Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery by R.M. Wild (top 100 novels of all time .TXT) 📕

been our Salutatorian, a truly pretentious nerd who had bored the entire class with ten-syllable words in his graduation speech. Finkel, on the other hand, had been rumored to become an exotic “waitress” at one of the buffalo wing-joints in Bangor. Given that they were both married to other classmates, the scandal might be enough to make everyone at the reunion forget about me and my foot masseur.

“Oh my God, do you see those two?” I said.

Kendall put down my foot and turned for a look. “Yuck.”

“Mettle has to see this,” I said. I dug in my purse for my phone, but couldn’t find it. “Huh. That’s strange.”

“What?”

“My phone’s not here.”

“Maybe you forgot it,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said. I wasn’t someone who needed surgical detachment from her phone, but I usually didn’t leave it at home, not with all the weirdos in this town. “Shucks. Mettle would have gotten a kick out of seeing that.”

Kendall looked me deep in the eyes. “Are you sure there’s nothing going on between you two?”

“No,” I said. “He’d think it’s funny, that’s all.”

A moment later, the underside of the bleachers lit up in a flash of white light.

Meat Locker had found them.

Kendall stood and straightened his suit. “Look at us. We’re hiding over here on the bleachers.”

“Like any good school dance.”

“Exactly. To be honest, I don’t know why I ever thought coming here tonight was a good idea. I think I’ve had my fill of yesteryear,” he said and offered his hand. “Would you like to get out of here, Miss Casket? Perhaps we could go someplace…saner?”

“You read my mind,” I said.

17

Outside, the moon hung over the old football field like a Chinese lantern strung between the rusty uprights. On the grass, a bunch of candy wrappers eddied in a colorful vortex like phantom kids chasing each other in their gym pinnies.

The wooden bleachers—where our balding gym teacher used to sit with a bottle of “Gatorade” in a paper bag and make us chase each other around the perimeter of the field—were as warped as the planks on The Moaning Lisa. For a brief moment, I thought I saw the specter of Captain Herrick climbing to the top of the bleachers, stomping one foot on the highest rung, and barking orders at the overgrown shrubs. But then I blinked and realized it was only Josh Delaney, come outside for fresh air and a long, drunken gaze at his old glory field.

I followed Kendall across the parking lot toward his shiny Mercedes.

“We made an appearance, right? That counts for something.”

“No FOMO here,” Kendall said. He took out his phone, swiped it alive, and the Mercedes started by itself.

“It’s like magic,” I said. “No fancy screwdrivers needed to get that thing going.”

“Fancy what?”

“Never mind.”

Like a gentleman, Kendall extended a hand. “Would you like to go for a carriage ride, my lady?”

“In what? That?”

“I’ll admit, the horsepower isn’t quite the same as a pumpkin coach, but it’ll have to do.”

This was hardly the kind of night of which fairy-tales were made. “I really should get back to the inn. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten a decent night’s sleep and I’d like to recoup and figure out how to pay for breakfast in the morning.”

“Would you mind if I came to see it?”

“See what?”

“The inn. I’m curious. I’ve heard so much about it.”

I watched Josh Delaney stumble back toward the building. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt.”

“Shall I follow you over?”

“Okay, but be careful, I brake for dust,” I said.

“For dust?”

“You know? Like a broom? The witch thing? Never mind. It was a stupid joke.”

“No, it’s funny,” Kendall said. “It’s very clever. I liked it. I will do my best not to sweep you off your feet. Deal?”

I looked at him blankly.

“That was a joke too,” he said. “You know, sweep? Like a broom.”

I forced a laugh. “Of course. I totally get it.”

“I’ll see you on Beacon Street.”

“You know my address?”

“I work with your foster father, remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

Parked in the blue handicap paint next to my Honda was a Prius with a license plate that read SLICER. I climbed into my own car, not sure if the need to explain each other’s jokes was an omen for a bright future.

The whole ride back to the inn, Kendall’s insanely bright headlights were never more than ten feet behind my trunk. He was good at following, I’d give him that. I didn’t worry about going through a yellow light, nor about driving too fast. He was only a quick stop and screeching tires away from a solid fender-bender.

I supposed there was something to be said about that kind of reliability. His manners, his clothing, his hair, all made Matt Mettle seem like a brutish caveman. Plus, Kendall’s hair gel was sitting on top of a reservoir of more intelligence than Mettle had ever needed a helmet to protect. There was no denying that on paper, Kendall was a great choice for a mate. He was attractive, courteous, and had a six-figure job.

Yet, something left me feeling meh. Don’t ask me what.

I glanced in my rearview. Kendall’s headlights were making interlocked rings of light on my back window. Maybe that was it. Maybe Kendall was marriage material—and having missed out on the wild romping I should have experienced in my early twenties, I wasn’t ready to settle down yet.

In the rearview, I shifted the focus to myself. In an attempt to impress, I had gone so heavy on the makeup tonight that I felt as if I were wearing a mask.

Other than talking to yourself, you must be crazy. You’ve turned Matt Mettle into a straw man as bad as Dorothy’s scarecrow. In reality, your choice isn’t between Mettle nor Kendall. Your choice is between Mettle, Kendall, and every other single man in the world.

Yes, but Dark Haven has one of the lowest populations in Maine. Finding an attractive guy here is like finding a gold nugget at the bottom of your Cracker Jacks.

“What