came a rhythmic squeaking.
“Hank?” I said. His utility belt, his revolver, and his coat draped over the cheap leather recliner he loved.
The noises continued. I followed them down the hallway, past our small bathroom, and when I stepped into our bedroom, I saw Melissa Littleton, his firearm instructor, and my husband doing the nasty.
Of course, Hank blamed it on me. “You don’t understand the stress I’m under. As an instrument of the law, I walk into all sorts of danger every day!”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. You haven’t graduated yet. In the classroom, flying chalk could decapitate a brainless wonder like you.”
By noon the next day, I’d found my own studio apartment, with a foldout sofa for a bed, a bathroom the size of a telephone booth, and a hot plate for a kitchen. None of that mattered. What did matter was that I could finally quit pretending my marriage was working.
For the past three years, Hank and I have been happily divorced. At least I am. Hank doesn’t see it that way. To hear him tell it, we’re still married, just taking a break. A long time-out formalized by a judge in a courtroom, and after that, I mysteriously took back my maiden name. Go figure.
The last time I saw Hank, he suggested we get together for dinner, lunch, breakfast, or just plain sex. Take your pick. I said, “No, no, no, and never ever. Ever .”
He laughed. “Sugar, you don’t really mean that. We were so good together, Grace.” And to illustrate, he clenched his fists at his side and gave a few thrusts of his pelvis to the tune of corresponding grunts.
What was I thinking when I married him?
I was thinking I would love to have a family.
“Grace Ann? Hello? Earth to Grace Ann.” Vonda tapped me on the shoulder, bringing me back to the here and now. “You do realize the trouble you’re in, don’t you?”
“Right,” I croaked. “Lisa Butterworth is dead, and I’m Suspect Numero Uno.”
Chapter Nine
SINCE MARTY WASN’T COMING UNTIL TUESDAY, there was no excuse for me skipping church services. News of Lisa’s death dominated all the local radio stations. I’d tried to call Mom, but we’d been playing telephone tag. Pulling into the lot at First Baptist, I spotted my mother’s car. Didn’t take me long to find her inside, because she always sits in the same pew, the third from the front on the right-hand side.
She’d already heard the news. “That’s a shame, isn’t it? I still don’t like what she did, but I would have never wished that on her.” When Pastor Kohler added a special prayer for the grieving family of Lisa Butterworth, Mom reached into her purse, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.
“Yes, it’s awful. See you Monday,” I said, as I gave my mother a hug.
“Pardon?”
“I said I’d see you Monday.”
“Oh.”
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“A lot on my mind,” she said.
“Want to talk about it?” I asked, although I hoped she didn’t. I was afraid she’d mention how disappointed she was in me. After all, I was the one who insisted on hiring Lisa Butterworth. Everyone at the salon had good reason to be put out with me.
“Not right now.” Her smile was forced. “Maybe Monday. I need time to think.”
We said good-bye, with me feeling unsettled and down. I stopped at the grocery store to pick up supplies for the week. In the checkout line, I glanced at the Sunday paper. Lisa’s face grinned up at me as I put my eggs, turkey sausage, English muffins, OJ, milk, and lunch meat on the conveyor belt. At the last minute, almost as if it had a mind of its own, my hand reached out and grabbed a copy.
After making myself a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, I brewed a new cup of coffee and sat down to read.
Turns out Lisa had done pretty well for herself, what with her cosmetology degree and going back to school. She’d worked for Snippets for five years, moving up the ranks. Her parents still lived here, but she’d moved all over the eastern
“Hank?” I said. His utility belt, his revolver, and his coat draped over the cheap leather recliner he loved.
The noises continued. I followed them down the hallway, past our small bathroom, and when I stepped into our bedroom, I saw Melissa Littleton, his firearm instructor, and my husband doing the nasty.
Of course, Hank blamed it on me. “You don’t understand the stress I’m under. As an instrument of the law, I walk into all sorts of danger every day!”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. You haven’t graduated yet. In the classroom, flying chalk could decapitate a brainless wonder like you.”
By noon the next day, I’d found my own studio apartment, with a foldout sofa for a bed, a bathroom the size of a telephone booth, and a hot plate for a kitchen. None of that mattered. What did matter was that I could finally quit pretending my marriage was working.
For the past three years, Hank and I have been happily divorced. At least I am. Hank doesn’t see it that way. To hear him tell it, we’re still married, just taking a break. A long time-out formalized by a judge in a courtroom, and after that, I mysteriously took back my maiden name. Go figure.
The last time I saw Hank, he suggested we get together for dinner, lunch, breakfast, or just plain sex. Take your pick. I said, “No, no, no, and never ever. Ever .”
He laughed. “Sugar, you don’t really mean that. We were so good together, Grace.” And to illustrate, he clenched his fists at his side and gave a few thrusts of his pelvis to the tune of corresponding grunts.
What was I thinking when I married him?
I was thinking I would love to have a family.
“Grace Ann? Hello? Earth to Grace Ann.” Vonda tapped me on the shoulder, bringing me back to the here and now. “You do realize the trouble you’re in, don’t you?”
“Right,” I croaked. “Lisa Butterworth is dead, and I’m Suspect Numero Uno.”
Chapter Nine
SINCE MARTY WASN’T COMING UNTIL TUESDAY, there was no excuse for me skipping church services. News of Lisa’s death dominated all the local radio stations. I’d tried to call Mom, but we’d been playing telephone tag. Pulling into the lot at First Baptist, I spotted my mother’s car. Didn’t take me long to find her inside, because she always sits in the same pew, the third from the front on the right-hand side.
She’d already heard the news. “That’s a shame, isn’t it? I still don’t like what she did, but I would have never wished that on her.” When Pastor Kohler added a special prayer for the grieving family of Lisa Butterworth, Mom reached into her purse, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.
“Yes, it’s awful. See you Monday,” I said, as I gave my mother a hug.
“Pardon?”
“I said I’d see you Monday.”
“Oh.”
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“A lot on my mind,” she said.
“Want to talk about it?” I asked, although I hoped she didn’t. I was afraid she’d mention how disappointed she was in me. After all, I was the one who insisted on hiring Lisa Butterworth. Everyone at the salon had good reason to be put out with me.
“Not right now.” Her smile was forced. “Maybe Monday. I need time to think.”
We said good-bye, with me feeling unsettled and down. I stopped at the grocery store to pick up supplies for the week. In the checkout line, I glanced at the Sunday paper. Lisa’s face grinned up at me as I put my eggs, turkey sausage, English muffins, OJ, milk, and lunch meat on the conveyor belt. At the last minute, almost as if it had a mind of its own, my hand reached out and grabbed a copy.
After making myself a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, I brewed a new cup of coffee and sat down to read.
Turns out Lisa had done pretty well for herself, what with her cosmetology degree and going back to school. She’d worked for Snippets for five years, moving up the ranks. Her parents still lived here, but she’d moved all over the eastern
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