“Sixty-five isn’t old!” Lexie Morie glared down at Hal Brokart, managing editor of The Washington Daily. “You know darn good and well that I more than hold my own with these younger reporters. Are you forgetting the Lampert Report?”

It’d taken Lexie months to nail down proof of Maryland House Minority Whip Rupert Lambert’s corrupt kickbacks. The state was still experiencing fallout from her investigative piece. There was even talk of a Pulitzer Prize.

“Sit down, Lexie.”

Lexie folded her arms, but remained standing. Every nerve in her body vibrated.

“I will not sit down,” she hissed. “I’ve given 40 years of my life to this newspaper. And now you’re firing me?”

“I’m not firing you. I’m asking you to retire.”

Hal dragged fingers through his thinning hair. “Please, Lexie. Sit.”

Through the haze of anger, Lexie recognized the dark undereye shadows and pale skin of exhaustion.

Lexie sank into a chair. “What’s going on, Hal?”

“Budget cuts.”

“There are always budget cuts.” Lexie angrily brushed aside a lock of reddish-brown hair that had fallen from her messy updo.

Were her roots showing? She’d been so busy chasing down clerks willing to gossip about Representative Lambert that she’d canceled her last hair appointment.

Did gray roots remind Hal that she was older than most of the others in the newsroom?

“It’s different this time, Lexie.” Hal angrily pushed at a stack of papers. A file folder fell to the floor. Hal ignored it.

“The new owners aren’t just slashing our budgets. They’ve demanded we cut our staff by 20 percent.”

“Twenty percent!” Lexie’s stomach clenched and she struggled to breathe. “That’s impossible. We’re already a bare-bones operation.”

“I tried to tell them that.” Hal’s lips flattened. “But we’ve been bought by bean counters who know nothing about the business. The days of family-owned newspapers like Hennsing Publications are gone.”

Lexie winced as regret washed over her. Hennsing Publications . . .

But that was then. This was now.

“Hal, this is nuts. Christmas is less than a month away. Most of these reporters have young kids. Can’t we do anything? Go on strike? Appeal to our readers?”

Judging by the daily fan mail, Lexie knew she could rally reader support.

Hal shook his head. “Believe me, Lexie, I’ve tried everything I could think of. A strike would just give the owners an excuse to fire everyone and start new.”

He folded his hands. “I was able to finagle a deal for you. Retire now and you’ll receive three months’ pay as compensation as well as your regular retirement package.”

“I’m not ready to retire!”

Hal sighed. “I’m sorry, Lexie. I’ve done all I can. Be grateful that you qualify for Medicare. Many of the others will be scrambling for health insurance. Think of this as a chance to travel or garden or find a new hobby.”

“I’m a writer not a racehorse, so don’t treat me like you’re putting me out to pasture.”

Hal’s expression hardened.

“Take this deal now or next week you will be laid off with the others – with no compensation.”

***

Two hours later, Lexie shuffled into a crowded senior center. A stage had been prepared for the first performance of The Golden Stars, a newly formed troupe of senior dancers, singers and musicians. Taking a seat, she pasted a smile on her face, prepared to cheer Nick, the love of her life, in his debut.

***

. . .Nick Morie crossed to center stage, microphone in hand. He smiled at the audience, easily locating Lexie. Her encouraging grin warmed him. But butterflies threatened to choke him. Was the last-minute change to his song going to work? What if he forgot the words?

Well, too late to change it now.

“Like many of the people here today,” he said, “I didn’t start performing until I retired.” He chuckled. “Actually, I didn’t start performing until today.”

The audience laughed.

“But I’d like to dedicate this song to my lovely wife, Lexie.”

Lexie’s mouth dropped open.

Nick inhaled deeply, held the breath, then exhaled. Turning to Ben, he nodded. Romantic, old-time music swelled. Nick met Lexie’s eyes and began to sing.

Her eyes widened as she recognized the song. In his peripheral vision, women in the audience swayed to the beat. When he reached the chorus, “And the way you look tonight,” he could swear he saw tears in Lexie’s eyes.

But Lexie never cried. It must be the lighting.

Confidence building, he tore his eyes from his wife’s, scanning the crowd, drawing them into the song.

They swayed, they smiled, they followed his every movement. To his left, out of sight of the audience, Robyn raised her hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon.

Nick smiled, never missing a beat. As the song came to a close, he sought Lexie. The love in her eyes almost choked him. He inhaled deeply, prepared for the final chorus—

A scream drew his eyes to the table behind Lexie. A woman – no, Marlene Roberts – clutched her stomach and screamed again. Marlene collapsed to the floor. The others at the table stood, blocking Nick’s view.

A woman from one of the other tables jumped to her feet. “Let me through,” she said. “I’m a doctor.”

Ben, a retired EMT, was also pushing through the crowd.

Nick turned toward Lexie. She held her cell phone to her ear. When their eyes met, she nodded. Help was on the way.

The doctor bent over Marlene. Suddenly, she straightened. She said something Nick couldn’t hear and began forcing Ben and Marlene’s family away from the fallen body.

Robyn stepped onto the stage and removed the microphone from Nick’s clenched fist.

“Lexie called 9-1-1,” Nick whispered.

Robyn nodded, then turned to the audience.

“Could everyone please remain in your seats?” she said. “There’s been a medical emergency. The ambulance is on the way. We need to keep all aisles clear for the paramedics to work.”

Audience members leaned toward one another. A buzz of speculation filled the room.

The doctor remained beside Marlene, but wouldn’t allow anyone near her. The family stood nearby. Their expressions ranged from horror to . . . satisfaction?

Sirens announced the arrival of the ambulance. Two men and a woman rushed inside, large bags clenched in their fists. Ben intercepted the medics and relayed something.

The woman medic turned and ran back to the ambulance, returning moments later wearing a mask and carrying an oxygen tank and a heavy looking bag. The other two medics set their own bags onto the ground, donned masks and gloves and kneeled beside Marlene.

“What’s going on?” Bob Roberts marched into view. “What’s with all the sirens?”

His eyes widened. “Is that . . . Marlene?”

He lunged toward her, but one of the waitresses snagged an arm before he could get far. She whispered in his ear. His shoulders slumped.

From Nick’s position on stage, he could see a medic start hands-only CPR. The woman medic opened her heavy bag, removed paddles that resembled the defibrillators Nick had seen on television.

“Clear.” The medic’s voice carried across the now-silent room.

Marlene’s body jumped.

“Clear.” A second jolt to the body.

The medics leaned in.

The woman and man slowly stood, blocking Nick’s view.

The medics’ body language, however, told all.

Marlene Roberts was dead.

Ben trotted back to Nick.

“Please tell the audience to remain in their seats,” he said. “They’ll need to give statements to the police.”

“Statements?”

“Dr. Shana said she smelled bitter almonds on Marlene’s breath,” Ben said. “That coupled with the pink tone of her skin indicates she’s been poisoned with cyanide.”