twenty questions

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” The poise was gone.

         Fortunately, from Meredith’s point of view, her son the Chief had walked in just as she was weighing greetings.

         “Mrs. Adams,” he had said. “I was just about to call you.”

          “Call me?” the perfectly shaped eyebrows arched.

          “Um. Yes. Please sit down. I’m sorry to tell you that there’s been an accident.”

          “To who?”

          “Your husband.”

           “Malcolm?”

           “Yes.”

           “In a car?”

           “No, ma’am.”

           Bigger than a breadbox? thought Meredith, as the questions continued. Bobby was putting the teakettle on the stove.  “Sugar,” she said.

            “I know.”

            They were all hoping she wouldn’t ask to see the body. Because whatever and whoever Malcolm Adams had been, he had been hated. He had been mown down, shot in the chest and head so many times that the only possible explanation was a nutcase with a major grievance and an AK-47. Had Adams not been so readily identifiable with his long silver ponytail and Santa Fe silver-and-turquoise jewelry, you would have been hard put to know who he was.

            “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.” Now she was moaning and rocking back and forth.

        Meredith wondered whether Mrs. Adams dyed her eyelashes— her mascara wasn’t running. She couldn’t bring herself wrap her arms around the bereaved woman. The best she managed was to sort of pat her on the shoulder. She really couldn’t abide her.

        Bobby loaded a cup of hot tea with sugar and put it in the woman’s hands. Joseph stood looking serious and rather helpless. The Staties guarded the garden. And, finally, they heard the noise.