“I hate funerals,” I whisper. “Who don’t, boss?” Ah, Lomax. In his 5’2”, motheaten glory, he’s doughy as flapjacks and almost as aware. “Assassins, morticians, beneficiaries of juicy wills, and we other lowly disciples of greed and grift. At least,… Continue Reading
I walk into the restaurant, wearing a dress that reveals no cleavage and low heels as befits a widow of my age, fifty-five. Waving at the hostess, I continue on. His husky voice comes from the bar, my stomach flutters… Continue Reading
Lena was getting sick of being nagged. She played along so as not to upset anybody; her son Dean, his wife Sandrine, her best friend Carol. Best friends are hard to come by and maybe Carol had a point. She… Continue Reading