One Foot In The Gravy Read Online Free PDF

since a picture is worth ten thousand columnist words. The deceased may have been cheap, but he liked the good life. Most of the photos showed the big happy Hoppy squiring this lady or that to this event or that, mostly paid for by someone else. The women tended to be older than he, probably because they had access to the kinds of parties he liked to attend. A few photos showed him welcoming Music Town celebrities to his shop. My first pass didn’t reveal anything except that, socially and professionally, he knew a lot of people. On paper, Thomasina still had the best reason for killing him.
    Assuming he was murdered, I told myself.
    And that was my second search: the morning online papers. I looked at what they had to say even before I checked to make sure they got my display ads right.
    “Right now this is being classified as an unfortunate accident,” the Nashville National quoted Deputy Chief Whitman as saying. “The house is 150 years old, and we’ve got a structural engineer going over there this morning to check the floorboards.”
    “That’ll buy you a couple more hours to investigate,” I said.
    Whitman added that he was awaiting an autopsy report, and would have more to say later in the day. Obviously, if it turned out that Hoppy was dead before he hit the ground, that would change the “unfortunate accident” status. I hoped to God they didn’t find out he choked to death on one of our wieners. Grant Daniels would have access to that information. Maybe I’d call him later for a how-do-you-do-hot-stuff and oh-yeah-what-killed-Hoppy-Hopewell?
    I washed down my multivitamin with orange juice and poured a deep cup of coffee. I picked at an everything bagel as I leaned against the counter wondering if there were any way it could have been an accident, and if not, who had access to wherever Hoppy was when he fell. Now that I had the chance to think about it, I wondered what Hoppy was doing upstairs at all when the party, the kitchen, the coat room, the bathroom, and the guests were all downstairs. If he wasn’t exploring—and he didn’t seem the curious type—maybe he’d been there before? Or maybe someone he snuck off with had been there before?
    I heard my father’s voice in my head, not my own, asking, “Why are you wasting time with this when you have a business to run?”
    I wasn’t still wondering that when I drove to the deli. I knew the answer: because you’re basically, inherently, unrepentedly curious, like when a column of numbers doesn’t make sense or a line item entry doesn’t have a tag. That’s what made me such a top-notch forensic accountant, the fear of Madoff wannabes and old Bernie himself. My brain just acts up. I decided to not go right to work but to stop by and visit Lolo—or rather, the house—under the pretense of having forgotten something important there the night before. All I had with me was my purse, so it would have to be my wallet I forgot.
    I called Thom to let her know I’d be late. “Lawfy, how’s this any of your bus’ness?” the manager said.
    “It did more or less drop in my lap,” I said.
    “Girl, customer once tipped a corned beef omelet in mine. I cleaned it up and forgot about it.”
    “Wait—Luke told me about that. Didn’t you hit the guy?”
    “We’re talkin’ ’bout the omelet,” she said, “not cranky old Mr. Brown, who had it comin’ and never complained about nuthin’ again after that. This is a mess, but it ain’t your mess.”
    “And I’m not trying to clean it up,” I insisted. “But Lolo is a loyal regular. I want her to know she’s not alone.”
    Thom hung up with a “whatever” and said she had to get ready for the morning rush.
    I actually believed what I told her, a little. Mostly, though, this was the Nashville equivalent of being a New York neighbor. Whenever you heard the sounds of arguing or sex coming from another apartment, you listened discreetly outside the door. It was expected. It may actually be