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  Lois took a little time finding the casing in the dark alley. The thing had landed a good eight feet to her right. She pocketed the shell and, with shaking hands, took off her glasses to clean away the fog. Her mouth was dry as she opened the back gate and stepped into the yard. She was excited to be in charge.

  Ingram had fallen facedown and, except for a couple of leg spasms, hadn’t moved again. Lois approached him carefully, hoping he wouldn’t need a second shot. He didn’t.

  Sophie had been waiting in the truck with the motor running at the end of the alley. Lois turned from the body and hurried away. As she passed the garage, closer this time, a security light flicked on. Light flooded the patio. She picked up her pace. Why had she forgotten about that damn light? They’d discussed it more than once.

  She walked faster than she had in several years, down the alley to the waiting truck. When she was safely inside, she looked back. Nothing had moved. All was quiet.

  She and Sophie sped away into the night.

  *

  Lois Burnett and Sophie Long still couldn’t agree on when the killing-for-money idea took shape. Lois said it was on pinochle night—the night of the potato-salad incident. Because their hostess knew better than to ask this bunch of women to bring a dish to pass, she’d asked them to bring a salad of some kind. Sometimes Myrtle Dixon would come in with a slow cooker full of those little hot dogs in grape jelly and chili sauce. But others weren’t as reliable. So they’d end up with six bags of potato chips, three different-sized tubs of store-bought dip, a loaf of bread, and a bag of Oreos that got opened on the way over.

  That morning Lois found the lettuce floating in brown liquid. They often bought fresh vegetables with the best intentions, but the stuff usually rotted in the fridge.

  She told Sophie, “I have a few dollars. We’ll stop on the way and buy a salad of some kind.”

  “What kind of salad can you get with a few dollars?”

  Lois shrugged.

  They stopped at Save Mart a few blocks from home. While Sophie waited in the car, Lois went in. A long while later she came out of the store with a plastic quart of potato salad.

  Sophie said, “I don’t think that’s the kind of salad they meant.”

  “They’ll eat it.”

  “We should, at least, take it home and put it in one of our own dishes.”

  “Don’t be silly. Most of these old gals never cook.”

  Sophie squared her shoulders. “Well, you’re carrying it in.”

  And it was settled. Lois walked into the house and went straight to the kitchen. When Sophie found her twenty minutes later, Lois was working with a pair of pliers trying to pull the lid off the container.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Lid’s stuck.”

  “Let me see.” Sophie easily lifted it off.

  “How’d you do that?”

  Sophie pointed to an arrow. “Directions.”

  Sounds of laughter came from the crowded living room. Lois set the tub of potato salad on a card table next to a slow cooker of little hot dogs and a bag of chips. She and Sophie sat opposite each other at one of four card tables.

  Myrtle Dixon said, “Murder. That’s rich.”

  While Myrtle, two tables away, continued talking, Connie something-or-other, a younger woman, probably high side of fifty, filled them in. “Myrtle’s ex phoned her from Florida. She’s been all in a twist about it.”

  Lois looked across the table at Sophie, who returned a toothy smile that made crinkles around her eyes. They’d had their differences, but no breakups. No ex-lovers in Florida. Not a single infidelity, although fidelity wasn’t a virtue for Lois because she’d never wanted anyone else since the day she met Sophie. Sophie was her best friend. They’d been through difficult times in the past thirty-two years. They’d disagreed on things, but Sophie had never even mentioned leaving, nor had Lois.

  Connie went on. “Myrtle told us she and the ex had this plan for their old age. They’d become hired killers.”

  Myrtle’s voice startled them. She was standing between the card tables. “Think about it,” she said. “Everyone has someone they want dead.”

  Lois laughed, but Sophie asked, “What if you get caught?”

  Myrtle said, “Then we’d have gone to prison and had a roof over our heads, three meals a day, and free medical. Why, they’d even pay for our prescriptions.”

  Other women around them tittered nervously.

  “There was just one problem,” Myrtle said. “We couldn’t figure out the killing part. It’s a messy business.”

