The Listener Read Free Page A

tried.
    That didn’t make sense to Cornelia. Girls—all human beings—were either appealing, or they weren’t. Sexual appeal was nothing more than a few millimeters of bone and muscle in one place or the other, and while it seemed allure was unfairly distributed among the population, Cornelia didn’t see how
trying
was going to help her achieve that state.
    But her mother had Cornelia taking ballet to help her with her regrettable clumsiness. The ballet teacher had been in despair, and once Mama had disappeared, Miss Stimpson avoided Cornelia as if her awkwardness was a communicable disease.
    Cornelia still hurt herself walking down the stairs or burned herself when cooking, which was why Mason prepared their dinners. Yet, in the end, grace and prettiness had made no difference; she had a good job digging around in the bowels of the government computers, she had the handsomest husband in Virtue Falls, a man who treated her kindly and with awe, and no one in town spoke to her if they could avoid it. Yet she listened to them whether they wished it or not.
    It was a good life.
    Cornelia changed channels again.
    She’s not happy. Killing her would be a kindness.
    Oh, no. Someone had to put their pet down. Cornelia couldn’t stand it when someone had to put their pet down. She suffered in tandem. She liked dogs and cats, really liked them, but Mason was allergic, so she couldn’t have one.
    She’s not unhappy. She’s just … different.
    That’s for sure. Dear, your loyalty does you credit, but she can’t remember anything. She has a lot of things wrong with her. Really. You just need to think of this as a kindness.
    I can’t. I just can’t.
    Think of the money we’ll inherit. The life insurance alone is sizeable.
    Cornelia sat back in her chair.
    This wasn’t a pet. Someone was going to kill his —or her—mother. And that someone’s wife—or husband—was urging the deed be done.
    It’s not about the money!
    I know. I know. You’re right. In the end, it’s about us. Being free to do what we want. At last! Don’t you want that?
    I do. I just …
    We’ve got to stop talking about it, and just do it.
    But how?
    I’ve been looking up poisons. There are some good ones, organic poisons from mushrooms.
    This was serious. Somebody’s mate really wanted the mother-in-law gone.
    You’re way ahead of me on this.
    In all her years of eavesdropping on e-mails and texts, Cornelia had never come across a murder plot. She wasn’t equipped to deal with this kind of reality. What should she do?
    She looked around, seeking help.
    She didn’t find help. She found guilt.
    Mrs. Branyon was sitting with her daughter, Frances, complaining about the lousy job Frances’s brother had done fixing her sink.
    Frances was sitting there, nodding and texting.
    Cornelia glanced at her tablet.
    The conversation continued to flow.
    Mrs. Branyon was one of the two meanest old biddies in Virtue Falls, and Cornelia wouldn’t be at all surprised to know Frances wanted to kill her. Cornelia wanted to kill her, and the only contact she ever had with her was to walk into Branyon’s Bakery with Mason to buy cinnamon rolls.
    Yet for all that Mrs. Branyon’s voice squawked up and down like an old-time radio being tuned, killing her seemed a large step. Cornelia’s observations of Frances suggested she was the polar opposite of her mother, a truly kind and patient person who faithfully cared for the cranky old woman.
    But as Cornelia had previously noted, a person could lie with their voice and their expressions, yet sooner or later, in texts and e-mails, the truth came out. And there were two people involved in the texting: Frances … and her brother? Yes, those texts could be between brother and sister.
    Frances looked up, caught Cornelia’s gaze, and widened her eyes as if asking for sympathy.
    Cornelia didn’t know how to respond.
    “What are you looking at?” Mrs. Branyon shrieked. She turned and saw Cornelia. “Why are you looking