Smarty Bones Read Free Page B

evidence of communication devices. “Do you actually have phone service here? I was surprised to find flush toilets.”
    Gertrude had undoubtedly given Dr. Twist a negative impression of me, but the professor had arrived in Zinnia with a stereotype of the area already embedded in her brainpan. I was tempted to yuk it up with some hambone slang, maybe a few one-liners about how all the DNA in town was similar, but I didn’t. Feeding the prejudice would only make matters worse.
    “Let me treat you to a drink,” I offered as I stood up. While we were the same height, I had her by forty pounds. If she took those ass-ugly shoes off, maybe fifty. I’d really never seen anything quite like them. They were stacks on a platform of glittery black plastic. Open-toed lace-ups, they appeared to be leather painted in a camouflage pattern. With a cuff of gray faux fur. Why would any sane person want to call attention to a foot that size?
    “A drink would be lovely,” she said.
    A serving or two of free booze might oil the hinges of Olive’s jaws. Patience was a virtue, and one I didn’t come by naturally. Still, I played it cool and got us settled at a small table in a corner of the bar.
    Even though I didn’t care for Gertrude, I loved The Gardens’ bar. It was all dark paneling, but there were plenty of windows. The parquet floor was polished to a shine, and plants hung in baskets and sprouted from planters. The ambience was wealth mingled with a green thumb. Gertrude knew her clientele. And one of her guests, a distinguished-looking fellow with salt-and-pepper hair and a small, Clark Gable mustache, seemed very interested in either me or Dr. Twist. He pretended to read a newspaper, but he watched us.
    With a Long Island iccd tea in front of her and a Bloody Mary at my fingertips, I started out casually. “I’m fascinated by history, and I heard you were here to do local research.”
    She nodded. “If my theories are correct, I’ll publish a monograph that’ll impact American history from the Civil War period. And that’s just the beginning. I have a rip-roaring tale that will translate into bestsellerdom.” She stood up abruptly. “Would you mind changing places with me?”
    “What?”
    “The light is better where you’re sitting. So my assistant can film.” She pushed me out of my chair and scooched into it with a provocative wiggle. “We’re documenting every step of this journey. This could be as significant as the first walk on the moon, or Admiral Peary’s trip to the North Pole.”
    “Wasn’t that claim challenged?”
    Olive grinned, and I swear I saw wicked canines. “You’re not as stupid as you look.”
    “I’m not the one who thinks every move I make is noteworthy.” I glimpsed a young cameraman behind a potted plant. He held an expensive piece of equipment trained on the preening historian.
    “I’ll put this hick town on the map.” Olive leaned back in the chair. “Whether you people like it or not.”
    If she said “you people” one more time I might deck her. “Most folks don’t find Mississippi’s history all that fascinating, unless you’re writing about the Civil War or civil rights. You’ve come a long way to work on a tired, overdone project.”
    “I have,” she agreed. “No one told me it was so hot here.” She wiped perspiration droplets from her forehead. “I’ve never been anywhere so intolerably hot. Is it the heat that makes you Southerners so slow? Honestly, I think if I stayed here six months my brain would turn to goop, too.”
    I smiled. “Tell me a little about yourself.” Some folks loved to talk about their favorite subject—themselves. I suspected Dr. Twist was one of them.
    “What’s the big interest in me?” she asked. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who gives a flip about academics or the pursuit of knowledge. Do you even read?”
    It was hard, but I ignored the insult. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m a big fan of facts.