Betrayal - Fern Michaels [127]
“Good. We all need something to look forward to in our old age, something fun and exciting.”
Sophie crushed out her ever-present cigarette before lighting another. She remembered last night and found that the place where sarcasm usually dwelt had become the home of fear. “Never hearing from . . . Well, let me put it this way. I want to make it my number one priority to guide Walter’s ghost straight into the fiery pits of hell. That’s going to the top of my life list.”
Mavis shook her head. “That is so sad, Sophie. You need to revamp your list.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “I could say the same about you. This new fascination you have with graveyards, reading the obits like they’re great works of literature. Is that something on your life list?”
Mavis ducked her head, took a large spoonful of oatmeal, and practically shoved it down her throat. “That isn’t on my list.”
“Oh. Then explain why you’re so fascinated with the obituaries.” Sophie took a drink of coffee. “I’m waiting.”
Mavis stood, gathering up her bowl and the plate of fruit. “I certainly don’t want to sound rude, Sophie, but that isn’t any of your business. It’s just something that . . . well, I’m curious about. How long people lived, whom they left behind.”
Sophie inhaled, then blew the smoke out, where it swirled above her head like a halo. “I could understand if it were family. But these are strangers. You need to find another hobby.”
At that moment, Toots stepped outside, saving Mavis from having to reply. Spying the coffee, she helped herself to a mug. “What’re you two arguing about this early?” Toots sat down in her deck chair, reaching for her ever-present pack of cigarettes. She lit up and blew the smoke out in one giant puffy cloud.
“Mavis’s morbid fascination with the obits. It’s her new hobby,” Sophie said.
Mavis snatched the tray off the table so quickly that her mug of coffee tipped over, sending the brown liquid flying through the air, then landing on her charcoal gray blouse. Sophie just then realized that Mavis seemed to be wearing a lot of different shades of gray lately. Maybe she was in mourning for all those strangers she spent so much time reading about.
“I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation. Now I have work to do.” Mavis rushed through the open doors, her willowy blouse flapping like wings.
“Stuck-up!” Sophie shouted to her back. Since Mavis had lost all that weight, she’d become a bit conceited, but, Sophie granted, Mavis was entitled since she’d literally worked her tail off to lose almost a hundred pounds. If asked a year ago, Sophie would never have believed Mavis could be so dedicated, so disciplined, but she’d proven her wrong. The same with Ida. Her life had been defined by her fear of germs. Had Toots not stepped in, who knew what Ida would be doing right now? Though Ida’s OCD wasn’t as severe as some cases, and all the girls suspected her of playing this up to the nth degree, none of them wanted to see her suffer in any way.
“You shouldn’t be so hard on her,” Toots said.
“She’s come a long way.”
Sophie rolled her eyes. “I know that. I just don’t understand this newfound fascination with the obits, that’s all.”
“What about our newest . . . ah . . . hobby?” Toots was almost hesitant to bring up last night. It’d scared the guff out of all of them. “Séances? That’s not your everyday hobby.”
“It isn’t a hobby at all. You, of all people, should know that. It’s a . . . gift,” Sophie informed her.
“A gift? I thought this was entertainment, something for Abby’s column for The Informer,” Toots replied. Abby was Toots’s daughter and the editor in chief of a Los Angeles–based tabloid that, unbeknownst to Abby, Toots had bought a year or so ago. Toots took a sip of her coffee, then tossed the remains over the deck. “Mavis makes the worst coffee.”
Sophie reached for a slice