Read Online Cemetery Silk by E. Joan Sims - Free Book Online

repaired by some old fogey she knew who charged a small fortune.
    I wanted to accuse Miss Gertrude of getting a kickback, but I had been afraid of her when I was a child and nothing had changed. Her frozen eyes still sent chills to my very soul. I meekly paid up, and we filed out of the dusty book lined mausoleum thoroughly cowed. Only the bravest of the brave would dare to borrow a book from that old dragon.
    With the idea of restoring our sagging spirits, Mother made us an offer we could not refuse. She directed us to the cozy confines of Ye Olde Tea Shoppe.,
    â€œWell, what now, Mom?”
    â€œIf I might offer a suggestion?” The pinky was fully extended as a dainty teacup paused at her lips.
    â€œPlease, Mother, when have you ever been stopped from offering anything, especially some more shortbread, and please pass the muscadine jelly.”
    â€œNo need to be sassy, Paisley.”
    â€œSorry, Mmufher.”
    â€œAnd don’t speak with your mouth full.”
    She dabbed delicately at her lips with the dainty little paper napkin and topped off our teacups with the last of Ye Olde Earl Gray.
    â€œI have a box of Abigail’s papers that William gave me after she died. He asked me to go through it and see if there was anything I wanted. Something always came up each time I sat down to do it, and I never got around to even taking the top off. I guess I just really didn’t have the heart. Maybe we can get some ideas from her papers. Something from that box may spark your literary imagination.”
    â€œGreat!” saluted Cassie. “That’s a stupendous idea, Gran.”
    â€œOf course.” She had never been accused of being humble.
    It had been comfortably accepted by all parties without even being voiced that Cassie and I would stay for a while, maybe even a long while. I now had no home to go to and Cass had attended both sessions of summer school and was ready for a break. We all agreed that it would be a terrific idea for her to take a vacation this fall and return to school for the spring semester.
    When we got home I was ready for a little siesta. I could tell that Mother had an itch to try out a new recipe, so Cassie and I wobbled off for some naptime and left her to her muse.
    I had learned long ago not to take an afternoon nap in my nighttime bed. Instead, I sought out the sofa in the library. That room always made me think of my father because, after his retirement, it had also served as his office. His desk still stood in the corner facing out toward the fireplace. It was surrounded by floor to ceiling bookcases filled with his books. There were some volumes of poetry belonging to Mother on the shelves here and there. And some of the more interesting college texts of Velvet’s or mine peeked out from the corners. But most of the books were Dad’s. The authors’ names gave proof to his eclectic reading habits. They ranged from his beloved Louis L’Amour to Shakespeare, Samuel Eliot Morrison, John Steinbeck, Wilbur Smith to Hemingway and back again to John MacDonald and Thomas Wolfe.
    Dad loved a good story. He was a great storyteller himself. His literary advice to me had always been to tell the truth. That had always been the best part of my stories. I had done painstaking research on whatever little creature I wrote about, making sure that I would not mislead the kiddies about its true nature.
    Now I had another creature to write about and I wanted no one to be misled about his true nature, either. He was a scoundrel and a scallywag if he had treated William the way I assumed he had. I wanted to get as close to that truth as I could. That kind of research could not be done in any library. I would have to do some footwork. I would have to become a regular gumshoe. I couldn’t go to the police and say, “My mother thinks someone killed her cousin. Why? Well, just because, that’s why.” They would lock us all up in Sunny Acres. Besides,