Lowcountry Bombshell (A Liz Talbot Mystery) by Susan M. Boyer Page A

wild hogs. In the aftermath of a hurricane back in the 1800s, most of the livestock wandered the island until fences and barns were repaired or rebuilt. This particular gang of hogs was never apprehended. Daddy called them whistle pigs. Don’t ask me why. I was pretty sure that whistle pig was technically another name for a woodchuck, but Daddy never was much troubled by technicalities. Anyway, as far as I knew, no one had ever heard one of the hogs whistle.
    They were mostly harmless, but they liked to snack on in flowerbeds and vegetable gardens, which made them unpopular. It wasn’t clear to me from his response whether the hogs had Daddy’s blood pressure up, or if it was something on the stock ticker.
    “Those things are a menace.” The idea of hogs running loose always bothered me. I harbored the suspicion one of them might attack somebody, although I’d never heard such a thing happening.
    The town council had discussed at length what to do about them, but no consensus was reached. The island’s matriarchs were too tenderhearted to hear tell of the hogs being exterminated, and the swine were wily enough to evade efforts at rounding them up.
    “Computer’s acting up again,” Daddy said.
    “That’s what Mamma said. Let me take a look.” I sat down at his desk and moved the mouse to kill the screen saver. I opened a web page. “Do you want all these toolbars on here?”
    “Toolbars?”
    “All these things at the top.”
    “I don’t know how those things got on there. Get rid of ’em, why don’t you?”
    I updated his virus protection, scanned the computer, and removed the excess toolbars. “I’m going to change the password on your email account.”
    “Write the new one down for me.”
    “I’m taping it right where the old one was, inside your top drawer. I’ve underlined the letters you need to capitalize.”
    He stared at me for a minute. I could see his eyes dancing with mischief, though he didn’t throw the game by grinning. He looked away. “Stocks are in the toilet.”
    “Daddy, when’s the last time you had a physical?”
    “A physical?” He looked at me like he’d taken a bite of something spoiled.
    I sighed. “Listen. If you want to keep on tormenting Mamma with such nonsense as pornography blasts to the church, dragging me over here to fix self-inflicted computer problems, and selling junk, to a ripe old age, we’ve got to keep you healthy.”
    “That was no such thing as pornography. Is that what your mamma said?”
    Chumley woofed in Daddy’s defense.
    “Well, Mamma’s definition of pornography might be different from yours. Whatever it was, I’m sure it was hilarious. That’s not my point.”
    “Well, state your business, Ms. Tutie.”
    “I’m going to make you an appointment for a physical.”
    “I am not going to sit and listen while Warren Harper jaws at me about exercise and fried foods.”
    “No, I don’t think you should see Warren Harper.”  
    “Why not? What’s wrong with Warren Harper?”
    Warren Harper treated many of the island residents, of all ages. That was the problem. He was a generalist. Daddy would see that as a criticism.
    I sighed, closed my eyes for a second, then popped them open and gave Daddy a big smile. “There’s nothing wrong with Warren Harper, Daddy. But, you’ve been friends a long time. I just thought it might be easier to talk about personal matters with someone who isn’t one of your poker buddies.”
    “Hunh.”
    “I’m going to make you an appointment with an internist in Charleston. You can get all your tests run while you’re there.”
    “Tests? What tests?”
    “You know, lab work, EKG, colonoscopy.”
    “Are you trying to run my blood pressure up?”
    “Of course not. Why on earth would you say such a thing?”
    “’Swhat it sounds like. Here you are trying to give me a heart attack. Talking about letting some stranger stick a—”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone past a certain age has those tests