No Good

The burglar lay dead at the kitchen table, neck twisted, crumbs and spittle pooled where his mouth met the tablecloth.  Etta Hearn crept towards him the way old ladies moved towards a curiosity, and used her umbrella to give him a nimble jab.

Dead, choked on crumb cake.  Great, she thought, yet another man dying from my food, telling me how bad I cook.  Before she called the police, she gleefully hit the corpse another time for good measure, sending a bit of wet crumb flying across the room.
…

The man’s name had been John Pope.  A blasphemous name for such a no-good, but Etta kept that to herself when the Pope family guiltily invited her over for Christmas.

Etta hated the holidays.  Bad singing and gaudy trimmings, Annoying family.  Cloying sentiment.  And robberies.  Although she was a woman of modest living she had a chest-ful of heirlooms, which inevitably got smaller every Christmas.  Just more people taking what they wanted, the hell with anyone else.

“Oh welcome!’  Nancy Pope said, answering the door, a bit too cheerful, considering.  The house was the type of tackiness you’d expect from a thief’s home, with mismatched knickknacks and faded upholstery.  But as Etta listened to Nancy’s sob story—interrupted every other minute with another heartfelt apology—she felt sympathy.  Etta’s husband had been a no-good too, taking what he wanted and criticizing what he took, and Etta knew Nancy was better off with her no-good dead.
 
She was about to pat Nancy’s hand when she noticed the locket around her neck.  And her earrings.  She looked around the house and slowly found the rest of her stolen keepsakes. 

Every year, the same burglar.  Taking what he wanted, giving it to his trash.  She gripped her umbrella and reached inside her purse.

Etta handed Nancy her crumb cake, and gave a motherly smile.