Does that require a subpoena? Do they even know why Plum came to see me? Does Cole?
I’ve never been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, but the lull can make me feel like I have one. My brain becomes a machine that spits out endless questions and worries.
Ridiculous, I know. And I don’t have time for it. I need to get ready for church.
—
Twice a week, I go to First Covenant Church. Sundays are the serious day, and Thursdays are for bingo, a raffle, and a potluck of refreshments. Homemade is preferred. Anything store-bought is frowned upon.
The bingo game has already started when I arrive. Glenda greets me at the snack table. She is our event coordinator, a title she probably made up herself. The garish floral dress she is wearing looks exactly like all her other garish dresses.
Glenda turns her nose up at my dish.
“Spinach dip. Again.”
She places it at the end of the table, near the desserts, in the worst possible place for a dip. The thing about Glenda is she’s so blunt that it’s hard to fault her for it. I accept, and even appreciate, that she is incapable of lying. It’s like she can’t help being the way she is.
I suppose none of us can. Not really.
Sheila and Bonnie like to sit in the middle row near the center aisle, with a view of everyone and everything. Both are around my age, give or take a few years, though it doesn’t matter at this point. To the rest of the world, we’re so old we all have one foot in the grave. Strange, since I don’t feel dead.
More than once, someone has asked if Bonnie and I are sisters. We both have grey hair, pale wrinkled skin, and light eyes. Sheila has dark skin with fewer wrinkles, brown eyes, and thick white hair. She is wearing her lucky sweater, a gift from one of her grandchildren, and Bonnie has a new pair of bingo earrings on. They match the pendant around her neck.
I feel a little dowdy in my old slacks, plain blouse, and bulky cardigan. On Thursdays, I usually make a point of dressing up a little and putting on my face. Tonight, I was lucky to remember lip balm. My hair is braided, though. That keeps me from looking too scraggly.
Bonnie grabs my cup of fruit punch, and it disappears under the table, where she keeps her flask. It’s a beautiful old thing, sterling silver and hand-engraved with her late husband’s initials. Alcohol is strictly forbidden at church events, a stupid rule considering we are way over the age of consent.
