Read Online Death of a Domestic Diva by Sharon Short - Free Book Online Page A

“He was just getting back from the Red Horse Motel—some woman in a white truck dropping him off.” Owen frowned, shook his head. “He didn’t look happy. He was upset by something—which is probably why he took our news so poorly.”
    â€œYour news?” I said.
    â€œNow, Josie,” Winnie said. “You know Billy can’t be here while Tyra’s here. He’ll spoil the whole ambience. And wouldn’t it be better if Tyra had her own suite, rather than you having to sleep on your couch?” I’d envisioned Tyra continuing to sleep on my couch, but I didn’t bother to explain that. “So we told him he needed to move in with Owen, while we redecorated your spare apartment to get it ready for Tyra—as a Bed and Breakfast.”
    â€œJust what am I supposed to feed her? Pop-Tarts?”
    Owen ignored my question. “Billy went into a rage, something about people with too much power hurting people with too little power. He said if Tyra Grimes came here, there’d be real trouble—which was pretty odd, considering he was wearing his Tyra Grimes T-shirt. Then he took his Cut-N-Suck and walked off, saying he was going back to the Red Horse Motel.”
    I groaned. Now the list of people predicting trouble if Tyra came to town was made up of Lewis Rothchild, Vivian Denlinger, the ghost of Mrs. Oglevee, and my nutty cousin Billy Toadfern. And Tyra was already here. Oh, Lord, was she ever here.
    I groaned again.
    â€œMaybe a nice cup of cappuccino will help you,” Owen said.
    He trotted over to the weird coffeemaker and in a few minutes came over to me with a mug filled with frothy stuff. I don’t function well without coffee in the morning, and if I didn’t take a sip I was liable to say something really, really hurtful to these two dear people who I loved very much and who were now making me crazy.
    So, I took a sip. And right off, I started choking. All that white frothy milk on top was deceptive. The essence of the stuff was a thick liquid, riddled with coffee grounds.
    I half swallowed, half chewed to get the mouthful down.
    Owen grabbed the mug from me. “Must be the flubberguster,” he said. Or something like that. He was muttering about mechanical parts. I stared at him, but he didn’t notice.
    This was Owen? My philosophical boyfriend? My society’s-obsession-with-pretenses-will-undermine-us-all boyfriend, who was currently teaching the Art of Angst (or maybe it was the Angst of Art) at Masonville Community College? I didn’t recognize him.
    Then I stared over at Winnie. She was fussing with the books, trying to arrange them just so.
    This was Winnie? My literary best friend? My all-individuals-are-equally-important-in-the-sight-of-God best friend, who knew the reading tastes of everyone on her bookmobile route, and who made sure her shut-ins got a fresh supply of their favorite books every week? I didn’t recognize her.
    I needed some real coffee. Around people I’d definitely recognize—across the street at Sandy’s Restaurant. So I left. Owen and Winnie didn’t notice.
    I crossed the street to Sandy’s. Just before I went in, I looked back at my laundromat.
    Now that my window said, “Josephine Todeferne’s Laundrette” in fancy script, it didn’t look like my place at all.
    Not at all.
    At least things were normal over at Sandy’s Restaurant.
    The framed Norman Rockwell poster was still hanging in its spot on the knotty-pine paneling—the Rockwell of the police officer in blue uniform sitting at a diner stool next to a runaway boy. I just love that poster.
    And then there was dear old Sandy herself. I took my usual spot at the counter and Sandy came right over to me, with a fresh mug of coffee. Just plain, black coffee. No froth.
    As usual, Sandy had on her blue-and-white checked apron—which cleverly matches the place mats—right over her favorite NASCAR