Death of the Couch Potato's Wife: Cozy Christian Mysteries (Women Sleuth, Female Detective Suspense) by Christy Barritt Page A
Authors: Christy Barritt
Ads: Link
Emily, Martin, Ann, James and Marlyn Shop. Every time a new grandchild was born, he added to the marquee.
Then there was the courthouse and an old cemetery. At the corner stood a grand bank, complete with real marble fixtures and a second story balcony. I paused outside the massive wooden doors.
“I need to take some cash out. Do you mind?” I grasped the thick handle.
Babe swung her head back and forth while pursing her lips. “You won’t catch me in that bank.”
I raised an eyebrow, counted to three, and finally asked, “Why not? Boring National is the only bank in town.”
“That Paul Willis drives me crazy! I’m not going to give his business one single cent.”
Paul Willis owned the bank. We went to church together and he always seemed like a nice enough man. I paused, feeling somewhat like a therapist. “What do you have against Mr. Willis?”
“He thinks he’s smooth, talking about how he used to hang around with all of the cool cats back in the day.” She swung her hand through the air, snapping her fingers in her signature motion. “Or maybe I should say, ‘He thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips.’” Dramatically, she crossed her arms and scowled. “He’s a faker, that’s what he is.”
I nodded slowly, trying to comprehend. I finally settled on, “I’ll just be a moment.”
Babe scowled harder. “I’m waiting out here.”
“Fine.” I gripped my purse, ready to go inside.
“In the cold.”
I shrugged, pushing away my guilt. “It’s your choice.”
Her lips parted—in surprise, I assumed. “You’d leave an old woman in the cold?”
My shoulders slumped in exasperation. “Babe! You’re an adult. You’re making your own choices.” I had to get a grip on this pushover thing before it became my standard. Today, I’d take my stand.
Babe harrumphed as I pulled the heavy door open. No little bells jingled as I stepped inside the bank. In fact, it seemed awfully quiet, quiet enough that I took a step back to check the hours posted out front. Closed. The bank should be closed.
That was one thing I’d discovered about small town life. Businesses were open at odd hours and never, ever on holidays, even on President’s Day or Memorial Day. It seemed like whenever my parents came to visit, everything was always closed. Even the post office kept strange hours, and I could never remember when it was open and when it wasn’t.
But if the bank was closed for a lunch break right now, why was the door unlocked?
I stuck my head inside. No tellers stood behind their wood- framed windows. No management greeted me. No customers milled about.
Okay, so there were only three people who worked at the bank, but still, someone should have been out front, or the doors should have been locked.
“Hello?” My voice echoed off the high ceilings.
Even no music whispered from the overhead speakers, I realized. Mr. Willis usually put in a jazz CD for customers to enjoy. Back in the day, he’d played saxophone at a club up in Chicago. We’d talked about it at church before.
I stepped further inside and said hello again.
No answer. The teller windows were to my left, and directly in front of me stood the vault. I glanced at it quickly, relieved to see the door closed. Had the place been robbed and all the tellers locked in the vault? That would explain why no one was around. Or was my imagination working on overtime since Candace died? That was the most likely scenario.
I decided to step closer to the vault, just to make sure there wasn’t anyone inside screaming for help. I couldn’t call the police every time I had a crazy hunch. Most of the time, I was wrong. I tiptoed across the floor until I reached the massive steel door. Carefully, I propelled my ear until it touched the cool metal.
Silence.
A hallway stretched beyond the vault. I stepped in that direction, and heard a TV blaring. My stomach clenched. Flashbacks of finding Candace assaulted my memory.
“Mr.
Then there was the courthouse and an old cemetery. At the corner stood a grand bank, complete with real marble fixtures and a second story balcony. I paused outside the massive wooden doors.
“I need to take some cash out. Do you mind?” I grasped the thick handle.
Babe swung her head back and forth while pursing her lips. “You won’t catch me in that bank.”
I raised an eyebrow, counted to three, and finally asked, “Why not? Boring National is the only bank in town.”
“That Paul Willis drives me crazy! I’m not going to give his business one single cent.”
Paul Willis owned the bank. We went to church together and he always seemed like a nice enough man. I paused, feeling somewhat like a therapist. “What do you have against Mr. Willis?”
“He thinks he’s smooth, talking about how he used to hang around with all of the cool cats back in the day.” She swung her hand through the air, snapping her fingers in her signature motion. “Or maybe I should say, ‘He thinks he’s all that and a bag of chips.’” Dramatically, she crossed her arms and scowled. “He’s a faker, that’s what he is.”
I nodded slowly, trying to comprehend. I finally settled on, “I’ll just be a moment.”
Babe scowled harder. “I’m waiting out here.”
“Fine.” I gripped my purse, ready to go inside.
“In the cold.”
I shrugged, pushing away my guilt. “It’s your choice.”
Her lips parted—in surprise, I assumed. “You’d leave an old woman in the cold?”
My shoulders slumped in exasperation. “Babe! You’re an adult. You’re making your own choices.” I had to get a grip on this pushover thing before it became my standard. Today, I’d take my stand.
Babe harrumphed as I pulled the heavy door open. No little bells jingled as I stepped inside the bank. In fact, it seemed awfully quiet, quiet enough that I took a step back to check the hours posted out front. Closed. The bank should be closed.
That was one thing I’d discovered about small town life. Businesses were open at odd hours and never, ever on holidays, even on President’s Day or Memorial Day. It seemed like whenever my parents came to visit, everything was always closed. Even the post office kept strange hours, and I could never remember when it was open and when it wasn’t.
But if the bank was closed for a lunch break right now, why was the door unlocked?
I stuck my head inside. No tellers stood behind their wood- framed windows. No management greeted me. No customers milled about.
Okay, so there were only three people who worked at the bank, but still, someone should have been out front, or the doors should have been locked.
“Hello?” My voice echoed off the high ceilings.
Even no music whispered from the overhead speakers, I realized. Mr. Willis usually put in a jazz CD for customers to enjoy. Back in the day, he’d played saxophone at a club up in Chicago. We’d talked about it at church before.
I stepped further inside and said hello again.
No answer. The teller windows were to my left, and directly in front of me stood the vault. I glanced at it quickly, relieved to see the door closed. Had the place been robbed and all the tellers locked in the vault? That would explain why no one was around. Or was my imagination working on overtime since Candace died? That was the most likely scenario.
I decided to step closer to the vault, just to make sure there wasn’t anyone inside screaming for help. I couldn’t call the police every time I had a crazy hunch. Most of the time, I was wrong. I tiptoed across the floor until I reached the massive steel door. Carefully, I propelled my ear until it touched the cool metal.
Silence.
A hallway stretched beyond the vault. I stepped in that direction, and heard a TV blaring. My stomach clenched. Flashbacks of finding Candace assaulted my memory.
“Mr.
Similar Books
