Welcome to #WednesdayWords where I share a snippet of a story using yesterday's word from the New York game, WORDLE. Yesterday's WORDLE was MOLDY.
Cora, with her thermos of cocoa in one hand, pulled open the bookshop’s door. I followed with the scones.
The
bookshop hadn’t changed in the years I’d been gone. A checkout counter with an
old-fashioned cash register sat beneath the windows. Rows and rows of
bookshelves ran in long straight parallel lines toward the back where the room
opened up to a friendly gathering space.
Franny
Cook, a middle-aged woman perpetually dressed in sweater sets—even in
summer—looked up with a smile when we entered. She pulled her glasses off her
nose to get a better look at us. “The Roberts sisters.” She moved from around
the counter to give us both a hug. “I’m so sorry about your grandmother.” Tears
gathered in her eyes as she spoke.
I
battled my own emotions. “Us, too.”
“What’s
this?” Franny motioned to my basket.
“Blueberry
lemon scones. Would you like one?” I held it out to her.
“Of
course.” She selected one and plucked a napkin from the basket.
“I
have cocoa,” Cora said.
Franny
turned down her lips. “I’m allergic.”
“That
maybe the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” Cora said.
I
agreed, but Franny just shrugged. “We all have our crosses to bear.” She
pointed toward the gathering room. “Are you looking for the Silver Sisters?”
She dropped her voice to a whisper. “They’re all abuzz about the murder.”
“So,
they’re sure it was a murder?” Cora asked.
“Could
it have been suicide?” I asked.
“Why
would anyone choose to die in a kitchen garden? But what do I know?” Franny
cocked her head toward the voices coming from beyond the shelves. “They’re the
real experts.”
I
followed Cora through the towering shelves to where mismatched furniture sat on
a large circular rag rug. In the center, a coffee table held a lone,
earthen-ware vase. A stone fireplace ran up one wall and windows looked out at
the Robin River tumbling by.
Here
the Silver Sisters sat, each clutching a copy of Patricia Wentworth’s Grey
Mask. I guessed that this was the book chosen for this week’s discussion,
but, of course, a real murder trumps a fictional one any day. Their
conversation fell still when they spotted us.
“Girls!”
Ronnie waved us over. “Join us!”
Cora
strode to the coffee table and set her thermos on it. “If you’re sure we’re not
intruding.” She dropped onto the rug and sat cross-legged.
Suddenly,
I had misgivings. What had made us think we could try and hoodwink the Silver
Sisters? How long until they guessed our motive for joining them? Minutes?
Seconds? Already, I didn’t like the knowing gleam in Miss Mabel’s eyes.
I
admired Nadia’s jeans, bright red sneakers, and Humboldt University T-shirt.
Her sisters were much more formally dressed. Miss Mabel wore black slacks and a
white silk blouse. Ronnie was clad in a crushed velvet green pantsuit, and
Tacey looked ready for church in a cotton knit dress and heels. Only Nadia
looked casual and at peace.
Nadia
scooted on the sofa, making room for at least one of us, and patted the empty
space. I hesitated for only a second before settling beside her and placing the
scones on the table beside the thermos. Cora reached into her bag, pulled out a
flask of Styrofoam cups and a container she’d filled with whipped cream.
Cora
poured a cup of cocoa, opened the container of cream, and spooned out a dollop.
“Anyone?”
“I’ll
take one.” I reached for the cup and met Cora’s surprised glance. My shrug said
I had nothing to hide. Besides, just the memory of the cocoa made my mouth
water.
Cora
poured three more cups, and I passed around the basket of scones. I cradled the
cup in my hand and felt its warmth.
Tears
filled Tacey’s eyes. “We miss our dear Cordie so much.”
“But
you are more than welcome substitutes.” Miss Mabel reached out to pat Cora’s
shoulder. “You know, she always brought us treats, too.” She plucked up a cup,
spooned a dollop of cream in it, and took a sip.
“I
had brought a jar of pickles.” Nadia nodded at the dark green vase on the
table. “From the factory, you know.” She made this sound like an apology. She
blew on her cocoa before taking a swallow.
Ronnie
scrunched her nose after her first drink of the cocoa. “It’s just too early in
the morning to eat pickles, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,”
Tacey agreed. “Pickles are a lunch food. Best served with potato salad and
hamburgers.”
Cora
shot me a quick jubilant look. I read her silent message. See? It’s working
already!
Nadia
rubbed her chin. “I’ll have to talk to Clint about developing a morning pickle.
You know, fermented food is very good for your gut health.”
Miss
Mabel pointed her cup at Cora. “We want to hear your thoughts on Mason’s
murder.”
“I
don’t know anything,” Cora said.
“Me
neither,” I added.
