Beat Until Stiff by Claire M. Johnson

Author:Claire M. Johnson [Johnson, Claire M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General, cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
ISBN: 9781615951031
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2002-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

I might not have been drunk, but by the end of the meal I had a hangover. Thom insisted on ordering dessert and an espresso. The dessert menu consisted of those structural confections that Thom adores and is always nagging me to put on our menu. A chunk of chocolate covered with ice cream flew across the table as Thom tried to cut into his dessert and landed on the arm of my new outfit. On top of the charges for the clothes, lunch, and parking, I now had a dry cleaning bill.

At the end of the meal, Thom insisted on paying the tip.

“Mary, that was lovely. I must pay the tip. No arguments. And don’t worry about American Fare. That was the champagne talking. Let’s do this again. Soon. Next time, my treat. You know, given half a chance, I think we could be good friends. We have the same snide sense of humor. And I mean that as a compliment.”

He was so sincere I blushed. I had wooed someone I made no secret of despising with food and champagne to divulge information about American Fare we both knew was none of my business, and here he was thanking me profusely for my lies and treachery.

Memo to self: really work on your intolerance.

My headache was so intense that I went straight to bed when I got home. Carlos’ funeral was the next morning and I wanted to be on time. I still had a headache when I got up the next morning. I wasn’t sure if it was champagne or angst. I tried to ignore the tom-tom of worry beating in the back of my head.

You have a thirty-year mortgage and drive a fifteen-year-old car with one hundred and twenty thousand miles on it. You are single. You are the breadwinner. And your employer might not make payroll next month.

Of course, it wasn’t that dire. I could always borrow money from my parents if I needed to, plus I had a fair amount in savings, but never since my divorce had I felt so vulnerable. So alone.

Arriving early, I found the church almost empty except for the ubiquitous old ladies dressed in black from head to toe hunched over their rosary beads. It was so familiar and soothing that my headache disappeared.

This was one of those glorious old-fashioned churches they don’t build anymore; its ceilings arched forever, its niches graced with the obligatory, oddly touching religious statues. The altar and pews were bathed in red and blue light from the ornate stained glass windows above. If I’d been born in the Middle Ages I probably would have been a nun. As a child the beauty of the art, architecture, and music of the Catholic Church seduced me. I stayed in the church for many years after my faith had lapsed because I so loved singing in the church choir.

I stood just inside the door, savoring the old-fashioned majesty of the nave, until I saw O’Connor’s broad back in the corner of the last pew.

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