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of the grocery store, she turned left and walked toward her house. These walks were a part of her sanity and helped her keep in decent shape. But they were getting harder to take, especially in the dead of winter. She was glad for the spring, even if it was a cooler than usual one. She looked across the street to the school—under construction—a group of tiny children, faces peeking out of their coats, hats, and scarves, were being led across the street by a group of adults. One child pointed at Beatrice and said something she couldn’t quite understand.
    “Hmm,” Beatrice said. “I wonder if that child saw the knife.”
    “What child, Mama?”
    “I decided she wasn’t pointing at me, but maybe she was. On my way home, she kept pointing at me, but she was across the street and I couldn’t hear her.”
    “Where was that?”
    “Right past Dolly’s, across from the school.”
    Dolly’s Beauty Shop, on its last legs, but still the same women’s faces were looking at her through the windows and smiling as she waved. None of them, it seemed, looked hard enough at her to see the knife jabbed into her neck. Women were loyal to Dolly and her beauticians, but last month she announced that she just could not compete with the Hair Cuttery and the new mall beauty shop. She’d be closing in a few weeks. The thought of it made Beatrice’s eyes sting with tears. Old fool, I am an old fool.
    The weight of her bags seemed to be getting heavier. She looked across the street at the church and saw plenty of cars in the parking lot, people going in and out. A good many cars in the neighborhood. Something was definitely going on, but it wasn’t a funeral. At least not yet. She stopped in front of her iron gate and looked farther down the road at the sign out front of the Greys’ funeral home. No names appeared on the announcement board. She wondered if Betty Hawthorn had been mistaken. She slipped her hand through one of the bag handles and reached up for her newspaper.
    “Mother!” said her daughter, opening the door. “Where’ve you been?”
    “What are you doing here?” Beatrice answered Vera.
    “I came to check on you,” she said.
    “Well, Lord, Vera, I just talked to you this morning. I told you I’m fine.”
    Beatrice could not stand the way Vera preened over her at times, the way she tried to treat her like a child. How does she think I got to be this old, by being stupid and frail?
    Vera grabbed her bags. “Mom, you don’t need to walk to the store, especially on cold days. Such a cold spring. I’d be happy to pick a few things up for you on my way home.”
    Beatrice ignored her, taking off her coat and her hat.
    “Mama, what’s that you have stuck on your hat?”
    Vera pulled her hat off. “Nothing.” She looked incredulously at her daughter, whose brows were knitted.
    “Turn around. Let me see what’s going on back here.”
    Bea smiled. It might have been worth it—just to see the look of horror on Vera’s face.
     
     
    “Well,” said the officer as he walked back in her room, with heavy steps, the jangling of keys, and the sound of leather squeaking—was it his gun in the holsters against his regulation belt? Or could it be his new, shiny shoes? “The Wrigley’s security cameras were on this morning. I am going to head over there and check out the tapes. We’ll get your man, Mrs. Matthews.”

Chapter 4
    After the squeaky police officer left the hospital room, a team of nurses came in. One took Bea’s pulse; the others were poking her with an IV needle.
    “Guess, I’ll be going to sleep now,” Beatrice said. “When I wake up, I’ll be a new woman—sans knife.”
    Vera harrumphed. She should have known her mother would agree to the operation when Vera said it was fine not to do so.
    “Vera, you better get down to the studio. Don’t you have a class to teach this evening?” Beatrice managed to say.
    “I put a notice up on the door,” Sheila said. “It’ll be fine. Don’t you