  “Use an assault rifle,” Sophie put in. “We’ll loan you ours.”

  Myrtle shrugged. “Won’t work now. The hot-shot that came up with the plan is living in Florida with an ex-Playboy Bunny.” Before they could ask questions, Myrtle wandered off toward the food table, where she picked up a paper plate and a fork and fished out a couple of little hot dogs.

  *

  For Sophie, the accident had set things in motion. She had been driving home from the drugstore when a teenage girl ran a red light and struck her broadside. The girl stepped out of her car, shoved her cell phone in a backpack, and hurried over toward Sophie. She yelled across her own crumpled hood and through Sophie’s broken driver’s side window. “Lady? Hey, lady, are you all right?”

  When Sophie didn’t answer, the girl raised her voice. Traffic stopped, and people began to gather around the cars. Then a man in greasy coveralls leaned in the broken window and said, “Ma’am, we need to get you out of here. Your gas tank is leaking.”

  Sophie shook her head trying to clear it. Finally the man appeared on the passenger side, worked the door open, crawled across the seat, and pulled her toward him. She tried to help him, but the pain in her left shoulder nauseated her.

  The next thing Sophie remembered was sitting on the bus bench staring at her wrecked Subaru.

  A paramedic asked her something.

  “What?”

  “Your name,” a voice said, “what is your name?”

  “Long. I’m Miss Long.” She said her name like she’d said it every autumn for thirty years to the new fifth-grade class.

  “Do you know who the president is, Miss Long?” he asked.

  His face was so close to hers she could smell mint on his breath. He spoke again, louder this time.

  “Who is the president, Miss Long?”

  Sophie drew in a breath—she wouldn’t mention that she hadn’t voted for him. She exhaled. “Richard Nixon.”

  That was all. The corners of her vision grew increasingly fuzzy, then the light shrank to a pinpoint and went out.

  When Sophie woke again, Lois was sitting beside the bed, sleeping. A rumpled paper sack with some magazines was on the floor next to her. Sophie’s arm was in a cast, and she couldn’t move her head. She cut her eyes toward the nightstand. A porcelain vase from home held a bunch of crimson peonies from the backyard.

  A man’s voice startled her. “How are you feeling, Sophie?”

  The older she got, the more often total strangers took liberties with her first name. She moved her eyes to the right but could barely see him. “Who are you?”

  The man said, “I’m Phil, the dayshift RN.”

  Not even a doctor. “I feel like hell.”

  “You have a broken clavicle and a cracked ulna.” He moved into her line of sight—just a goddamn kid—looking at a clipboard. “Doctor says we’ll have to wait and see about the neck injury.”

  “Where’s the little bitch that hit me?” Sophie said.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Lois chimed in. “She got a bump on the knee. Didn’t even come to the hospital.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Who knows,” Lois said. “Are you in pain?”

  Sophie tried to nod, gave it up, and said, “Yeah.”

  The nurse said, “You have pain medication ordered. I’ll bring it on my way back. Just try to relax in the meantime.”

  When Phil th
e nurse left the room, Sophie said to Lois, “Scoot down a little. I can barely see you.”

  Lois shoved her chair closer and into a better position.

  “Why can’t I move my head?”

  “You have on a cervical collar.”

  Sophie was quiet for a moment, trying to understand. Dismayed, she finally asked, “What am I going to do?”

  Lois stroked her hand. “About what?”

  “I haven’t been able to afford insurance on that car for twelve years.”

  “The accident wasn’t your fault.”

  “Do you think that matters? I’ll get a whopping ticket just for driving the car without insurance.”

  Lois sighed. “The whole system’s stacked against us. I think Myrtle’s ex had the right idea—at least in theory.”

  “I have a list of people I’d like to see gone, even if we didn’t make a profit. That kid with her cell phone is near the top,” Sophie said. “Hell, everyone thinks someone deserves to die. I say, find a person who wants another person dead enough to pay for it and oblige her for a modest price.”

  “Good grief, Soph, murder’s a crime.”

  “So is driving without insurance. We’re only talking about a matter of degree.”

