IT’S NOT DIFFICULT to rob a bank. The hard part is—cue drum roll—getting away with it.
How’d I get to this point in my life? I admit to a colorful past, but felonies weren’t part of it. A few misdemeanors in my youth, a DUI last year, but overall Martha Sue Bly obeys the law. I even declare every penny of income from my laundromat, the Wishy Washy, to the IRS. You’ll agree that’s the very definition of honesty. Of course, since my quarters are deposited in the bank, which then reports them to the IRS, I don’t have much choice.
Quite a racket, this coziness between banks and the US Government. When a bank can’t pay what it owes, it’s too big to fail and the US Government steps in with a bailout. When you or I run into financial misfortune, we get slapped with overdraft fees, repossession, foreclosure, and bankruptcy. Recently I was headed in that direction, with good reason to ponder the unfairness of this cozy relationship.
A few months ago I got a death sentence. Oh, not those words exactly. The doctor used terms like rare, difficult to treat, aggressive. We can try this, Martha. Or that. No guarantees.
It’s not easy to obtain this or that when you’ve got no health insurance. Yup, I’m one of the unlucky North Carolina residents who earns too much for Medicaid, not enough for government subsidies. (Read that sentence twice. Because it doesn’t make sense.)
I went through the Kübler-Ross stages in about three minutes flat: the lab musta made a mistake. But if they didn’t—the doc’s old, pushing sixty, so why not him instead? But since I got it—there’s a chance, isn’t there, with chemo and stem cells? Aw, there’s no hope and I’m just gonna lie on the floor and cry for the rest of my short life.
It looked like forty-four years might be it for moi. What did I have to show for my too-short moment on this planet? A born-again evangelical daughter who said I was headed straight to hell to burn for eternity. A string of sorry men, evidence of a weakness for looks over brains, money, or character. Tattoos and cellulite.
Not very much. Somehow, that fact was even worse than my diagnosis.
THE WISHY WASHY is conveniently located in a strip mall right outside my neighborhood, Evergreen Hills, where the only hills are speed bumps and “green” is furnished by plentiful crabgrass, algae growing on our vinyl siding, and water in last summer’s wading pools. The entrance is marked by a splintery sign that some hoodlum teenager took a mallet to, knocking off letters so that it now says v rg n Hills.
Three weeks into chemo, I pulled into my driveway with groceries and seven-hundred-dollars’ worth of pills—thank you, AmEx. I was nauseated, tired, bald, and broke. My medical bills resembled a Wall Street bonus but the only hedge fund I knew of was my neighbor Robert’s. Robert had come back from Afghanistan with a limp and a four-square-inch plate in his head. He was big as a fridge and good with tools, but simple. He earned money as a handyman—cutting grass, painting, spreading mulch, any little repair job you could think of. He lived at 312, next door to me, with his mom Annie, who used to be my best friend.
Robert was edging his sidewalk. “I almost didn’t recognize you, Miss Martha,” he said. “Where did your hair go?” Gotta love him.
“Don’t know,” I said. “It just fell out one day.”
“You look real different. I never saw a bald lady before.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Your momma still working at the bakery?”
“Um, no. She was laid off. She’s sleeping. Should I wake her up?”
“Let her sleep. I’ll stop by later.” A big fat lie. Annie and I weren’t speaking. She claimed I stole her fiancé but if you ask me, I did her a favor. Smitty was lousy husband material. When I got sick, he slithered away quicker than a bobcat onto his next prey—a dropout he found at the soft serve ice cream window. My feelings survived that blow, so should Annie’s. I missed her, though, and most days I wished I had a friend like she used to be. I sighed and turned to get my grocery bags.
Robert laid the edger down. “Let me help you, Miss Martha.”
“Bless you.” I hadn’t the strength of a newborn those days. He grabbed all five of my bags with one hand and jogged in front of me to get the door. “Lemonade?” I offered, once we were inside.
“Oh no, thank you, ma’am, I’ve got to get back to work. You need any help with your yard?”
My heart slipped in a sad direction as I pondered the boy. The man. He was about twenty-five, weighed over two-fifty, so tall he ducked going through doorways as a matter of habit.
I barely had enough for the phone bill but money was starting to look less and less important. “My beds sure do need weeding,” I said. “And spread some mulch. I know you can make it look nice out front.”
