Free No Story to Tell by K. J. Steele Page A

ways from town today.”
    “Well, I don’t want to put you out of your way—”
    “No, no. Not at all. We were going right past her place, anyhow. Won’t be any trouble at all,” Elliot enthused, although it wasn’t completely true as they’d already passed Doris’s farm and would have to backtrack several miles.
    “Well, okay then, Johnny. If you’re sure I wouldn’t be too much a bother to you. I feel dreadful tired all of a sudden. Not as young as I used to be, you know. Sometimes I think those boys are going to wear me right out.”
    Victoria joined in ambitiously, helping to arrange Mrs. Spiller in the cab as the old woman clutched her bible protectively against her chest. She touched the old woman’s hand and bade her good day, but her nerves recoiled sharply at the crepe-paper, blackened skin, and she pulled away. She’d done up her window so Elliot wouldn’t think she’d covertly tried to overhear his conversation, but the stench of death radiating out from the withered carcass so vividly assaulted her senses that she opened it again in self-defense.
    “We’ll just take Mrs. Spiller over to her sister’s. Won’t take too long, okay?” Elliot looked down at the old woman, his face tender, obviously touched by the moment that had passed between them.
    “Of course, no problem,” Victoria rejoined, eager to offset the coarseness of her earlier response. As they returned back down the road they’d just come, she listened quietly to the conversation taking place beside her, marveling at Elliot’s cheerful banter about events that had never happened and people he’d never known. Suddenly the old woman’s demeanor grew apprehensive, and she began to speak in hushed tones.
    “She came out to the house.”
    “Who did?”
    “The gypsy. She snuck out to my house and stole some of my treasure.”
    “Hmm.”
    Elliot smiled Victoria a bemused glance over top of the toqued head. She’d heard the stories before as Mrs. Spiller’s deteriorating memory lost money then created a host of shady characters to explain away the loss of logic.
    “I had it hidden. She must have seen where, sneaking around in the dark like that, peering in my windows. She didn’t think I knew she was there, but I did. The cats tell me when she comes around. They don’t like her at all. Gypsies frighten them something awful.”
    “Were you having a nice walk, Mrs. Spiller?” Victoria said in an effort to pull the conversation back to reality.
    Vitreous eyes stared back in disbelief.
    “My goodness, I wasn’t out for a walk, my dear. I was looking for my boys!” And then quieter, leaning aside to Elliot she giggled, “Not a very crisp pickle that one. The very idea I’d come all this way just for a walk!”
    She chuckled again, and Victoria noticed Elliot struggling to suppress a smile himself. What incredibly lousy luck, Victoria fumed silently. She looked at the folds of gray and the crackled onionskin face huddled close beside Elliot and greatly resented the presence of one who so obviously had overstayed her welcome in the present world. The urge to dispose of the stinking mass in a passing ditch sat deep in her gut, and she replayed the image over and over as they trundled along.
    “Have you been over to visit your sister this winter, Georgie? I hear her health’s not so good these days.” She looked at Victoria, expecting an answer. Normally, if she’d been accosted in town and Mrs. Spiller had begun mumbling her nonsense to her, Victoria would have simply walked on, ignoring the raspy, useless voice. Today, however, the old witch had her trapped, and Victoria began to feel sparks of panic igniting in her chest. “She’s fine, thank you.” She turned her attention and her body toward the side window and looked out.
    Georgie. She hated the name. It was the name people had called her mother, although her Christian name had been Georgina and she had secretly despised having it altered. Victoria could recall many