Although middle age had been etching itself into her rosy face for some time now and her dimensions were plumping toward the “plus” sizes, Marjorie Mayfield still enjoyed the roller-coasterish swoop of her convertible as it wound the tapeworm turns down from the Lowland Heights Golf Club toward what our fair town of Merryweather considers its pride and thready pulse, the happy, high-end, and precariously healthy Summerfield Estates Senior Resident Community. As far as Marjorie Mayfield was concerned, though, Summerfield was the Happy Hunting Grounds.

  As her car hit the level stretch that runs toward the gates of Summerfield, Marjorie’s iThing chirped that a text message awaited her. Scoffing at those laws about distracted driving, she held the device up, squinted at the screen, swerved to miss a small grandchild who had escaped from grandma, then swerved again to avoid taking out said grandma. Puckering her vision more sharply at the small screen, she read:

  "Milosh is thinking of you."

  Marjorie tapped the screen with her thumb to dispense with this harassment, turned her car through the gates of Summerfield like Boadicea in her chariot, and screeched to a halt before a glossy sign jabbed into a grassy median before her.

  It read:

  Marjorie Mayfield Estate Sales

  Where Compassion and Convenience Meet

  She contemplated the placard for a moment. She did like the tagline, though would have preferred to pair compassion and profit. But she knew that the average middling estate sale troll might misjudge Marjorie as someone seeking only filthy lucre. But who could intelligently accuse her of profiteering since she always (eventually) reported to the IRS—as a charitable contribution—that 15% of gross as going to the grieving relatives of the recently-deceased? And these days she needed every addition to accounts receivable that could be had.

  She resumed her drive into Summerfield.

  With an almost migratory instinct, Marjorie Mayfield drove on under the canopy of shading sycamores, all the while humming in a pleasing, pleasant, self-applauding sing-song. After rolling around the cheery sunlit pavement of Sandra Circle, she parked before the drab if functional cube the Summerfield community clubhouse.

  Pulling her Italian-German fusion shoulder bag up from the mess of fast-food wrappers, 48-oz. pop tumblers, an ergonomic meat hook, a center punch for quick grabs or escapes, generic voodoo dolls to hand out to unsuspecting kiddies, and a confetti of debit receipts that hid the leather seat next to her. From the same mess, she also plucked the summer catalogue from Van Cauwenberghe Ice Cream (a bit of light reading) and bear-strength pepper spray (good for downing the most conscientious security guard or disincentivizing any aggressive panhandler.) These she stowed inside her bag and she stepped from her car, a vision of confidence and self-assurance.

  The morning breeze that had cooled her during her time on the links had abated, but Marjorie kept modestly zipped her Billie-Jean-King jumpsuit and avoiding fresh spurts of water from another crane-and-mermaid fountain along the main walk and marched on to the front doors of the clubhouse—all while judging the general health of the Summerfield residents coming and going about her.

  Once inside, she made for the community bulletin board, but found her mission impeded when she heard, “Oh, Marjorie, Marjorie, come here.” The summoner was a cheery lady sitting at a folding card table and proffering complimentary Summerfield Estates pedometers to all and sundry. She wore a turquoise tennis blouse and her brow shaded by a magenta sun visor.

  Marjorie went up to her and managed as sincere a smile as she could. “Connie. How are you?”

  “Very fine. Very fine. But how’s your business?” Connie asked. “Oh, and what is that cute slogan of yours?”

  “‘No Need Trying, ‘Cause They Keep Dying?’ That was just a gag I came up with on girls’ night out.”

  “Well, I still say it’s cute.”

  “And it works. But, tell me, how’s Roger doing?”

  “Complete remission,” announced Connie with an expression of contented ecstasy. “We are so blessed.”

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  “Roger’s still with us, then? That’s wonderful. Tell me, who was your oncologist?”

  “Dr. Davenport.”

  “Davenport. I’ve heard the name of that miracle-worker before, but let me write it down anyway.” Taking her metallic pink stylus in hand, she tapped the doctor’s name into her iThing, which like an over-efficient secretary was providing a fresh message from Milosh. Focusing back on Connie, Marjorie slid the device back into her bag. “Well, bless you and your husband. So, he’s doing well?”

  “Oh, he’s fine, fine. He’ll go on for years, the doctor said.”

  “That Dr. Davenport.” Marjorie sighed.

  “I’m just happy he’s out of the woods. And...” Connie bent forward in an angle of spicy confidentiality. “Don’t think that we haven’t been celebrating. I feel like I’m seventy again. Here, have a pedometer. Never too thin or too rich, you know.”

  “You know me too well, Connie,” Marjorie said, taking the dangly offering. “I’ll add it to my collection.” She dropped it into her bag.

  “And with that,” said Connie, “it is time for the Christmas-In-July marathon on the Romance Channel.” And neatly placing a Boy-Scout-camp-hand-carved ‘Grandma’s Gone Fishin’’ desk sign on to her table, Connie stood and happily departed with her box of pedometers for the TV room.

