A terrible thing has happened. Margaret was stabbed to death in her own
house. I was making the cupcakes for
church when I heard it on the radio.
Fortunately Ed had taken the kids out shopping.
If a casting director had wanted a perfect librarian, he
would have found her in Margaret. She
was in her fifties, had never married and was a Republican and a Methodist. She
dyed her hair but wore it short. Her
clothes were nice enough, suits and dresses that looked expensive. Not that I would know for sure. We’d worked together for years, but had never
progressed to the point of talking about how much things cost.
Mostly we talked about books. I had never had anyone I could talk about
Dickens with or who understood when I said I had a “love-hate relationship with
Jane Austen.”
I feel like I’m in one of those mystery novels in which
everyone keeps saying, “How could this happen here?”
I called Karen, and she said, “Almost in the family.” I guess it is.
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