Free Shakespeare's Counselor by Charlaine Harris Page B

to correct areas on forklifts. Crider told the operators what to do, filled out paperwork on each and every transfer, and generally ran the place, except for the hierarchy she answered to. She’d been turned down for a promotion, and her raise hadn’t amounted to what she felt she was due, according to her personnel file. So it had aroused her superior’s suspicions when she’d had an “accident” in the warehouse that had led to unverifiable back and neck injuries. A forklift driver had taken a turn too sharply and bumped Crider with the box he was shifting. She’d been knocked to the hard floor of the warehouse, and the frightened driver had called the ambulance when Crider didn’t scramble right to her feet.
    Crider now said she was too hurt to ever work again. She had a sore back, a stiff neck, and severe pain in one shoulder. All these conditions, she said, were chronic.
    It would have been pleasant to believe her, but I didn’t.
    Even if I hadn’t gotten the job trying to prove that very thing, I still wouldn’t believe her. I had enough time, sitting there in my car, to reflect that this probably said something about me that most people might find unpleasant. So be it.
    I’d alternated my car with Jack’s, and now was back to mine. I’d pretended to visit the house for sale, which was on the opposite side of the street; I’d canvassed door-to-door for a nonexistent political candidate; and, I’m sorry to say, no one who was at home called me on that. They were all sufficiently uninformed to accept my assertion that there was a candidate they’d never heard of running for Congress in the district. I’d visited the convenience store, and I’d gotten gas. Bonnie Crider didn’t go out much, and when she did, she stuck doggedly to the collar and cane. She didn’t even go for walks. Hadn’t the woman ever heard of exercise?
    Of course, for all I knew, she had a home gym and was in her house now, minus all aids, bench-pressing up a storm.
    I hated that idea, but when I thought of snooping closer, I was sure that any pictures I took through her window would not be admissible as court evidence. I would have to ask Jack about that.
    Â 
    After a couple of hours watching, I had expected to be antsy with pent-up energy. Instead, I found myself draggy and melancholy, inclined to think fruitless thoughts about situations beyond my control or affect. I wondered if the woman killed the night before had a big family. I wondered if Janet was all right, and if Tamsin could explain her behavior a little better than she had. I felt like I could take a nap.
    Now, where the hell had that come from? Since when did I take a nap, or even think of doing so? I shook my head. I must be getting older. Well, of course I was. But lately I’d been thinking and feeling unlike myself. Was the difference my new living arrangement with Jack, or my new work, or the therapy?
    I was doing a lot of new stuff at one time; that was for sure. Maybe all these new patterns and activities were having some kind of cumulative effect. Maybe I was being squeezed through a tube and would come out someone different.
    The idea was deeply unsettling. I had perfected living the life I’d framed before I met Jack. Maybe that life had started to alter, to become more involved with the lives around it, even before he’d first come to Shakespeare on a job. But ever since I’d known him, change had become the norm.
    I sat and brooded over this low-grade anxiety of mine, rousing myself every now and then to change the position of the car. I was beginning to worry about my mental state when I had a mild revelation. Of course, this was just a variation on PMS! Instead of my ordinary pattern of diminished patience, tender breasts, and backache, I was having all those plus cramps and mood swings.
    But this deviation from my own body’s norm was proof that my body was changing,