The Stiff and the Dead by Lori Avocato Page A

her before we both fell down. Well, I really couldn’t catch her; it was more like I shoved all my weight against her to keep her upright.
    She steadied herself and turned back without so much as a thank-you.
    I made a mental note not to startle her again. My mental-note list was growing at warp speed. Good thing I had a great memory. Came from my nursing background.
    â€œI . . . wonder if I can come in for a . . . drink of water.”
    She shrugged. I followed her inside.
    Once in Sophie’s house, I stood like a jerk while she glared at me. “I . . . oh, the water?”
    The place was creepy. That’s what got my attention and made me forget that I’d asked for water. The old Victorian-style living room looked more like the parlor of a funeral home. And the smell. Old. Musty. I followed Sophie down a dark hallway and into the kitchen. The stove looked like an old coal job. Pale green. I felt as if I’d stepped back in time, and not the same way that I did every time I went into my mother’s house.
    This was downright eerie.
    â€œGlasses are in the drainer.” Sophie hobbled to the kitchen table and flopped down. The chair groaned.
    I walked to the white porcelain sink and looked at the glasses. Suddenly my thirst disappeared. Not that the glasses weren’t clean, but I had an odd feeling that I shouldn’t touch anything in Sophie’s house.
    What if she was a criminal?
    My fingerprints would be all over—and maybe even covering up hers. Instead I turned and decided to snoop while I talked. “Tired?”
    She looked at me and wheezed. “Aren’t you?”
    I readied to say at my age I jogged several miles before getting tired, then remembered my age was supposed to be in the seventies. I sat across from her and nodded. “Beat.”
    She probably forgot the reason I’d gotten myself invited in as she took a napkin from the lazy Susan in the middle of the table and wiped her forehead. It wasn’t really warm in there, but maybe her size had thrown her internal thermometer off. Plus, she hadn’t taken off her jacket yet. When she swung the lazy Susan around, I noticed two prescription bottles.
    Damn, that’s it? Sophie couldn’t be too ill. But, according to her file, she was sending in claims for a hell of a lot more than two prescriptions.
    I smelled a rat the size of a kangaroo.
    I started to ease closer to read what they were for, but suddenly Sophie’s face was in mine.
    Geez.
    Close up, she looked gigantic.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing here?” Her accusing tone had me pull back.
    â€œI—” What the hell was I going to say?
    â€œIs something wrong with your hearing?” Her weight when she leaned near pushed the table, which pinned me between the wall and the other end of the table. “I asked what the hell are you doing?”
    I looked at her. For several seconds I couldn’t respond, and figured this was good. Even though the reason was that I was so squashed I could barely squeak out a breath, it would make me look confused and even hard of hearing if I played dumb. I caught my reflection in her toaster. Shoot. I was turning the color of a boiled lobster.
    I held up a hand and waved it about. “Breathe. I can’t . . . breathe.” I pointed to my chest.
    â€œOh!” Sophie pulled back and yanked the table. “Such a skinny thing. Why didn’t you say something?”
    I blew out such a strong breath, Sophie’s hair danced about. While she straightened it, I decided I had to get out of here. She was too suspicious about me scrutinizing her medicine. I stood.
    She stood.
    I smiled.
    She didn’t.
    â€œWell, thank you for the water.”
    â€œYou never had any.”
    â€œOh.” I turned toward the kitchen door not wanting to go back in time through the parlor. “Silly me. Mind isn’t what it used to be.” But I couldn’t leave.