“But
you do know the victim,” Ronnie said. “After all, he’s your cousin’s
brother-in-law.”
“Mason
was five years older than me,” I said.
“Which
makes him fifteen years older than me,” Cora added.
“Goodness,
you are a baby,” Ronnie said.
I
had made Angie a teenage mom. She’d given birth to Cora at the much more
respectable, childbearing age of twenty-six. Angie still hadn’t married Cora’s
father, but at least she knew who he was. My father was a mystery that Angie
took to the grave. I had my suspicions, but that’s all they were.
“Your
grandmother had so many gifts,” Miss Mabel said, changing the subject.
“Her
recipes were just a small taste of her talents.” Ronnie smiled at her pun.
Miss
Mabel selected a scone and a napkin. “But we have gifts of our own, you know.”
“Yes,”
Ronnie agreed. “You might not know this, but back in the day, I was an
actress.”
Nadia’s
eyes twinkled. “And you still are.”
“And
a master of disguises,” Miss Mabel added.
“Thanks,
friends,” Ronnie said with a blush. “And Nadia is much too shy to ever admit
it, but she’s nothing short of a computer genius.”
Nadia
batted at the air as if swiping away the compliment. “Oh please.”
“It’s
true,” Miss Mabel insisted. “She could hack her way into Fort Knox if she
wanted to.”
“And
you all know what Miss Mabel brings to the table,” Ronnie said.
No
one mentioned Tacey’s gifts. As the sole heir of the Giffords, a family that
had made a fortune in the publishing industry, maybe Tacey’s contribution to
the group was financing, but no one mentioned her talents, and I noticed that
she silently ate her scone while her sisters lauded each other.
“Because
we all work together,” Ronnie said, “We crack the cases the police can’t.”
“Even
though Mabel gets all the credit,” Tacey said.
Did
she sound bitter? I wasn’t sure.
“She
allows us to stay in the background,” Nadia added, “where we’re safe.”
“It’s
true. I do attract a lot of negative attention,” Miss Mabel said with a sigh.
“But
you also put bad guys behind bars,” Ronnie said.
“You
mean we, dear,” Miss Mabel said gently. “You know I could never do what
I do alone.” She took another sip of cocoa before continuing. “Now, here’s what
we’re thinking: the most likely candidates are members of the Fleming family.”
“You
remember, don’t you, dear?” Ronnie placed her hand on my arm. “Their son died
during oh heck week last month.”
The
final and most grueling week of the tryouts for the high school football team.
I had a sudden memory of a very sweaty, tired, and sore Max limping his way
through the last two weeks of summer.
“I
hadn’t heard about that,” I said.
“Finn
Fleming, a freshman, died during practice,” Cora told me.
“The
temperature that day was a hundred and ten,” Nadia continued.
“Incredibly
warm for here,” Miss Mabel added, “where it’s usually so mild.”
“Died
of heat exhaustion,” Ronnie said.
“Excuse
me,” Tacey bounced to her feet. “I—huh—forgot I have an appointment.” She
bolted from the room as fast as her high heels could take her.
The
Silver Sisters exchanged glances.
“Oh,
dear,” Nadia said. “We really need to be more sensitive.”
“Fiddle-sticks,”
Miss Mabel said. “It’s been three years since Graham died.”
Cora
must have noticed my curiosity because she leaned over and whispered, “Graham
Gifford, Miss Tacey’s grandson.”
“Did
he die playing football, too?” I asked.
“No,
but he was something of a local football hero,” Ronnie said.
“Definitely
one of Mason Breckenridge’s pets,” Miss Mabel said.
Suicide,
Cora mouthed the word.
Miss
Mabel sipped her cocoa and pulled the cup away to study it. “Oh my, this is tasty.
Have you tried it?” she asked her sisters.
Ronnie
and Nadia swallowed their drinks, as well.
“Yum!”
Nadia shot Cora an approving look.
“Very
good,” Ronnie agreed. She patted her lips with a napkin, leaving a red smear
behind. “Much better than your dreadful pickles, Nadia.”
Nadia
bristled. “My pickles are not dreadful. And I’m surprised you think so,
given that you’ve chosen to wear that suit.”
Ronnie
glanced at her clothes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That
green would fit right in a pickle jar.” Nadia shook herself. “No. A pickle jar
would be too good for it. It’s worse than a MOLDY cucumber.”
“Girls!”
Miss Mabel chided with a laugh. “Stop bickering. We have to stay on task. We’re
here to discuss a murder! A man’s life has been taken, and we have to find the
culprit.”
“Do
we, though? Ronnie grumbled.
“What
are you saying?” Mabel asked.
“Why
don’t we take up gin rummy?” Ronnie asked.
Nadia
looked horrified. “The card game?”
“Oh,
my heavens!” Mabel threw up her hands.
.jpg)
