Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Read Free Page B

League is an honor, and while I may snicker at the group’s pretensions, every year I hope to be named. This year, not only was I not chosen, I had to work the luncheon. Halfway through the Chicken Picatta, I got up to snap photos. When I returned to my seat, my plate was gone. Not even a lousy doggy bag.
    I finally found the CD and, after inserting it into the computer, studied the photos. Dr. Klinger looked so vibrant. One close-up captured her polished perfection: wide, confident smile and dark, shoulder-length hair with a premature silver streak on the left side.
    In order to get that picture I’d moved in close on my knees. Dr. Klinger was at the podium giving her acceptance speech. She’d removed her suit jacket, revealing a crisp, wrinkle-free blouse underneath. My blouse, on the other hand, was as creased as Granny Clampett’s butt, which is why I never take my jacket off in public.
    Late that afternoon Yvonne began pacing back and forth at the front window. Her espadrilles slip-slapped on the tiles, creating an annoying distraction. Not only that, she blocked my view. Outside on the town green, the citizens gathered, their heads bobbing and darting like chickens. No doubt they were clucking about the murder.
    “Relax, Yvonne. We’re not the only news source covering the story.”
    “I’m well aware of that. It’s how we handle the subject that worries me. We can’t be vulgar like the tabloids. The nice people in this town won’t forget.”
    There was no point in mentioning that by the time the paper hit the stands, the news would be as outdated as Yvonne’s espadrilles. No matter how brilliant our copy, readers will have learned every detail. In fact, they might not bother with our coverage at all. We could blame Dr. Klinger’s death on Janis Topp’s potato salad, and people might never notice.
    “Who did you say Stew was interviewing?” I asked, changing the subject.
    “The headmaster at Dana Hall in Wellesley. From what I understand Dr. Klinger was quite an athlete, setting records in swimming and tennis.” She paused. “Or was it swimming and fencing?”
    “Maybe it was swimming and wrestling,” I said.
    Yvonne stopped to stare at me. “If that’s a joke, it’s not amusing.”
    I ducked my head. “Just trying to ease the mood.”
    “I’ll never understand your sense of humor,” she said and resumed pacing while I returned to my photos. The day Yvonne understands my humor is the day I sign on for the Merchant Marines.
    It was early evening when I finally pulled into my driveway. I pressed the remote button for the garage door, and nothing happened. Either the batteries were low or the door was broken. Another item needing attention.
    Nonetheless, I can’t complain. I rent one-half of an old carriage house. Frank, the owner, occupies the other half during the summer. Two years ago he bought a bar in St. Croix, exchanging his Brooks Brothers wing tips for rubber flip-flops. From November to May, while Frank is in the Virgin Islands, I keep an eye on his half of the house.
    It’s easy work. I make sure the pipes don’t freeze and the squirrels don’t move in. For those caretaking duties I get a rental reduction. It’s a sweet deal, especially when you consider the cost of real estate north of Boston. On my salary I can’t afford a down payment on a Porta-John.
    Chester, my 12-year-old black Lab, greeted me at the door. He ran in circles around me, delirious with pleasure. I rubbed his graying muzzle and wondered what man would give me such a welcome.
    After tossing my tote bag on the sofa, I fixed a large vodka and cranberry juice and grabbed a box of Cheez-Its. Hands full, I collapsed on the antique recliner, although it’s not technically an antique unless La-Z-Boys were made a hundred years ago.
    My furniture is what I call early modern ghetto. It’s comfortable, like an old pair of slippers. One of these days I plan to cover everything in a pretty Laura Ashley print. Then I