Too Sweet to Die by T. Doyle (namjoon book recommendations .TXT) 📕

She winked, her head bobbed getting in on the action, and she glanced around the lobby. “This is the walker that doesn’t creak, and I’m making sure no one else will take it.”

“And putting your name on it wouldn’t do that?”

Lips pursed, Nora’s rheumy eyes narrowed. “Are you kidding me? Alcohol wipes take off Sharpie. And it doesn’t creak. At all.”

The walker wheezed under her weight and I made a mental note to mention scheduling a hearing test to her doctor.

“Where’d you get the sticker?” I sidled closer, giving way to a flame-haired woman in a wheelchair.

“Johnny’s kid sold it to me. He’s making a killing here.” Nora stopped, dragged in a deep breath, coughed a few times and then lurched forward. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah? You sure that’s a good idea at your age?” I teased.

“Eh.” She sent a blistering a look in my direction and kept going.

“Sorry.” And I was.

We rounded the final corner, continued through the double doors and into the cream and country blue room that looked more like a parish hall than the advertised “homey place to mingle”. Ingrid Thorsten sat at the table closest to the coffee bar. Definitely the good table, it was the one that didn’t wobble.

Residents and their guests filled the five other tables, keeping the barista busy. The coffee bar had a well-deserved reputation for being the place for silver-hairs to hook up. A rumor suggested that a widow intentionally took a header at the Piggly Wiggly for a new hip and a chance at Forest Forks most eligible senior. They married after his dentures were found in her room. Scandalous!

The cozy nook, which consisted of two loveseats and a club chair all in genuine naugahyde, was taken over by a group of rowdy septuagenarians and a game of poker.

“Medical marijuana.” Nora said.

“What?” I replayed through our conversation… Grateful Dead bumper sticker from Johnny’s kid and Nora had an idea.

Thump-slide.

“It’s the IBM of today.” Nora’s sage expression and sincere tone meant she was serious. “You’ve got to invest now.”

“I’ll look into it.” Translated: I’d monitor Johnny’s kids visits in the future.

We continued toward the table, Ingrid’s face brightened, as if she finally remembered why she was seated.

“Hello, Ingrid, you’re looking well.” I leaned in and hugged her.

Ingrid reached up and patted my shoulders, her fine white hair fluttered like goose down on her head. “It’s good to see you, dear.” She grabbed my chin in a near painful pinch. “You’re so pretty.”

“Thank you.” I sat at the round table, across from Ingrid.

Nora eased into the chair next to mine, leaving three more seats available for players. She landed, rocked her hips, pain flashed across her face and settled in. “Don’t get old, Charlie.”

“Okay, Nora. So, apparently, I’ll be dying young and dealing pot. My mom will be so proud.”

Nora slapped my arm. “Pot is legal now.”

Evie Feeney, wearing open-toed Sketchers, denim Capris, and an orange halter top, gave me a toothless grin from across the room. Slender, silly, and splashy, she had a retired Vegas Showgirl vibe.

I smiled back, ran my tongue over my teeth, and added to my mental note to schedule a dentist appointment.

Ray’s father joined Evie, pulling out her chair. He reminded me of a retired sea captain, a dapper pirate. Deep laugh grooves surrounded dashing brown eyes.

Ray’s mother wheeled into the room in one of those walker/wheelchair combos and Flinstoned her way toward Evie. She glared at Evie and her ex-husband. It was a pretty good glare, but it lacked a certain seriousness to it. Perhaps it was because she was wearing a lime green moo-moo and mismatched slippers, or that she had a fly swatter in one hand, which in October was useless. Unless she planned to swat her ex-husband. She rolled closer.

I watched, hoping she’d turn toward the ladies’ room.

Her elbow cocked back.

“I’ll be right back, ladies.” I lunged for Mrs. McGuffin, extricated the fly swatter and tucked it under my arm. Ray must take after her. “Hello, Mrs. McGuffin, would you care to join us for Trivial Pursuit?”

“I’ll play if you give my swatter back to me.”

“Nope.” I said with no hesitation.

She glared.

I glared.

She threw up her hands. “Fine.”

I wheeled her to the table and settled her next to Ingrid.

“Hello, kiddo,” Jack, a regular player, called out in his booming voice. He pulled a chair out for Rosemary, his wife. The couple was active and spry in their late eighties. Rosemary reminded me of Betty White; quick witted, and sometimes a bit naughty.

“Hello.” I stuffed the fly swatter in my tote bag, pulled the Trivial Pursuit game out and set it on the table.

“Rosemary and I are going to win today, kiddo.” Jack’s fuzzy grey monobrow quivered over his twinkling grey eyes.

They had a fifty-fifty chance of winning. We were playing the Baby-Boomer edition today and I was weak on the music section.

We played for an hour, running out of small talk, and then Mrs. McGuffin perked up. “Did you hear Hilda Collins is dead?”

I looked to Nora, Jack, and Rosemary for confirmation. Nora gave me a curt chin nod. She leaned forward and rose.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Nora panted from the exertion of standing. She pointed her walker toward the bathroom and began the journey.

“We’ll wait for you,” Ingrid said.

Mrs. McGuffin’s eyes followed Nora. “He’s having an affair.”

“Mr. Collins? I thought he’d been dead for a few years,” Rosemary said.

Mrs. McGuffin slapped the table. “No, my husband. He’s having an affair.”

Jack and Rosemary bent their heads together, ignoring her.

Ingrid leaned toward Mrs. McGuffin. “Aren’t you divorced?” Ingrid asked.

“Not in the eyes of God!” Mrs. McGuffin huffed. “He’s a fool. I heard Evie’s got the clap.”

Jack’s eyes widened.

“Shush.” I gave Mrs. McGuffin my don’t-make-me-stop-the-car look.

“It’s no matter to me.” Mrs. McGuffin swiped her hands across her lap, smoothing out lime green moo-moo wrinkles. “I don’t want him, anyway.” She gave a little shrug to emphasize her disinterest. “Anyway, Hilda’s son found her, and they think she’d been dead for at least a day.