million-dollar house for his
mother.
Mrs. Spears must’ve fallen into some major money
some other way.
t six
o’clock Saturday morning the thermometer was already hovering at 85, with the high expected to
be near 100 once again. The local weatherman declared this would be the
thirteenth straight day of 100-plus temperatures, and would thus set a new
record for a September heat wave. Rhetta groaned, and poured herself another
cup of coffee.
Randolph padded down the stairs from the upstairs
bedroom. “Got some more of that brain juice?” Rhetta found his favorite mug and
filled it for him. He joined her at the kitchen counter.
“Do we really have to go to this shindig today?” He
sipped, then peered at her over the brim of his cup.
“Sweets, if you don’t want to go, you know I won’t
insist. I’m doing this for Ricky. I know she wants me to get better acquainted
with Jeremy, so I agreed. I didn’t mean to obligate you.”
Randolph stood and flexed his shoulder muscles, then
slid an arm over her shoulder. “If it won’t upset you, I think I’ll stay here.
I don’t like being outside in this heat, and I’ve got a ton of work to do.”
His “work” wasn’t a job, but it consumed him
nonetheless. Since his retirement from the bench, he’d been painting steadily.
He lost several work days in the weeks following his accident. Now that he was
well, he painted feverishly, preparing for a one-man show scheduled for the
first week of October at the Rivers West Gallery, the art co-operative in
downtown Cape Girardeau where he was a member. In addition, his paintings had
been selling briskly on Etsy, an internet site for artists. “At the rate I’m
going, I’m going to need to clone myself.”
“Are you complaining?” she asked and he grinned.
“I remember the old saying about being careful what
you wish for.” He hugged her and kissed her gently. “Thanks.”
She hugged him back, and kissed him solidly. “I see
the cats are ready for their breakfast,” she said, and headed for the sliding
door to the deck. The four felines were seated side by side, staring at them,
noses pressed to the glass. Although each cat was a rescue cat, all had banded
together to stare inside, and thus train their people to feed them.
*
* *
Rhetta
cruised along North Henderson Street past the campus and turned left onto
Medford Circle. The huge trees lining the cul-de-sac formed a picture-perfect
canopy, while the sun sparkled through the leafy overhang. She easily located
the Spears’ address. The two-story brick Federalist manor was the only house on
the circle with a plethora of vehicles parked in the driveway and crammed into
every possible street spot. The old money upscale neighborhood homes all enjoyed
large garages and paved driveways, so most likely these vehicles, ranging from
Escalades to Beemers, belonged to the guests of the home she sought. She
circled the circle twice without locating a parking spot, so she returned to
Henderson Street and parked in the lot near the University Center. With no
classes on Saturday, there were plenty of open parking spaces.
Sliding the straps of the tote bag containing the
wine onto one shoulder, she slid her purse onto the other, and began the
three-block trek to Mrs. Spears’ home. Crap, I forgot my cell phone. She
returned to her SUV and realized she’d forgotten to lock the Trailblazer’s
doors. “Good thing I had to come back,” she muttered. When she snatched her
phone, she noticed a missed call. She recognized the same strange out-of-state
number that had called her earlier in the week. She locked the SUV, and leaned
against the driver’s door. A few clicks and she was online at 411.com, where
she checked the reverse number locator. It was registered to an Illinois cell
phone, but there was no other information available.
Who could this be? Wonder if it’s
a customer? Her
cell number
mother.
Mrs. Spears must’ve fallen into some major money
some other way.
t six
o’clock Saturday morning the thermometer was already hovering at 85, with the high expected to
be near 100 once again. The local weatherman declared this would be the
thirteenth straight day of 100-plus temperatures, and would thus set a new
record for a September heat wave. Rhetta groaned, and poured herself another
cup of coffee.
Randolph padded down the stairs from the upstairs
bedroom. “Got some more of that brain juice?” Rhetta found his favorite mug and
filled it for him. He joined her at the kitchen counter.
“Do we really have to go to this shindig today?” He
sipped, then peered at her over the brim of his cup.
“Sweets, if you don’t want to go, you know I won’t
insist. I’m doing this for Ricky. I know she wants me to get better acquainted
with Jeremy, so I agreed. I didn’t mean to obligate you.”
Randolph stood and flexed his shoulder muscles, then
slid an arm over her shoulder. “If it won’t upset you, I think I’ll stay here.
I don’t like being outside in this heat, and I’ve got a ton of work to do.”
His “work” wasn’t a job, but it consumed him
nonetheless. Since his retirement from the bench, he’d been painting steadily.
He lost several work days in the weeks following his accident. Now that he was
well, he painted feverishly, preparing for a one-man show scheduled for the
first week of October at the Rivers West Gallery, the art co-operative in
downtown Cape Girardeau where he was a member. In addition, his paintings had
been selling briskly on Etsy, an internet site for artists. “At the rate I’m
going, I’m going to need to clone myself.”
“Are you complaining?” she asked and he grinned.
“I remember the old saying about being careful what
you wish for.” He hugged her and kissed her gently. “Thanks.”
She hugged him back, and kissed him solidly. “I see
the cats are ready for their breakfast,” she said, and headed for the sliding
door to the deck. The four felines were seated side by side, staring at them,
noses pressed to the glass. Although each cat was a rescue cat, all had banded
together to stare inside, and thus train their people to feed them.
*
* *
Rhetta
cruised along North Henderson Street past the campus and turned left onto
Medford Circle. The huge trees lining the cul-de-sac formed a picture-perfect
canopy, while the sun sparkled through the leafy overhang. She easily located
the Spears’ address. The two-story brick Federalist manor was the only house on
the circle with a plethora of vehicles parked in the driveway and crammed into
every possible street spot. The old money upscale neighborhood homes all enjoyed
large garages and paved driveways, so most likely these vehicles, ranging from
Escalades to Beemers, belonged to the guests of the home she sought. She
circled the circle twice without locating a parking spot, so she returned to
Henderson Street and parked in the lot near the University Center. With no
classes on Saturday, there were plenty of open parking spaces.
Sliding the straps of the tote bag containing the
wine onto one shoulder, she slid her purse onto the other, and began the
three-block trek to Mrs. Spears’ home. Crap, I forgot my cell phone. She
returned to her SUV and realized she’d forgotten to lock the Trailblazer’s
doors. “Good thing I had to come back,” she muttered. When she snatched her
phone, she noticed a missed call. She recognized the same strange out-of-state
number that had called her earlier in the week. She locked the SUV, and leaned
against the driver’s door. A few clicks and she was online at 411.com, where
she checked the reverse number locator. It was registered to an Illinois cell
phone, but there was no other information available.
Who could this be? Wonder if it’s
a customer? Her
cell number
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