Funeral Food by Kathleen Taylor

Author:Kathleen Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: suspense, murder, mystery, small town, mormon, female detective, diner, waitress
Publisher: Kathleen Taylor

12

Psychic Barking

To block the vision of Charles slumped on the floor of the mop closet, I concentrated on muddy footprints as I stepped into the harsh sunlight, careful this time to tiptoe around the few remaining shoe tracks etched in mud next to the cafe doorway. I walked behind the combined grocery/insurance office, out to the sidewalk, and back to the storefront, mulling and sorting the few details I could put together.

In the first place, the doorway was an odd spot for muddy shoeprints. The few raindrops in last night's storm would have soaked into the parched ground without a trace, and the overhang would have protected the doorway from mud, in any case. No matter what the weather yesterday, the dirt there would have been dry and hard.

The mud must have been on the shoes already, tracked in from someplace else, I decided. That the shoeprints belonged to the murderer was a foregone conclusion. We had a body in a closet and mud where it shouldn't be, the two must be connected.

I had uncovered my first clue. Look out, Miss Marple.

A small spate of self-congratulation shed the sight of Charles's body back a little further, and occupied the portion of my brain that should have been figuring out what to say to both Crystal and the sheriff.

Actually, calling the sheriff would be the easy part since I wouldn't talk to him directly. The dispatcher would take the message and she'd only want the specifics, the What and the Where. I doubted they'd be interested in speculations about the Who and the Why from me.

But what would I say to goofy, gentle Crystal, who was genuinely fond of Charles? She would be deeply saddened by his death, especially under such circumstances. I envisioned quiet tears and herbal teas and voluminous, suffocating hugs.

Hey, I thought, with an inappropriate smile, she's psychic, maybe she already knows.

In the end, I didn't have to say anything to her at all.

Jasper Singman, with a faint look of impatience, was behind the counter in the store, waiting for a small boy to decide whether he wanted a tin of sardines and a box of Hot Tamales, or Twinkles with a V-8 chaser.

After living with Presley, who likes chocolate sauce on bologna sandwiches and dips barbecue potato chips in milk, I'm no longer surprised by juvenile culinary weirdness. And anyway, no food or drink combination compares to snot and cheese on crackers, Boogerman's recommended appetizer.

Never eat an hors d'ouevre prepared by a giggling twelve-year-old boy.

The kid at the counter finally settled on Barq's and a dill pickle, paid, and raced out of the store. The look of faint disgust on Jasper's long, thin, face was replaced by a look of faint concern.

Spiritual and otherworldly, all of Jasper's earthly emotions registered low on the Richter scale.

“He's a burnout,” Rhonda had declared. “Just look at his eyes.”

Jasper's eyes were certainly mournfully vacant, and his long thin torso had the emaciated look of a longtime druggie. He moved slowly and deliberately, as if his own motion would upset his equilibrium.

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