3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse Read Free

might love their Fearless Leader, but much to my dismay, none had come forward to offer Lucille a home after she lost hers. So much for the communal spirit of communism.
    “I’ll stay only if you bring Manifesto here,” said Lucille.
    Who but my mother-in-law would name a pet after a communist treatise? As previously mentioned, the rest of us had dubbed him Mephisto the Devil Dog. Lucille cared more about that dog than she did her own grandsons, whom she never referred to by name. They were always those boys .
    And no, I didn’t name them after dead Russian czars out of spite. The boys were named for my grandfathers—Alexander Periwinkle and Nicholas Sudberry. “Sunnyside won’t allow you to have Mephisto here,” I said.
    And yes, I said that intentionally. So sue me. I’m not perfect. And I’d reached my limit.
    “Manifesto! His name is Manifesto!” She pounded the arm of the wheelchair, again not producing the impact she intended. “And you’re lying. I hear dogs barking.”
    “Their owners are permanent residents, capable of caring for their pets. You’re here for rehab and not even capable of caring for yourself at this point, let alone a dog.”
    “I’ll manage.”
    “I’ll ask if I can bring him for a visit, but he won’t be allowed to stay.”
    Lucille folded her arms over her sagging boobs and jutted out her chin. “We’ll see about that.”
    Yes, we would. I didn’t bother to respond, though. Why bother? Besides, we were interrupted by a knock, followed by the door opening.
    “Mrs. Pollack?” Shirley Hallstead, Sunnyside’s director, stepped into the room and nodded hello to me. I’d met her previously when I scoped out the facility for Lucille and made arrangements for her month-long stay. “All settled in?” she asked Lucille.
    “I’m not staying.”
    Shirley turned to me. “What’s going on?”
    “She’s staying,” I said.
    “I see.” She turned back to Lucille. “Your reaction is normal, but we here at Sunnyside will do everything within our means to make you as comfortable as possible and facilitate a speedy recovery.”
    She sounded as though she were parroting from the Assisted Living Director’s Manual , Chapter One: Dealing With Problematic New Arrivals . However, even though her words conveyed kindness, Shirley Hallstead’s body language suggested otherwise. From her not-a-hair-out-of-place jet black waves to her double-breasted cherry-red power suit, down to her four-inch designer stilettos, the fifty-something Shirley Hallstead reminded me more of a cutthroat executive than a benevolent assisted living center director.
    I do believe Lucille may have met her match.
    “Let’s get some light in here,” said Shirley. She stepped around Lucille’s bed and yanked the curtain divider back to the wall.
    “Lovely,” said Lucille, her tone thick with sarcasm. Not from the sunshine now spilling across to her side of the room but from what the drawn-back curtain revealed.
    Holy crafts overload !
    No denying Lyndella Wegner’s love of the handmade. Every square inch of vertical space held crafts, some framed, some taped or pinned to the walls—needlework, string art, quilling, scherenschnitte, stenciling, calligraphy, quilted and appliquéd wall hangings. An enormous ivy plant hung from a macraméd plant holder in the far corner of the room. Stained glass sun-catchers dangled in front of the windows. Fabric yo-yo dresser scarves covered a bureau and nightstand. On them stood an assortment of painted ceramic and polymer clay figurines, mosaic and decoupage covered boxes, and a variety of soft-sculptured dolls in various sizes. An intricately patterned appliquéd quilt was draped over Lyndella’s bed, a crocheted afghan folded at the foot. A latch-hook rug covered part of the floor.
    However, the pièces de résistance were the lint reproductions hanging on the wall above her headboard. “She wasn’t kidding about doing it all.” I stepped closer to inspect a