  Lois squeezed Sophie’s hand. “This will all work out. The important thing is to get you feeling better.”

  The RN came back into the room, passed Sophie a paper cup containing a pill, and poured some water from the pitcher on the nightstand. Sophie tried to lean forward to drink, but winced. The RN said, “Easy now, honey. We’ll use a straw.”

  When the nurse had gone, Sophie said, “Do I look like his honey?”

  “He was just trying to be nice.”

  “Don’t make excuses for him. I’m not in a generous mood. He sees me as a helpless old lady. He doesn’t know that I stood in front of a bunch of Catholic fifth-graders longer than he’s been alive. Most people aren’t tough enough to do that for one damn day.”

  “I know.”

  The room was quiet. After a while Sophie said, “What am I going to do without my car?”

  “The girl’s insurance company will pay for your medical. We’ll worry about your traffic ticket when the time comes—maybe we could make payments. You just lean back and rest for now.”

  “How is a body supposed to keep going when even a bottle of generic aspirin is a major expense?” Sophie was already getting groggy, but her anger had momentum. “I paid for car insurance all those years and never made a single claim.”

  “I said this will work out.”

  Sophie yawned. “I’ve earned a comfortable life. Young people think seventy-three is too old for women to expect comfort. That teen on the cell phone has a rude awakening in store for her.”

  “Aw,” Lois said. “She has no idea what it’s like.”

  Sophie’s eyelids were heavy. The last sound she heard was Lois saying, “We’ll be all right.”

  *

  A week later Sophie’s neck brace was still in place and her arm was in a sling. She couldn’t dress herself, and she was still angry. The young woman who had crashed into her turned out to have third-rate insurance, and the adjuster was haggling over every penny. Of course, the company wouldn’t pay anything until all the bills were in, and all the bills wouldn’t be in until she was back on her feet.

  Sophie was lying on the couch watching TV when Lois came in from the kitchen and said, “I’m going to hock the M-16. I only kept it around because it meant something to Matt.” Matt had been Lois’s grandson. She and Sophie had raised the boy after his mother abandoned him. He had been killed in Afghanistan just three years before.

  “No. I won’t let you.”

  “It’s the only thing we own that we don’t need.”

  “No.” Sophie held her ground. “Let’s use it.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve been sitting here,” Sophie said, “mad as hell. I’d really like to kill somebody—the damn insurance adjuster, for one. If I, an old-maid school teacher, want a person dead, I’m sure others with less refinement do too. If we were to provide that service, we could make some extra cash—untaxed income to make us more comfortable. We’d probably only need to do a job every six months or so.”

  “You don’t know how to shoot.”

  “We’re a team, aren’t we? I could be the brains—get the jobs and make the plans. All you’d have to do is show up and pull the trigger.”

  Lois said, “You’re not serious.”

  “I believe I am.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Okay, then teach me how to shoot, and I’ll do the jobs alone. I’m sick of living from the third of one month to the next. I’m sick of wondering what’ll happen when we can’t pay the taxes on our home. I’m sick of going without the things I need.”

  “What if we get caught?”

  “Then, like Myrtle said, we won’t need to pay property taxes. We’ll have free medical care and three squares a day. Of course, appeals could take years. We might never see the inside of a prison.”

  “Don’t you think the M-16 is overkill?”

  “Here’s what I like about it,” Sophie said. “There’s no way to trace it to us. That rifle’s never been used in a crime. You got it from the army-surplus store before there were FOID cards. Matt only fired it at hay bales. Anyway, who’ll suspect us of owning a weapon like that?”

  Lois seemed to consider this. At length she whispered, for if they were really going to do it, they had to speak softly, “Tell me why you think we won’t get caught?”

  Sophie was ready for this question. “We have no apparent motive to kill anybody. If anyone is suspected, it will be the person that hires us. So we won’t do killings for our friends. We need as much distance from our employers as possible.”

