Death Goes on Retreat by Carol Anne O'Marie

wary brown eye peered at them over the night chain. “Yes?” The voice was low and gravelly like the voice of an aging smoker.
    “Mrs. Johnson? It’s me, Kate Murphy from down the block.”
    Recognizing her, Mrs. Johnson closed the door enoughto slide off the chain. When it reopened, the muscles in her face were tense. Her lips stretched over her teeth in a forced smile.
    “What is it? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Johnson tugged at the front of her blue woolen cardigan, then folded her arms around her in a protective bear hug.
    Before Kate could answer, the woman pulled the door wide. “Come in,” she said, with a sudden need to defer the news. “It’s freezing out there.”
    The inside of the pink palace was anything but palatial. The decor was eclectic, although Kate guessed it had been designed more by circumstances than by choice. Much of the furniture had a “late fifties” look mixed with several pieces not quite old enough or expensive enough to be called heirlooms.
    The living room had a rich, loamy smell, since what Mrs. Johnson lacked in interior decoration, she made up for in houseplants. On every table, shelf, and nearly every ledge water stains showed beneath pots of violets. There were pink, pale blue, purple, and white violets; sprawling African violets; lavender Persian violets; miniature violets like tiny jewels in clear, square Lucite containers.
    The room itself was a veritable hothouse. The furnace thudded, reminding the unaware that it was creating most of the effect.
    “Sit down, please.” Mrs. Johnson ushered them to a slip-covered sofa that shared a wall with a large television set. She faced them from a padded rocker, presumably “her chair.”
    Kate shed her coat and introduced her partner. “Mrs. Johnson,” she began, wishing she didn’t see the panic inthose flat brown eyes or the thick, knuckled hands twisting and untwisting the edge of the sweater. “I’m afraid I have come with some very bad news for you—”
    “Greg.” Mrs. Johnson’s hoarse voice cut her off. “It’s Greg, isn’t it?” Her eyes narrowed into a hard stare. “My boy is dead, isn’t he?”
    Kate nodded.
    The woman bolted up from her chair, leaving it rocking violently. Then, as if she didn’t know where to go, she sat down again. “How did it happen?” she asked.
    “He was . . . murdered. Stabbed,” Kate said as gently as she could. “I’m so sorry.”
    A tear ran down Mrs. Johnson’s stony face. Kate tried to put her arm around the woman, but the narrow shoulders were rigid. “Let me get you some tea, Mrs. Johnson,” Kate said. “Or perhaps some brandy. You’ve had an awful shock.”
    Mrs. Johnson shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said, then added, “There’s bourbon under the sink.”
    Kate returned from the kitchen with a hefty shot of liquor in a jelly glass. “Is there anyone who can stay with you?” she asked. “Janice, maybe?”
    The woman snapped in indignation, “Janice moved away and doesn’t come around any more than she needs to since she married that good-for-nothing husband of hers.”
    “Good-for-nothing?” The last time Kate saw Janice Johnson passing her front window, she had been stylishly dressed and elegantly coiffured. If anything, Janice Johnson appeared to be very well heeled.
    Mrs. Johnson took a small sip of her drink. “I simply asked her about having children, is all. I could tell shewas mad. Feeling guilty, I wouldn’t doubt, but instead of admitting it, she told me it was none of my business. I told her that as a good, God-fearing mother, it was my business.” Mrs. Johnson shook her head sadly.
    “And I am ashamed to tell you the kind of language she used to her own mother. I never allowed either of my children to use God’s name in vain, you know. I had my strap for that kind of talk. So, I know she didn’t pick it up in this house. It must have been from him. And no wonder. Do you know what he does for a living?” The woman didn’t wait for an