The Stiff and the Dead by Lori Avocato

for me. I thanked him, ignored him, and was glad the empty seat was near Sophie.
    â€œMy feet are killing me tonight after dancing. Arthritis, you know,” I complained.
    She nodded.
    Shit. Did that mean she had it too? This wasn’t going to be an easy case. I felt it in my pretend arthritic bones. “You suffer from it too?”
    Uncle Walt leaned near. “Had it in my knees since the seventies.”
    I know. I know. But I smiled at him and looked toward Sophie. “How about you?”
    She gave me an odd look.
    Joey cut in with, “Why the interesta in Sophie’s joints, Bellisima ?”
    For a second, I forgot my disguise. Geez, the guy had a way about him that confused me. “I . . . well . . . don’t we all suffer from it?”
    â€œMy joints are like well-oiled machines,” Uncle Stash added as he nudged Helen, who gave him a feisty grin.
    I did not want to go there.
    So, I smiled back, focused on my Bingo cards, all six of them, and decided I needed to get Sophie alone.
    After three hours, forty-five minutes, and ten seconds of Bingo, I felt the hairs on my wig stand on end. If my face were pliable, I’d scream. Then I vowed I would never join a senior citizens center or play Bingo when I really became of age. I was even putting it in writing so, if dementia set in, my family wouldn’t have a confused me playing Bingo.
    Plus, I was pissed that I hadn’t won. I’m sure Miles would tell me I was a sore loser since everyone at the table had won Bingo except me. Damn. Maybe he’d be right.
    Sophie started packing up her Bingo equipment. I couldn’t believe they all had their own markers and chips. I must have looked like the rank amateur that I was. I jumped up when she did. Guess that’s the fault of “aging” so quickly. I needed to think things through and prepare better. Then again, I had no idea how to prepare for any part of this job.
    â€œCan I give you a lift, Sophie?”
    She shook her head. “I only live a block away.”
    â€œOh, my. I guess my mind is going on me.” I giggled as maturely as I could. “I also walked. Bad night vision, you know.” Mental note to myself, pick up your car later.
    She nodded. Sophie Banko, woman of few words. Damn it.
    Once at the doorway, I latched onto her arm and said, “Let’s walk together.” With my death grip, she couldn’t say no.
    After we got out past the parking lot, I released my hold when she kept pulling away. “Sorry. I’m always afraid of falling.”
    â€œNo problem.” She walked on.
    The night was moonlit, which made it easier to see, along with the good lighting around the church and nearby neighborhood. When we crossed Pleasant Street, Sophie turned into the yard of a white house.
    â€œSo this is where you live?”
    She gave me an odd look. “That’s why I turned here.”
    â€œIsn’t that house next door where poor Mr. Wisnowski lived?”
    She froze.
    When she defrosted, she glared at me. “How would someone who just came to town know about him?”
    Oh . . . my . . . aching arthritic feet.
    I chuckled in as elderly a way as I could. “Know about him? I don’t, dearie. But I heard someone at the . . . oh, no. Silly me. When I was driving with . . . someone told me he lived here.”
    She curled her lip and leaned in.
    I backed up and prayed the moon would eclipse so we’d be in total darkness, and I could sneak away.
    â€œYou may be heading into Alzheimer’s, Peggy. Get a checkup.” With that she nodded as if to dismiss me and started to go walk up her porch stairs.
    Good. She wasn’t suspicious of me. Well, of my really being elderly, that is.
    â€œWait!” I yelled before she hurried up the steps.
    She swung around and bobbled like a top. A woman her size should know better than to spin around at that speed. Thank goodness I caught