Page 31 of Too Old for This
Kelsie takes back her phone. Changes the subject. “When was the last time you were at the airport?”
“It’s been a while. I think it was when I went down to see my grandkids in California. But I flew out of Portland.”
“When was that?”
“The holidays.”
“Four months ago. And you’re sure that was the last time?” she says.
“If you need exact dates, I’ll have to dig back through my calendar. I do remember the last trip, though. They had the loveliest Christmas tree. All the lights were—”
“Can you take a look at this?” Kelsie slides her phone across the table again.
Another picture of me.
Thepicture of me. The one taken on the steps of the policestation, where I supposedly glared at the cameras in all my feathered-hair glory.
“Swipe to the next one,” she says.
I don’t want to, but it would be rude to refuse.
Lorena Mae Lansdale: Lady Psycho Killer?
The headline comes from the front page of a Spokane newspaper on July 3, 1985.
Kelsie does know.
She looks relaxed in my velvet chair, not perched on the edge like the first time she was here. Now she sits back farther, with her legs crossed, elbows on the armrests.
More importantly, she is here alone.
Tula did not come with her. Nor did she bring a uniformed cop or any crime scene techs. If she and the rest of the Salem Police Department were convinced that I did something to Plum, she would have a search warrant. Kelsie would be tossing my house upside down, looking for anything they could find to prove I did something to Plum. They wouldn’t give me a chance to hide or get rid of evidence.
But that isn’t happening, because she doesn’t have a body. She can’t prove a crime has been committed.
I put down her phone and sit back on the couch, as relaxed as she is.
And I wait.
Kelsie looks at me like she has proven something. I continue to wait until I am sure she has nothing else. Even if she tracked my phone on the night Plum disappeared, she wouldsee it was here all night. I wasn’t stupid enough to bring it with me to the airport.
“Do you have any other questions?” I ask.
Kelsie smiles. “I’m wondering if any of your friends know who you are. What about Pastor Doug? Does he know? For that matter, do your grandchildren know you are the infamous Lorena Mae Lansdale?”
No answer from me. But I feel a reaction in my heart.
“I had to dig pretty far to find your name change,” she says. “It was buried deep.”
“Because I was wrongfully accused of committing a crime. I don’t want anyone making assumptions without knowing the facts.”
“Is that right?” she says.
Puzzles are so tedious, especially when they’re bad. “Why don’t you just say what you want to say, Detective.”
“Plum called you before showing up at your house. I bet you didn’t want to be in her docuseries, you probably didn’t want her to make it. And you never mentioned your past to us, despite being exonerated,” she says. “Which means the one thing you don’t want is exposure.”
A dozen light bulbs go off in my head. It’s like a marquee up there. “This isn’t an official investigation, is it?”
