by J. R. Ripley
“You should have wakened me,” scolded Mom for about the, oh, I don’t know, umpteenth time.
“And possibly get us both killed?” I couldn’t help retorting. “Sorry,” I said, instantly regretting my tone if not my words.
Mom shrugged.
“I’m only sorry I wasn’t here to help,” Kim said. “Just think, if it hadn’t been for Esther . . .”
“I know.” I sighed. My arms fell to my sides. “I still haven’t thanked her properly.” I glanced up the back stairs. “I suppose I should,” I said hesitantly. My eyebrow rose. I was hoping Kim or my mother would talk me out of it. But no such luck.
Kim gave me a shove. “Yes,” she said firmly, “you should. Don’t worry about everything else. We’ll figure it out, girlfriend!”
I climbed the steps like a woman on her way to her own hanging. I knocked on Esther the Pester’s door. I really was very grateful for Esther’s help. If it hadn’t been for her, I might not be alive today.
The door creaked open. “Yeah?” She wore a pink, lime-green-and-white-striped housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers. Esther and her amazing Technicolor housecoat. Her hair was wrapped in a threadbare bath towel.
“Hi, Esther.” I played with my fingers. “I wanted to check on you. Everything all right?”
“Fine.” She held the door open a crack.
I sniffed. “You’re not smoking, are you?”
The old woman pulled a face. “Had some hickory-smoked bacon for breakfast. You want some?”
“No, thank you.” This wasn’t going the way I’d planned. I told myself to be nice. This woman had saved my life, after all.
“See you around.” Esther started to swing the door shut.
I pressed my palm against it. “I want to thank you again for all your help. Without you . . .” I sighed. “I don’t know what might have happened.” I glanced meaningfully toward the attic. “Or if I’d even be standing here today.”
“Yeah, well . . .” She placed her hand over the doorknob, glanced over her shoulder.
“I want you to know,” I hurried on, “that you’re welcome to stay here”—I gestured with my chin—“in this apartment for as long as you like.”
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I’ve got a lease.”
“I know, I know,” I said quickly, throwing up my hands. I took a deep breath and started again. “What I’m trying to say is forget the lease. You will always be welcome in my home.” I gave her my biggest, most warmhearted smile.
Esther slanted her eyes at me and chewed her lower lip. She kicked her feet behind her, one then the other. “Okay, well, gotta go.”
She swung the door toward me and I turned. Then I heard what sounded like a meow and spun on my heels. I threw up my hand. The apartment door slammed against my palm. I winced but ignored the pain. My pupils narrowed. “Did I just hear a cat?”
Esther’s lips turned down. “Nope.” She shuffled her feet oddly behind her.
I tilted my head to one side and eyed her dubiously. “Well, I heard something.” A tickle crept up my nose. I rubbed my index finger under the tip of my nose. “You know I don’t allow cats.”
The old woman stroked her throat. “Phlegm. When you get to be old like me, the stuff seems to collect in there.” She made exaggerated throat-clearing noises but I wasn’t sure that I was buying them.
I’d be keeping an eye on Esther the Pester.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.R. Ripley is the pen name of Glenn Meganck, the critically acclaimed author of the Tony Kozol mystery series, the Maggie Miller Mysteries, and the Kitty Karlyle Pet Chef Mysteries (written as Marie Celine), among other novels. For more information about him, visit glennmeganck.com.
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