Phil said.
“I’ve read a lot of expert testimony on blood. Blunt force trauma can kill with one blow and not leave any blood if the skin isn’t broken. A few good whacks with broken skin, especially on the head, can leave lots of blood because head wounds bleed freely—but the victim will survive. An ice pick will do lots of damage, but the thin, narrow instrument will leave a self-sealing hole. Not much blood, if any. You can’t always tell by the amount of blood.”
“Maybe it was a scam,” Helen said. “Rob is a con artist. We all know that. Maybe he froze his own blood and stockpiled it. I saw that on a TV show. Desperate House wives, I think. This woman wanted the real killer to go down for her sister’s murder, but there wasn’t enough evidence to get the police interested, so she stockpiled her own blood in the fridge. Then she threw it all over the killer’s floor and cut off two of her fingers and hid out. The police thought her sister’s killer had murdered her.”
Even as she said it, the scenario sounded improbable.
“That wouldn’t work in real life,” Phil said. “Once blood leaves the body, it clots. If Rob stockpiled his own blood, he’d be throwing around globs of blood—blood clots. You wouldn’t get spray or pooling.
If he used an anti-clotting factor, it would show up in the testing. The cops would know he’d faked his disappearance.”
“Oh,” Helen said.
“How hard did you hit Rob? Did you take out a tooth?” Phil crunched on another Dorito at exactly the wrong time.
“Did I what?” Helen asked.
“Knock out a tooth,” he said, through fiery orange crunches.
“Of course not,” Helen said. “I just popped Rob in the lip. His teeth scraped my knuckles, but he didn’t lose any. He hardly bled at all.”
She looked at her battered hand. It still hurt. Hitting Rob didn’t seem nearly so satisfying now. How come when you finally got what you wanted, it wasn’t what you needed?
“Sounds like you hurt yourself more than you hurt him,” Phil said.
“The story of my life,” Helen said.
“I don’t understand why you are so convinced Rob is dead,” Margery said. “Is it because you want him dead?”
Spare me the cheap psychology, Helen thought. But she didn’t say it.
“Yoo-hoo. Is it too late to join you?”
Helen heard a soft, fluttery voice.
“I’ve brought some chicken salad sandwiches and a lovely wine I found at the grocery store.”
It was Margery’s sweet, dithery friend Elsie. Helen’s eyes crossed when she saw Elsie’s outfit. Elsie dressed like Miss Marple with a makeover from Mr. Blackwell. Today, she wore what looked like a pirate costume crossed with the Arabian Nights.
Phil’s eyes bugged out. Margery blew a cloud of smoke, possibly to cover up the vision.
“What do you think?” Elsie spun in her thigh-high black leather boots, and the exposed skin on her upper legs wobbled. So did her chins.
“It’s a knockoff of a Prada outfit I saw in Vanity Fair .”
Helen suspected the model in the magazine was a good half century younger than Elsie. Besides the pirate boots, Margery’s friend wore a black leather mini skirt, a burgundy satin blouse with a plunging neckline, and a green satin turban.
“It’s amazing,” Helen said, truthfully.
“I should get a gentleman’s opinion,” Elsie said. “What do you think, Phil?”
He gulped. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Phil took a big drink to avoid any further comment.
“I think the belt may be a mistake,” Elsie said. “I’m having a little trouble locating my waist.”
Helen thought it was probably somewhere under Elsie’s large breasts.
They’d slid south over the years. “Maybe so,” Helen said.
“I didn’t dress exactly like the magazine model,” Elsie said. “I had to make some allowances for my age. She was wearing pale pink lipstick, which makes me look washed-out.” Elsie’s red lipstick crept into the cracks around her mouth.
“It’s
“I’ve read a lot of expert testimony on blood. Blunt force trauma can kill with one blow and not leave any blood if the skin isn’t broken. A few good whacks with broken skin, especially on the head, can leave lots of blood because head wounds bleed freely—but the victim will survive. An ice pick will do lots of damage, but the thin, narrow instrument will leave a self-sealing hole. Not much blood, if any. You can’t always tell by the amount of blood.”
“Maybe it was a scam,” Helen said. “Rob is a con artist. We all know that. Maybe he froze his own blood and stockpiled it. I saw that on a TV show. Desperate House wives, I think. This woman wanted the real killer to go down for her sister’s murder, but there wasn’t enough evidence to get the police interested, so she stockpiled her own blood in the fridge. Then she threw it all over the killer’s floor and cut off two of her fingers and hid out. The police thought her sister’s killer had murdered her.”
Even as she said it, the scenario sounded improbable.
“That wouldn’t work in real life,” Phil said. “Once blood leaves the body, it clots. If Rob stockpiled his own blood, he’d be throwing around globs of blood—blood clots. You wouldn’t get spray or pooling.
If he used an anti-clotting factor, it would show up in the testing. The cops would know he’d faked his disappearance.”
“Oh,” Helen said.
“How hard did you hit Rob? Did you take out a tooth?” Phil crunched on another Dorito at exactly the wrong time.
“Did I what?” Helen asked.
“Knock out a tooth,” he said, through fiery orange crunches.
“Of course not,” Helen said. “I just popped Rob in the lip. His teeth scraped my knuckles, but he didn’t lose any. He hardly bled at all.”
She looked at her battered hand. It still hurt. Hitting Rob didn’t seem nearly so satisfying now. How come when you finally got what you wanted, it wasn’t what you needed?
“Sounds like you hurt yourself more than you hurt him,” Phil said.
“The story of my life,” Helen said.
“I don’t understand why you are so convinced Rob is dead,” Margery said. “Is it because you want him dead?”
Spare me the cheap psychology, Helen thought. But she didn’t say it.
“Yoo-hoo. Is it too late to join you?”
Helen heard a soft, fluttery voice.
“I’ve brought some chicken salad sandwiches and a lovely wine I found at the grocery store.”
It was Margery’s sweet, dithery friend Elsie. Helen’s eyes crossed when she saw Elsie’s outfit. Elsie dressed like Miss Marple with a makeover from Mr. Blackwell. Today, she wore what looked like a pirate costume crossed with the Arabian Nights.
Phil’s eyes bugged out. Margery blew a cloud of smoke, possibly to cover up the vision.
“What do you think?” Elsie spun in her thigh-high black leather boots, and the exposed skin on her upper legs wobbled. So did her chins.
“It’s a knockoff of a Prada outfit I saw in Vanity Fair .”
Helen suspected the model in the magazine was a good half century younger than Elsie. Besides the pirate boots, Margery’s friend wore a black leather mini skirt, a burgundy satin blouse with a plunging neckline, and a green satin turban.
“It’s amazing,” Helen said, truthfully.
“I should get a gentleman’s opinion,” Elsie said. “What do you think, Phil?”
He gulped. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Phil took a big drink to avoid any further comment.
“I think the belt may be a mistake,” Elsie said. “I’m having a little trouble locating my waist.”
Helen thought it was probably somewhere under Elsie’s large breasts.
They’d slid south over the years. “Maybe so,” Helen said.
“I didn’t dress exactly like the magazine model,” Elsie said. “I had to make some allowances for my age. She was wearing pale pink lipstick, which makes me look washed-out.” Elsie’s red lipstick crept into the cracks around her mouth.
“It’s
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