Chirp by Ann Everett
1
Blaze
As Blaze Bledsoe waited for the curling iron to heat, she read her escape list one more time. Watching every episode of Perfect Crime had helped with the plan. Silly. It had been three years, and no one had come, but she couldn’t help herself. If she’d overlooked even the smallest detail, they’d find her.
Destroy credit and debit cards.
Buy fake ID.
Transfer files to flash drive; throw computer and cell in lake.
Take the bus to Oklahoma. Pick up the black metallic Chevy Cruze stored there, then double back to Texas.
Stashing the notebook, she stared at the body of Winifred Allen lying on the mortuary’s stainless-steel dressing table. “Did you know Dessie Bishop?” Blaze lifted the hot iron and wrapped a thin silver strand of Winifred’s hair around the barrel. “I’m still living in her house.” She fluffed the wisp and moved to the next one. “I kept her cats, but I have to close them up in the laundry room when I’m not there because they aren’t healthy and make a mess.”
The lifeless woman barely had enough hair to style, so Blaze dusted it with talcum, then worked the powder into her scalp and tousled. “I gave you soft curls, added a bit of gray eye shadow, pink lipstick, and a hint of blush. That’s what your daughter wanted. Gave me strict orders. I don’t like her much. I think she was nervous because of my appearance. But no chopped hair, piercings, or black fingernails for you.”
The click of a woman’s heels down the hall announced Blaze was about to have company. Within moments, Mrs. Walters leaned around the doorjamb. “Excuse me. Are you done with Mrs. Allen?” Blaze marveled at the secretary’s perfection. Honest to goodness, she was so powdered and polished, she could drop dead and Blaze wouldn’t have to do a thing.
“Almost.”
“Great. Ms. Elliott is waiting in room three. Be sure and do her next. They’ve moved the visitation up by an hour.” Mrs. Walters retreated down the hallway.
Blaze peered back at her client. “Did you notice the euphonious quality of her voice? That’s another word for melodious. Or songlike.” Not even noon and she’d already used her word of the day. Didn’t always work out that way, but lately she’d been on a roll. She marked it off the list and pulled a bottle of nail polish from her kit.
She’d barely finished two nails when Cameron Foster, heir to Over the Rainbow Funeral Chapel, shuffled into the room. “Hey there. Church is having a hamburger supper tomorrow night. Wanna go?”
Cam was nice, but Blaze wasn’t interested. Not in him, hamburgers, or the Methodists. The boy was a high school senior, and Blaze had celebrated her twentieth birthday two months ago. She lifted her head, looked him in the eye, and smiled. “No, thank you.”
His weak chin dropped, and she guessed what would come next. Mind racing, she searched for a response. Dad’s numerous instructions flashed in her brain. Keep your head up. Make eye contact. Think before you speak. Remember not to be rude. Smile. Say thank you. How could the truth be bad manners? But he’d claimed most people didn’t want honesty for personal questions.
The lanky boy propped a bony shoulder against the wall. “Why not? Got something else to do?”
“I don’t like crowds or church.” That sounded reasonable. She shouldn’t have to tell him why.
“What you got against God?”
This was the trouble with Dad’s advice. It didn’t work. She should have said she didn’t find Cam attractive. But she had to play this ridiculous game. “Nothing against God. Just organized religion. Besides, I remember. I do have plans.” That should do it, and it wasn’t a total lie.
“Like what?”
Blaze wanted to order the gangly, feeble-chinned, soon-to-be-graduate out of the room because of his persistence. “I don’t date.”
He blinked as if she’d spoken a foreign language. “Not at all? Or just guys?”
That did it. If he only knew the hours she’d spent conditioning herself. The constant tutoring on how to handle social interaction. How hard it was for her not to blurt out her true thoughts. I don’t like skinny guys. She sucked in air, then spit the words out like they tasted bad. “I do not. Want. To go.”
Cam stepped back. “Okay, okay. I get it.” He didn’t give her time to say anything else, which was fine. He spun on his heel and disappeared into the corridor.
With a flourish, Blaze removed Mrs. Allen’s protective cape. “Sorry about that. At your age, if you were still alive, I’m sure you’d have lots of relationship advice.” Palming her notebook once more, she scribbled on a sheet of paper, tore it out, and folded it. “When you get to heaven, find Grant Montgomery and give him this.” She tucked the note inside the woman’s bra. “You can’t miss him. Big man. Handsome. Once word spreads you’re from Bluebird, he’ll probably look you up.”
Rollers squeaked as she shoved her chair away. Yep. Ten years younger. No doubt about it. Mrs. A didn’t look a day over eighty. Her daughter would be happy.
Blaze reached room three and referred to the next list: Blue eye shadow. Black mascara. Mauve lip gloss. Enhance beauty mark at corner of mouth.
Only thirty-nine years old, Ginny Elliott had met her demise when her biker boyfriend failed to negotiate a turn. Thank goodness she’d worn a helmet. Camouflaging a mangled face presented a challenge. Being tossed ten feet into the air before landing on hard pavement had proved too much for the rest of her bones.