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.”
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