Stone Cold Crazy (Lil & Boris #4) (Lil and Boris Mysteries) by Shannon Hill Page A

install a new front door for me, with some help from Tim Hutchins of Hutchins Home Repair.
    “Drink up,” Aunt Marge ordered. “You’ve had a shock.”
    I drank it up. Then I struggled to keep it down. “Where’s the green stuff?”
    She burrowed into her carry-all shoulder bag and came up with a thermos. The “green stuff” was a blend of decaf green tea, cilantro, parsley, mint, and some other green things. It tasted the way fresh-cut grass smells.
    Boris merowled and leapt onto my lap. He sniffed, sneezed, and settled in to watch the men at work.
    “Boris should have warned you someone was outside.”
    “He’s not a dog.”
    “I can’t believe Alan Quinn would do such a thing.”
    Boris’s tail twitched twice. I grinned to myself. Finally, I’d caught Aunt Marge in a lie.
    “His mother’s devout.”
    “What’s his father?”
    Caught, Aunt Marge pondered a moment. “That is a good question. Hmph. Now, I assume those federal agents have Alan?”
    “For now,” I confirmed. “They found pipe bomb fixings at his house, some pretty intense literature, and a few copies of that flyer.”
    Aunt Marge sniffed disdainfully. “Isn’t it strange he would be so competent at the Weeds and so… bumbling…‌here?”
    “Howard forwarded me the link to Quinn’s blog, I’ll send it on. He saw this as a blow for freedom. Apparently, I and two dozen storm troopers ransacked Freddie Tyler’s house, abused his right to freedom of speech, and I don’t remember what else.” I yawned, and stroked Boris. He purred lightly. “According to the blog‌—‌well, you can read it.”
    “I do not think,” announced Aunt Marge, pink-cheeked, “I will be able to hold my temper if I do. Give me the short version, please, dear.”
    “This was a warning to me to stop serving a fascist socialist government,” I started to smile, “full of corporate stooges. Which, when you think about it, is quite a trick.”
    Aunt Marge smiled thinly and changed the subject. A lady does not discuss politics, unless she can do so in a genteel fashion. Having someone lob a pipe bomb at me did not put Aunt Marge in a genteel mood. “What do you intend to do about this?”
    “Feds have it.”
    Aunt Marge stared at me. When I was a kid, I’d have confessed to being Jack the Ripper if it would stop that stare.
    I confessed, “I’ll make a few visits.”
    She pounced on the admission. “Lil, you have to stop. I am sure you’re doing your job well and that you’re not breaking any rules…” Which meant she thought I was. “But something you’re doing is making people very angry at you. First there was that awful drug dealer…”
    “I blew that one, I didn’t pay enough attention.” I crooned to Boris, and added, “Besides, that’s when I met Boris.”
    Aunt Marge was relentless. “And what about the Colliers?”
    “Oh, come on,” I retorted, “it was one Collier, and all I got were a few bruised ribs!”
    “Then this horrible, horrible thing Kim did…” Aunt Marge blinked away tears. Her mouth quivered. “You could have frozen to death in that cabin!”
    I couldn’t answer that. Kim sold me out for a chance at living large with a guy she met online. No way to minimize that .
    “And now this!”
    Just as well I didn’t tell her about Chipmunk Tyler’s potshot in my general vicinity.
    I took a long breath, and let it out very slowly. “What do you want me to do?”
    She replied promptly, “Stop getting people angry enough to kill you.”
    “So…‌turn into Vernon Rucker?”
    Wrong answer.
    “Don’t be sassy. I’ve spoken to Punk, and…”
    My whole body tensed. “You did what ?” I yelped.
    Roger looked around. He must’ve figured out what we were talking about, because he became very absorbed in attaching the new door.
    “It’s for your own safety, Lil. You know how people are. I don’t say I agree or approve, but the truth is, a woman with authority is very difficult for more traditional people to