The Craven A brand of cigarettes is legally distributed by Carreras. - File

She had answered to many names in the 73 years she had lived in Kingston. Beatrice with ribbons in her hair and a slate in the front row of St Bethesda's one-room elementary school. Bea accepting a pinch on her bottom from a boyfriend in the force, floral high-waisted dress emphasising her voluptuous 20-year-old figure. Bea the life of the party at the Glass Bucket, sexy Bea, Lady Bea, and for a while she endured just mama. Now with crochet needle in hand and colourful thread, her voluptuous figure still every bit as eye catching as it was when she answered to simply Miss B.

A fixture in the community, her stall at the corner of the road packed with everything from sweets for children on the way to school, to batteries, soft drinks and cigarettes. Always up before dawn as far back as her days at the girl's home, she had helped to raise every child in the community. She made her living knowing people - judging playful gait, weary trudge, and determined march. A community impresario who had managed to immerse herself into local folklore, her name worked into local colloquialism, it presented the debate breaker; 'If you want to know, ask Miss B", or "Wait till Miss B come!"

Her stall was a meeting place, a base to wait for pension cheques, hide out from landlords or to discuss new community developments. Miss B had become a point on the community map, an accepted destination for parents who enquired after the whereabouts of their children. Her feisty and witty responses to whatever questions were posed to her made her truly endearing.

She was on first-name basis with most of her customers - Trevor the chain-smoking mason who operated a small block-making business at the intersection, Linda the hair dresser who ran her business from her verandah, only smoked Marlboros and occasionally bought a pack of Rizzla with her cigarettes. Perry, the retired policeman who took cigarettes on credit and sometimes sat out with her regaling her with stories of his glory days in the constabulary. Marcia who did days' work to support her three boys, was a new convert at the Christ Almighty Church and was doing her best to stop her smoking habit. Lilith, who had made a small fortune from burlesque in the '40s, coughed as much as she smoked, but vowed she would die with cigarette in hand. They were all family to Miss B, all a part of her network of customers, which extended as far back as the four neighbouring communities.

The younger crowd scared and confused her, they were always so serious a frown permanently etched on their faces, bandanas tied around their necks, faces a pitch-patch of brown and black. Still she answered them in her usual rough tone; what was the point of letting them know she feared them. They would slur her name from around the corner or announce their presence with singing, usually something about a Glock or a gal - she knew what they smoked too; she got most of her Rizzla sales from them.

Her customers gathered from all over that morning. The morning Miss B was killed. The yellow tape had been hastily stretched from her stall to a utility pole, but that had not deterred the anxious onlookers, shaking their heads in disbelief, gasping with shock. Loudly declaring their distress they pressed closer to Miss B's lifeless body. A pool of blood at her head, a pack of cigarettes in her hand, the bullet had clipped her in the middle of a sale. The young man she had been selling the cigarettes to was in police custody, the street was a hive of activity; her stall undisturbed, stood there as a testament to Miss B's sense of order, an order that one stray bullet had turned into disarray.

Trevor dropped the drink box he had been holding; an expletive escaped his lips. One of her slippers was across the street, her dress was up around her waist, her face covered in blood.

" Jesus Christ, Miss B!"

He felt physically ill, he moved through the crowd without seeing anybody. His movements slowed down by disbelief. He had been on his way to grab a bun and cheese and a cigarette. He had brought with him the $50 he owed her remembering how she had smilingly told him that she had given 'Mr Trust' notice when he taken the box drink on credit. Her oval face sweaty, bone-white dentures working on the cornmeal dumpling she had prepared and brought with her that morning. There was a terrible din - people talking , crying , speculating it was too much. Just that morning he had helped her wheel the cart with her wares to the corner and helped her unpack, while she swept and cleaned up the area. He had watched her fill a cheese tin can with water and squeeze limes into it . They had talked about the news while she sprinkled the lime concoction. She had been like a mother to him, sharing her daily feast of cooked meals; the lunch dish she had given to him was still in his shop. Miss B was dead; it sunk into his consciousness as the images of her lying in the street resurfaced in his head. He walked slowly back to his shop as people anxiously gathered behind the reporter doing her piece for the nightly news recounting sad statistics that Miss B was now a part of. The funeral home vehicle passed him on the way back to his shop. He felt the emotion well up in his throat as he watched it round the corner.

Linda was beside herself with grief. The white sheet that was thrown over Miss B's body was now stained with blood and the people from the funeral home were preparing to take the body away. A sob escaped her lips, miss B's feet were uncovered and she could see that one of her slippers was gone. She remembered the morning she had accompanied Miss B downtown. She thought back to watching her haggle over the prices of the wares she bought. She stopped to hail everyone she knew and 'asked after' family members and friends she had not seen. Linda slumped to the sidewalk amidst the noise and chatter, the crying and excitement; she had bought those slippers for Miss B that early Saturday morning.