“This looks like more than a local bank.”
“I work for someone. And no, I won’t tell you who. Leave well enough alone.” She walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “I’m going to make you some matcha tea, Franny. That will put some color in you.”
The kitchen was tiny, with a two-seat bar that separated it from the living area. There was a single barstool, pushed up against the wall. There was nothing on the counters. No bread box, no toaster, no coffee maker. While Irene was busy making tea, Frances moved around the small apartment, looking for clues of Irene’s life. The only thing she found was a large closet with more yoga mats, one very large sound bowl, and several outfits, which, to the casual viewer, looked like disguises. What was Irene doing with a sparkly leotard and matching feather headdress? Or scrubs?
She returned to the living room. If Irene were to drop dead tomorrow, Frances could imagine it would take weeks, if not months, to find a single next of kin. There wasn’t a slip of paper anywhere. She didn’t even have a picture lying around. This looked like the home of someone who was ready to bolt at moment’s notice. But in the meantime, Irene did have a fantastic view of the ocean. “So,” Frances said, “are you on the lam or something? In some sort of trouble? Maybe hiding from someone?”
Irene handed her a cup of tea. “I’m starting to think maybe I should have hidden from you. Were you always so nosy?”
Frances thought about it. “Yes, I think so.”
“Drink that. For energy. Why are you so tired, anyway? You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
Franceswastired. She wanted to lie on the couch and take a nap. She remembered she was supposed to take a pill and glanced longingly at her purse, perched on the end of the tiny kitchen bar. “I’m seventy-four. I get tired.”
“Sleep when you’re dead,” Irene suggested.
Funny how that adage hit a little differently when one was closing in on death.
“We should go to Joan first.” Irene was moving on, ready to plan. She’d always been like that—impatient, wanting togo go gobefore anyone else was ready.
“Okay.” Frances felt terribly fatigued suddenly and sat on the couch. She tried to remember if she would have these sudden swells of fatigue before she knew about the cancer.
“She lives in Colorado and farms medical marijuana. Which I think is a cover for selling the unregulated kind.”
Frances rubbed her forehead, trying to will away the pain that was creeping in.“Joan?”
“Who else are we talking about? Keep up, Franny.”
“But how do you know?”
A funny look slipped over Irene’s face. “It’s easy to look people up. So, I look people up.”
Frances sipped the tea. It tasted like dirt. Lots of things were beginning to taste like dirt. Did they taste like dirt before she knew? Was her mind playing tricks on her? “Did you look me up?”
“Yes, Miss Pickleball.”
That was so unexpected that Frances gasped.
Irene laughed and sat in the office chair. “Have you ever heard of Google alerts? You popped up one day in thePecan Springs Gazette.”
“ThePecan Springs Gazette?” Frances practically shouted. It was a neighborhood publication. What was it doing on Google alerts? “What did it say?”
“That you were kicked out of the club.”
Frances gasped again. “The club reported my banishment to theinternet?”
“Stop gasping like that or you’ll give yourself an aneurysm. And please tell me you don’t really believe it’s a thing to ‘report’ to the internet. Some lady was getting an award at the club, andshe was interviewed about her accomplishments. She listed bouncing you as an accomplishment.”
“New Boobs Sue.” Frances sighed. If she wasn’t dying, she had half a mind to postpone her quest and fly back to Houston and kick some ass.
“What did you do, anyway?”
“Nothing. I happened to play the game exceptionally well against a bunch of entitled seniors.”
Irene snorted. “I remember how you can get. You hate to lose.”
“Who doesn’t?”
