she could at any minute.
And she probably would by the time I got home. I didn't
want to see the answering machine in the kitchen. The flashing red light, which usually drew me like a moth, would stop
me dead in my tracks.
I might just have dealt my career a deathblow before it
had a chance to live. And I might just have given the killer
a heads-up.
That criminology course looked better by the minute, if for
no other reason than to learn how to stay a step ahead of the
creep who'd already killed once.
Hours of recrimination later, I gave Gussie a golden retriever look. It got me nowhere. "Why can't you?"
"Because I showed you how to lead a meeting the last
time."
"But this isn't a real meeting-it's not Saturday morning."
"The missionary society scheduled this presentation two
months ago, and as the new president, you need to introduce
our guest. Go ahead. Get the ball rolling."
"The only thing that's going to roll is my stupid head." I
took my place behind the podium. This was almost worse than the morning's escapade had been. Or maybe it was my
just deserts.
With another mock glare at Gussie, who only chuckled,
I picked up the gavel and gave it a whack. The room fell
silent. Good grief! Who'd have thought I'd have that kind
of power?
"Ah ... hi."
I winced at my stellar eloquence. I tried again. "Hi, ladies.
Um ... Gussie tells me Mr. Bowersox is here to tell us about
raising money by selling telephone calling cards."
The gray gent-he was as gray as a human could be: gray
hair, gray eyes, gray suit, even gray skin-nodded glumly.
Swell. He even had a gray disposition.
I blundered forward. "Since I can't figure out how anyone
could make money selling phone cards, I guess it's best if Mr.
Graysocks ... er ... Bowersox comes and tells us."
Silence.
Shocked women.
A snigger in the back of the crowd.
Finally, Gussie shook her head and began to clap.
The speaker came and, thankfully, took my place behind
the podium. I fled faster than Bali H'ai ever had. For the
next hour and a half, I took refuge behind the mammoth silk
weeping fig in a corner of the church's community room and
ignored the occasional stare sent my way.
Something had to give. At the rate I was going, I'd be either
bashed in the head by Marge's killer, banned from my father's
church, or both before the end of the week.
Applying a hot-glue gun to shut my mouth seemed like
a good idea.
Eventually, the dull monologue came to an end. I returned
to the podium, told everyone where the refreshments were
(as if they, longtime members of the church, didn't know
where they'd left the cookies, fruit breads, and punch) and
said good night to one and all.
Gussie blocked my escape. "You can't leave yet. The president leaves last."
Was this day ever going to end? I wondered if I could talk
Tyler into opening the dojo for me. There was something about
a good punching bag ...
But escape didn't come easy. Oh, no. Not for me.
Bella marched up. "I've a bone to pick with you, chickie. You
said you'd let me help when you went sleuthing, and you've been
up to some pretty cool stuff. But you didn't tell me a thing!"
Who'd told her about my calamities?
"I haven't done anything that would interest you, Bella."
"You wanna make a bet?" She crossed her pudgy arms
over her cotton-candy-pink top. "Lorrianne Dumont saw you
skulking in Marge's trash yesterday. She says you had some
major hunk with you. Is that the hottie who squished my poor
Bali Hai? I wouldn't share him either, but you promised I
could help you snoop."
"I've never skulked." I felt safe with that. I'd made enough
noise to wake up rocks in Outer Slobovia.
Bella's blue eyes narrowed to slits. "You sure stunk of
trash."
"I told you I'd tripped over some stinky stuff."
"In Marge's trash."
"It wasn't Marge's." Marge had been dead for a few days.
It was probably Steve's.
"I'd have done better'n you did if you'd taken me along
to snoop around."
She probably
And she probably would by the time I got home. I didn't
want to see the answering machine in the kitchen. The flashing red light, which usually drew me like a moth, would stop
me dead in my tracks.
I might just have dealt my career a deathblow before it
had a chance to live. And I might just have given the killer
a heads-up.
That criminology course looked better by the minute, if for
no other reason than to learn how to stay a step ahead of the
creep who'd already killed once.
Hours of recrimination later, I gave Gussie a golden retriever look. It got me nowhere. "Why can't you?"
"Because I showed you how to lead a meeting the last
time."
"But this isn't a real meeting-it's not Saturday morning."
"The missionary society scheduled this presentation two
months ago, and as the new president, you need to introduce
our guest. Go ahead. Get the ball rolling."
"The only thing that's going to roll is my stupid head." I
took my place behind the podium. This was almost worse than the morning's escapade had been. Or maybe it was my
just deserts.
With another mock glare at Gussie, who only chuckled,
I picked up the gavel and gave it a whack. The room fell
silent. Good grief! Who'd have thought I'd have that kind
of power?
"Ah ... hi."
I winced at my stellar eloquence. I tried again. "Hi, ladies.
Um ... Gussie tells me Mr. Bowersox is here to tell us about
raising money by selling telephone calling cards."
The gray gent-he was as gray as a human could be: gray
hair, gray eyes, gray suit, even gray skin-nodded glumly.
Swell. He even had a gray disposition.
I blundered forward. "Since I can't figure out how anyone
could make money selling phone cards, I guess it's best if Mr.
Graysocks ... er ... Bowersox comes and tells us."
Silence.
Shocked women.
A snigger in the back of the crowd.
Finally, Gussie shook her head and began to clap.
The speaker came and, thankfully, took my place behind
the podium. I fled faster than Bali H'ai ever had. For the
next hour and a half, I took refuge behind the mammoth silk
weeping fig in a corner of the church's community room and
ignored the occasional stare sent my way.
Something had to give. At the rate I was going, I'd be either
bashed in the head by Marge's killer, banned from my father's
church, or both before the end of the week.
Applying a hot-glue gun to shut my mouth seemed like
a good idea.
Eventually, the dull monologue came to an end. I returned
to the podium, told everyone where the refreshments were
(as if they, longtime members of the church, didn't know
where they'd left the cookies, fruit breads, and punch) and
said good night to one and all.
Gussie blocked my escape. "You can't leave yet. The president leaves last."
Was this day ever going to end? I wondered if I could talk
Tyler into opening the dojo for me. There was something about
a good punching bag ...
But escape didn't come easy. Oh, no. Not for me.
Bella marched up. "I've a bone to pick with you, chickie. You
said you'd let me help when you went sleuthing, and you've been
up to some pretty cool stuff. But you didn't tell me a thing!"
Who'd told her about my calamities?
"I haven't done anything that would interest you, Bella."
"You wanna make a bet?" She crossed her pudgy arms
over her cotton-candy-pink top. "Lorrianne Dumont saw you
skulking in Marge's trash yesterday. She says you had some
major hunk with you. Is that the hottie who squished my poor
Bali Hai? I wouldn't share him either, but you promised I
could help you snoop."
"I've never skulked." I felt safe with that. I'd made enough
noise to wake up rocks in Outer Slobovia.
Bella's blue eyes narrowed to slits. "You sure stunk of
trash."
"I told you I'd tripped over some stinky stuff."
"In Marge's trash."
"It wasn't Marge's." Marge had been dead for a few days.
It was probably Steve's.
"I'd have done better'n you did if you'd taken me along
to snoop around."
She probably
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