Rest in Pieces by Katie Graykowski Page B

The ‘you idiot’ was implied by Monica’s tone.
    Haley shot her a dirty look. “I know, that’s why I don’t want her to go alone.”
    “So what do you propose? We go out to lunch and then run by to have my eyes checked?” I stared at her. “I don’t think we can pull that one off.”
    The corner of Haley’s blue eyes wrinkled. “That is kind of awkward.”
    She reached around for her purse, which was looped over the back of the chair. “At least take one of my guns. I don’t think it’s safe to be locked in the same room with him. He makes my skin crawl.”
    She pulled out a little gun with a white pearl handle.
    “No thanks. I don’t have a permit for that and I don’t think it’s a good idea to carry a gun in my purse.” I had such bad impulse control that I’d probably end up shooting the next person who cut me off on the Mo–Pac.
    Monica took the gun from Haley and slipped it back in Haley’s purse.
    “Ever see how mad she gets when someone cuts her off?” Monica eyed Haley.
    “No.” Haley studied me like I was a bomb that might go off at any minute. Hey, when someone cuts me off, they’re taking their life into their own hands. I don’t make the rules…
    “Yeah, well it’s not pretty. Let’s not put a weapon in the hand of someone with anger management issues.”
    That was a little harsh. I may not have impulse control but I could manage my anger with the best of them. Had I ever run over anyone who pissed me off?
    No.
    Had ever I tried?
    Well…maybe once or twice…a week…for the last ten years, but I’d never actually hit anyone. Apparently I was very bad at it.
    Maybe I didn’t manage my anger all that well. I blame it on too much middle management—too many chiefs and not enough Indians. My anger wasn’t sure who it reported to, so it was left to flounder about on its own. So sad.
    A staccato of knocks sounded at my front door. I rolled my eyes heavenward just in case God cared that I was put upon. The only person who knocked like that was my landlady, Astrid Petrie. She was rich, nosy and bat–shit crazy.
    Another staccato of knocks sounded. She wasn’t going away.
    I stood, stretched, and answered the door.
    My landlady swept in with a whoosh of orange velvet mumu and a clang of silver bangle bracelets. The red velvet turban wrapped around her head looked more like a bandage for a head wound, but it was the sterling silver cane I had to watch out for. She leaned on it whenever she was in an overly dramatic mood, and I’d come to know it as nothing short of a weapon she used to knock the crap out of people. Usually me.
    “Girl, what took you so long to answer the door?” Today Astrid was using a terrible fake British accent. I was pretty sure that she only used fake accents to confuse and frustrate the world. I wanted to roll my eyes, but the last time I’d done that in her presence she belted me with her cane. It left a bruise. I was traumatized.
    “I was busy and didn’t hear you knock.” I let out a long, hard breath and considered running away from home, but I was in sweats, and I didn’t have on any socks, and it was raining.
    She used her cane to point to me and turned her brown, cow–sized eyes on me. For a woman with so much money, I’d always wondered why she didn’t just get Lasik instead of wearing those enormous rhinestone, Liberace–esque eyeglasses. “Your presence is requested at my Monday evening séance. I insist that you be there.”
    She delivered those two sentences with all of the drama and flair of a Shakespearean actor.
    “Of course.” I was always there. It was in my rental agreement.
    “Good.” She nodded her head and the turban bounced. “You may bring your little friends if you wish.”
    For a second there I thought she was talking about the kids, but following her line of sight, I realized that she was talking about Haley and Monica.
    “I will be contacting, and if the spirits allow, channeling Molly Miars.” Astrid threw her