Concentrating on washing lunchtime’s dishes, nursing a cup of coffee, Trixie paid little mind to the countertop radio, the gushing faucet obscuring the noon news.
Brrrng! Brrrng!
Trixie picked up the wall phone, cradled the receiver between scrunched shoulder and ear while drying a plate. “Hello?”
“Trixie! It’s Barb! Did you hear?”
“Uh, no. I guess not. What?”
“You’d better sit down.”
“Okay. I’m sitting. What’s up?”
“I don’t know an easy way to say this. The police found Hoke.”
…
