Larceny and Old Lace Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought sure the next phone call was going to be from Buford. He sees it as his sacred duty to yell at me every time one of our children is unhappy or does something stupid. Even though he and I agree on Susan’s education, it is undoubtedlysomehow all my fault that Susan has decided to drop out of school and live in near poverty. Since I produced the egg that hatched Susan, I am responsible for her behavior. What else would one expect from a lawyer who once sued a pencil company because they didn’t warn their customers that a sharpened lead can put out an eye?
    â€œDen of Antiquity. Guilty party speaking,” I said cheerfully.
    Gretchen Miller gasped. “Oh, Abigail, you didn’t do it, did you?”
    I think as fast on my feet as a doped walrus. “You bet I did. She had to learn a lesson.”
    â€œBut, Abigail, isn’t decapitation a little too severe? And the rape, you didn’t do that, too, did you? I mean, it isn’t physically possible, is it?”
    My brain had caught up with my ears. “Gretchen! Of course not! And she wasn’t decapitated, she was strangled. Only I didn’t do that, either. I thought you were someone else.”
    Gretchen’s sigh of relief could have extinguished a candle a yard away. “I’m so glad, Abigail. I mean, that you’re not guilty. Do the police know who is?”
    â€œIf they do, they’re keeping it from me.”
    â€œAny suspects?”
    â€œYou tell me, dear. You were at that breakfast yesterday morning.”
    Gretchen sneezed. I imagined her pushing her round, owl glasses back up on her stub of a nose.
    â€œAbigail, if you’ll recall, I stuck up for your aunt yesterday. I said she was a ‘jewel.’ You remember that?”
    â€œYes, dear, I do. That was right before you complained about her place being run down.”
    She sneezed again. “Sorry Abigail. It’s the pollen count. I’m almost positive it’s not a cold. I usually don’t get a cold until November, and then—”
    â€œIs business slow today, dear?”
    â€œBusiness is good, Abigail. I just sold that bronze statue with the you-know-what.”
    â€œThe ‘what’ was a penis, dear. So, if business is good, why are you calling?”
    I imagined Gretchen’s faded gray eyes widening behind thick lenses.
    â€œWell, I—uh—I wanted to expresses my condolences on your aunt’s passing. That’s really all.”
    I accepted her condolences gracefully, even though I would hardly refer to being strangled as “passing.” Even sans the rumored rape and decapitation, my poor aunt had done more than pass from this life to the next. Catapulted was more like it. No wonder they say ghosts are usually the products of violent death. I’d have trouble finding my way through the veil, too, if my last memory was a bell pull tightening around my neck. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Aunt Eulonia’s spirit hung around her beloved Feathers ’N Treasures trying to comprehend recent events.
    Perhaps it would benefit my aunt if I stopped by her shop and had a chat with her. One-sided, I hoped. You know, kind of explained what happened. And if the case ever got solved, tell her why it happened. Fortunately her shop was still off-limits to anyone but the police; the yellow tape across the doors made that perfectly clear. For the moment that was fine with me. I was in no hurry to see where dear Aunt Eulonia had lain gasping, perhaps thrashing, on the floor of her run-down shop.
    To take my mind off the ghoulish spectacle I turned on the TV. All My Children was about to start.

5
    T he cowbell rang on the stroke of one. It didn’t jangle this time, it rang. Bells all over heaven rang as well. God’s gift to women—at least to me—had just stepped through the door.
    I ran to be of service. “Yes? May I help you?”
    â€œMs. Abigail