12 NoraNora stepped onto the Center’s back patio and inhaled an intoxicating odor.
The shrub to her left looked like a thick mound of green leaves.
But her nose didn’t lie.
Unlit smoke in hand, she scampered across the sun-drenched concrete and out over the patchy grass to zero in on the deep purple blooms hidden among the foliage.
Two weeks ahead of Spokane’s annual lilac festival and she was snorting from the Center stash. Plus, today the blouse topping her khaki slacks was the color of grape jelly.
“Has to be a sign,” she shouted at Channing. “You and I are both wearing purple and the lilac’s in bloom.”
“Of course it’s a sign,” her friend retorted. “Abraham Lincoln is dead.”
Dropping onto the wood-slat bench, Channing pulled a pack of Virginia Slims from her tote bag. She was dre
