Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

keep them clean. The scrapes along the sides and roof, the bullet hole in the bumper seemed as bright as neon to me, but Rosemary didn’t notice as she slid in.

“I’ll see you at one.”

It wasn’t until she drove away that I remembered the gun that had fallen to the floor when Kel passed out. Had we done anything with it? Of course not. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Did it have a safety? Was it on or off? Off. It had to be off. Kel had switched it off so he could shoot bad guys, but he’d passed out.

Great, she’d be armed and dangerous. And I’d be the one she was hunting.

Kel was gone when I got back upstairs. I checked through the whole apartment just to be sure. In the bedroom the French doors were ajar, the curtain still quivering as if from recent passage. I told myself I was glad and went back to the kitchen to clean up the uneaten breakfast. I only noticed the white square after I’d put the pizza away.

A business card.

I eyed it for a moment, wondering which profession he’d chosen. But it wasn’t any of them. There wasn’t a name, just a telephone and fax number and on the back in bold slashes: Thanks.

I frowned, tapping the card against my temple. Was he thanking me for the room and board or—

No. It was better not to know.

6

If I were a character in a book, my next step would be to get out my trench coat and magnifying glass. But I wasn't, so I got out my underwear and skirt. Okay, so almost getting killed had jolted me out of my rut, but it was easy to hunker back down. And if I were inclined to linger before hunkering, all I needed to do was think about my mother finding out what happened last night. Rosemary wanted me to distract her, but I don't think she meant by giving her an apoplexy. Of course, keeping my mother from finding out wouldn't be easy. She has a built-in sixth sense when I am trying to hide things from her.

I brooded on tactics while randomly pulling clothes out of the closet. When I was dressed, I collected my huge, brown purse, the one filled with the non-essentials of living I’d left home last night and went to look for Dominic.

Dom is Rosemary's baby. Like most men, he's six going on two with an inflated sense of his own importance in the eternal scheme of life. But he's still young enough and cute enough to get away with it. He has this annoying way of looking up at me, his eyes round and guileless in his thin, sweet face that turns me to putty in his grubby hands. Kind of like the look Kel had in his eyes last night. The dirty dog.

“Ahoy, Captain.” I peered into Dom’s bedroom. I had good reason for caution. Dom thinks he’s a pirate. As soon as he learned to count, he began counting the days until he could get a tattoo. Then he’s heading to Florida so an alligator can bite his hand off. The plastic hook “hand” Rosemary bought him doesn’t slash the way he’d like it to.

“Avast you scurvy dog!” he cried, turning to brandish his sword. He wore his “scalawag” gear, a red vest over his tee shirt, scabbard strapped over his jeans, eye patch, and a plumed tricorn hat.

“Ship sails in fifteen. Where’s Addison?”

“Ar, Grandma made him go outside. He peed on her tree.”

Why couldn’t my dog learn to tell a silk tree from a fire hydrant?

I found my mother in the kitchen reading the newspaper. It is an institution with her, almost religious, this gathering of printed information. I myself ascribe to the trickle-down theory of news. If it's important, someone will tell me about it. As background, she had the TV tuned into the news. I will confess that since war broke out in the Gulf, I've joined the rest of the world in war-watching. I crossed to the cookie jar and had my hand in before my mother looked up.

Her eyebrows did their usual climb as she surveyed my clothes. “Don't you think it's a little early in the morning for cookies?”

“It's never too early for cookies.” I opened the fridge and scrounged for some milk. My gauze skirt trembled from the force of her sigh. I waited for the lecture, but it didn't come.

“Mildred Hazel called me this morning.”

That explained her lack of interest in criticizing me or her failure to notice I had a secret. She had a juicy bit of gossip to relate and I was the only available audience. Mildred Hazel is the church newsletter. She knows what is happening almost before it happens. I try not to think anything important in her presence because she can receive thoughts and convert them to gossip with the speed of light. My mother had a tiny crease between her brows and she was tapping absently on the table, indicating she didn't just have news, she had Big News.

“Elspeth Carter, from church—you know her, don't you?”

“Elspeth Carter?” I thought for a moment. “Isn't she the one that looks like Hitler?”

My mother's nostrils flared. “She does not look like Hitler!”

“Come on, she's a nice old bird, but take away the glasses—”

“Elspeth Carter,” my mother’s look was severe, “passed away last night.”

Oops. My mother believes death is transforming. Mrs. Carter may have looked like Hitler in life, but in death she was the Angel Gabriella.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I meant it. Mrs. Carter was one of those women who make things happen, like saving historic houses, planting flowers on public fairways, and raising funds for worthy causes. I doubt if anyone knew everything she'd been involved in since retiring as a math teacher.

“I didn't know she was ill. What happened?”

“Elspeth was murdered last night.” A wisp of handkerchief appeared in her hand