Little Miss Red by Palmer Robin

Author:Palmer, Robin [Palmer, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781101651100
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2010-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

eight

I knew Jack had totally and completely won Grandma Roz over when she told him to take as much lox and whitefish as he wanted at breakfast the next morning. But it was what happened after she finished her stewed prunes that made it clear she really trusted him.

“Jack, did you get in touch with the motorcycle man?” she asked sweetly as she polished the candelabras for about the tenth time in thirty minutes. It was too bad Jeremy wasn’t around.

“I sure did, and unfortunately, ’cause of a family tragedy—turns out his brother’s arm was snapped off by a gator—he won’t be back in town till the end of the week. So I thought after breakfast I’d start calling around to find a motel.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll just stay at Art’s,” Grandma Roz said.

“Thanks, Roz, but I couldn’t take advantage of your kindness like that,” he drawled. Was it my imagination, or did Jack seem to really pour on the Southern thing with her?

“To be honest, in light of the break-ins, I feel better knowing there’s a strapping young man nearby to protect us. You know, Sophie, there was another robbery last night!”

“There was?” I said.

She nodded. “Yes. Myrna Gladstein, over in the Winds of Change building. The robber took her silver menorah, if you can believe that.” She pointed at Art, who was busy reading the racing form. “Art was taking his nightly walk at the time, but he didn’t hear a thing.”

“That’s because I had already taken my hearing aid out,” Art said without looking up from the form.

“Well, if it’ll make you feel better, Roz, I’ll stay then,” Jack said.

I knew it would make me feel better.

“So would you kids like to take the Buick and do a little sightseeing?” Grandma Roz said as she started polishing the other candelabra.

My jaw almost hit the floor. Her ’82 Buick was her pride and joy. She never let anyone drive it—not even my dad, her own son. She was so paranoid about getting a scratch on it that she barely drove it anymore, and when she did, she insisted on parking like a mile away in the most deserted part of a parking lot so there were no cars on either side.

Jack turned to me. “Whaddya say, Red? Want to do some exploring?”

“Sure,” I shrugged, still dumbstruck from Grandma’s offer.

A few minutes later, red cowboy hat on my head and Chunnel sunglasses on my face, I was humming along (a little off-key) to a singer named Jimi Hendrix on the classic rock station Jack had found as we inched our way down the main drag of Delray Beach behind other Buicks and Cadillacs. The music helped keep my mind off of Jack’s tailgating, but I couldn’t help trying to push the imaginary brake on my side of the car. As the song ended and morphed into something called “Stairway to Heaven”—which, according to Jack was a classic slow-dancing song back in Arkansas—I rolled down the window to get some fresh air.

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