Pilgrimage

People are getting tired of the murder;  there haven’t been any new developments.  I keep thinking I should be doing something, like the soccer moms or sweet little old ladies in my mystery books. 

Karen, Nikki, and I rode by Margaret’s house, a small bungalow a few blocks from the library. They’d taken the crime scene tape down, if it had ever been up.   It seemed odd that she would buy a house since she was single.  “How did she get the money?” Nikki asked.  “Maybe she was a spy.  Or she’d been blackmailing somebody for years.  Or several somebodies.”

“Or she had a sugardaddy.  And he got tired of it,” I said.  “But I can’t imagine her doing it or even making out.”

“You know what they say about the quiet ones.  They’re wild in the sack.  She probably got loud, too.”

“Karen!”  I was shocked.  Then I had to laugh.  Then I got embarrassed picturing Margaret in that situation.

We didn’t get to go to the grave because even though the name of the cemetery had been in the obituary, there wouldn’t be a marker and we wouldn’t be able to find it.

So we went to Friendly’s.  I had the fish and chips.  It came with a free sundae.