Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet Read Free

boxes and decided to turn the tables on Cookie. To play the victim.
     To blame the whole thing on her. I pointed at an Electrolux and gaped at her. “Who
     the hell left me unsupervised? This has to be your fault.”
    “Nice try,” she said, completely unmoved. “We’re going to sort through all of this
     stuff and send back everything except what you’ll actually use. Which is not a lot.
     Again, I would like to continue collecting a paycheck, if that’s not too much to ask.”
    “Do you take American Express?”
    “Oh, I canceled that, too.”
    I gasped, pretending to be appalled. With a determined set to her shoulders, she led
     me to my own sofa, took boxes off it, piled them on top of other boxes, then sank
     down beside me. Her eyes shimmered with warmth and understanding, and I became instantly
     uncomfortable. “Are we going to have the talk again?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “Cook—” I tried to rise and storm off, but she put a hand on my shoulder to stop me
     “—I’m not sure how else to say that I’m fine.” When she looked down at Margaret, who
     sat nestled inside my hip holster, my voice took on a defensive edge. “What? Lots
     of PIs wear guns.”
    “With their pajamas?”
    I snorted. “Yes. Especially if they’re Star Wars pajamas and your gun just happens to resemble a blaster.”
    Margaret was my new best friend. And she’d never funneled money out of my bank account
     like some other best friends who shall not be named.
    “Charley, all I’m asking is that you talk to your sister.”
    “I talk to her every day.” I crossed my arms. Suddenly everyone was insisting that
     I seek counseling when I was fine. So what if I didn’t want to step out of my apartment
     building? Lots of people liked to stay in. For months at a time.
    “Yes, she calls and tries to talk to you about what happened, about how you’re doing,
     but you shut her down.”
    “I don’t shut her down. I just change the subject.”
    Cookie got up and made us both a cup of coffee while I stewed in the wonders of denial.
     After I came to the realization that I liked denial almost as much as mocha lattes,
     she handed me a cup and I took a sip as she sat next to me again. My eyes rolled back
     in ecstasy. Her coffee was so much better than Aunt Lil’s.
    “Gemma thinks that maybe you need a hobby.” She looked around at the boxes. “A healthy
     hobby. Like Pilates. Or alligator wrestling.”
    “I know.” I leaned back and threw an arm over my eyes. “I considered writing my memoirs,
     but I can’t figure out how to put seventies porn music into prose.”
    “See,” she said, elbowing me. “Writing. That’s a great start. You could try poetry.”
     She stood and rummaged through my box-covered desk. “Here,” she said, tossing some
     paper at me. “Write me a poem about how your day is going, and I’ll get started on
     these boxes.”
    I put the coffee cup aside and sat up. “For real? Couldn’t I just write a poem about
     my ultimate world domination or the health benefits of eating guacamole?”
    She rose onto her toes to look at me from behind one of my more impressive walls.
     “You bought two electric pressure cookers? Two?”
    “They were on sale.”
    “Charley,” she said, her tone admonishing. “Wait.” She dipped down then popped back
     up. “These are awesome.” I knew it. “Can I have one?”
    “Abso-freaking-lutely. I’ll just take it out of your pay.”
    This could work. I could pay her through my Buy From Home purchases, though that might
     not help her keep her lights on or continue to have running water. But she’d be happy,
     and wasn’t happiness the most important thing in life? I should write a poem about
     that.
    “You do realize that to use any of this stuff, you have to actually go to the grocery
     store.”
    Her words shoved me deeper into the pit of despair often referred to as buyer’s regret.
     “Isn’t that what Macho Taco express delivery is