All characters and events in this story are entirely fictional.
The three widows first met during senior aerobics. They became good friends and were soon making plans to get together during the week.
The aging women went out to lunch, had their nails and hair done, and often found other things to do to pass the time. They called them “outings,” and it pleased their grown children. It freed them from having to entertain their mothers. When the three friends offered to take each other to doctor appointments as well, the children, especially their spouses, were even more delighted.
One day the youngest of the three, the one with emphysema from breathing in years of her late husband’s cigarette smoke, was called in to the police station for questioning. She had a real estate license so her fingerprints were on record with the state. On a random search, her thumbprint matched one found on a bat, the weapon at a gruesome murder scene.
When questioned about her whereabouts on the day of his death, she claimed two alibis, so her friends were also called in to the police station. The oldest limped in with the help of her cane. A stroke had left her with limited use of her right leg. The middle-aged widow seemed the healthiest, the spryest. She burst into the station as if she owned the place and hurried over to the youngest to check the level of oxygen in her mobile tank.
The police questioned each one separately about their whereabouts at the time of the murder, but it all came to a stop when the middle one rummaged through her purse. She looked up through her thick bifocals and smiled at the female detective. Among all the trash at the bottom of her bag, she retrieved a tattered movie theater ticket. It had the date and time stamped on it along with some questionable chocolate smudges. The three were at the movies that day, she said.
But what about the bat? The thumbprint?
The youngest had donated a bunch of old toys recently to Goodwill. She recalled several old bats that once belonged to her sons among the boxes of things.
Their stories all matched, word for word, so as the detectives studied the three elderly women through the one-way mirror, they agreed there was no way these feeble women could have overpowered a young man, six foot tall and muscular. The three old widows were released to their children, and as they drove their sweet mothers home, they commented, incensed that anyone would even consider their dear mothers involved in the heinous death of a repeat sex offender.
It wasn’t until the following Monday that the three widows ventured out of their houses again. They showed up at the gym with plenty of time to warm up before their aerobics class.
“Don’t you ever forget your surgical gloves again.” The oldest whispered into the youngest’s ear in case the gym was bugged. “You almost blew our covers.” She turned to the middle-aged one. “Thank goodness, you never empty that garbage bag of a purse of yours. It saved our skins.”
“I guess we better cool our outings for a while.” The middle-aged one replied.
“But the next one on our list is that lawyer who got acquitted for killing his wife for her money.” The youngest said. “The one who is already shacking up with the hussy who used to be his wife’s hospice nurse.”
“Give it time. We have to be extra careful now that we've been fingered. Arrogance will be his undoing, and then we will go through with his outing.” The oldest ran an osteoarthritic finger across her throat. “Evil never sleeps and neither do we.”