Page 96 of Too Old for This
“Busy, as you can imagine. But she has a place picked out and finalized the menu, so now she’s just dealing with smaller things. It’s all such a rush.”
“Pregnancy does that,” Bonnie says. I can hear her tapping the edge of her mug. Though she quit smoking years ago, she still taps her fingers whenever she wants a cigarette.
“She’s gone now. Left this morning.”
“I see.”
Silence.
Finally, Bonnie asks. “Are you going to tell me about this finger thing?”
I laugh. Not a chuckle, a full-blown laugh. “The finger thing? Oh God, I forgot Morgan brought that up. My granddaughter is in a church play down in California. She mentioned it to me on the phone last week, and I was trying to help with some props.”
“You didn’t mention Olive last night.”
“I didn’t? I was sure I did. There was just so much going on.”
There is an art to gaslighting. First, give it a minute. Second, it works pretty well on people my age.
“I had no idea Olive went to church,” Bonnie says.
“She does. And she told me about how fake the Halloween fingers look, so I was trying to make one look more realistic. Morgan found it.”
“For God’s sake, you should’ve told us that last night. Sheila and I have been trying to figure out what play you were talking about.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll call her right now and tell her whathappened.” I hang up, take a deep breath, and prepare myself to tell the story again.
That damn finger.
CHAPTER 52
My house is cleaner than it has been in years. The floors are scrubbed, including the baseboards; every room upstairs has been vacuumed; and the bathrooms smell like pine and ammonia.
Delia Crane arrives first thing in the morning. According to the internet, she is one of the top real estate agents in town and has sold three houses on Bluebell Lane.
Between Burke and the incident with the finger, I’ve hit my breaking point. No more procrastinating. I need to sell this house and move into a retirement community. I’ve been making too many mistakes, missing too many things, and they’re the kind that could land me in prison or in a cemetery.
“Mrs.Jones,” she says, clasping my hand between both of hers. “It is such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve admired your house for a long time.”
Delia is a bit overwhelming in person. She is tall and thin, as sleek as the expensive car she drives. Her dress is a black shift accessorized with wide gold bracelets, dangly earrings, and a crocodile bag with a chain-link strap. Both her nails and her shoes are pointy.
She walks into the foyer and looks around. “This is incredible.”
“Thank you. I really haven’t done much.”
“It’s a bit like a time capsule, isn’t it?”
When I bought the house, I didn’t need anything this big orimpressive. But I was flush with cash from the city of Spokane and did it anyway. Major renovations were never an option, but calling it atime capsuleis going a bit far. “Let me give you the tour. We can start right here, in the formal sitting room.”
“I haven’t seen one of these in a while.” She walks around, not commenting on the furniture or the décor. “Do you know which walls are load-bearing?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She nods, taking a moment to stare at the flocked wallpaper. I had to stop Archie from picking at it when we first moved in.
Next, the family room. As soon as Delia sees the fireplace, she asks if the house has central heating.
“Just the fireplace down here,” I say. “The bedrooms upstairs have electric wall heaters.”