Too tired to put my groceries away, I lay down on the couch for a rest, until the phone rang. My spirits sagged when I saw it was Isabella with her dutiful-daughter weekly call. Is the average mom pleased to hear from her lovely daughter who lives in Charlotte in a million-dollar mansion with her perfect preacher husband and brilliant infant? Yes, of course she is.
Me, not so much.
“Hi, darling,” I said, drumming up a bit of vocal enthusiasm.
“Mom, how are you?” Isabella meant, Are you sober? I hadn’t told her about my health problems because she would imply they were divine retribution for my lifestyle.
“Good, I’m very good. How are you?” I braced myself.
“You got the package, right?”
Take a moment to imagine what a wealthy daughter might send to her cash-strapped mom. A fruit-and-cheese arrangement, perhaps, with a selection of fancy crackers and soups. A gift card for a dog groomer—my mutt’s appropriately named Scruffy. Or what I really need: a note that says “please send me the roofer’s bill once he’s fixed that leak into your bedroom.”
But Isabella’s package had contained religious tracts. Flimsy paper booklets, the end of the world (coming soon!!!), the wages of sin, who gets into heaven and who doesn’t. She’s underlined passages and written in the margins: it’s never too late. So important. His love will save you.
“Thank you,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Very thoughtful.”
“Jesus loves you, Mom, no matter what you’ve done.”
She didn’t know the half of what I’ve done. Perhaps Jesus did, though. “I’m glad to hear that, honey. Kiss the baby for me.” And a prayer wouldn’t hurt either. I hung up, sighed, and turned to Scruffy for some puppy love. Though shaggy bangs covered his dark expressive eyes, he managed to find my face for a sloppy kiss. Why did Issy’s calls make me feel so lonely? My bones ached as my thoughts skittered from one regret to another.
Coulda been a better mom, not shuffled Issy off to her dad’s to be indoctrinated by his holier-than-thou second wife.
Shoulda gone to college. Was having too much fun pouring drinks at Spanky’s.
Woulda been happier (and wealthier) after my divorce if I hadn’t married Trevor on the rebound. Trevor was smooth as glass, confident, and charming. How was I to know he made a living scamming snowbird seniors? Seasonal work. Each May he’d come back to North Carolina for six months. We were currently separated; neither of us could afford the price of a divorce.
Regrets, I had a few. I closed my eyes, tried to clear my brain, and dozed off until my doorbell rang.
“Come see, Miss Martha,” Robert said. He’d trimmed the holly hedge, weeded the flower bed by my front steps, and even planted impatiens, red, pink, and white. With dark mulch, mine was the nicest house on the street. “I’ll water these the next few days,” he said. “No charge.”
“Wonderful job, Robert.” I paid him fifty dollars plus cost of the supplies. Mostly in quarters and ones, but he was happy, trotting home to show his mother.
I was putting my groceries away, slowly, when Annie knocked on my back door and walked right in, bearing a box. She’s built like a fireplug, a look tempered by abundant black hair, dimpled chin, and a rosebud mouth currently set in a frown. Awash with joy at the sight of my friend, I wrapped my arms around her for a full minute. “I have no words,” I breathed into her ear. “Missed you.”
She took my face in her hands. “You didn’t tell me you were getting chemo. And look at those cheekbones—you’re not eating enough. Here, I made you some cupcakes.”
I opened the box and gasped. “These are beautiful!” Each fat cupcake was perfectly swirled with frosting and decorated—blue with a white daisy, lime-green with chocolate hearts, lavender with silver sprinkles. Just seeing them lifted my spirits.
“Made with cannabis butter. I hear it helps with chemo. Don’t tell Robert.” She took over, efficiently sorting my groceries into fridge, pantry, fruit bowl.
“Oh my God, Annie, pot cupcakes. You are the best friend ever. And I’m sorry about Smitty.”
“Not to worry. You did me a big favor, actually. Now taste one. I’m on a diet, can’t even sample them. They’re low dose but go easy.” She creased each grocery bag and folded it into a rectangle.
It was hard to decide. “What’s this one?” White frosting speckled with orange zest and shaved chocolate.
“Chocolate cake, orange-infused buttercream.” Annie picked up a pencil and started wandering through my house, making notes. I wasn’t too curious, being occupied with going easy. Meanwhile, the cannabis (which I couldn’t taste) soothed my stomach, the chocolate and orange fired up my brain’s pleasure centers, and this homemade gift eased my soul.
“Robert told me you were laid off,” I said. “You could sell these online. Minus the pot.”
