In Desperation

64

Greater Phoenix, Arizona

“G oodness, girl, slow down!”

Olive McKay scolded herself as her old Silverado SUV bumped along the dirt road leading to her friend Virginia’s house.

Olive was running a titch late this morning but that was no reason to spill all the food she’d made the night before for the charity potluck-pecan tarts, a pineapple upside-down cake and pasta salad. Thank goodness she’d put it all in the cooler and belted it to the rear passenger seat.

Virginia’s double-wide emerged into view. Olive tooted the horn as she wheeled up, noticing that Virginia had left her front porch light on. Odd. Being a penny-pincher on a tight budget, Virginia just never did that.

She’s probably a bit preoccupied this morning.

Olive got out of her SUV, intent on helping load it with Virginia’s food as quickly as possible. Raising her hand to ring the doorbell, she paused.

The door was ajar.

Did she leave it open for me? That’s strange. She always keeps it locked, on account of the teenagers who sometimes get out of hand, out at the old airfield.

“Virginia?”

What’s that clicking?

“Hello! Virginia, it’s me, Olive! We have to get going. Flo said we should be there by now!”

She listened harder to the soft vibrations. What is that?

“Virginia?”

Olive’s smile melted as the first icy thread of concern slithered up her back. What’s that rapid clicking? The door creaked as she slowly pushed it open, seeing tomato juice all over the kitchen floor and thinking, what a mess. Then… that can’t be tomato juice…the consistency and the color’s not right. As the door swung wider. Olive saw a foot, then a leg, both legs, and Virginia lying on her back with a knife handle rising from her chest, her hand twitching in the puddle of blood.

Olive’s scalp tingled. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh.

She called 911 and screamed for an ambulance, for police, for God to come right away because Virginia had been stabbed.

So much blood. Too much blood.

Olive took her friend’s hand. It was still warm.

“You stay with me, Virginia.”

Red foam bubbled at Virginia’s mouth as she moaned, crying out to her dead husband, to Clay, to Olive, trying to tell her.

“…the girl…please…”

“Don’t try to talk.”

“…missing girl…news…bad please…”

But Olive couldn’t understand.

She didn’t remember the sirens, the paramedics, the deputies pulling her away, working on Virginia, starting an IV, slipping an oxygen mask over her mouth, lifting her to a board, the gurney and loading her into the ambulance.

The deputy had to catch Olive before she collapsed, watching the ambulance wail down the same bumpy road she’d taken moments ago in her Silverado.

Virginia died en route to the hospital.

The same hospital where her husband had died, the same hospital she was helping with her potato salad and apple pies for the charity potluck.