Whack 'n' Roll Read Online Free PDF

mean that both literally and figuratively. We’re still on good terms, and she occasionally subs for bunco, but our paths seldom cross anymore. Maybe now was the time to renew acquaintances. Before common sense had a chance to kick in, I hightailed it out the door.

Chapter 4
    To my chagrin, Earl Brubaker, not Rosalie, answered my knock. It was clear from his rumpled khakis and a once-upon-a-time-navy golf shirt that he hadn’t been to bed yet.
    “Kate!” Earl gaped at me in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here this time of night?”
    I gaped back. The seconds ticked past. Earl had posed a good question. Too bad I didn’t have a good answer. Or, for that matter, any answer at all. I shifted from one foot to the other. “I couldn’t sleep and happened to notice your light was on. What’s that old saying, ‘Misery loves company’?”
    “And your point is . . . ?”
    “I’m the company.” I beamed him my brightest smile.
    Judging from the man’s dour expression, my feeble attempt at humor went right over his head. He stood planted in the doorway like a mighty oak, unsmiling, silent. The man always put me in mind of a basset hound with his sad, brown eyes and droopy face. Tonight was no exception.
    I frantically scanned my limited repertoire for a plausible excuse for my late-night/early-morning visit. “Could I borrow a cup of sugar?” I winced at hearing those words pop out of my mouth. How lame can you get?
    “Sugar?”
    Sugar seemed a foreign word to Earl. Maybe I should have tried a simpler request. Maybe flour or, simpler yet, salt. But I was on a roll now. I had regained my footing. “Yes, sugar,” I ad-libbed. “I thought I’d bake a nice batch of chocolate-chip cookies for Sheriff Wiggins and his men. They couldn’t have been nicer this afternoon.”
    He dragged a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt over his stubbled jaw. “Sure, I guess,” he mumbled. “Come on in.”
    “Thanks.” As I followed him to the back of the house, I glanced around, nonchalantly I hoped, but saw no sign of Rosalie. At least I hadn’t disturbed her with my sudden need for nocturnal companionship. She wasn’t as gullible as her husband. She would have seen through me in a flash.
    Earl switched on the kitchen light. Dirty dishes were piled high in the stainless steel sink. The granite countertops were cluttered with newspapers and stacks of mail. Strange, I thought. This wasn’t like Rosalie. She might not have been much of a cook, but the woman kept her kitchen spotless. My sense of uneasiness crept up a notch. What the heck was I doing in Rosalie’s kitchen with her husband in the middle of the night?
    Earl shuffled across the room. “Who did you say you were baking cookies for?”
    “Sheriff Wiggins and his deputies. They were awfully patient with us this afternoon.” I clutched my robe tighter around my neck. What had I been thinking to head over here in my pajamas at this ungodly hour? Heaven knew, if Jim were still alive, he’d have had a conniption fit at my calling on a neighbor in my nightclothes.
    “What happened this afternoon?” Without waiting for an answer, Earl poked his head inside the pantry and began rummaging around.
    “You didn’t hear?”
    “Hear what?”
    I let out a sigh. Surely he must be the only person within a fifty-mile radius that hadn’t heard the news. “My friends and I found an . . .” I fumbled for a suitable word. While I could call a spade, a spade, and an arm, an arm, not everyone had my fortitude. “We found an odd . . . part . . . on the golf course this afternoon.”
    “Found some art?”
    Please, Lord, not again, I prayed. Not another man in need of a hearing aid. Maybe I should go into the business. Probably make a fortune. I sighed and took the easy way out. “That’s right, Earl. We found some art.”
    He emerged from the pantry triumphantly clutching a half-empty bag of sugar and handed it to me. “No need to get all worked up.”
    Now that I had