The Rules of Love & Grammar Read Free Page A

hats and the sunglasses. She was always wearing sunglasses.”
    “She had an ocular disease.”
    “Even so.” I give a dismissive wave. “And what about the husband? He always seemed so wary of everyone.”
    “Grace, they were retired schoolteachers in their eighties.”
    “Oh, so retired schoolteachers in their eighties can’t also be criminals?”
    She gives me a skeptical look. “Besides, the husband was in a wheelchair.”
    “Yeah, but he was fast in that thing.”
    She taps a few crystals of sugar into her coffee. “I’ll tell you what I also remember.” A sly smile crosses her face. “How you rang their doorbell and told them you were collecting for the Red Cross.”
    I’d forgotten that. “Oh my God, yes. So I could peek inside for stolen money. I thought they might have a safe.”
    “And they believed you. They actually gave you ten dollars.” Her voice is full of awe, even now.
    I raise my hand as though I’m taking an oath. “Which, I might add, I immediately turned over to the real Red Cross.”
    “Yes, you did…after you dusted it for prints.”
    “Well,” I say, “a detective’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.”
    Outside, the wind chimes jingle, and a breeze sends a branch of hydrangea tapping against the screens. I feel a little wistful for the old days, a little sad to have lost that time in my life when the tiniest burst of imagination could power an entire summer day.
    “I think we were great detectives,” Cluny says. She’s silent for a moment. Then she adds, “We could resurrect our skills and find Peter.”
    I try to think of a way to convince her, once and for all, that I’m not interested, because I can sense what she’s going to say next. “Cluny, he’s married. I read that a long time ago. And he probably has two gorgeous children.” Everybody else does. Why not Peter?
    “He was married,” she says. “But he isn’t anymore. He’s divorced.”
    “He’s divorced?”
    Cluny’s eyes light up as she perceives a spark of interest. “Yesssss,” she whispers.
    “Oh, forget it!” I catch myself. “I’m not doing it. Besides, I just want to stay home.”
    She sighs. “I know. In your pajamas.”
    “Yes.” I hitch up my Santa bottoms.
    “Eating ice cream.”
    “And why not?”
    “Whatever you say, Grace. But, just so you know, cookie crunch is like a gateway drug. It leads to coffee toffee and chocolate-chunk chip and all those varieties that are much more dangerous. It’s a slippery slope.”
    “Okay, just tell me this.” I pick up the newspaper article and point to the photo. “How do you know for sure he’s divorced?”
    She winks. “Google, baby. How else?” She moves her fingers as though she’s typing. “And, yes, I cross-checked the information on several different sites. All very reliable.” She raises an eyebrow. “By the way, do you have any idea how many results come up when you Google Peter Brooks movie director? ”
    I take a sip of coffee. “Five hundred and twelve thousand, something like that.”
    Cluny tilts her head and gives me a long, hard stare. “Oh, so you do know.”
    Damn it, she should have been a spy.
    She narrows her eyes. “Good guess, Einstein. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at ten. Dust off your detective handbag.”

Chapter 2
    Prepositions often indicate where one noun is in relation to another.
    It is never a good idea to store a bicycle inside a damp garage.
    T he next morning, I wake up bright and early again, to the tune of nail guns on the roof. Mom has already gone to work, but she’s left another note in the kitchen. Although it’s still two weeks before the party, she’s got me tackling her to-do list. First task: find the plastic coolers she says are in the garage. That’s easier said than done. My parents are genetically incapable of throwing away anything.
    I head out the kitchen door and across the lawn to the garage, where I take inventory. Dad’s blue Chrysler and my old yellow Volkswagen Beetle