“What’s wrong?” Dorothy asked.
Generally Roz was Mrs. Cares A Lot, but she wasn’t giving me any sympathy tonight. “She pulled a little muscle is all.”
“I’ll give you an ice pack at the house,” Dorothy said, feeling inside her coat pocket. “Oh, and look. You were right. I found my keys.”
Boy, she was a really nice lady. Maybe we were wrong about her.
As I buckled into the passenger seat of Roz’s van, a text came in from Peggy. Weslea tore into Dorothy in the parking lot! Something about a life-insurance policy.
Life-insurance policy. Always a good reason to whack a husband, right? Roz and I couldn’t wait to get to Dorothy’s house now. Hopefully the wine would loosen her up, and she’d just confess everything like murderers did in the movies.
Dorothy Oz lived in a tiny little cube of a
