Go, Ivy, Go! by Lorena McCourtney

on notebook acknowledged the possibility of some person in a responsible position using that position to accomplish a nefarious goal. Which still didn’t mean she thought the Braxtons had done it to me or the woman in the tub.
    “You think I’m paranoid, don’t you?” I grumbled. “Or cruising in the senile lane.”
    Officer DeLora didn’t comment on my mental condition, but her sideways glance suggested she was giving these possibilities serious consideration.
    “At the very least, eccentric,” I added.
    “We’re all a little eccentric in our own way.”
    Which implied an eccentricity of her own? What was it? On impulse I tossed out a question. “Why do you keep looking at your hand?”
    “I don’t!” She fisted the hand, then rested her fingers on the gun at her hip and gave me The Look.
    I got the message. No questions. Which had never stopped me before, of course. I tossed out one on a different subject. “Why did you want to know if my teeth are real or false?”
    That question apparently caught her while she was still off-balance from the hand question, and she answered this one. “The body has false teeth.”
    Which connected with what Tasha said about the teeth being “all strange. ” As the body deteriorated, the false teeth had loosened and gone awry. I started to tell Officer DeLora that she could check with Dr. Sorenson, who could tell her the real Ivy Malone had her real teeth. But then I remembered Dr. Sorenson had retired and moved to Florida even before I left Madison Street. The world keeps changing.
    “Look, whether or not I’m paranoid, senile, or eccentric, there’s something you can check out. The records from the trial. They won’t tell you about the Braxtons threatening me, but they will tell you what Bo Zollinger did and how I helped convict him.”
    “I’ll do that.” This time the pen moved up to tap her jaw. “The Braxton name sounds familiar. I know I’ve seen or heard it somewhere. . .”
    “On an FBI Most Wanted List?” I suggested.
    She didn’t realize the question was at least semi-facetious. “No, something local. But I just can’t remember. . .”
    “You don’t have any idea yet who the dead woman really is?” I asked.
    “At this point she’s Ivy Malone.”
    Would I see an obituary for Ivy Malone in the newspaper? A startling thought. But hey, maybe not a bad idea! Then the Braxtons really would think they’d finished me off. Maybe I shouldn’t be trying so hard to prove my identity. Let the dead womanbe Ivy Malone. I could change my name to something more interesting. The name India had always appealed to me. I instantly added a glamorous sounding last name. India Cristobal!
    “If you are the real Ivy Malone, and you’re convinced this ‘mini-Mafia’ is out to get you, why did you come back?” Officer DeLora challenged.
    A good time to tell her I was mistaken. That I wasn’t really Ivy Malone. That my saying I was had simply been a temporary identity crisis, one of those senior moment things. Give her my “real” India name. But, as usual, the truth is what comes out of me. Besides, I’d need a whole new wardrobe of filmy, swirly things, maybe even castanets, to be India Cristobal.
    “Because this is home,” I said simply. “I wanted to come home.”
    She considered this for a moment and then nodded. “I can understand that.” A far-off look in her eyes unexpectedly said that home meant something to her too.
    “You’re not from around here?” I asked.
    “No, I moved up from Texas a few—” She broke off and grabbed back her usual stern demeanor. No questions.
    Only then did I realize Mac had followed us and was hiding more or less discreetly behind a dead bush in the yard. He came out when Officer DeLora snapped her little notebook shut.
    “I’ll include all this in my report,” she said “But don’t leave town. We may need to talk to you again.”
    “I’m sure you know that isn’t an enforceable order,” Mac said affably.