“I thought she was dead. The body. Our carpet. It’s red.” I realized I was babbling. I stopped. Took a deep breath. Then hugged Aunt Sue again.

“I have no idea what you’re saying, peanut,” she confessed, “but, I hope you’re as glad to see me when I tell you I lost fifty bucks.”

“I don’t care,” I mumbled into her curls as I squeezed her midsection.

“I’ll be right back,” Cal said, moving away from our group to talk to the uniform, his brow drawn in concern. Which I didn’t blame him for. As I released Aunt Sue, I realized that even though my loved ones were still alive and well, things were not hunky dory. There was a dead body on my living room floor. If it wasn’t Aunt Sue or Millie, who the hell was it?

I tugged Cal’s jacket tighter around my shoulders, watching as he pulled some sort of identification from his back pocket, presenting it to the officer. After a brief moment examining it, he and Cal exchanged a few words, the officer gesturing behind himself every few seconds. When they were done, Cal’s expression wasn’t any less grim.

“Well?” I asked as he returned to the group, almost afraid of the answer.

“It’s your neighbor. Hattie Carmichael.”

Aunt Sue sucked in a breath, her hand going to her mouth.

“It looks like she was in the living room, near the television. She was struck from behind with a metal bookend.”

“This is all my fault,” Aunt Sue moaned. “I forgot to shut off the TV before we went to bingo. Hattie was always complaining about it playing too loud.”

“Did Hattie have a key to your house?”

I shook my head. “No, but we always kept one in the planter near the door. Hattie knew it was there.”

“Would she have just let herself in?”

“This is Hattie Carmichael you’re talking about,” Aunt Sue said. “She was nosier than a bloodhound.” She paused. “God rest her soul,” she added, quickly crossing herself.

“A murder at the old folks’ village,” Aunt Millie said, then jabbed me in the ribs. “There’s a story for ya, huh?”

It certainly was. And, were it anyone else this was happening to, I would have already been mentally constructing a salacious headline for the morning edition. As it was, I pulled Cal’s jacket tighter around my shoulders.

Someone had been in my home. Someone had been seen there by Mrs. Carmichael. And someone had killed her. If anyone was to blame for this, it wasn’t Alex Trebek at top volume. It was me.

My caller turned vandal had just turned murderer.