An Air That Kills by Margaret Millar

church. Her name was Celia Roy, she lived alone on the outskirts of the small town of Thornbury on Georgian Bay, she was a widow with a pension and two married daughters and no hope of much more in this life.
    She was the kind of woman to whom nothing extraordinary had ever happened. True, she’d seen people die, babies born, mistakes committed, tragedies enacted, sacrifices made, but this was all run-of-the-mill stuff to Celia. What she dreamed of, in her declining years, was winning a new car on a radio quiz program, or an all-expense trip to Hollywood in a slogan contest, or a thousand dollars for submitting the best recipe. She would have settled for a really good night at the church bingo on Thursday, but even that hadn’t happened.
    She put on her hat in front of the sideboard mirror. She’d worn the hat for three years and could have put it on properly in pitch darkness, but she stood in front of the mirror out of habit, not really seeing either the hat or herself under it. Her hands were trembling with excitement and fear. It was the Sabbath, she was on her way to church, and she’d done something wrong, perhaps quite wrong. What was more, she had no intention of telling anyone about it. The dog was dead. She’d buried him herself in the dark of night, and no one knew a thing about it.
    She heard her daughter Mabel’s old Ford wheeze up in front of the house and cough to a stop. Each time Celia heard this noise she expected it to be the car’s last—it sounded exactly like old Mr. Thurston’s death rattle—but each time, under Mabel’s expert pumping and pounding and shouting, the car would miraculously come to life in every joint and pulsate vigorously as if to deny all charges of age and in­firmity.
    Mabel bounded in the front door. She was a lively young woman with a hearty laugh and a quick temper and little or no patience with people who slunk, as she called it, through life.
    â€œHi. Ready, Mom?”
    â€œJust about,” Celia said. “I look a fright. It’s this hat. It’s getting out of shape.”
    â€œWho isn’t,” Mabel said cheerfully. “I told you to get a new one for Easter.”
    â€œAnd what to use for money?”
    â€œSpeaking of money, I don’t have a cent for the collection plate. John didn’t get his check, this is the third time in a row it’s been late.” She saw her mother’s purse lying on the wicker jardiniere and picked it up. “Mind if I borrow a quarter?”
    Celia had turned quite white. “Stop. Wait.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you?”
    â€œI—I don’t like other people opening my purse.”
    â€œYou never objected before.”
    â€œWell, I am now. Give it here.”
    â€œHonestly, honestly, you’d think I was trying to steal from you or something.”
    â€œI want none of your lip. Give me that purse.”
    â€œI just don’t like your attitude, like I was a thief or some­thing. What’s wrong with you anyway? You’re shaking like a leaf.”
    â€œYou show some respect, girl. Now give me . . .”
    â€œAll right. Here’s your old purse. Catch.”
    Celia’s reflexes were no longer quick enough to respond to the unexpected, and the purse landed at her feet, the clasp open, the contents strewn on the hooked rug: a lace handkerchief, a pencil, a tarnished silver compact, a creased snapshot of Mabel’s two children, a worn calfskin change purse, a prayer book, a post card, an alligator wallet.
    â€œGee, I’m sorry,” Mabel said. “Honestly, I thought you’d catch it. Here, I’ll pick everything up for you.”
    But Celia was already on her knees, scooping up her things and stuffing them back into her purse with fierce determina­tion.
    â€œMom.”
    â€œFresh. That’s what you are. Fresh.”
    â€œI didn’t know you had a wallet,