The Turtle Mound Murder by Mary Clay

Author:Mary Clay
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: action and adventure, cozy mystery, divorced women, female sleuth, humor, mystery humor, southern humor
Publisher: Mary Clay

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Chapter 11

It was a beautiful October afternoon, so we found a table in the back room of Gilley’s which overlooked a pond. I’d insisted. We’d spent so much time eating in dark restaurants, I was starting to feel like a roach. Sunlight was what I needed—and no more wine. I was also beginning to feel like a lush.

A cute girl in short shorts, popping gum, came to take our order. Her name was Haley, like the Comet, she said. I led off with the orders. “A beer mug of ginger ale. No ice. Diet, if you have it.” Penny Sue looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “On duty,” I explained before Penny Sue could say anything. “We need to stay sharp.”

Penny Sue reared back with a glint in her eye. An instant later she’d transformed into Nancy Drew or Jessica Fletcher or ... Austin Powers. “I’ll have one of those non-alcoholic beers,” she said in a no-nonsense, I-mean-business tone.

Ruthie glanced up from the newspaper she’d purchased from a box by the front door. “Perrier with a twist of lime.”

The waitress leaned forward. The front of her floral shirt gaped open, exposing a black leather bra. “Sorry ma’am,” gum popping, “we don’t have Perrier. In case you didn’t notice, this is a pub.” She cut her eyes at Penny Sue and me. Apparently, Comet hadn’t been too impressed with our orders, either.

Ruthie smiled sweetly. “Sorry. Club soda on the rocks in a short glass with a twist of lime. Think you can handle that?”

Comet glared contemptuously as she scribbled Ruthie’s request. “It may take a while. We’re kinda busy,” she said over her shoulder as she sashayed toward the bar.

Actually, sashay might have been a slight understatement. Bump and grind was more like it. What a snide thought, I chastised myself, still watching Comet wiggle across the room. Perhaps the poor girl had on leather panties to match her bra which were digging in the wrong place.

A young man in jeans and a tee shirt came up behind her and patted her butt. Comet beamed. I thought of Ms. Thong and realized I’d unconsciously clenched my fist.

“Look, there’s Jonathan McMillan,” Penny Sue said. I followed her gaze to a man sitting at the bar. The gentleman in question sported holey jeans, a tank top, a kerchief tied around his head, and a big tattoo on his arm.

“How do you know him?” I asked incredulously.

“He’s president of a bank in Marietta. Yoo hoo, Jonathan.” Penny Sue stood up and waved. The man turned around and grinned. The next thing I knew he was standing at our table.

“Penny Sue Parker,” he drawled. “How’re ya doing?” They exchanged hugs.

A moment later a woman our age appeared beside him. She was dressed in stretch jeans and a red leather halter top. “Marie,” Penny Sue gushed. More hugs. “You look smashing.”

Marie’s lips stretched into a wide smile, revealing movie star teeth (at least eleven millimeters, obligatory for photos according to my dentist) and non-crinkled eyes.

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