“I’ve thought about it. Takes cash, honey. Licenses, website, supplies. We’re barely existing on my unemployment.” She shrugged, and her face looked worn. My moment of happiness faded as I realized how little I could do for Annie in return.
OVER THE NEXT few days neighbors dropped by. People I knew by sight, from brief chats at the Wishy, from patting their dogs when I was out with Scruffy.
Peter Jensen pushed his wife’s wheelchair right up to my front steps. I’d never met her before. He’d always come to the Wishy by himself, towing a shopping cart of dirty laundry. He was a gentle quiet man. She was—well, neither.
“I’m Rosie,” she said. “You’ve never met me because he can’t hardly push me up the street in this thing.” She pounded on the arms of her wheelchair. I murmured some pleasantry. “They sawed off my foot, you see?” She lifted the wool throw covering her legs, revealing a stump wrapped with stretchy bandages. “Diabetes. Couldn’t afford the supplies, the food. But now it’s the medical bills killing us, phew.” She eyed me suspiciously, like I might be after her husband. Ha.
I wondered why they were here. To make me appreciate my feet?
“We brought you something,” Peter said.
Rosie handed me a package wrapped in tissue paper. “I can’t help or cook you nothing. But this I do.”
I open the package. Inside, four knitted beanie hats, in pastel shades, variously trimmed with buttons, a tassel, ribbon. I blinked back a spurt of tears at her thoughtfulness. “Oh Rosie, thank you.”
“I picked colors for your skin tone,” she said. “You’re a spring. Or were.” Referring no doubt to my sickly hue and lack of locks. “Will be again.”
DAWN SHOWED UP later. She was a fifty-ish woman who always talked with her hand covering her mouth because her teeth were blackened, crooked, or missing, like Rosie’s foot. “Can’t afford a dentist,” she’d told me. She was renting a room from Peter and Rosie and looking for work. “But it’s hard to get hired when you can’t smile at people. Can’t hardly let them see you talk.” She asked to borrow Scruffy for an hour. He went willingly—he never met a stranger he didn’t adore. She brought him back bathed and trimmed, with a jaunty red bow in his hair. This time I took deep breaths and didn’t weep; I was getting used to kindness.
THE NEXT DAY I was at the Wishy, a no-longer-scruffy Scruffy at my feet and a pink tasseled hat warming my skull, when Annie came in and asked me for the key to my front door.
I held it up. “Why?”
“Just trust me.”
“I don’t want you going in my house. It’s a mess.” I’d been too exhausted to wash dishes, hang up clothes, or vacuum. Dog hair was second only to dust bunnies in square foot coverage.
“Relax.” She took the key and left.
I settled down to counting my week’s take, wondering what Annie wanted to do in my house. Maybe she was going to leave me another half-dozen pot cupcakes, bless her little baker’s heart. I tried to think about what I could do for her in return, or for Rosie and Dawn. Maybe a Wishy Washy gift card.
I came home to a sparkling clean house. My clothes had been washed, ironed, and put away. Gone were the dog hair and dust bunnies. The kitchen counter, normally strewn with dirty dishes and unread mail, was scrubbed clean. Someone had even washed my windows and arranged a bouquet of tulips on the dining table. I knew those tulips—they came from Celina Robles’ front yard. She and her husband José worked all hours selling fish tacos from their food truck. I called her to say thank you.
“Martha, you are very welcome. I hope you are not offended that I clean your house?”
Words failed me. Finally I managed to say, “Of course not. You didn’t go out in your truck today?”
“Oh no, is broken. Something about engine rod throwing. So you see I have plenty of time and cleaning is easy for me. Look in your oven, we put some tamales.”
Those damn tears. I choked out a “gracias” before checking the oven. Finding not only chicken tamales, but also some little tortilla things filled with apples and drizzled with Nutella. How did she know Nutella was my favorite condiment?
Oh, right. Annie. The woman was born to organize.
Lest I fail to mention—someone had fixed my roof too. I didn’t know who.
THE NEXT MORNING I spent a half hour making up my sallow face into almost-pretty, getting ready for my weekly trip to the bank where I exchanged flirtatious innuendoes with the extremely hot teller Joshua, a thirty-something with manly stubble.
At the bank, I was filling out a deposit slip when a brouhaha broke out. Annie’s son Robert wanted to cash a check he’d received from a client.
