Read Online Bite the Biscuit (A Barkery & Biscuits Mystery) by Linda O. Johnston - Free Book Online Page B

Black.”
    “You got it.” She wrote it down on a small pad of paper, then said, “I’ll let the Joes know you’re here,” and took off.
    The staff, and others—including me sometimes—referred to Joe and Irma Nash collectively as “the Joes,” since this place was Cuppa-Joe’s, and it was theirs.
    Joe and Irma came out onto the crowded patio a couple of minutes later, pulled up chairs, and sat down with us—after each gave me a big kiss on the cheek and patted Biscuit’s head. They weren’t serving food, so they wouldn’t need to wash their hands right away. They had, however, each brought a cup of coffee to the table with them. Good. That meant they intended to stay awhile.
    “Great to see you, Carrie.” Irma was in her sixties but looked much younger, with stylishly cut and highlighted brown hair framing a face made up as well as any model’s. And she hadn’t resorted to Botox or anything artificial.
    “Ditto,” said Joe. “But what brings you here on the day after you opened your new shop?” Unlike his wife, Joe looked his age, partly thanks to the grayness of his hair beyond his receding hairline. He also had deep divots on either side of his mouth, which only seemed to frame his frequent smiles.
    They’d both popped in at the party, separately and briefly. They had their own business to run, of course, and their limited participation hadn’t hurt my feelings. I knew they’d been with me in spirit.
    “Oh, well … ”
    “Spit it out,” Joe insisted.
    “And don’t pretend,” said Irma. “We heard about Myra Ethman, along with some rumors that you and she had a bit of a falling out at your party.”
    “More than that,” I said. “But it wasn’t enough for me to have killed her, as the police seem to think.”
    “Oh no.” Irma rose and came over to hug me. “I was afraid of something like that when I heard those rumors.”
    “Who—” I began.
    “Some of our early morning customers who like to talk too much,” Joe interrupted. “We made it clear we’d be glad to serve them food but we don’t allow gossip around here.”
    “Thanks.” The word spilled from me in a throaty sigh. “You two are the best.”
    In fact, Joe and Irma were like family. No, they were better than family—at least, better than Neal’s and mine.
    Neal and I had been brought up by our family in nearby Riverside, California—two sort-of misnomers. First, although the northern part of Riverside is actually beside the Santa Ana River, most of the town doesn’t exactly front the water. Second, except for each other, Neal and I don’t have much of a family. Our parents divorced years ago, and both remarried and had other kids. Those younger stepsiblings were all-important to each of them.
    Neal and me? Not so much.
    The Nashes had been here forever. The restaurant had been started by Joe’s parents when they were younger than me, or so I gathered. Joe and Irma’s own kids were grown, and their daughter remained in Knobcone Heights. She and her husband helped to run this place and apparently were teaching their two daughters how important it was. Their son had become a lawyer and moved to L.A. but visited often with his own family.
    Yes, the Nashes believed in family, their own and those they’d adopted into the fold. Like Neal and me.
    Kit soon served my sandwich, and I shared my chips with Joe and Irma. Everything was delicious—particularly the charming conversation about some Hollywood types who’d recently come to town and visited Cuppa.
    I was about to take the last bite of tuna when I saw two people stroll onto the patio from the front of the restaurant—two people I’d prefer to never see again, and definitely not this soon. The detectives.
    Joe and Irma followed my gaze as I put the sandwich down. “Them?” Joe asked.
    I nodded. “They’ve been asking me questions.”
    “We know they’re cops. They eat here a lot, usually inside. But I’ll be glad to throw them out.”
    “No need,”