  Chapter Two

  Morgan Holiday sat in a large, sunny room with several elderly people, most in wheelchairs, and a few nurse’s aides. Unless it was near Thanksgiving or Christmas, not many other family members came. Her mother sat across the table from her, or at least the thing that had taken the form of her mother was there, staring at the raw vegetables on her plate.

  “My children come to see me on Sundays,” her mother said. “You must come on Sundays and meet them.”

  “Ma, I’m your daughter,” Morgan said for the third time that day. “This is Sunday. Remember, David only comes at Christmas.”

  The thing that used to be Morgan’s mother picked up a celery stick and shook it at her. “Don’t you say that, you ugly girl. David was here yesterday, and he will come today. You wait and see.”

  Morgan sighed. Sundays at the Prairie Flower Retirement Center were excruciating. She tried to change the subject. “They have chocolate cake today. Would you like some?”

  “I need to watch my figure. It wouldn’t hurt if you were more careful too. How do you expect to find a man who will have you when you outweigh half of them? You look like a heifer in those jeans.”

  Morgan closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer.

  A slim black woman in blue jeans that looked as if they’d been ironed came up to their table and said, “Are you two playing today?”

  Morgan looked hopefully at her mother. Often these days she didn’t want to play, and Morgan got a reprieve from an entire afternoon of verbal abuse.

  “Belle,” Morgan’s mother said, gesturing toward her. “Have you met my sister, Ida?”

  Belle Trees, the activity director, gave Morgan a knowing look. “Why, Mrs. Holiday, this is your daughter, Morgan.”

  Her mother squinted at her and folded her arms across her chest. Turning to Belle, she said, “We’ll want the table by the window.”

  Belle nodded. “I’ll get things set up.”

  Morgan’s mother had taught her to play chess when she was five. Until then, she’d watched her parents and grandparents play. It was Aunt Ida who’d said, “The child is too young.”

  Her mother had taken Morgan into her arms and told Ida th
at her daughter was a “smart girl.” And, magically, Morgan became one. Whenever things were hard for Morgan, she remembered her mother’s words. She was a “smart girl,” so she could take honors math. The “smart girl” could graduate in the top tenth of her high-school class and go to night school while writing traffic tickets all day. At five years old, Morgan had learned the game quickly, and she played it most Sunday afternoons with her mother. Even now.

  Belle was setting up the board when Morgan, holding her mother’s arm, entered the great room.

  “Surprises me that she can still play chess,” Belle said. “It’s a game of memory and strategy.”

  Like all the others, Belle spoke of Morgan’s mother as if she wasn’t there. Even if what she heard upset her, the Alzheimer’s had progressed so far she wouldn’t remember the affront a moment later. This time she didn’t respond. She had her eye on the table and the chess pieces.

  Morgan helped her into a pink wingback chair and told Belle, “She’s known this game a lot longer than she’s known me.”

  “Well, I believe it keeps her alive,” Belle said. “It may slow down the disease.”

  Morgan nodded and smiled, then took the chair across from her mother. Now the real battle would begin.

  *

  The Zachary Ingram job had come from Jessica Ryan, the daughter of an old friend. Before Sophie could place an ad in a couple of Mercenary Internet sites she’d chosen, Faith Ryan, who had taught second grade in the same parochial school as Sophie, died. She and Sophie had been friends, and when Faith adopted Jessica, Sophie had given the baby shower. Eventually Sophie met Lois, and Faith got a better job at a private girls’ school. They rarely saw each other in the years that followed.

  Then the obituary appeared in the paper, and Sophie, who was still wearing a neck brace part of the time, went to Faith’s wake. There she introduced herself to Jessica, who was now forty. Interestingly, although Jessica was adopted, she resembled her mother in many ways.

  A blanket of roses with a ribbon that said Beloved Mother covered part of the coffin. The only other flowers were in the small arrangement that Lois and Sophie had sent. Faith had been a plump, rosy-cheeked woman when Sophie knew her many years before. Now her head lay on a light-blue satin pillow, her gray hair thin and fuzzy. Her sunken cheeks were pink with too much makeup. Sophie turned to Jessica, who stood next to the casket, and embraced her.