Meet Hetta Moon

No one ever suspects me. I look like your grandmother, but maybe with more modern clothes. And maybe not. I'm not a fashionable dresser. Shopping is a chore, not a hobby, so I like clothes that last a long time and never look too dated. As a consequence, they never look very stylish, either. My hair is gradually fading from a plain medium brunette to the grayed brown of a field mouse. I'm at the age where mirrors startle me with their cruel reality - in my mind, my legs still stretch long and lean-muscled from a firm abdomen and a high, tight derriere. But I'm now the age that inspired manufacturers to add little strips of elastic, well-hidden but unmistakably there, to the waistbands of their conservatively-cut khaki slacks. Nevertheless, my skills are honed by life experience and, because I'm unexpected, I'm more dangerous than ever. When I want to be, anyway. Sometimes I bake cookies for a bunch of neighborhood kids. Then I'm grandmotherly, and only dangerous to their dental health and dinner appetites. But sometimes I find out things that others want to keep secret. My name is Hetta Moon. I think I'm still officially an administrative assistant.