Mint Juleps and Justice by Nancy Naigle Page B

truck and moved quickly ahead of her to open the front door.
    Brooke dipped under his arm, entering first, and getting a whiff of his cologne. The old wood floor creaked. The smell of home cooking filled the air. They took their time poking around the cluttered collection of items. Each room had its own theme, filled with glorious old pieces of furniture, trinkets, linens slightly yellowed with age, and hand-crocheted doilies. She headed for a big mahogany dresser and pulled the top drawer open. The workmanship was beautiful, and the knobs were all original. “This is wonderful,” she said to Mike, realizing that he was just barely within earshot.
    “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
    “I was just saying I love this place. What do you have there? Some kind of animal trap?”
    “No.” He dangled a pair of antique spurs he’d just picked up from a huge tabletop of goods. “They’re spurs. I collect them.”
    “I love this kind of stuff. You can feel the memories.” She looked around and took a deep breath as if the air would share the details of the decorative items among the old furnishings.
    “Let’s go place our order and we can look around while they’re cooking. I’m starved.”
    Brooke let Mike lead her to the lunch counter, where he ordered BLTs and limeades for the two of them. They circled back and returned to browsing through the old treasures.
    “Mostly I love the stories behind these things,” admitted Brooke. She lifted a teacup, admiring the beautiful intricate design on the inside. She turned it over to examine the mark on the bottom.
    Mike picked up an old cast-iron skillet. “Okay, what’s the story? Lay it on me.”
    “Well,” she said with a playful glint in her eye, but an oh-so-serious tone. “Grandma Vivian used to use that pan every Sunday morning.”
    “Really?”
    “Oh, yes, every single Sunday. She would fry up bacon, from the hog she’d slaughtered right out back of her house. A local 4-H project, no doubt. The hog’s name was Ham Bone. His sister was Riba.”
    “Reba, as in the great country singer?”
    “Uh, no, Riba, as in barbecued ribs.”
    “Of course. How could I have not known?”
    Brooke continued in full animation. “Then she, Grandma Vivian that is, would fry up eggs in the bacon grease until they were crispy on the edges. She made the best darn fried eggs for miles. That pan is quite a steal, you see, because it has made memories for so many people over the years. In fact,” she said, lowering her voice, and looking around as if to make sure no one was listening, “it’s really quite hush-hush, but rumor has it that Grandma Vivian once made fried corn bread in that very pan for,” she cleared her throat and looked around before leaning in and lowering her voice again, “the King himself.”
    “The king? As in the King of England, I presume?” he asked.
    “Oh, don’t be silly. The real king.” She flashed a mischievous smile. “Elvis, hello!”
    “Grandma Vivian and Elvis? Scandalous,” he teased.
    “You know Elvis wasn’t really crazy about jelly doughnuts. The truth is, he was really all about Grandma Vivian’s corn bread. And yes, he did put jelly on that too.”
    “Interesting.” Mike twirled the heavy pan in his hand.
    “Oh, yes, the memories of Grandma Vivian’s corn bread…” Her voice drifted off.
    “I see. Making memories. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
    “Of course,” she said. “Even if you have to make them up.”
    “Better than my story, I guess.” Mike held the pan. “Some woman beat the crap out of an intruder with this. Guy had a big knot on his head that was covered in bacon grease and fried egg pieces. End of story.”
    “Stick to your day job,” she teased.
    “Here’s something with a real story.” He motioned for her to come over to a long oak glass-front counter. “It’s an old postcard. Pretty cool.” He flipped it from front to back reading the message and looking at the picture, then