Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery Read Free Page B

optometrist was
right about my needing reading glasses. I can hardly make out this menu. What
are you talking about, Kate? Doesn’t Maybelle Farnsworth write the Ariadne Merriwether mysteries? My mom just loves them.”
    I raised an eyebrow at Margo. “Are
you going to tell her, or do you want me to do it?”
    Margo squirmed uncomfortably. “Oh,
my goodness, you’re makin ’ a big deal out of nothin ’ at all. Romance novels are very big business in the publishin ’ world today. Some of them can be pretty
tacky, I admit, but it’s not as if erotica is illegal or anything.”
    Strutter’s expression changed from curious to alarmed . “Erotica? My mother is reading pornography?”
    I couldn’t help giggling a little. “No, silly. Your mother’s virtue remains unsullied.
The Ariadne Merriwether mysteries are perfectly tame, no sex, no violence, but Margo’s dear old Auntie
May has a secret second vocation as M. M. Farnsworth, the publisher of romance
novels and, uh, romantic erotica. At least that’s what she calls it. I haven’t
read any of her titles personally.”
    Margo visibly relaxed. “Lots of
Auntie’s titles are the usual bodice rippers and light romantic fluff—you know,
what you expect when you think of a romance novel. But unlike you, I have read
some of the more stimulatin ’ titles she publishes,
and whooeeee !   There’s one author named Naughty Nanette who could give E.L. James and
Sylvia Day a run for their money anytime, and her novels are a whole lot more
reasonably priced. You should try one. Better yet, you gals and your hubbies
should try readin ’ one together.” She grinned at us
across the table. “I’ll suggest a couple.”
    I chuckled, imagining my Armando’s
reaction if I ever attempted such a thing, while Strutter struggled to make sense of Margo’s revelation about her aunt. Her eyes darted
from one of us to the other, food forgotten for the moment.
    “Wait a minute now. Are we talking
about the same Maybelle Farnsworth who just moved up
here from Atlanta and bought that little house on Wheeler Road, the one that’s
being updated with new kitchen cabinets and bathroom fixtures?”
    “And wirin ’
and plumbin ’ and a gas fireplace log, not to mention
having a wall or two knocked out to open up the first floor. Yes, that’s my
Auntie May,” Margo confirmed. “I tried to tell her there was no way she was
going to be able to work there during the day with all the construction noise,
but she insisted she could just shut herself up in her bedroom with her laptop,
and she’d be fine.”
    “But, but …” Strutter spluttered, “she’s over seventy years old, isn’t she? Are you seriously telling
me that a woman of her age is spending her days writing sexy novels?”
    “Not writin ’
them, publishin ’ them. They’re written by other
people. It’s a very lucrative market these days, especially with the success of Fifty Shades of Grey and its sequels.
What with Kindles and Nooks and all sorts of other electronic readin ’ devices, people can read whatever they want in
complete privacy with nobody the wiser. You can even read right on your desktop
computer without your boss knowin ’ a thing about it.”
    “Is that how you while away the
hours at Vista View?” I twitted her. “And all this time I thought you were
playing Solitaire while you warmed the chair at the sales desk.” Vista View was
a local retirement community represented by Mack Realty. My partners and I each
put in one six-hour stint a week at the sales desk in the lobby, fielding
inquiries and handing out promotional literature to visitors. Business isn’t
steady, so we all depend on our laptops for entertainment. That was especially
true now that our longtime friend, Ginny Preston, had retired as Vista View’s
business manager and moved south with her husband to be closer to their grown
son. Without Ginny to lunch with, the Vista View days had grown long and rather
dull.
    “The chair