Page 3 of Too Old for This
“Your story is exactly what we do,” she says. “Weinvestigate old crimes and compare what we know now to how it was reported then. You lost your job, your family, probably all your friends. And the names they called you were so horrible! The media acted like you were some kind of she-devil.”
She-devil.They did call me that, along with “that woman serial killer” and sometimes “the psycho bitch.” It all happened before the internet. The era of tabloid journalism was a precursor of things to come.
“How’s your tea?” I ask.
“Lottie, I want to tell the story of what happened when you were wrongfully accused of a crime. You were tried and convicted by the public without ever being arrested, and I want to focus on what that was like for you.”
“Why would I want you to dredge all that up? The world has forgotten about me. I moved on years ago.”
“Did you?” she says. Plum glances around my ancient kitchen, in the house where I live alone. To someone like her, Bluebell Lane probably feels like the end of the world.
This girl has some bite. Good for her.
“Let me be very clear,” I say. “I don’t want this brought up again, and I don’t want a docuseries made about me.”
“I’m not going to blame you for the murders or claim that you should’ve been arrested. I want to exonerate you once and for all. And just so you know, I plan to make the series anyway.”
That’s a new piece of information.
Plum has aquamarine eyes. Clear, translucent, beautiful. Long, natural lashes and rosy cheeks. The glow of youth radiates out of every pore.
For a moment, I imagine the series she has described. Anaccused murderer—me—is absolved, cleared, exculpated. An elderly woman who was the victim of a system that got it all wrong.
But I don’t believe in fairy tales. If she made this show and put me all over the internet, that isn’t how it would end. Not for me.
I stand up. “Silly me, I forgot the napkins. But please continue. I’m listening.”
“If you agree to an interview, we can do it right here at your house. I’m flexible about time. We can break it up into a few different interviews or do it all at once. Whatever you prefer.”
“You live around here?”
“In Seattle. But I can come down anytime, and I’ll bring a cameraman with me.”
“Good to know.” I reach into the corner, to the stand near the back door, and pick up my old umbrella. “Why don’t you show me some clips of what you’ve done before?”
Plum buries her head in her phone, scrolling to find something to show me. I stand behind her and lift the umbrella above my head.
She looks up.
Unfortunately for Plum, she sees it coming.
CHAPTER 2
I lean against the counter, feeling a little winded.
Plum is on the floor, the blood from her head is a bright red spot on the black-and-white tile. It was disappointing that I had to hit her twice. But in my defense, I wasn’t prepared for this tonight.
First, the cleanup. If I’m one minute late, that blood in the grout is going to be a problem.
I rummage around for a plastic grocery bag. They’re in short supply these days; everything is reusable. I find one stuffed deep in the back of a drawer and wrap it around Plum’s head, tying it at the neck to prevent her blood from spreading farther.
With that done, I push her body aside.
Hydrogen peroxide gets rid of what’s left. I’ve known for decades that neither bleach nor ammonia is good enough. You have to use peroxide. But I suppose all of that is on the internet these days.
Next, Plum’s car keys. They’re in her pocket. I head outside and find her little silver compact parked on the half-circle driveway, right in front of the house. The inside does not look like an airplane cockpit. The car is an economical model without all the bells and whistles.
Plum has quite a bit of stuff in her car. Empty coffee cup, bottled iced tea, trash left over from lunch, and some clothing. It looks like she changed her shirt right before knocking on my door.
