CONSTANCY'S WALTZ
CHAPTER ONE
My first reaction--the normal, instinctive reaction--is to take a quick glance around and hope there's been no witness. Then I wish I were invisible or a million miles away.
Finally, I pick myself up, brush myself off, laugh with the inevitable spectators, and get on with my life. Having already spent about a quarter century tripping over anything within range, I had the routine down to a science.
"Gracious, Constancy! Did you hurt yourself?" My great-grandmother, Amanda Casey, and her best friend, Irma West, were sitting straight up in their 1950s-era, green metal lawn chairs, peering at me with anxious eyes.
I leaned back against the trunk of the old maple whose knobby roots had tripped me and brushed at the grass stains on my slacks.
"I'm ok." Disgusted with myself, as usual. Embarrassed, even with these two. But not physically hurt.
Reassured, their anxiety melted away and Gram's mouth crinkled at the corners. "You're likely to break your neck one of these days if you take a notion to run every time we get on this subject."
"I could go out for the Olympics if I made a serious habit of running every time you get on your pet subject. But I wasn't running. I was just going in the house to--"
They had identical, disbelieving grins. They weren't buying it, even if it was the truth. I couldn't help grinning back, even if I did know better than to encourage them. "I don't know what to do with you," I said. "Both of you could give stubborn lessons to mules."
"No better than you could," Gram said. "Missouri folks naturally come that way."
"Especially Missouri folks in our family, it seems to me. And their best friends."
She chuckled. "It's born and bred in all us old timers. Folks lacking a bountiful supply of stubborn couldn't make it in the Ozarks back when our ancestors moved here. The ones that didn't have it soon moved back to softer and safer places. Or died out quick. Now. What was I saying before you fell down?"
I gave up on the grass stains. They were as impossible to brush off as Gram and Irma and their eternal scheming. "Dearest Gram, I don't believe for a minute that you've forgotten. But, look, whoever this newest victim of yours is, he can't have any idea what getting involved with you and Miss Irma means. They never do until it's nearly too late. Then they could win Olympic medals."
"Well, you don't help things any."
"And I don't intend to start. How many times have I told you that? Luring them over here with fresh-baked pie! It's probably illegal."
"Since when is baking a pie for somebody illegal?"
"It should be for you, considering your motive. Can't you just behave yourselves and leave these poor guys out of your dastardly plots?"
Irma let off one of her lady-like snorts. "Dastardly plots, my foot," she said. "This boy's a good deal better for the job than Ellis Nowland."
"You had Ellis Nowland in your sights?" I had nothing against Ellis. In fact, Ellis was a definite cut above several of the others they'd targeted, but... "Ellis is an undertaker."
"He prefers to be called a funeral director, Sweetie. And where would we be without funeral directors?"
"You have to admit it's a steady job," Gram said, with not a trace of a twinkle.
Irma grinned. "It's a calling we appreciate more at our age. We did give Ellis some serious thought. He's a nice boy. He's a good citizen and a school board member. That might come in handy, since you're a teacher. He's not hurting for money, either. We both thought he was about perfect until we found out--" Irma's mouth clamped into a hard, grim line.
Finally, I pick myself up, brush myself off, laugh with the inevitable spectators, and get on with my life. Having already spent about a quarter century tripping over anything within range, I had the routine down to a science.
"Gracious, Constancy! Did you hurt yourself?" My great-grandmother, Amanda Casey, and her best friend, Irma West, were sitting straight up in their 1950s-era, green metal lawn chairs, peering at me with anxious eyes.
I leaned back against the trunk of the old maple whose knobby roots had tripped me and brushed at the grass stains on my slacks.
"I'm ok." Disgusted with myself, as usual. Embarrassed, even with these two. But not physically hurt.
Reassured, their anxiety melted away and Gram's mouth crinkled at the corners. "You're likely to break your neck one of these days if you take a notion to run every time we get on this subject."
"I could go out for the Olympics if I made a serious habit of running every time you get on your pet subject. But I wasn't running. I was just going in the house to--"
They had identical, disbelieving grins. They weren't buying it, even if it was the truth. I couldn't help grinning back, even if I did know better than to encourage them. "I don't know what to do with you," I said. "Both of you could give stubborn lessons to mules."
"No better than you could," Gram said. "Missouri folks naturally come that way."
"Especially Missouri folks in our family, it seems to me. And their best friends."
She chuckled. "It's born and bred in all us old timers. Folks lacking a bountiful supply of stubborn couldn't make it in the Ozarks back when our ancestors moved here. The ones that didn't have it soon moved back to softer and safer places. Or died out quick. Now. What was I saying before you fell down?"
I gave up on the grass stains. They were as impossible to brush off as Gram and Irma and their eternal scheming. "Dearest Gram, I don't believe for a minute that you've forgotten. But, look, whoever this newest victim of yours is, he can't have any idea what getting involved with you and Miss Irma means. They never do until it's nearly too late. Then they could win Olympic medals."
"Well, you don't help things any."
"And I don't intend to start. How many times have I told you that? Luring them over here with fresh-baked pie! It's probably illegal."
"Since when is baking a pie for somebody illegal?"
"It should be for you, considering your motive. Can't you just behave yourselves and leave these poor guys out of your dastardly plots?"
Irma let off one of her lady-like snorts. "Dastardly plots, my foot," she said. "This boy's a good deal better for the job than Ellis Nowland."
"You had Ellis Nowland in your sights?" I had nothing against Ellis. In fact, Ellis was a definite cut above several of the others they'd targeted, but... "Ellis is an undertaker."
"He prefers to be called a funeral director, Sweetie. And where would we be without funeral directors?"
"You have to admit it's a steady job," Gram said, with not a trace of a twinkle.
Irma grinned. "It's a calling we appreciate more at our age. We did give Ellis some serious thought. He's a nice boy. He's a good citizen and a school board member. That might come in handy, since you're a teacher. He's not hurting for money, either. We both thought he was about perfect until we found out--" Irma's mouth clamped into a hard, grim line.
Book One in the
Fiddling With Murder
series
Fiddling With Murder
series
temporarily out of print