Page 14 of Too Old for This
He sighed.
Burke asked more questions. Every question, all the questions, sometimes repeating himself.
“Where were you on March tenth?” “What about May first?” “And on June sixteenth?”
“Where do you work?” “What time do you go to work?” “What time do you leave?” “Do you pick your son up from school?” “Do you leave him home alone?”
“Have you ever been to the hardware store on Whitman?” “How did you kill Paul Norris?” “Why did you burn Marilyn Dobbs?” “Where did you strangle Walter Simmons?” “How did you bury these bodies?” “Did you do it by yourself?”
The urge to speak was almost overwhelming. Like when you need to pee so bad that it hurts, and all you want is immediate, gratifying relief.
Until I realized Burke’s facts were wrong. Marilyn Dobbs had not been burned; that was Walter Simmons. Paul Norris was strangled. Burke had switched everything around. He was messing with me, trying to get me to respond.
I did not.
For two hours, I tried to figure out when he was lying and how much the police knew. But I didn’t answer a singlequestion. Not even his desperate last-ditch attempt to get me to talk.
“Who is the father of your son?”
If I reacted to any question, it was that one. My stomach lurched, and I felt like I was going to throw up. Horror and revulsion had to be all over my face.
The police let me go, though it wasn’t the last time they asked me to come in and answer questions. I was in that same room three more times, always with Burke, and I never said one word.
What I learned is that police could lie, could try to trap me, and they could pretend to have evidence that didn’t exist. What they could not do was arrest me for refusing to speak.
I shut the file and slip it behind the cushion of my recliner. Life lessons aside, traveling down memory lane is not always pleasant. It usually leads back to regret, and the bodies I left behind are the biggest. I should’ve gotten rid of them the way I got rid of Plum.
CHAPTER 8
Sheila’s house is in a newer subdivision, and it’s younger than both of us. I show up at her door with two bags of groceries, ready for a day of experimental cooking in her modern kitchen. The perfect distraction to get out of my head.
Once you go down memory lane, it’s not always easy to get out. I spent much of last night pacing in front of my fireplace, berating myself for being so stupid. Not my finest moment.
The inside of Sheila’s house smells like coffee and cinnamon, with a hint of some other spice, and it doesn’t come from a plug-in. She has a platter of cinnamon rolls waiting for me.
“I couldn’t make them completely sugar-free,” she says. “But they’re low sugar.”
Two cookbooks sit on her table, each one opened to a different recipe. When I called and asked her about making something more elaborate than spinach dip for Thursday night, Sheila turned it into a project. I knew she would. Projects are her thing.
“Come see my newest idea,” she says.
I follow her down the hall. Sheila is dressed in an outfit of her own creation, a pair of flowy slacks with a matching blouse; both are mint green. Her slip-on comfort shoes are dyed to match.
Her craft room is a sight to behold. The walls are linedwith shelves, and they’re all filled with baskets and drawers. Everything is color-coded and labeled. A sewing machine is in the corner, right next to her high-grade color printer. In the center of the room, she has a large worktable. Today, it’s covered with miniature cornucopias.
“I’ve been working on some new table decorations for church.” Sheila picks one up and hands it to me. “I could fill it with mini stalks of wheat and tiny pumpkins. Maybe some dried leaves, too.”
“For fall?”
She gives me a strange look. “Obviously, for fall.”
It’s not even summer yet. “I think these are incredible. I just don’t know how you do this kind of thing.”
Sheila smiles and starts grabbing things out of all those small drawers and compartments. She knows exactly where everything is. I’ve seen Sheila get into her car and forget where she was going, but she always knows where the hot glue is in her craft room.
Twenty minutes later, we make it back to the kitchen. Sheila is amped up and ready to tackle our cooking project. We each pick a recipe, get to work, and start gossiping. It begins with the fashion from last Sunday at church and moves on to her kids. Sheila has two daughters, one works in tech and lives in Portland, the other lives here and works for the city. Eventually, our conversation gets around to my grandson.
“Noah’s birthday is coming up, and I want to send him something he really likes. And wants,” I say.
