Page 17 of Too Old for This

I do know what the word shakedown means. Extortion, blackmail, bribery…In this case, they all mean the same thing.

“What if I call your partner and tell him about this?” I ask.

“Go ahead, call Tula. Call the chief of police if you want. First, it will be your word against mine. They don’t know who you are, but I’ll be sure and tell them.” Kelsie pauses to smile at me. “You can guess which one of us they’ll believe.”

I can. And I don’t like it.

“Second, your identity will get leaked to the press. The police won’t be the only ones that know who you are. Everyone will. Imagine how surprised your church friends will be. What will they think when they learn you were the last one Plum talked to?”

Yes, I can see how the dots connect.

On the table in front of me, there’s a figurine I’ve always hated. It was a gift from an old colleague who had terrible taste in tchotchkes. I imagine picking it up and smashing it in Kelsie’s face. Maybe poking out an eye. Or shoving it in her ear.

I wonder if that’s even possible.

As pleasurable as this fantasy is, killing someone else in my house is not the smartest move right now.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Is it really so difficult to figure out? You must know that cops don’t make a lot of money.”

Of course. I just wanted her to say it. “Perhaps you didn’t do enough investigating. I don’t have a lot of money, either.”

“But you have this house. I’m sure you can get a second mortgage. Or, what’s it called, a reverse mortgage?” Kelsie stands up, smoothing down her jacket, and she grabs her phone. “I’ll show myself out. Don’t bother with that whole walker thing.”

“Why don’t we—”

“Fifty thousand dollars. That’s what you owe me.”

The number hangs over my head like a bounty. “Impossible. There’s no way I can pay you that much.”

“Then find a way to get it. I’ll check in with you next week. That should give you enough time to arrange everything.” She flounces out the front door, slamming it shut behind her.

It’s painful to admit I did not see that coming.

The reality is I am woefully inexperienced when it comes to the police. After I moved here and changed my name, the people I killed were strangers. We had no known connection. The police didn’t show up the way they did after Plum.

My earlier experience, with Detective Burke, was valuable. It made me better, though clearly not perfect. But the thing about blind spots is that, by definition, you can’t see them. And mine have gotten me into trouble.

I remain in the sitting room long after she is gone, thinking about how I’m going to kill her. So many ways come to mind.

Gun. Knife. Blunt force. Fire. Strangulation. Poison.

That last one might be the cleanest, but it’s my least favorite. I tried it once at a bar, where it was easy to slip into someone’s drink. Strychnine, cyanide, arsenic…any of them will do, though I believe cyanide works the fastest.

I stuck around until the man collapsed and watched a bartender try to revive him. The paramedics didn’t arrive until he was already dead.

Such a passive way to kill someone.

There’s nothing quite like wielding a hammer, a crowbar, or even an umbrella. Poison doesn’t have the same satisfaction, that feeling of taking care of things myself, with my own hands. Nothing else like it.

But the best part is the sound.

It always reminds me of my father. Whenever he and my mother got into a fight or he had a terrible day at work, he would go out to the backyard.

It was just a patch of overgrown weeds and some grass, but he had set up a net in the corner.

Pitched it just like a tent and attached the bottom edge to the ground.

That was my dad’s makeshift batting cage.

He had just enough room to throw a baseball into the air, swing the bat, and hit the ball into the net. Over and over and over. Getting all that anger out.

I never went out there when he was using it, but I watched. I sat in the family room with my knees on the couch, elbows propped up on the windowsill, and I watched as he exhausted himself. Sometimes he did it late at night, too. I would lie in bed and listen to him hit the baseball.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

It was the same sound Gary’s head made when he fell in the shower.

—

It’s true, the phyllo tartlet shells are store-bought. But I was up at four in the morning making dozens of cheesy chicken salad tartlets for tonight. I could’ve waited until later in the day to do it, but there was no point in lying in bed, tossing and turning, so I got up and started cooking.

Glenda, in her magenta dress with the flocked flowers, doesn’t know or care about any of this. In a glance, she knows the tartlet shells are not hand-rolled.

“These look tasty,” she says. “And simple.”

“Hope you like them.”

Before walking away, I wonder how Glenda would react if she knew that I had been accused of murder. Would her mouth twist up into a pucker, like she had just sucked on a lemon? Would her eyebrows shoot so high they’d end up in the middle of her forehead?

Or maybe Glenda would refuse to look at me altogether. That would be the worst.

I tried not to let Kelsie get into my head, but she got in there anyway. Now I can’t stop imagining what would happen if she did expose me. Would I lose every friend, every acquaintance? Even my church?

Like Mr.Porter over there, who can only see out of one eye and has to get a ride everywhere.

If he knew about me, would he turn down a ride if I offered?

And what about Dorie, who always has a kind word for everyone, no matter how obnoxious or offensive they may be?

Would I be her breaking point? Would she give me the silent treatment?

I bet she would.

It wouldn’t just be my life, either. Archie’s would be torn apart as well. The media would try to get to him the same way they’d try to get to me. All those podcasters and reporters and influencers are always looking for something new.

Would it be as bad as before?

No. Yes.

Worse, probably. When everybody has a camera in their pocket, anyone can be the villain. All it takes is the right angle.

Sheila waves to me from our regular table, halting my mental spiral. She smiles as I walk over, having no idea who her friend really is. Before I can ask what she brought tonight, she asks if I’ve heard from Bonnie.

“No, why?”

“I got a text from her an hour ago. There’s some problem with Danielle. Bonnie has to babysit her kids.”

Is it weird Bonnie texted Sheila but not me?

I stop myself from answering that question. Paranoia won’t help anything.

“Danielle has three kids now, right?” I say. “With two different fathers?” Bonnie had Danielle later in life, so she’s maybe around thirty. And her children are very young.

“Baby daddies,” Sheila says. “That’s what they’re called now.”

I cannot possibly be expected to keep up with whatever words are popular today. It’s hard enough to maintain the vocabulary I have.

The bingo game begins, and we whisper about the food.

Someone else brought spinach dip—thank goodness it wasn’t me.

The desserts are lacking as well. Compared to Bonnie’s amazing cupcakes last week, tonight’s offerings are so boring.

This evening feels so normal, just another night at church, that I’ve almost stopped myself from wondering if it’s one of my last.

Yet again, I manage to play multiple rounds of bingo without winning a thing. In all the years I’ve been coming to this game, I’ve only won twice. Sheila and Bonnie have always been kind enough not to point out my bad luck. So I’m very surprised when my name is called out during the break.

“Lottie Jones,” Glenda says. “You are the winner of tonight’s raffle.”

Sheila and I had been so busy gossiping about tonight’s food I never heard about the prize. When I collect it, Glenda smiles and hands me an envelope.

“Congratulations.”

The gift is from a spa. Inside, I find a certificate for an antiaging facial. I look up to see Glenda holding her camera.

“Say cheese!”

I turn my head just in time. All she gets is a shot of my grey hair and the back of my sweater.

Glenda pushes out her lower lip and pouts. “But we have to put you in the newsletter. You know we always put our raffle winners in—”

“You can just use my name. Nobody needs to see a picture of me.”

It’s been forty years since my picture was in the news. I look nothing like I used to, but I still won’t take a chance. Not even for the church newsletter.