occurred here earlier this year.” Lorraine smiled with false confidence.
For the first time since they arrived, Scott and Jamie both looked fixedly at Lorraine, giving her their undivided attention.
“What type of incident?” Jamie asked nervously, slipping her arm through Scott’s,
her voice becoming suspicious and shrill.
Lorraine swallowed and licked her lips, preparing her memorized speech that had
failed her so often before. “Well, uh, there was a crime of passion that resulted in the death
of the owner,” she said, drawing out the words crahm of pash-un exaggeratedly, as if pronounced in her soft twang they would somehow conjure up comforting images of biscuits
and gravy or blackberry cobbler.
Scott stiffened and narrowed his eyes as Lorraine continued. “But, uh, the good
news is that this was a one-off event and clearly does not reflect the safety of the neighborhood, since it was a personal vendetta and not a random attack—”
“A murder?!” Jamie screeched, recoiling from Lorraine and putting her other arm
around Scott’s waist, shrinking against him as if she didn’t want to taint herself by touching even the air within the house.
“Well now, I suppose a crahm of pash-un is a murder of sorts but it is nothing to
be concerned about, because as I said, it is not likely to recur in this area. Plus, the other
piece of good news is that there was no break-in because the deceased knew his perpetrator, so no structural damage was sustained to the property. . . .” Her voice trailed off as
Jamie and Scott began inching their way towards the front door.
“I think we’ll have to get back to you,” Scott mumbled unconvincingly as Jamie
fumbled for her car keys.
“I can still take y’all to see the upstairs,” Lorraine said, the desperation mounting in
her now shrill voice. “I know those his and hers closets are just callin’ y’all’s names!”
She tried to block their exit, her plump body standing staunchly in the doorway,
one hand on her hip, the other hand wagging her finger at them in mock reprimand. “Y’all
will kick yourselves, and I mean hard, when you see the resale value of this place in a few
years.”
Jamie scowled at Lorraine and pushed past her, but Scott hesitated for a fleeting
instant, his eyes conveying an ephemeral interest, boosting Lorraine’s withering hopes. But
then he strode out behind his irate wife.
Lorraine watched them go, her right eyelid twitching frantically. “C’mon now,”
she said aloud to herself, almost inaudibly. “Resale value—I’ll mention that sooner next
tahme.”
She leaned against the doorjamb tiredly and mentally counted how many months
until it made a full year since the murder had occurred. Seven months. Seven more months
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