One Foot In The Gravy Read Free Page A

are dress pumps, not . . .”
    She chopped her hand through the air to cut me off again, wiggling her foot to showcase her square-toed orthopedic flats. “Stop with the whiny excuses. Whatever happened to people takin’ responsibility for themselves?”
    I raised my eyes from the black bricks she was passing off as shoes and looked her in the eye. “Same thing that happened to taking pride in their appearance.”
    “Oooh, snap. I should’ve expected that’d be your attitude,” she snorted. “Well, I worked hard my entire life. After thirty years in the restaurant business, I know what to put on my hush puppies. I’d rather be professional than just look the part.”
    I kept looking at her, caught by surprise. She seemed really aggravated and upset, as opposed to being just her usual intentional pain in the neck. “Thom, what’s wrong?”
    “Forget it,” she said. “I just don’t appreciate people gettin’ all judgmental about my choices or my footwear.”
    “Hang on . . . that’s unfair,” I said. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
    “You want to stick a label on me so you can feel superior, go right ahead and knock yourself out.”
    “I wasn’t—”
    Since there probably isn’t much chance our squabble would have devolved into an out-and-out catfight, I won’t exaggerate and claim we were saved by the bell. But we were interrupted by a glassy little tinkle from the parlor.
    I turned toward the sound and saw Lolo Baker holding a glass dinner bell on the other side of the entryway. A slender, silver-haired woman in charcoal trousers and a paler-than-pale pink silk blouse, the mystery bash’s hostess sported a pearl necklace with an appropriately Sherlock Holmesish magnifying glass pendant, and stood ringing the bell amid a lively crowd of guests.
    “Excuse me, friends!” She beamed a smile. When she didn’t immediately get everyone’s attention, the eyes narrowed thin as threats and the smile became a shrill piccolo trumpet. “Your attention please !” That did it. “Dinner will be served in ten minutes . . . and then our criminal mischief begins!”
    Delighted murmurs swarmed around Lolo as Thom returned her attention to the goulash. She gave it a stir with her spoon, closed the lid, checked the burning Sterno underneath it, then sidled over to the tray of mushroom-and-carrot-stuffed flank steak.
    A moment later, she cocked her head at an angle, scrunched up her face like a puzzled bulldog, and began looking around the buffet table for something.
    “What’s the matter?” I asked.
    “The gravy terrine,” she said. “I don’t see it anyplace.”
    I didn’t either. But I did remember Luke carrying the gravy from our borrowed CreepLeeches van in its insulated container and promising he’d fill the terrine with it. “Hang on, I’ll be back in a jiff,” I said, and turned toward a hall off the dining room.
    “Where you going?”
    “The kitchen.” We’d pulled our vehicles up around one side of the house to its entrance and lugged everything inside. “Bet you the gravy’s still there.”
    “All ri-i-ighteeo!” The faintly familiar, drawling male voice, as well as the lip-smacking that went along with it, had come from right behind me. “I do so love to have nice, thick, piping-hot gravy with my steak.”
    Hoppy, I thought, facing him unhappily. It hadn’t been more than ninety seconds since Lolo’s tenminute dinner alert. But there he was with his strong, craggy face, eager eyes, thick lips, and the word “Hoppy” embroidered on the handkerchief tucked in his blazer. At least it wasn’t accompanied by a rabbit or a picture of a cowboy.
    “We’re just finishing our preparations,” I said, and struck my best professional pose. “Give us a few minutes and we’ll have everything ready for you . . . and the rest of the guests.”
    I’d hoped Hoppy might take those last words as an unsubtle hint to scram. Instead, he leaned forward to study the flank steak, then