Gingerbread Cookie Murder by Joanne Fluke Laura Levine & Leslie Meier

Author:Joanne Fluke, Laura Levine & Leslie Meier
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2010-09-30T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

With visions of Mom’s breakfasts no doubt dancing in her head, Prozac had taken to clawing me awake each day at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m.

That next morning was no exception.

There she was, kneading her claws into my flesh, commanding me to snap to attention.

I’d like Eggs Benedict please. With extra hollandaise.

“You’ll get leftovers and like it.”

I hauled myself out of bed and staggered to the kitchen, where I was happy to find Mom’s doggie bag from Le Chateaubriand.

By now I had given up any and all attempts to feed my pampered princess cat food. I cut her some bite-size chunks of filet mignon, nabbing a few for myself, hoping this would tide her over until Mom woke up.

Instantly she buried her nose in the stuff.

I was about to trot back to bed to catch up on my much-needed beauty rest when I happened to glimpse my reflection in the predawn kitchen window. Was it my imagination, or had I gained about 8,798 pounds since I came to Tampa Vistas?

I’m sure you remember that little vow I’d made to start a vigorous exercise and sensible eating regimen. Well, I’m glad you do, because up till that point, it had pretty much been banished to a dusty corner of my brain reserved for dental appointments and memories of my high school prom.

But that glimpse of myself in the window was a wake-up call. Suddenly all the calories I’d been packing away came back to haunt me—yesterday’s humungous chopped steak lunch. The filet mignon dinner with all the trimmings. Not to mention my Chunky Monkey excursion, and the Christmas fudge I’d been munching between binges.

No, there was no doubt about it. This feeding frenzy had to stop. From this moment on, calories would be burned. Instead of returning to the soft cocoon of my bed, I would throw on some sweats and take a vigorous walk around Tampa Vistas. Heck, I’d walk all the way to St. Pete if I had to.

Minutes later I was out on the street, me and my cellulite brimming with determination.

By now the sun was beginning to come up, and I marched along, feeling about as virtuous as a person can feel without attaining actual sainthood.

As I made my way past lawn Santas still wet with dew, my thoughts drifted back to last night’s scene at Le Chateaubriand. Daddy had done a lot of foolish things in his time, but there was no way he could have possibly guessed Doc Wilkins would be allergic to peanuts.

Mom had called the hospital the minute we got home to check on his condition, but was unable to get any answers.

I sure hoped he was okay. The last thing Tampa Vistas needed was another corpse for Christmas.

And then, as if in answer to my wishes, I looked up and saw the good doctor striding toward me in a jog suit, his reedy arms swinging weights as he walked.

“Doctor Wilkins!” I cried. “You’re okay.”

“Of course I’m okay,” he assured me with a grin.

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