seems quiet and a bit standoffish, but that’s Gabe whenever he first meets someone. I’ll find out more when he gets home from his walk with Kathryn. I’ll update you tomorrow morning on the new marriage and my murder investigation.” I hoped to surprise her with the last part of my statement.
“I heard about that,” Dove said. “Who do you think sent Pinky Edmondson to sleep with the fishes?”
“How could you have possibly heard about that?”
“Constance mentioned her suspicions to Lorraine, Dr. Olson’s nurse, who told her daughter, Sylvie, who told her husband and was overheard by her daughter, Heather, who works at the Tastee-Freez, where she told Sissy Brownmiller’s granddaughter, Autumn, who told Sissy, who couldn’t wait to call me with the gory details, which I had to pretend to already know because you never call me and tell me anything.”
“Give me a break. Constance told me less than twelve hours ago.”
“Which gave you eleven hours and thirty minutes in which to call and tell me so I wouldn’t be humiliated in front of the town’s biggest gossip.”
“I thought you said you pretended you knew about it.”
“That didn’t fool her for a minute, and you know it,” Dove grumbled.
“So, did you hear that my own husband asked me to investigate?”
I could hear her perk up over the phone. “No, Sissy didn’t mention that.”
“That’s because she doesn’t know it.”
“Details,” she demanded.
“Gabe is asking me to keep Constance off his back by pretending to investigate. He thinks she’s crazy, that Pinky died of heart failure, just like her doctor and the medical examiner concluded. But you can’t tell anyone about this. Gabe just wants Constance to think I’m looking into it.”
“Oh,” Dove said, disappointment obvious in her voice.
“It’s really just one more chore I have to do this next week, pretend I’m interviewing the candidates for the 49 Club to find out which one is dying . . . or rather killing . . . to get in. That’s who she suspects.”
“Better you than me. I’ve got pies to bake and baskets to fill.” Dove, as usual, was in charge of the San Celina Farm Bureau’s holiday baskets drive. Our goal this year was four hundred gift baskets to deliver on Christmas Eve to families in crisis.
“I’ve got a bunch of stuff collected in the bin at the folk art museum. I’ll bring it on Sunday, and we can work on them next week.”
I’d taken my shower and was reading a book by a folklorist who had interviewed dozens of artists in the South, when I heard voices downstairs. Minutes later, Gabe was in the bedroom unbuttoning his shirt.
“How was your walk?” I asked, setting aside my book.
“Fine,” he said, tossing his shirt on the top of Boo’s crate.
Boo had fallen asleep a half hour ago, and even Gabe’s entry into the room hadn’t disturbed his deep, puppy sleep. I glanced over at my alarm clock. Ten thirty p.m. I’d set it for two a.m. There was no way a puppy this age could make it through the night without a potty break. I resigned myself to broken sleep patterns for the next two weeks.
“Fine isn’t enough information, Friday,” I said, crawling out from under the down comforter. “What did you two talk about?”
He shrugged, pulled off his jeans and underwear. “Family and things. Just caught up.”
I admit, I was distracted for a moment by his muscular thighs, then looked back up at his face. “I want details. I want to know about why she decided to just up and get married. Did you two talk about that at all?”
“Let me take a shower first. Then you can grill me.”
After he was finished with his steamy shower and settled next to me in bed, I started in. “C’mon, Chief, tell me everything your mother said, or I’ll be forced to use thumbscrews.”
He settled more deeply into his two down pillows. “There’s not much to tell. She met him at the senior center in Wichita. He was born in North Dakota but has
“I heard about that,” Dove said. “Who do you think sent Pinky Edmondson to sleep with the fishes?”
“How could you have possibly heard about that?”
“Constance mentioned her suspicions to Lorraine, Dr. Olson’s nurse, who told her daughter, Sylvie, who told her husband and was overheard by her daughter, Heather, who works at the Tastee-Freez, where she told Sissy Brownmiller’s granddaughter, Autumn, who told Sissy, who couldn’t wait to call me with the gory details, which I had to pretend to already know because you never call me and tell me anything.”
“Give me a break. Constance told me less than twelve hours ago.”
“Which gave you eleven hours and thirty minutes in which to call and tell me so I wouldn’t be humiliated in front of the town’s biggest gossip.”
“I thought you said you pretended you knew about it.”
“That didn’t fool her for a minute, and you know it,” Dove grumbled.
“So, did you hear that my own husband asked me to investigate?”
I could hear her perk up over the phone. “No, Sissy didn’t mention that.”
“That’s because she doesn’t know it.”
“Details,” she demanded.
“Gabe is asking me to keep Constance off his back by pretending to investigate. He thinks she’s crazy, that Pinky died of heart failure, just like her doctor and the medical examiner concluded. But you can’t tell anyone about this. Gabe just wants Constance to think I’m looking into it.”
“Oh,” Dove said, disappointment obvious in her voice.
“It’s really just one more chore I have to do this next week, pretend I’m interviewing the candidates for the 49 Club to find out which one is dying . . . or rather killing . . . to get in. That’s who she suspects.”
“Better you than me. I’ve got pies to bake and baskets to fill.” Dove, as usual, was in charge of the San Celina Farm Bureau’s holiday baskets drive. Our goal this year was four hundred gift baskets to deliver on Christmas Eve to families in crisis.
“I’ve got a bunch of stuff collected in the bin at the folk art museum. I’ll bring it on Sunday, and we can work on them next week.”
I’d taken my shower and was reading a book by a folklorist who had interviewed dozens of artists in the South, when I heard voices downstairs. Minutes later, Gabe was in the bedroom unbuttoning his shirt.
“How was your walk?” I asked, setting aside my book.
“Fine,” he said, tossing his shirt on the top of Boo’s crate.
Boo had fallen asleep a half hour ago, and even Gabe’s entry into the room hadn’t disturbed his deep, puppy sleep. I glanced over at my alarm clock. Ten thirty p.m. I’d set it for two a.m. There was no way a puppy this age could make it through the night without a potty break. I resigned myself to broken sleep patterns for the next two weeks.
“Fine isn’t enough information, Friday,” I said, crawling out from under the down comforter. “What did you two talk about?”
He shrugged, pulled off his jeans and underwear. “Family and things. Just caught up.”
I admit, I was distracted for a moment by his muscular thighs, then looked back up at his face. “I want details. I want to know about why she decided to just up and get married. Did you two talk about that at all?”
“Let me take a shower first. Then you can grill me.”
After he was finished with his steamy shower and settled next to me in bed, I started in. “C’mon, Chief, tell me everything your mother said, or I’ll be forced to use thumbscrews.”
He settled more deeply into his two down pillows. “There’s not much to tell. She met him at the senior center in Wichita. He was born in North Dakota but has
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