Thoroughly 03 - Who Invited the Dead Man? Read Online Free PDF Page B

really gonna rip them out and put in plain old wood?”

    Phyllis set that one straight. “They aren’t plain old wood. They’re solid oak, Buck says, with oak and white ceramic handles. She’s taking the kitchen floor down to wood, too.”

    “Doesn’t she know you can’t mop wood?”

    “Probably never mopped a floor in her life.”

    “You can mop anything if you put enough polyurethane on it.”

    “When’s it gonna be ready for her to move in?”

    Phyllis tied a net around my lumpy curlers. “Buck says she’s gonna move in as soon as Miss Gusta’s new help arrives, even if it’s not done. Says she wants to be on hand to supervise. Buck wishes she’d stay where she is and let him get on with his work. Okay, MacLaren. Let’s put you under the drier a few minutes.”

    They kept talking as I slid down from the high chair and headed to the driers.

    “She can’t cook, can she, until the kitchen floor’s done?”

    “Can’t cook, anyway. She’ll be going back for Florine’s meals the rest of her life, I shouldn’t wonder.”

    “Must be nice to have that much money plus a cook to go back to.”

    “When’s the new girl coming?”

    The last thing I heard before the drier roared in my ears was, “Late Monday, I believe.”

    I wasn’t thinking about Alice Fulton, though, on Monday afternoon when I left the store. I was going to see the florist to discuss centerpieces for Joe Riddley’s party so Clarinda would stop nagging me about it. To my surprise, we agreed on what I needed so quickly that I decided I had time for a piece of pie and a cup of coffee.

    The place for pie in Hopemore is Myrtle’s Cafe, a local restaurant that still advertises “Food as Good as Mama Used to Make.” That hasn’t been true since her husband had his bypass and Myrtle stopped frying her chicken and fish or putting a slice of fatback in her vegetables. Nowadays she only cooks as good as Mama did if your mama was a Yankee. But Myrtle’s is still the best place in town for dessert. Her meringue stands two inches thick with sweet sugar beads on the top. Just like Mama’s.

    Myrtle and I visited a little and I said what I always said: “You have simply got to replace this floor. You’ve got so many holes in the tile, somebody’s going to trip one day and sue you for all you’ve got.”

    Myrtle said what she always said, too: “I don’t have much to sue for, what with Jack being so sick and all. I’m saving for a floor, though. I just haven’t gotten around to it.” Which would have made me a lot sorrier for her if I didn’t know she drove a new gold Chrysler, took a long vacation to Branson last year, and paid her kitchen help dirt. You don’t have many secrets when you live in a small town.

    Finally I asked for chocolate pie.

    She jerked her head in the direction of a back booth and said, “Sorry, Mac—I mean Y’r Honor—I didn’t know you were coming, so I gave that girl back there the last piece.” She leaned down and whispered, “I think she must be Miss Gusta’s new help. She had a letter signed by Meriwether on the table when I took her order, and I heard she’d be arriving late this afternoon. Must have got here early, and stopped for pie and coffee to fill up the time.”

    I saw a cloud of dark hair so lively it looked electric. Its owner was a slender girl with her head bent over a paperback book and both hands cupping a mug. She carried it absently to her mouth while she read.

    “Meriwether’s moving out tomorrow,” Myrtle confided. “The poor thing’s got her job cut out for her, wouldn’t you say?”

    I didn’t have time or inclination to gossip. “How fresh is your banana pudding?”

    “Made not half an hour ago, and we broiled the meringue, so the bananas aren’t one speck cooked. You want a big bowl of pudding and black coffee?”

    She wrote down my order without even waiting for my nod. Myrtle knows the vices of her regulars. As she passed the newcomer’s table,