Read Online A Frozen Scoop of Murder: A Cozy Mystery (Caesars Creek Mystery Series Book 1) by Constance Barker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Constance Barker
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today,” I said placing a full barrel of vanilla into its spot in the ice cream case.
“And for that I’m thankful. Remind me to be in the back when she comes to pick up her order on Thursday.”
The rest of the day was normal for the first of the week. A steady stream of customers came in to get their sugar fix for the day. Since this is a small town, we know almost everyone who stops by. The talk of the day surrounded the upcoming annual Spring Festival that the town of Caesar’s Creek threw on the first weekend of May. Many people set up booths to sell their wares or food concoctions. I would have my own small booth this year selling soft serve ice cream and pink t-shirts with the logo of my store, The Frozen Scoop.
A small stage would sit on the courthouse grounds where local talent would strut their stuff for the people who would bring lawn chairs to sit and listen. Contests were also a big draw, especially for the best chili, baby back ribs, and of course, the pies. Greta always won the peach and apple pie contests until last year, when Ms. Nelson edged out her peach pie. You’ve never seen such a disaster. Greta took two steps towards the head judge when she realized it wasn’t her name called out. She stood still as the crowd clapped and Ms. Nelson walked to the front of the stage. Suddenly she stormed the stage, claiming that there must have been a mistake, that somehow the judges mixed up her pie with Ms. Nelson’s. How could she have won all these years, then a newcomer struts in and the first year she wins. It was a travesty Miss Greta bellowed as the crowd sat in stunned silence.
Greta strode over to the judges’ table, her ample hips practically knocking Ms. Nelson out of the way. As she and the judges argued, the emcee grabbed the microphone and told the crowd the final would be determined later and the show was over. However, no one moved. We were transfixed by the carryings on behind him. Greta’s arms and hands flew up, out and back to her chest. She looked like an orchestra conductor. All she needed was the baton. The crowd couldn’t see her face, but we could see the judges‘ faces, which ranged from horrified to slack jawed and eye rolling.
Eventually that got old as well and the crowd dispersed along with the judges who finally simply gave up and left. Ms. Nelson did end up with the Grand Champion Ribbon for her peach pie, but I doubt she felt it was worth it. Word is she burned the ribbon in her fireplace, likely to get rid of any curse Miss Greta might have placed on it after her rants and ravings.
The other contest Miss Greta was known for were her roses. Nobody disputed that her roses were the most beautiful in town. She had a large trellis erected right next to the back door of her house that allowed the rose vines to snake through the tiny openings within the lattice. They were what are called Scentimental heirloom roses or simply striped red and white roses. They were gorgeous with their blood red tint and creamy white stripes. No one would argue that Miss Greta’s roses were the best and she worked hard at keeping them robust, trimming, spraying and watering every day.
It wasn’t that the town didn’t think she deserved her Championship ribbons, it was the way she handled herself. Most people are modest or humble when receiving an award, but not Greta. She took snootiness to a whole new level. However, people tolerated her since she was always in the social scene, whether it was a book club, bridge games, or church activities. You could always count on Miss G to be there and most of the women her age endured her antics. There had to be something Stormi and I were missing. I mean she had a suitor, a great friend in Trixie, and others who could look past the gruff exterior. What it was however, I couldn’t see it.
Stormi and I ate our dinner of sliced turkey on whole wheat while sitting at one of the tables out front. Dinnertime was normally
“And for that I’m thankful. Remind me to be in the back when she comes to pick up her order on Thursday.”
The rest of the day was normal for the first of the week. A steady stream of customers came in to get their sugar fix for the day. Since this is a small town, we know almost everyone who stops by. The talk of the day surrounded the upcoming annual Spring Festival that the town of Caesar’s Creek threw on the first weekend of May. Many people set up booths to sell their wares or food concoctions. I would have my own small booth this year selling soft serve ice cream and pink t-shirts with the logo of my store, The Frozen Scoop.
A small stage would sit on the courthouse grounds where local talent would strut their stuff for the people who would bring lawn chairs to sit and listen. Contests were also a big draw, especially for the best chili, baby back ribs, and of course, the pies. Greta always won the peach and apple pie contests until last year, when Ms. Nelson edged out her peach pie. You’ve never seen such a disaster. Greta took two steps towards the head judge when she realized it wasn’t her name called out. She stood still as the crowd clapped and Ms. Nelson walked to the front of the stage. Suddenly she stormed the stage, claiming that there must have been a mistake, that somehow the judges mixed up her pie with Ms. Nelson’s. How could she have won all these years, then a newcomer struts in and the first year she wins. It was a travesty Miss Greta bellowed as the crowd sat in stunned silence.
Greta strode over to the judges’ table, her ample hips practically knocking Ms. Nelson out of the way. As she and the judges argued, the emcee grabbed the microphone and told the crowd the final would be determined later and the show was over. However, no one moved. We were transfixed by the carryings on behind him. Greta’s arms and hands flew up, out and back to her chest. She looked like an orchestra conductor. All she needed was the baton. The crowd couldn’t see her face, but we could see the judges‘ faces, which ranged from horrified to slack jawed and eye rolling.
Eventually that got old as well and the crowd dispersed along with the judges who finally simply gave up and left. Ms. Nelson did end up with the Grand Champion Ribbon for her peach pie, but I doubt she felt it was worth it. Word is she burned the ribbon in her fireplace, likely to get rid of any curse Miss Greta might have placed on it after her rants and ravings.
The other contest Miss Greta was known for were her roses. Nobody disputed that her roses were the most beautiful in town. She had a large trellis erected right next to the back door of her house that allowed the rose vines to snake through the tiny openings within the lattice. They were what are called Scentimental heirloom roses or simply striped red and white roses. They were gorgeous with their blood red tint and creamy white stripes. No one would argue that Miss Greta’s roses were the best and she worked hard at keeping them robust, trimming, spraying and watering every day.
It wasn’t that the town didn’t think she deserved her Championship ribbons, it was the way she handled herself. Most people are modest or humble when receiving an award, but not Greta. She took snootiness to a whole new level. However, people tolerated her since she was always in the social scene, whether it was a book club, bridge games, or church activities. You could always count on Miss G to be there and most of the women her age endured her antics. There had to be something Stormi and I were missing. I mean she had a suitor, a great friend in Trixie, and others who could look past the gruff exterior. What it was however, I couldn’t see it.
Stormi and I ate our dinner of sliced turkey on whole wheat while sitting at one of the tables out front. Dinnertime was normally
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