Scrapped Read Online Free PDF Page A

course young, she thought and grimaced.
    “Are you okay?” Beatrice said.
    “Huh? Oh yeah, I’m fine,” Vera replied.
    “You’re awfully quiet, and you had that faraway look in your eyes.”
    “Mama, I’m thinking about there being a murder in Cumberland Creek. For some reason, I keep thinking of the body and the poor young woman who nobody has even claimed.”
    “And then people keep bringing it up,” Beatrice shot at Bill.
    “For God’s sake, I just asked,” he said, turning back to Vera. “I wonder if she was from up there. The river flows from there. If she drowned on the mountain, it would make sense if she ended up at the park.”
    Vera shrugged.
    “This is tasty ham. Did you use my recipe?” Beatrice asked.
    Vera nodded. “Except I baked it just a wee bit longer.” She watched Bill lift Lizzie from the chair and sit her on his lap. But she was ready to go and wouldn’t sit still. She took off across the kitchen like a lightning bug.
    “Such energy,” he said, grinning. “Hey, what do you know about this Cookie person?”
    Beatrice groaned.
    “Why? She seems like a nice person. She’s great with Lizzie,” Vera answered.
    “We don’t really know much about her, do we? She’s new to town, and suddenly a dead body shows up.”
    Beatrice sat up a little straighter.
    “She’s been here almost a year, Bill. She waited all that time to kill someone? Really?”
    “I don’t know her. She just seems kind of weird.”
    “I agree,” said Beatrice. “She is weird. But she’s likable, I tell you. A good heart. Always helping where she can. But the rest of that stuff . . . I dunno.”
    “What stuff?” he asked, moving across the floor to catch Lizzie.
    “She calls herself a witch,” Vera said, then bit into a thick slice of ham.
    He snorted. “Really? What does she do? Twitch her nose? Wave a magic wand? Does she know Harry Potter?”
    “It’s not like that,” Vera said, moving dishes around, piling them on top of one another as she sat at the table.
    “They say it’s an actual religion,” Beatrice said. “I’ve looked into it, and it is. Quite interesting, really.”
    “I bet,” he said. “New Age mumbo jumbo.”
    “Well, yes . . . and no,” Beatrice said. “I’m still thinking it over.”
    “Well,” he said, grabbing Lizzie from the floor, swooping her over his shoulder to giggles and squirms, “while you’re thinking about that, think about what a witch would be doing someplace like Cumberland Creek. I mean, we’re about thirty years behind the rest of the country. Why would she want to be here?”
    “I can tell you one thing,” Vera said. “I don’t know what I would have done without her this past year. And she can call herself a witch or an ogre. I really don’t care. I like her, and believe me, Bill, she didn’t kill anybody. Hell, she doesn’t even eat meat, because she loves animals. She’s so tenderhearted. So give it a rest.”

Chapter 7
    Beatrice couldn’t believe her ears. Monday mornings came and went, but to hear a chain saw at 7:00 a.m.? That just beat all. She tried to get up out of her bed quickly. Well, as quickly as she could. Her body was stiff each morning—and it was getting worse. When she finally untangled herself from the blankets and swung her legs to the floor, it sounded like the sawing had stopped. What on earth? Who would be cutting anything at this time of day?
    She sat in her bed and listened. Nothing.
    Should she get up and get the day started or lie back down? Humph. Maybe she was dreaming. Her stomach growled, and she reached for her shawl, remembering the muffins in her bread box. She’d pop them in the microwave and smear them with butter. That would make a fine breakfast. Pumpkin cranberry muffins. And if they weren’t enough to fill her, she was sure about the blueberry muffins in the freezer.
    She padded down the stairs and noticed the soft sunlight shining directly on the portrait of her husband, dead now twenty-some