3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse by Lois Winston Page A

and folded her hands on the little bit of lap that stuck out beneath her expansive girth. Her eyes filled with tears. “We had a good marriage. Fifty-two years. Then George and I moved to Sunnyside and that Lyndella Wegner started filling my George’s head with all sorts of X-rated nonsense, telling him she could make him feel like a teenager again.”
    Sally’s floodgates gave way at that point. I placed my hand on her plump shoulder, unsure what else to do as she sobbed.
    “She killed him,” said Bargello Lady. “Lyndella killed Sally’s husband.”
    “How?” I asked.
    “Those damn little blue pills,” said Sally between gulping sobs.
    “Viagra?”
    “Lyndella talked George into getting a prescription,” said Mabel, “but Sally—”
    “We hadn’t had sex in years,” said Sally. She pulled a tissue from her pocket, dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose. “It hurt. Lyndella knew this would happen. She lured George into her bed, and he had a massive heart attack.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “Now you know,” said Mabel. “We didn’t kill that whore, but we’ll throw a party for the person who did.”
    At that moment Reggie reentered the room. She carried another couple of cartons, the top one shifting precariously. The needlework women stopped talking the moment they saw her and resumed their stitching. I hurried to meet Reggie and grabbed the top carton before it fell.
    With a loud oomph , Reggie placed the remaining box on the nearest table. “Do you want her books, too?” she asked.
    “Shouldn’t they go to the library?”
    “I suppose.”
    She didn’t seem too happy with my answer, probably because the library was situated farther from Lyndella’s room than the arts and crafts room. “Why don’t you bring them here?” I suggested. “I’ll sort through them.”
    “Okay.” Reggie headed back for another armload of boxes.
    As soon as she left the room, I returned to my group of needlework women. “One thing puzzles me,” I said.
    “What’s that?” asked Mabel.
    I hesitated, unsure how to broach such a delicate question without offending anyone.
    “Spit it out,” said Mabel. “None of us is getting any younger.”
    I inhaled a deep breath, then took the plunge. “A woman of Lyndella’s advanced years, how did she … I mean, I didn’t think it was even possible—”
    “For her to have sex?” asked the baby sweater knitter.
    I nodded.
    “Hormones,” said Mabel. “The rest of us were too scared of cancer, especially after that women’s health study came out a few years back. Those of us who’d been on HRT got off it at that point. Not Lyndella.”
    “No hormone replacement therapy means no libido for many women,” said Sally. “You dry up in more ways than one.”
    “Try explaining that to the Viagra generation,” said Mabel. “Those randy lotharios want a hell of a lot more than hand-holding and cuddling nowadays.”
    “And they got what they wanted from Lyndella,” said Bargello Lady. “Any time, night or day.”
    Holy TMI! But I’d asked, and these women certainly weren’t shy about dishing all the lascivious details. I had to admit, though, part of me was totally fascinated by the late Lyndella Wegner. In a macabre sort of way.
    By the end of the needlework class, Reggie had deposited fifteen extra-large cartons in the room, eight filled with Lyndella’s crafts and seven containing an assortment of craft books, fiction, and loose-leaf binders. I decided the arts and crafts room should have a library of its own.
    After walking Mephisto, I took the remainder of my lunch break to sort and shelve the craft books while scarfing down a cup of store-brand cherry yogurt I’d brought from home. Maybe the yogurt would balance out the Cloris-fueled calories I’d gobbled up Friday.
    A set of built-in bookcases ran the length of the room under the windows. I straightened out the various items on one section of shelves to make room. Then I separated Lyndella’s