her?”
I buttered and salted my grits. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Oh.” Flori concentrated on her food. “This bacon is not cooked enough,” she muttered to herself.
After breakfast, we took a leisurely walk along the beach. The morning mist had lifted and the sun shone. The sandy beach was quickly filling up with some of the locals. Already, girls with very little on were sunbathing and boys in skintight rubbery suits were heading into the water with their surfboards. We went back up to the street and caught a bus to the downtown area. The driver was talkative and as he pointed to different houses, he told us some of Yellow Rose’s history and some of the latest gossip.
“Did you hear about the murder of Grace Hobbs?” I asked. Flori poked me and gave me a dirty look.
“Can’t say I did,” he said. “Was that before or after the big hurricane in 1900?”
“No,” I said. “That was during the warm spell about a week ago.”
“Oh,” he said. “Nope, didn’t hear about it. Strange, too. There’s not too many murders here in Yellow Rose. By the way, if you want a good cup of coffee, I’ll drop you off right in front of the coffee shop,” he said. “Tell him Tom sent you and you’ll get it cheaper.”
I’ll do anything for a good cup of coffee so that’s what we did. There wasn’t much point in explaining the murder to him. If he knew Grace, he would’ve expressed some surprise. He did seem to be a storehouse of knowledge though so he might prove useful to me at some point.
The coffee shop was at the corner of 23 rd street and some letter of the alphabet, but I forget which one. It was long and narrow with hardly any customers and the few who were there, were nursing a cup of coffee and reading. How long did this fellow expect to stay in business? Paintings from local artists covered the walls and Flori gushed over all of them.
Flori and I wandered round through the shops on J Avenue. Although I wasn’t interested in buying anything, it did give me some ideas as to what I might like to stock on my shelves. Flori had a long list of things to buy for her husband, kids, and grandkids.
“You better wait, Flori,” I said, as she started grabbing everything in sight in one of the souvenir shops. “Don’t forget we have to do some walking. You still have a few days to buy things. Why don’t you just look for now and then you can compare prices?”
“Oh, you’re so right,” she said, and started putting the t-shirts back. The young sales girl curled her lips at me. I’m sure we were the first tourists of the season.
We caught the bus back to the hotel. It was getting hot and humid and the cool room was refreshing. Flori flung her hat on the chair, flopped on the bed and was soon asleep. I left a note for her and slipped out the door. How far away could Avenue P½ be anyway?
Mabel’s Strawberry Muffins
1 ½ cup chopped fresh strawberries
½ cup white sugar
¼ cup white sugar
¼ cup butter, softened
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
1 ¾ cup flour
½ tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. ground nutmeg
Oven: 425*
In a small bowl combine strawberries and ½ cup of sugar. Set aside for 1 hour. Drain, reserving liquid and berries separately.
In medium bowl, cream butter and ¼ cup of sugar until light and fluffy.
Beat in eggs, one at a time. Add vanilla.
Combine flour, baking soda, salt, and nutmeg; stir into creamed mixture, alternating with berry juice. Stir in berries.
Bake: 18 to 20 minutes. Makes 12 muffins.
Chapter Thirteen
P ½ was farther away than I’d expected. Well, I don’t know what I expected. The street was in an older section; the houses, probably built in the 20’s. I’m not sure why I picked this address to investigate first. Perhaps, it sounded more ominous. P ½. Murder on P½. Hmmm. Of course, the
I buttered and salted my grits. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Oh.” Flori concentrated on her food. “This bacon is not cooked enough,” she muttered to herself.
After breakfast, we took a leisurely walk along the beach. The morning mist had lifted and the sun shone. The sandy beach was quickly filling up with some of the locals. Already, girls with very little on were sunbathing and boys in skintight rubbery suits were heading into the water with their surfboards. We went back up to the street and caught a bus to the downtown area. The driver was talkative and as he pointed to different houses, he told us some of Yellow Rose’s history and some of the latest gossip.
“Did you hear about the murder of Grace Hobbs?” I asked. Flori poked me and gave me a dirty look.
“Can’t say I did,” he said. “Was that before or after the big hurricane in 1900?”
“No,” I said. “That was during the warm spell about a week ago.”
“Oh,” he said. “Nope, didn’t hear about it. Strange, too. There’s not too many murders here in Yellow Rose. By the way, if you want a good cup of coffee, I’ll drop you off right in front of the coffee shop,” he said. “Tell him Tom sent you and you’ll get it cheaper.”
I’ll do anything for a good cup of coffee so that’s what we did. There wasn’t much point in explaining the murder to him. If he knew Grace, he would’ve expressed some surprise. He did seem to be a storehouse of knowledge though so he might prove useful to me at some point.
The coffee shop was at the corner of 23 rd street and some letter of the alphabet, but I forget which one. It was long and narrow with hardly any customers and the few who were there, were nursing a cup of coffee and reading. How long did this fellow expect to stay in business? Paintings from local artists covered the walls and Flori gushed over all of them.
Flori and I wandered round through the shops on J Avenue. Although I wasn’t interested in buying anything, it did give me some ideas as to what I might like to stock on my shelves. Flori had a long list of things to buy for her husband, kids, and grandkids.
“You better wait, Flori,” I said, as she started grabbing everything in sight in one of the souvenir shops. “Don’t forget we have to do some walking. You still have a few days to buy things. Why don’t you just look for now and then you can compare prices?”
“Oh, you’re so right,” she said, and started putting the t-shirts back. The young sales girl curled her lips at me. I’m sure we were the first tourists of the season.
We caught the bus back to the hotel. It was getting hot and humid and the cool room was refreshing. Flori flung her hat on the chair, flopped on the bed and was soon asleep. I left a note for her and slipped out the door. How far away could Avenue P½ be anyway?
Mabel’s Strawberry Muffins
1 ½ cup chopped fresh strawberries
½ cup white sugar
¼ cup white sugar
¼ cup butter, softened
2 eggs
1 tsp. vanilla
1 ¾ cup flour
½ tsp. baking soda
¼ tsp. salt
¼ tsp. ground nutmeg
Oven: 425*
In a small bowl combine strawberries and ½ cup of sugar. Set aside for 1 hour. Drain, reserving liquid and berries separately.
In medium bowl, cream butter and ¼ cup of sugar until light and fluffy.
Beat in eggs, one at a time. Add vanilla.
Combine flour, baking soda, salt, and nutmeg; stir into creamed mixture, alternating with berry juice. Stir in berries.
Bake: 18 to 20 minutes. Makes 12 muffins.
Chapter Thirteen
P ½ was farther away than I’d expected. Well, I don’t know what I expected. The street was in an older section; the houses, probably built in the 20’s. I’m not sure why I picked this address to investigate first. Perhaps, it sounded more ominous. P ½. Murder on P½. Hmmm. Of course, the
Similar Books
