SECRETS, LIES, AND CRAWFISH PIES by Abby L. Vandiver

Author:Abby L. Vandiver
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: African-American sleuth;amatuer detective;humorous cozy mystery
Publisher: Henery Press
Published: 2018-05-07T19:38:23+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

We had finally made it home. Auntie still had enough energy to go and embalm our John Doe.

I sat on the back porch with J.R. and a glass of ice-cold lemonade. Sweat dripped down the side of it, lemon, mint, and ice packed into the glass. I laid my phone on the banister and put my feet up next to it.

“Long day, huh, J.R.?” I said.

He went over and laid down at the top of the steps.

“Exactly how I feel,” I said.

I looked around and remembered how I used to hang out on the back porch. It was so calming and gave off such good vibes. The back of the house was so different from the front.

There were lots of live oak trees that covered every part of the property, in fact every inch of Roble, and why not. The town’s name meant oak in Spanish.

There was no definition to Auntie Zanne’s backyard. No rhyme or reason. Auntie’s perennials grew tall and wild all over the yard. A plethora of colors, a bouquet of fragrance. Butterflies flitted and bees buzzed about.

The windows in the white-framed greenhouse sparkled. Auntie Zanne’s place was a potted palace. There were rows of the annuals she grew for the front of the funeral home, and the plants and herbs she used for her teas and brews she made from recipes she claimed were hundreds of years old. But there was nothing old about her greenhouse. It was modern with ample room to expand and plenty of head room. There was a mist system, a heating system, and a wall for all of her coveted tools.

And to the rear of it, a rambling pebble stone walkway staggered its way down to a white gazebo that bordered a small pond, the verdant grass surrounding it was lush and vast.

The sun seemed to shine brighter in this part of the house. None of the gloom or the sadness that surrounded all that entered through the other side.

The front of the house was stately. A testament to its time and era, updated and preserved, it had found a new, useful purpose–one, my auntie taught me from the first day I arrived, that will never be outdated.

Ball Funeral Home & Crematorium was a haven of sorts for exuding the care and respect due not only to families at the low points in their lives–but to the dignity, transport, and shelter of the remains of the decedent. It was a beautiful facade to the public, a sanctuary to the grieving.

I took a sip of my lemonade and thought about my first day back in Roble. I closed my eyes.

Back in Roble...

I didn’t want to say back home, even though Rhett had given me grief about that. I just needed to keep telling myself that being back was only temporary and not let myself forget that I was going to make a way back.

The day had been so crazy and busy that I’d almost forgotten how unhappy I was supposed to be.

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