Page 14 of Too Old for This

It’s possible Kelsie and I were raised with different manners. For example, I learned that when visiting someone’s house, it’s customary to consume the drink you are offered and then leave, unless you are offered a second helping. I did not make that offer to Kelsie.

“This coffee is so good,” she says.

“Is it? I think it’s Colombian, but I’d have to check.” I don’t move. Kelsie has eaten two of the not-so-tasty cookies, and she reaches for a third. “I could text you the brand, if you’d like.”

“That would be great! Do you mind if I have a little more? Half a cup would be perfect.”

She stands up and gets it herself. I watch as she pours, her eyes scanning the kitchen counter and sink. Nothing interesting to see there.

“You know, I never have enough time to make myself coffee at home.” Kelsie sits back down and blows on the coffee before taking a sip. “I always get it at the station.”

“Is it good?”

“Terrible,” she says. “But it has caffeine, so it works.”

“I remember the first cup of coffee I ever had. My mom used to make a whole pot. And one day, when I was in high school, I poured a little into a mug and…” I ramble on, continuing the story while keeping an eye on her reaction.

Boredom and frustration are common reactions.

Nobody wants to listen to me for that long.

Our stories are not as fascinating as we think they are.

At least, not the ones we choose to tell.

“My first reaction to caffeine was like that, too,” she says. “My mind was so alert and awake, and I studied for hours. I think I’ve been hooked ever since.”

“Things do change a bit when you get older. I drink far less than I used to.”

“But you still make a full pot?”

I look away, like she caught me doing something wrong. “Silly, isn’t it? Old habits die hard, I suppose.”

“Have your sleeping habits changed? I remember my grandmother used to go to bed very early. Even when I was a kid.”

In my head, I do the math. Biologically, it’s possible I could have a twenty-nine-year-old grandchild. “My habits have changed a few times over the years.”

“When Plum came to your house, was that late for you?”

“Let me think…It’s been a couple of weeks. Okay, when she came by, I was still watching TV, so I wasn’t in bed or anything. It was before nine o’clock.”

Kelsie nods. “That’s your bedtime? Same with my grandma.”

She is testing me for something. I’m willing to play along and figure out what. “You know, I just wish I could remember if she said anything that would be helpful.”

“Plum really never said where she was headed?”

I shake my head in frustration. “If she did, I can’t remember it.”

“But you remember that bruise? You’re clear about that?”

“Yes. It was so striking, and so odd. That really stuck with me, because I thought she might be hurt,” I say.

She taps her thumb against the teacup. “I spent a long time at the airport yesterday. Last night, too.”

“Yes?”

“I was looking for anyone who might have seen Plum. The parking lot, the terminal, the ticket counter.”

“I can’t remember the last time I was at the airport.”

“It hasn’t changed. The Salem airport is really small. It’s not like Portland or Seattle.”

“So did anyone see her?”

“No.” She pulls out her phone and shows me a photo of Plum. The same one is all over the news. “I showed this to everyone who works there. No one remembers seeing her.”

“So baffling, isn’t it?”

“I showed them another photo as well.”

Kelsie swipes the screen and lays the phone down on the table. The picture of me is from my driver’s license.

—

The closest I ever came to killing a cop was a parking enforcement officer. I’ve never killed a detective. Now I can envision eighteen different ways to do it right here in my kitchen, starting with bashing in Kelsie’s skull with the teapot.

Instead, I squint my eyes at that picture. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand what?”

“Why you were showing my photo around the airport.” No anger in my voice. I keep it all contained inside my body.

“Lottie, I’m sure you understand that we have to look into everything. You were the last person to speak to her. We have to take a closer look.”

“Well, I suppose that makes sense.”

I smile and shrug, like nothing about this bothers me.

On the one hand, it doesn’t. If she had found something, this interview would be taking place at the station instead of at my home. And Kelsie wouldn’t be conducting it alone.

But on the other hand, I don’t know what she knows about me or about my past. I’m afraid to ask without tipping her off.

She does not stick around for a third cup of coffee. I escort her to the door, still using the walker, and again tell her to just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.

“I will. Thank you, Lottie.”

“Anytime.”

It’s a little painful to watch her walk away. But now is not the time to get stupid.

I peek through the window and scribble down her license plate number. After she drives away, I fold up the walker, take off the glasses, and sit down in my recliner. This is yet another time when I need to sit still.

It’s exactly what she doesn’t want me to do. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have said a word. Kelsie wants me to panic, do something stupid, maybe lead her straight to Plum.

I’m too old for all that. Panic is bad for my heart.