It’s been a year since Margaret was murdered. There have been a few leads, but nothing has
really happened. I’ve been looking at
the staff pictures in old yearbooks to see if anyone looked like William Powell
or Anthony Hopkins, who were her favorite actors (See Move Over, Miss Marple, August 4, 2013), but I haven’t had much luck.
Karen has been talking to the old ladies at the Methodist
church. “I asked them if Margaret had
grown up in the church, and they said she came about twenty years ago. They said she was ‘a very nice girl,’ but
Marian, who is the biggest gossip, said that there was always something about
her that you couldn’t put your finger on.
That could have her imagination after the fact, but I kind of doubt
it. Those old ladies are shrewd.”Nikki snorted. “Do they think you’re a nice girl?”
“Well, I am,” Karen said and took another sip of wine. “Of course, Methodists don’t drink.”
“Are you going to quit drinking or quit the church? The Episcopalians don’t have a problem with
it.”
“No, I just won’t let them see me. If I left, I’d feel like those spies who make
friends with people they’re spying on when they really don’t like them and may
end up killing them. It wouldn’t be honest.”
I didn’t point out that maybe not letting people see you
drink wasn’t honest. I’d had two glasses
of wine already and I didn’t think I could argue logically.
“Well,” Nikki said, “I stopped in at the liquor store in her
neighborhood. I didn’t expect anything,
but the woman and I got to talking about what kind of wine to get, and I
mentioned that I was going to have a dinner party, but it would be a little
sad, because just a year ago, my friend Margaret had been murdered.”
I was impressed. “That’s really creative.”
“Thank you. So the
lady said, ‘Oh, yes, she used to come in here.
Very nice lady, but quiet.’ I
asked her what she liked. I guess as one
of her friends I should have known, but she didn’t notice. She said she liked wine and she sometimes got
scotch.”
“So . . . “ I said, “she got that for her friend, so it
probably was a man. Women don’t like
scotch.” I felt relieved, since I don’t
like scotch.“You never know,” Nikki said. “Maybe Lesbians aren’t so wussy. But at least you’re in the clear.”
“Why don’t you ask Janet and Kate if any of their friends
drink scotch?”
I sighed. “You know,
Karen, every gay person in the world does not know every other gay person in the world or even
in history. Gay people get that all the
time.” I felt very worldly, and I threw
in “And they find it very annoying,” even though I didn’t know that for sure.
“You’re lucky that she told you. Liquor store clerks may have to sign
confidentiality pledges.”
Then Karen got an idea.
“Maybe we could go to a Lesbian bar and get to talking. Maybe someone might know Margaret.”
“First of all,” I said, “I don’t where any Lesbian bars
are. And second, I don’t think we could
pass. They might think . . . I don’t
know what they’d think, but it wouldn’t
be a nice thing to do.”
Nikki snorted again. “Listen
to you, the big sophisticated liberal.
You’re just afraid someone would hit on you.”“No, I’m not! I would just say I was in a relationship and change the subject.”
“Maybe you’re afraid no one would hit on you, and you’d feel
rejected.”
By that time we had to go look for another box of Girl Scout
cookies and some more Valentine candy, so I didn’t have to answer. I was relieved about that, too.
No comments:
Post a Comment