Wednesday's Words: an excerpt and a link to FREE book

   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. 

An excerpt from Arsenic and Anise.  This excerpt only makes sense if you know that Cora's cocoa is laced with truth serum.

You can read a FREE copy of Arsenic and Anise. HERE

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.