Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels Read Online Free PDF Page A

A girlish giggle escapes her octogenarian lips.
    When Queenie is unsuccessful in hiding her smile, Iris shoots her a look that could stop a wildebeest in a dead run. No matter how many times she gets these looks from Iris, they always shock her. Iris returns her attention to Spud and her face colors slightly from Spud’s attention. She tilts her head upward as if this regal gesture might command the color to recede. They speak affectionately of the weather.
    Damn, y’all, how many different ways can you describe hot? Queenie wonders, for Savannah is as hot as a furnace in Hades for six months out of the year.
    Iris hands Queenie her leather handbag, heavy enough to contain the wildebeest. As instructed, she reaches inside the bag for a linen envelope containing an order written neatly on Temple stationery. She hands it to Spud Grainger, who thanks her kindly.
    Exotic meats, Iris Temple will tell anyone who has the misfortune to ask, are the only thing her delicate, voodoo cursed constitution can tolerate. Whether the strong medicine of these exotic animals is meant to counteract the spell she is at the mercy of remains a mystery.
    Antelope, alligator, buffalo, elk, kangaroo and ostrich are flown in from all over the world at great expense. Not to mention iguana, llama, rattlesnake and yak. Exotic animals associated with nursery rhymes or the stars of animated Disney movies Queenie watched with Violet’s daughters. Animals that would have fought harder if they knew their capture would result in ending up in Iris Temple’s gullet.
    Spud Grainger studies the list. He smiles and pets his mustache, as if Iris’s exotic orders, as well as her exotic nature, have captivated him.
    “The caribou may take a while,” he says thoughtfully. “But I’ll give Violet a call as soon as it comes in.”
    A line of Savannah housewives forms behind Iris. Queenie overhears at least one mention of secrets and that Iris should be ashamed of herself. Luckily, Iris doesn’t hear them but that doesn’t stop her from eyeing their khaki shorts and New Balance sneakers before inclining her chin heavenward like she’s on the trail of an unacceptable scent. She wrinkles her nose and furrows her brow. Though the 4th of July is three months away, Queenie anticipates the upcoming fireworks.
    “Chanel,” Iris says to Queenie in a whisper that can be heard from the front of the store. The look on Iris’s face reveals her complete and utter disgust.
    Chanel no. 5, as Queenie has been told countless times, is the fragrance of the terminally middle class. Iris abhors the wannabe rich or any other kind of rich that doesn’t involve money that has been around since the Confederacy.
    Spud Grainger gives Iris an apologetic look and motions to the line forming behind her. Iris stops mid-sniff and thanks Spud, another kindness reserved only for him. Before leaving, she turns to the gaggle of Savannah housewives and gives them a parting hiss, like the rattlesnake she had for dinner the night before. Queenie offers the women a quick apology, but the final word comes from Iris as she departs. Meanwhile, two children holding a box of Lucky Charms cover their noses and run in search of their mother.
    Back at the car, Queenie gives Iris the keys to the Lincoln and Iris drives—at the speed of a handicapped snail—the 500 yards to drop Queenie off at the hairdressers.
    “I’ll be back in two hours,” Iris says. “You’d better be finished.”
    Queenie nods as the grand matriarch drives off to conduct another errand, running over the curb and missing by inches a stop sign at the end of the parking lot. Queenie never questions the nature of Iris’s other errands, but just last week when returning to the car to retrieve her crime novel, she found a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken bones crammed under the back seat, the bones picked clean, like an exotic jungle animal had feasted on them while lying on the plush leather seats.
    So much for voodoo and special