Joshua sounded apologetic. “Sorry, sir. We can’t cash a third-party check for more than your account balance. Bank policy.”
Robert was clenching his jaw, snorting through his nose, and working up to something he’d regret. I didn’t blame him one bit—the raging unfairness of institutional coldness grabbed my attention. On impulse I reached around Robert and handed my bag of change and small bills to Joshua. “Put this in his account,” I said.
Joshua looked startled, then at Robert for affirmation. The crazed look in Robert’s eyes dimmed, was replaced by—tears? This six-foot man, tough as nails, tattooed with serpents and eagles and Semper Fi, rubbed his eyes. “Nicest thing . . . I’ll pay you back next week,” he mumbled.
It occurred to me he had probably fixed my roof; I’d seen him on top of his own house nailing down shingles. “No, no. Keep it,” I said. Joshua started counting quarters, tension dissipated, Robert gave me a hug, like a cuddle from a grizzly. Need I say how good that felt? If I’d kept the money, it would’ve gone to pay my Visa bill, no happy feelings for anyone. But here I bought a smile and a hug with it. A new sensation, a bit of joy. When you don’t have a future, what’s money for?
That’s when I decide to start robbing banks.
I DIDN’T INTEND to get caught. Not that I would’ve minded much—hello, free health care—but I had goals to meet first. I made a plan.
The bank had to be at least thirty miles from my house. It needed to have ample parking, a layout so I could make a quick getaway. The bank itself: not crowded—I didn’t need witnesses or heroes who might interfere. A weekday morning to miss the lunch crowd, the closing rush.
The night before, I stole a license plate from a random car in a grocery store parking lot. How often do you check whether you still have a license plate? Never, right? The next morning, I screwed the stolen plate onto my beige Camry, the most common car in America. Every third car is a beige Camry.
I put on brown baggy pants and a baggier top, grabbed a small pillow for stuffing and a wig of short white curls. I’d bought an assortment of white wigs—chemo gave me an excuse. I slathered on an exfoliating facial mask that drew my skin into wrinkled cracks.
My target: a branch bank in a Winston-Salem shopping center. I parked in a quiet corner, tucked the pillow into my waistband, straightened my wig. Orange lipstick, a fake wart on my chin, sunglasses, moccasins and I was ready to rob and roll. Hunched over a little, walked kind slow. There’s no one more invisible than a respectable granny.
Invisible, that is, until I reached the head of the line, showed the teller a metal pineapple, my pinkie tucked in the ring-pull, and handed her a note: no bait, no dye pack. Just twenties, fifties, and hundreds, missy, all you got, spread ’em out where I can see ’em. Thank you very much and have a nice day. ☺
The teller frowned. “Is this a joke?” she said.
“No, don’t be rude.” I waggled the grenade at her and she grew pale, got busy pulling bills out of her drawer.
“On the counter first,” I said, “then slide them over here.” I lowered my voice, spoke hoarsely.
She followed directions, I stuffed bills into a paper bag, and a minute later I walked out with over six thousand dollars. No one followed me as I got into my car and drove out of the lot, onto I-40 for the drive home. Trembling a little from thrill and adrenaline, I patted the bag. “I have plans for you,” I said.
A video of my robbery was on the News at Ten. Exciting! The security camera had filmed a roundish elderly woman. Very wrinkled with a noticeable wart. My own daughter wouldn’t have recognized me.
I washed off wrinkles and the wart, dusted my eyelids with smoky eyeshadow, and took the bills to my bank. I handed them to Joshua. “Will this buy me a night with you?”
“Martha, I would pay you.” He winked. “I see you’re laundering cash today.”
“That’s right. Give me half of that in a cashier’s check.” Neither of us mentioned that my deposit was four times the usual amount.
A FEW DAYS later, entering a bank for the second robbery, I looked entirely different. Black leather jacket, tweed skirt, black boots. White hair in a severe bob, lots of red lipstick and too much blush. Same grenade and note, however. Why change what worked? I escaped with four thousand plus change. Bought another cashier’s check, deposited the rest, and went home to bed. The chemo still took its toll, though Annie’s cupcakes helped with the worst symptoms.
FOR THE NEXT four banks I was variously a hippy with long white hair wearing a tie-dye caftan; an old lady lumberjack in one of Trevor’s flannel shirts and red suspenders; stylishly unconventional senior in leopard-print leggings, a crocheted tunic, and braids; and punk granny, all in black, with a purple stripe in my white hair, showing cleavage and a dolphin tattoo.
