The Case of the Red-Handed Rhesus (A Rue and Lakeland Mystery) by Jessie Bishop Powell Page B

fridge and leave the door open to let it air to the room. But Natasha saw a can of disinfectant spray on the top shelf. “Help me push the big table over there, and I’ll reach that,” she said.
    In fact, the top shelf was so high above her head she ultimately fumbled around until the can fell out, bounced on the table, then landed on the carpet, its trigger depressed, and noxious lemon scent spewing straight up. “I got it! I got it!” I aimed it in the pantry and fridge. I jammed the nozzle, but it went on spraying. “Now what do I do with it?”
    “Get rid of it before it smells as bad as the food!” Natasha jumped down.
    “Where?” I threw it in the sink.
    “Not there!” She grabbed it back. “Get it out of the room.” She popped it in the garbage still fizzing. “Help me out, Noel!”
    We tied off the bag to a hissing chorus. “Shouldn’t it run out soon?”
    Natasha grabbed the brimming trash can on the far side and dragged it backward across the carpet. “I don’t know. It felt almost full.”
    I shoved with her. As we forced the lid down atop the overfull bag, the chair’s voice drifted down the hall. “Get the ad out there,” he grumbled, doubtless hassling Travis. “I want to interview for this position on the conference circuit this January.” Their footsteps echoed down the hall, headed for us and our smelly mess. Here he was talking about the job I wanted and about to come upon me manhandling a fetid, whooshing container that probably, now I considered the problem, contained his lunch.
    Natasha seemed to have reached a similar conclusion. “What do we do?” she mouthed to me.
    “Run! Hide!”
    “Where?”
    “My office.”
    We scurried around the corner as the chair asked, “What in thunder is that
smell
?” By the time he demanded, “What’s wrong with the trash can, Travis?” we were scooting in my door. Bryan perched on the couch arm, one of my red grading pens in one hand, my CV and cover letter attached to a clipboard on his lap.
    He didn’t look up. “What’s the commotion?”
    Natasha leaned into the door, clicking it gently shut. I snatched up my phone and dialed the desk. When Travis picked up, I said, “The noise in the trash is an overzealous can of lemon spray. It may overwhelm the other smells. Your lunch is the only one I didn’t pitch.” Then I hung up. “I guess you’ll need to use my office,” I told Natasha. “I’m thinking the conference room is out.”
    “Is Travis free?” Bryan handed over my papers. “I bled all over these. All the mistakes are nitpicky stuff, but a letter-perfect document will stand out. You have no idea how many reporter applications the
Press
gets from people who can’t spell or put a sentence in the right order.”
    “Maybe you could do a series about it.”
    “I don’t want to mock . . . but Nora could! Get your mother to call me later, will you?”
    “What’s Next, Nora?” was one of the
Free Press
’s most popular columns. It had started as a series of sewing tips years ago, when Bryan’s parents ran the paper. Back then, it was called “Tell Me More, Lenore,” and questions traditionally ended with, “Please help or send thread.” Over the years, it had blossomed into a more general column as people started to send in a broader range of questions. Now, it seemed nothing was off limits. Hence, the updated name. Mom responded to queries about everything from sex to lawn maintenance. Muscogen County had a love for the outré, and Lenore Rue’s column was one of the first sections people turned to when the paper hit their doorsteps once a week.
    Occasionally, Mom stepped out of her assigned role to editorialize or satirize something. “It does sound right up her alley.” I followed Bryan out of the office and shut the door behind us to give Natasha privacy. “I can imagine Nora would have
tons
to say on the topic.” Although she was a seamstress by trade, Mom had grown up the child of a single mother in the