Page 16 of Too Old for This

The line at the pharmacy is outrageous. There ought to be a fast track for those of us who don’t have fifty-seven questions to ask and just want our meds.

Normally, I order online and have them delivered, but the internet pharmacy ran out because of shortages.

This is the only place in town I could find my brand of cholesterol pill.

Good thing I don’t need anything else, or I would be running all over town.

Eight people are in front of me. Most stare at their phones or at the screen mounted above the counter. The pharmacy knows two cashiers are not enough, so they’ve installed a TV to entertain everyone. A big indication that I’ll be waiting for a while.

A news anchor is talking about something that happened in Portland. I don’t know the details, but it has nothing to do with Plum. She hasn’t been mentioned since the original missing persons report. And I haven’t heard from Cole at all. If he’s smart, he has lawyered up and shut up.

No dead body, no sign of a crime, nothing more for the police to investigate. Plum Dixon will end up another person who disappeared and was never found, and she’ll stay that way. I believe that all the way up until I’m back home.

The knock at my door is not a surprise. But it is unwelcome.

Detective Kelsie Harlow hasn’t given up yet. She stands on my porch, again dressed in workout clothes and sneakers. I do not like the smile on her face. She may not look like Detective Burke, but she reminds me of him.

I fling open the door so hard it bangs into my walker.

“Detective, welcome back. I hope this means you found Plum?”

“We have not.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Please, come in.” Today, I lead her straight into the formal sitting room. No more cookies for Kelsie.

“This won’t take long,” she says. “Just a few more questions.”

“Of course. Anything I can do to help.”

She waits for me to get settled on the couch. The mood between us is different than it was the last time I saw her. She is all business, not even pretending to be friendly. And once again, Tula is nowhere to be found.

“May I ask why you use that walker?” she asks.

“I’m sorry?”

“You always use it at home, but when I saw you at the grocery store, you weren’t using it. You didn’t even have a cane.”

She slides her phone across the coffee table, showing me a picture of myself. I’m in the parking lot of the store, loading groceries into my trunk. It was taken yesterday when I bought food for this week’s church social.

Inside, I smile. She can follow me all she wants, but Kelsie still won’t find Plum.

“I have arthritis,” I say. “It’s the kind of thing that flares up.”

“So it ‘flares up’ when you’re at home?”

“Sometimes. Going up and down the stairs doesn’t help. But to answer your question…No, I did not have it with me yesterday. Perhaps you don’t realize this, but a shopping cart can also be used as a walker, so I don’t need to bring mine to the grocery store.”

The look on Kelsie’s face tells me she did not know this. She’s too young and able-bodied to think about such things.

“And as I’m sure you know, older people like me are always a target for muggings and purse snatchings, which is another reason why I don’t use it outside. I hate to look weaker than I already do.”

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.

The picture of me. The one taken on the steps of the police station, 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 would see 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?”

“I knew you were clever. And I bet you would do just about anything to keep your secrets, wouldn’t you?”

I tread carefully here, unsure what kind of trap she is setting. “Exactly what do you want?”

“Maybe I need to use words from your generation, just so we’re clear,” she says. “This is a shakedown.”