Page 59 of Too Old for This

Once again, my real estate agent arrives two minutes late. Delia shows up at my house looking as sharp as ever. The edge of her dress stops just above her knees. The hem looks like it was cut with pinking shears.

The man with her doesn’t look sharp, he looks pale and bloated with unkempt hair, oversize clothes, and sneakers.

He either has a lot of money or access to it, because he buys houses like mine in cash.

Delia says his name is Kelvin, but I find it hard to believe his mother agreed to that.

Not unless he has a sibling named Celsius.

Kelvin walks through my house muttering to himself and occasionally typing something into his phone. At one point, he walks out of the kitchen and into the backyard to take a call.

Delia tries to smile. “He’s a bit odd.”

“Is that what you call it?”

At no point does he walk into the sitting room. I make sure of that so the camera isn’t triggered on. Kelvin doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he doesn’t enter most of the rooms, preferring to glance in from the doorway.

But he does notice the broken door to the study. So does Delia.

“Was the door like that when I was here before?” she asks.

“It’s been like that for a long time. I kept meaning to get it fixed, but…” I shrug.

Kelvin has no reaction. Delia told me that he made a fortune in tech and has had trouble spending all the money. Real estate is his new addiction. Before that, he bought fast-food franchises and closed them. He’s still angry that his parents fed him so much of that junk as a kid.

“Is he going to tear my house down?” I ask.

“We just want him to make an offer. One offer will bring in more.”

After their walk-through, I leave them alone on the porch to talk before Kelvin gets into his ridiculous car and drives back to Portland. Delia fills me in on her plan to bring in two other investors, both of whom consider Kelvin to be competition.

“It’s all a big dick-swinging contest.” She side-eyes me, gauging my reaction to those words.

If Delia thinks she is going to shock me with a little profanity, she doesn’t know me very well. Lucky for her.

She leaves, her thumbs flying as she sends messages while walking to her car. Delia makes it sound like this house will sell in days, not weeks or months. I’m sure at a low enough price, it would. But I’m hoping it won’t come to that.

—

Norma: We’re having dinner again tonight .

Burke: You’re kidding?

Norma: I am not. I’m tired of this. I need answers. I can’t stay here forever .

Burke: Good, good. I’m so proud of you! You’ve got to bring up the names Marilyn and Walter. See how she reacts .

Norma: Mmhmm.

Burke: What does that mean?

Norma: It means I’ll try, okay?

Burke: …

Norma: That’s your advice? Three dots?

Burke: Are you okay?

Norma: Did you seriously just ask me that?

Burke: Calm down .

Well, there’s one reason why Burke is so obsessed with a forty-year-old case: He probably has a lot of time. He can’t have much luck with women if he talks to them like this.

Norma: I’m over this. And I’m over you telling me what to do.

Burke: All I’ve been trying to do is help .

Norma: So you’ve said .

Burke: Fine. What can I do to make this easier and more pleasant for you?

It takes all my strength not to throw the phone against the wall. I’ll bet if I searched the word patronizing on the internet, I’d see a picture of Burke.

Norma: I don’t need anything. I’ll be fine.

Burke: Of course you will. You’re going to get this psycho and find out what happened to Plum .

Psycho. We’re back to that, I see.

A good sign. He resorts to name-calling when he doesn’t have anything else. Burke didn’t have enough evidence to arrest me the first time, he doesn’t have it now, and his plan revolves around a camera in my house and coercing an unstable woman into entrapping me.

What he doesn’t have is real evidence, like the severed finger Morgan found in the freezer. Burke also doesn’t have my phone data. My son has the monopoly on that.

I put Norma’s phone down. The Dew Drop is not exactly a comfortable place to hang out, though it can be interesting. Since I’m not here to do any business, nobody cares who I am or why I’m staying here. That gives me a lot of time to watch, to figure out who’s in charge and who is dangerous.

Cropped Hair is the manager who shows up after dark, bringing order to the parking lot chaos. Sort of like the branch manager at a bank—a boss, but not the boss. That would be the district or regional manager, and they don’t show up very often.

Neither does Cropped Hair’s boss. I think I’ve seen him once, when an SUV drove through the lot and everybody moved out of the way. The car stopped in front of Cropped Hair, and they had a short conversation before the car took off. To quote Delia, it looked like dick-swinging behavior.

Tonight, a cop car drives through the lot. Cropped Hair doesn’t go near it. No one does except a young man who looks desperate. Sick. The cops call a paramedic.

Lots of people gather around to watch, and that’s when I see it. Cropped Hair doesn’t talk to the police, but she does communicate. She lifts a hand to smooth her hair and subtly points toward a room on the first floor.

One of the cops walks over and knocks on the door.

Maybe she works with the police, and, in return, they look the other way from whatever business she’s conducting.

I smile.

The pieces are all falling into place. Cropped Hair will make an excellent witness.