One Foot In The Gravy Read Free

my tootsies were already sore from rubbing together. And since that probably wasn’t true of A.J.’s twin peaks, I felt it was just plain stupid of me to stand in judgment of their exposure level. Or even to stand, period.
    I looked through the entry into the wainscoted parlor, where A.J. was offering hors d’oeuvres to the guests, including a short, roly-poly man who was taking in a choice view of her personal scenery.
    “The girl doesn’t watch herself, she’s gonna spill out into his food,” Thom said. “That’s got to violate some health code or other, Nash. Don’tcha think?”
    I kept quiet. At first, it was because I didn’t want to spur her on. But then I realized I knew the man.
    “Hey,” I said. “That guy over there’s Hoppy!”
    “Sure does seem to be,” Thomasina said. “Could a fella take any more time reachin’ for his weenie-wrap?”
    I frowned. Being the perennial church bakeoff queen of Nashville—I kid you not—Thom knew everybody’s wife and mother and was consequently as plugged into the city’s social scene as anybody. “Quit playing dumb. You know as well as I do it’s Hoppy who owns the chocolate shop over on Charlotte Avenue.”
    “Uh-huh. And so what?”
    “I just wouldn’t have expected Lola to invite him,” I said, lowering my voice to a hush. “I’m not saying she’s a snob. But most of her other guests are kind of upper-crusty.”
    “And what makes you think he ain’t?”
    I opened my mouth, then closed it, at a loss for words. Hoppy was a well-known penny squeezer. He would give away chocolates if it helped him socially, but that was it. He wouldn’t part with an extra shopping bag if a customer begged and pleaded for one, it didn’t matter that you were walking around his store with chocolates spilling from your arms and containers of dipped strawberries balanced on your head. I shouldn’t have needed a reminder that the world was full of rich, cheap jerks. As a former forensic accountant on Wall Street, I’d specialized in following the money trail of financial hotshots who were cooking their books on the way to their second or third or fourth billion.
    I looked at Thom. “Okay,” I said. “What’s Hoppy’s story?”
    “Hapford’s, you mean. His full name’s Hapford Hopewell Jr. The inventor of Hopewell’s chocolate patties.”
    The ice cream treat that looked like frozen cow patties. They were a local sensation, especially among teens . . . or anybody with a juvenile sense of humor. “Wow, no sh —”
    “Mind your cussin’ tongue.” Thom speared me with a reproachful glance, forget that I’d been speaking in a whisper.
    “Sugar,” I said. “Wow, no sugar!”
    Thom went on. “Downtown rents and overheads bein’ what they are, ain’t no way Hoppy could make ends meet without sellin’ a lot of them.”
    “I thought there was a family fortune—”
    “I heard that too.” Thom nodded, squaring her jaw. “That would explain how come he thinks he can treat customers the way he does. It’s the same to him if he gets one or a hundred walking through the door every day.”
    “Sounds like you’ve had some run-ins?”
    “I take my nieces in there for chocolate lollies, only place you can get ’em. He looks at us like we only carried Canadian money. He’s an a-hole, to put it bluntly.”
    I have no patience for someone who’s entitled and arrogant, but I let it stand. Who knows what goes on inside anyone’s skull, even your own? Meanwhile, I wasn’t too sure that I could go on standing much longer. My toes had cramped up like I’d just run the River Kwai Half-Marathon.
    Thom noticed me shifting uncomfortably. “What’s the matter?” she said. “You got quiet all of a sudden.”
    “So?”
    “So quiet ain’t your regular M.O.”
    I shrugged. Couldn’t argue. “It’s my feet. They’re killing me.”
    She stared down at them. “Wah-wah. I could’ve told you wearin’ stripper shoes was a bad idea.”
    “Strip—Thom, these