Murder Passes the Buck by Deb Baker

better way to go. Why does law enforcement always have to warn the world they are coming? Doesn ’ t that give the bad guys time to pack up and mosey out?
    Blaze and George went in first, guns drawn, cautious. Little Donny and I waited in George ’ s truck, strobe lights slicing through the windshield, exposing our frightened faces. Keeping Little Donny inside the truck wasn ’ t an easy task; he wanted to be with the men. But nineteen years old is too young for taking risks, and this was one area Blaze and I finally agreed on. So Little
     
    Donny and I sat.
    Finally, Blaze and George trudged out, Blaze ’ s weapon holstered, George ’ s rifle pointed into the ground, grim sets to their jaw.
    Little Donny and I hurried over. “ I ’ m going in, ” I said.
    George placed a hand on my shoulder. “ It ’ ll keep for another day, Gertie. It ’ s a mess in there. ”
    But I had to see for myself.
    The devastation was extensive — drawers upended, bedding slashed, lamps smashed, drapes ripped in shreds. The rage it took to accomplish such a violent act frightened me with its intensity.
    “ Who knew you were out for the evening? ” Blaze wanted to know.
    It was a good question, one I didn ’ t have an answer to. No one I knew could possibly be capable of such viciousness, such hate.
    “ Anything missing? ” George asked, following me as I wandered, speechless, through the house.
    I shook my head, nothing obviously missing. I was fleetingly grateful that I ’ d buried my money under the apple tree instead of in the box spring, which lay shredded in ribbons.
    “ No sign of forced entry, ” Little Donny
     
    observed, studying the front door.
    “ Of course, it wasn ’ t forced. I didn ’ t lock it. ”
    Little Donny lives in a big city where you lock your doors and windows and have security systems tied into the police department. In the U.P. most of us can ’ t remember where we put the key to the door and don ’ t particularly care. The only time we even think about locking up is if we will be out of town for a while and we don ’ t want our friends and family borrowing things without our knowledge.
    Blaze, unusually quiet, waited by the door with me. George straightened a chair and scooped pillows from the floor and tossed them on the sofa.
    “ You okay, Ma? ” Blaze took my arm, his voice gentle, and I nodded, resigned. “ You can ’ t stay here tonight. ”
    I already knew that, and my choices weren ’ t good. I couldn ’ t go to Star ’ s place. She has cats and I ’ m deathly allergic to cat dander. Just thinking of going to Grandma Johnson ’ s house made the nerve in my eye start twitching, and I ’ d rather eat nails than stay with Blaze.
    “ You take Little Donny with you, ” I said to Blaze. “ I ’ m going to Cora Mae ’ s. ”
     
    ***
     
    The next morning I showered and wrapped one of Cora Mae ’ s black silk robes around me. She had a pot of coffee ready and was made up for the day, every hair in place, like a soap opera star. I bet she went to bed with her makeup and hair done up. She probably slept on her back with one of those little rolled pillows tucked under her neck and a black mask to screen out light.
    I had slept in a tiny spare bedroom on a day bed with a white comforter and ruffles around the bottom. On a shelf above the bed were two porcelain dolls decked out in wedding dresses.
    While I sipped coffee I glanced around. Cora Mae lived in a dollhouse. Her home was tiny, but uncluttered and spotlessly clean, and everything was white — white walls, white sofa, white kitchen table. Cora Mae was sheathed in black armor in a pearly white house.
    I ’ ve known Cora Mae most of my life. Her tastes always ran white; white car, white fence, white rugs. The black clothes are a new addition, which I chalk up to her post-menopause phase.
    “ What are you going to do, Gert? ” she
     
    asked. “ You can stay here as long as you want, you know that. I have plenty of room.