  Marjorie groused to herself that she could have gotten a good two dollars for that box, then finished her journey to the bulletin board. At the corkboard, she scanned it for any notices from The Competition.

  She clicked her tongue and sighing.

  The flyer from “Afterlife Estate Sales” offered the slogan “Dead People Have the Best Stuff.” “What sort of slogan was that?” Marjorie asked herself, while tapping her phone to ignore another message from Milosh. Certainly, good on the sales end, but not when cultivating the clientele. What if some retired captain of industry saw that and imagined that he should take it all with him into the ground, like a barbarian chieftain? His trophy wife would probably be thrown on to a blazing pyre just for fun. No, no, better not cause whatever gray cells were still functioning in the old fellow’s noggin to reach some rash decision. Such advertisements would only give painful and needless offense to the poor grieving relations who are looking for compassionate and convenient service in their time of simplification. No, no, no. And, she admitted, the spoils can only be divvied up so much. So many jackals, so few carcasses. Therefore, like a matriarchal hyena, Marjorie discreetly pulled the “Afterlife Estate Sales” card from the board and secreted it into her shoulder bag, then slipped one of her own cards from the pocket of her jump suit and pinned it up as a replacement.

  The next card under critique was invitingly grand, like an old-fashioned wedding invitation, floridly engraved with the letters P & P and embossed with paisleys and pansies.

  “Oh, them,” she thought sourly, remembering them as the flunkies from Sterling Family Sales, or Tom’s Treasure Trove in the strip mall. This must be their little start-up. “Two more fish in the pond,” she thought. “Well, open wide,” and Marjorie plucked out the bead-headed pins at the corners of the card.

  But before she could slide it into her pocket, she heard from behind her a man’s voice saying in a sweetly accusatory tone, his words like a stiletto dipped into powdered sugar, “Hello, Marjorie.”

  Spinning about with the card at her fingertips, Marjorie found herself confronting a pair of short, well-polished young men in clean fashionable attire, all leather accessories and newly-bought chunky watches. The shorter of them, standing to one side like a Pink Eminence, was boyish and big-eared, his wavy brown hair tantalizingly lucent and perfectly cut; he wore a Chambray blue Oxford, pleated slacks, a bow tie, and large owlish glasses that he pushed up to get a better view of her malfeasance; his ears seemed to vibrate with unexpressed distaste at what he saw. The second, closer to Marjorie, was the color of expensive coffee diluted with village cream, with the permanent shadow of a spotty mustache and little chinny beardlet; he wore watermelon-rind-green fashion frames that contrasted garishly with his pastel-checkered button-up, giving the impression that he had been dipped in marshmallow salad. He held himself with the expectation of a cat waiting at the loading dock of the mouse factory.

  The cornered lady dumped out a load of Marjorie-flavored charm. “Oh, it’s Michael and Marco. Buenas dias, Marco,” she said to the nearer of them. “Como usta usted?”

  The swarthier of the pair, his mood as buoyant as a meteor rotting at the bottom of the Marianas Trench, said, “Marjorie, my people are Italian.”

  “And with that thick black hair, what else would you be?”

  Reaching forth the shaved forearm of a dedicated exerciser, Marco lightly took the card from Marjorie’s fingers and handed it to Michael, who taking it gave Marjorie an up-and-down

  examination before slipping it into his own shirt pocket.

  “Oh, that was yours,” she said. “I thought I could use it as a reference for clients that I can’t support. I’m sure you know how it gets so busy that you have to turn people away. I don’t know how I’ll manage another one. But I do have a consult at Vesper Winds Manor later today.”

  “A terrific place to spend your declining years,” Marco said. “I heard that they’re opening a weight-loss wing to address geriatric obesity.”

  “Oh, who would need that? See, a pedometer.”

  “I heard they have a dementia unit, too.”

  Marjorie reminded herself that she was the predator, never the prey, little boy, and she would not rise to this waspish bait. She set to musing, “I sometimes wish I could do my own estate sale. The problem is, I would need to die first and I’m too busy for that. But what are you fine-looking fellows here for?”

  “A consult,” Marco said.

  “Anyone I know?”

  Marco did not answer.

  “If they live here, I’m sure I know them. The folks here at Summerfield love me. This place is in my blood practically. So, you two are in business now? Quite a step up from Tom’s. Well, you’d best be to it, then. Good luck,” and strategically retreating, retired her smile, while reminding herself to clean up the rest of the professional clutter on the bulletin board on her next swing around the complex.

  Once outside, Marjorie thought, “Those prettyboy upstarts do not understand this particular jungle.” She looked at the time on her iThing: enough time to check in on her sale, followed by a quick jaunt over to Sunset Dawn Manor to tighten those tripwires along the nature trail, and then on to Vesper Winds.

  But then, in a Pavlovian twitch of instinct, she looked at her handheld a second time and felt a vague emotion that might have been gratitude: Milosh had not left her another message.