A website went up with all my robbery videos and soon I even had my own hashtag. I’d never had so much fun. Not even when I was drinking. And the best came next.
I STARTED SPREADING the cash around, anonymously. After each robbery, one of my neighbors would make a pleasant discovery.
In his driveway, Robert found a gently used Ford van, painted shiny orange, with Robert’s Handyman Services No Job Too Big or Small in green. On the front seat was a gift card to a home improvement store for $2000, for tools. I was walking Scruffy when he came out of his house. The look on his face was priceless.
A motorized wheelchair was delivered to Rosie’s house. In a side pocket she found a cashier’s check for $2000 with an anonymous note directing her and Peter to hire Robert to build them an entrance ramp and revamp their bathroom. I met her tooling down the street. As she bubbled about her new-found independence, I felt something new and tender inside. I didn’t know a word for it. Like an ache was gone.
Dawn received a phone call from a dentist. Her dental implants were paid for; did she want to make an appointment? She was so excited when she told me. “As soon as I can smile, I’m going to call all the vets in town and offer my services as a dog groomer. Will you give me a reference?”
“You bet,” I told her. “So will Scruffy.”
José and Celina’s mobile food truck disappeared. They didn’t report it stolen—no insurance—which was just as well, because three days later it re-appeared, freshly painted, with a rebuilt engine, new tires and brakes, a new fryer. They parked their truck outside the Wishy, and I was the first customer, asking for three apple Nutella taquitos.
A package of business cards, brochures, boxes, and bags—all decorated with a charming logo for Annie’s Cupcakery and containing the link to her new website—was delivered to Annie’s door. A $4000 cashier’s check for a computer, start-up supplies, and a social media consultant was icing on the cake, so to speak. I was visiting her when she opened it. It was so much fun to watch her go through the box, squeal at each little design detail. After a while she grew quiet and gave me an odd look. “A good fairy has moved to Oak Leaf Court,” she said.
“I know! And I’d like to place the first order. A dozen assorted cupcakes. You know, the ones with the special ingredient.” I shipped them to Issy, warning her not to let the baby have any.
SO MY GOALS had been achieved, I hadn’t been caught, the chemo had bought me some time. My hair had grown back into sort of a curly pixie, and I’d gained weight, thanks to Nutella taquitos. My cheeks were rosy, my step was light. All was well—as well as possible, anyway—in Martha Sue Bly’s world.
Until it wasn’t.
THE FIRST OF May. Annie and I were in my kitchen taste-testing her latest creation, tiramisu cupcakes. “Someone’s gotta do it,” I joked as I inhaled vanilla bean cake with marscapone frosting, dusted with cocoa. We were having fun, exchanging stories about Smitty, our ex-in-common, when the front door opened and my almost-ex Trevor walked into my house. “Martha Sue, sweetheart!” he said. “Your hair is different. I like it.”
Trevor makes an excellent impression with his dark floppy hair, broad shoulders, sapphire eyes. Annie sat up a little straighter and I heard her hum until I whispered, “He’s a sociopath. Watch and learn.”
I accosted my husband. “Uh, you heard of calling? Or even knocking?” I was feeling sassy. Joshua had asked me to run away with him when he took my deposit that morning.
“It’s my house too, remember?” Trevor smiled at Annie. “Nice to meet you, darlin’.”
“Not exactly. I make the payments.”
“According to North Carolina law—” Here Trevor cleared his throat, his intro to all pompous pronouncements. I braced myself. “Half,” he said, lowering his head and glaring at me. Just the one word, like I’d know what he meant. I felt cold all over as a stiletto of fear pierced me. Could he know about the robberies? How? All my fun vanished and I asked Annie to come back later because Trevor and I had to discuss some things in private.
She gave me a look—are you sure?—and when I nodded yes, she left.
Trevor wasted no time in stating his objective. “You owe me half of everything. Community property, right? I also want my red suspenders and blue flannel shirt back.”
Oh no. I’d been so careful to disguise myself, then he’d recognized the lumberjack outfit I wore at bank #4. His clothes. Dummy! “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do, Grenade Granny.”
He was right. Though blackmail was a felony, so was robbing banks. “I’ve given the money away to my neighbors. They’ve helped me out because I’ve been sick.” I didn’t want tell him the details of my illness. Trevor’s attempts at fake sympathy would nauseate me.
