By Lise McClendon
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Additional info for Blackbird Fly
Stasia looked at her. ” Merle felt float-y, disconnected from the room. Her ears buzzed. Who were these people? I’m watching an old Perry Mason re-run. Harry will be alive at home when I get there. We’ll squabble about dinner. We’ll listen to each other snore. She pinched her arm. Nothing changed. The old man was saying in his clear and not-very-aged voice, “Harry inherited this house from his parents when they died. ” Merle nodded, unable to speak. A house in France? “It’s in the Dordogne,” Lester added brightly.
Merle remembered the name from the pink call slips. One of many unreturned calls. “Well, there’s a reason for that. ” It was odd to say. It stabbed like a nail in the heart. ” People liked that better. “No longer with us. He had a heart attack three weeks ago. ” “I see. Oh dear. ” “His wife. " He cleared his throat. "Mrs. Strachie, your husband had promised a sizable investment in Bordeaux futures, some fifty-thousand pounds. ” “Yes, for this year's wine. ” “That’s impossible, Mr. ” Did she owe him an explanation?
Just a middle-aged man trying to fleece the world. The concept of ‘widow’ was semi-romantic, at least in novels. The curse of adolescent reading, dozens of gothic romances she chewed through in her teens where the heroine mucks around in a creepy old mansion, looking for treasure and true love. Annie or Stasia read them then handed them down. They all saw themselves as that brave girl, searching for love. How young they were. And now she was the widow. Not the heroine. The widow was usually a crazy old bat.
Blackbird Fly by Lise McClendon