Smarty Bones Read Free

the front door, I went inside with my hound at my heels and a plump black feline capering along the hardwood floors. A quick cleanup and fresh clothes and I’d be on my way to meet the caustic Dr. Twist.
    I turned on the upstairs shower, disrobed, and lathered up. I was towel drying my long chestnut hair when I heard a noise in my bedroom. If Graf was already back from golf, Oscar had skunked him. Still, the prospect of seeing Graf made me rush out of the bathroom and come to a screeching halt.
    A woman with a huge head of black curls and wearing a red dress, red shoes, and a garter pointed a cane at me. Perched on the side of her head was a top hat. “Boo-boop-de-doop,” she said in a high-pitched baby voice.
    Jitty had incarnated as Betty Boop. The resident haint at Dahlia House had gone vintage cartoon on me.
    “Boo to you!” I wrapped the towel around me. “I swear, Jitty. Betty Boop? Why don’t you just get a whip and flog me. It would be kinder.” My decade-hopping haint had shown up in garb from the eighteenth century to Star Trek, but a cartoon character was taking it just a little too far.
    “You ought to get you a little red dress and a garter,” Jitty said, leaning on the cane and poking out her butt in a provocative calendar-girl pose. “Graf’s shoes would smoke he’d be in such a hurry to jump out of them. Just think of the possibilities.”
    “Maybe I could suck on a helium balloon while I’m at it. If your voice gets any more babyish I’ll have to drink formula to converse with you.” I had no time for Jitty’s antics.
    “Jealous, some?” Jitty asked. “Betty Boop was the sex symbol for generations of men.”
    “That is too sad to even contemplate.” I took a long look at her. “Your head is huge.”
    “And so are my boobs,” she countered. “And my waist is tiny. Men love me.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’re talking about men suffering from retarded adolescence.” I went to the closet and dragged out ironed jeans and a purple shirt.
    I heard the tapping of the cane and her high heels as she came closer to me.
    “What do you want, Jitty? It has to be something spectacular if you’re wearing that getup.”
    “Just giving you a preview of what’s coming your way like a freight train. Better eat your spinach.”
    “Spinach?” I turned to confront her, but in typical Jitty fashion, she was gone. In her wake, though, a burst of tiny red hearts floated around the spot where she’d stood. In an instant, they vanished.
    *   *   *
    The long, tree-lined drive to The Gardens brought back memories. Bad ones. I didn’t relish asking Gertrude Strom where to find Dr. Twist, but I had no choice. Gertrude ran the front desk like a barracuda guarding a sushi buffet. She would make life as tough as possible for me. The only person Gertrude was consistently nice to was my partner, Tinkie. Zinnia National Bank held the mortgage on The Gardens, and Tinkie’s husband, Oscar, was president of the bank. Her father owned it. Money might not buy happiness, but it sure as heck could purchase obsequiousness.
    Whatever my personal feelings for Gertrude, I had to hand it to her. The grounds were incredible. Mums in every shade from purple to russet to gold brightened the flowerbeds, where fuchsia-veined caladiums offered pinks and lime greens. Closer to the building, I was smitten by the riot of spider lilies, their coral petals dancing on a gentle breeze.
    “What are you doing on my property?” Gertrude popped up from behind a hedge like one of those horrible jack-in-the-boxes. Even as a child I’d hated those things.
    I’d hoped to at least get in the door before she launched an assault, but fate was against me. She wasn’t a tall woman, but she was cantankerous as a snake with its tail in a mousetrap. “Gertrude, fancy seeing you here. Where can I find Dr. Olive Twist?”
    “I don’t have to tell you anything. In fact, I can call the sheriff and have you arrested for trespassing.