“Then you need to hit one again, don’t you? Make enough to give me my share?”
I sighed, feeling lower than the day I got my diagnosis. “I guess so. Give me a couple of weeks.”
“I’ll be on your doorstep in two days. Twenty thousand in cash is perfectly acceptable.”
SO I GEARED up for one last haul. This time I donned a white pageboy wig, black wrap dress, padded bra, high heels, and sunglasses. I was hardly invisible granny but the hair covered much of my face, the glasses hid my eyes, and I added some fake teeth to give me an overbite. I could see the headlines . . . Grenade Granny Goes Glam. The trembling teller gave me nine thousand dollars, the biggest haul yet.
On my way out of the parking lot, I pulled off the wig and removed the teeth, then stopped at a fast food restaurant to strip off my dress and bra and slip into shorts and sandals. All the bank’s money went into an envelope for Trevor.
In a cloud of anxiety I walked up to the Wishy and collected the bills from the change machine, quarters from the washers and dryers. The place was busy, but no one from Oak Leaf Court was there. Maybe they’d all bought washers and dryers with their newfound prosperity. I was frantic with worry over Trevor. Paying him blackmail money might just whet his appetite for more. And if I balked and he told the police I was Grenade Granny, they might figure out where the money had gone. Scandal would rain down on Oak Leaf Court. I had nowhere to turn.
I dabbed on mascara and a red lippy and went to the bank with my regular deposit. My unhappiness must have showed on my face, because Joshua frowned. “Say it’s not true,” he said, counting my money. “That you’ve found someone else and you’re dumping me. “ His hazel eyes studied me.
I made an effort. “There will never be anyone else. You smell too good, like pine and lemon and the sea.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m fine.” I forced a smile but he didn’t return it. He handed me the deposit slip, on which he’d drawn a pair of hearts linked by an arrow.
For the first time in a year, I felt desperate for a drink. But alcohol wouldn’t have cured my ills, only created more problems. I went home and waited for Trevor to arrive on my doorstep.
HE NEVER CAME.
Trevor had been murdered. His body was found that night, underneath the stadium seating at a Greensboro high school. He’d been stabbed four times in the back. Estimated time of death, late morning, so I had an alibi—I’d been seen in the Wishy and at the bank. Not that I was a suspect—why should I be?
His other wife wasn’t a suspect either. Yes, it turned out that Trevor was a bigamist with a wife in Florida, which partly explained his six-month absences. She and I commiserated over our similar miserable Trevor-experiences.
Detectives found a few of his scamming victims and questioned them, but finally concluded it must have been a mugging, since Trevor’s wallet and phone were missing.
I didn’t believe it was a mugging, or a scamming victim. I suspected who killed Trevor. And I was grateful.
A WEEK LATER, on the Riviera Maya. Joshua and I reclined in a private cabana, avoiding the heat of the day, drinking pisco sours. Mine was virgin, but nonetheless tasty. Also tasty was Joshua, who turned out to be even sexier once he emerged from the bank. I’d shown him the ad for this resort as a joke but he thought I was serious, and maybe I was. And here we were, me and my boy-toy.
“Pour me another, please,” I said. “All those quips about money laundering. How did you know?”
“I’ll tell you but you won’t like it.” He handed me the drink and rested his hand on my thigh. His hand was warm and brown and very capable. “I recognized you in the first video.”
“What? I was invisible granny with a wart!”
“You looked right at the camera at one point. I saw your eyes. These eyes.” He leaned over and kissed my closed eyes, left, right. “I didn’t know why, but I remembered when you gave Robert your money, and I thought . . . you were a woman on a mission.”
I inhaled his smell, pine and the sea. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”
“Guess I liked your mission. Spread happiness.”
“Until Trevor showed up, it was working.” I told him about Trevor’s murder. “Someone saved me.”
“Who?”
I remembered how Annie left my house the day Trevor threatened to blackmail me. Did she go home? Or lurk under my kitchen window to listen to us talk? I thought about Annie’s amazing organizational skills on my behalf, getting my good neighbors to clean my house, fix my roof, knit me pretty caps, groom Scruffy, cook delicious foods that I could eat, thanks to her pot cupcakes. I thought about the morning Trevor was killed, how none of those neighbors were in the Wishy Washy. What else, who else, had Annie organized?
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Let’s go for a swim.” I took his hand in mine and we walked across the white sand, into a sparkling turquoise sea.