Read Online Doing It at the Dixie Dew by Ruth Moose - Free Book Online

the trade.” Now I knew why most lawyers and businessmen did well financially. They weren’t in the least romantics. Their hearts didn’t move a muscle in their heads. In fact, they probably went out of their way not to communicate with each other.
    â€œMiss Lavinia came to Littleboro to visit friends,” I told Ossie DelGardo. It’s a coincidence she died in my B and B.
    â€œPoison is no coincidence.” Ossie DelGardo went to the window, pulled the blind, then turned to look at me. “Was Father Roderick a coincidence, too? There was no one in the chapel but you.”
    â€œI called you,” I said. “Would I have done that if I had killed him?” I wished Ethan would get here. He probably had to dress. At least put on his shoes this time of night, find his car keys.
    â€œWomen’s weapons,” Ossie mused. “Poison. And silk underwear. Teddy, my wife calls it. Fanciest one I’ve ever seen, French label and all that … makes me wonder.” He turned to look at me. Stared as though he wanted to see right through my clothes. His stare … him … it all made my skin crawl!
    â€œI’m wearing my own underwear, not a teddy. Thank you very much,” I said as huffily as I could. I fully expected him to ask my size, come over to me as if he’d like to check for himself. I glanced at the door, wondered if I could beat him to it if he even tried to touch me.
    Ossie tapped his glass desktop with his ring again. “When I find the owner of all that silk and lace, I’ll have my murderer, Miss Beth … and it might be you.” He smiled a quirky little fat-cat Cheshire grin.
    At that I sprang from the chair and slammed out his door. I couldn’t wait any longer for Ethan Drummond’s shoes and car keys. As it was, Ethan came rumbling up just as I opened the door to Scott’s truck.
    â€œThere was nothing he could hold you on,” Ethan said, stuffing his pajama top in his pants. “You go on now. I’ll take care of Mr. Ossie myself.”
    Though it was only three blocks to the B and B, too much had gone on in Littleboro this week for anyone to go walking in the dark. Scott didn’t say a word driving home; he just drove while I sat there and steamed like a summer storm.
    When I got home, I headed straight upstairs. “I want a bath. I want to wash this day and some of the looks I’ve gotten from some people … wash them off and send them down the drain.” Then I filled Mama Alice’s old footed cast-iron tub with the hottest water I could stand, poured in some lemon bath salts and climbed in. I soaked and steamed and steamed some more. I was so mad. The nerve of Ossie DelGardo thinking I had anything to do with either death. He made me feel dirty with all his accusations, his insinuations, sly looks and mumblings under his breath. The way he kept playing with his desk drawer as if I laid the right amount of cash in it he’d look down, close the drawer and dismiss me with a wave of his hand. He’d close the case and not even look up as I went out. Why did I have that feeling? Because he was not “native Littleboro”? An “outsider?” Acted “big-city crime stoppers, gangbusters, TV cop, tough stuff?” He just seemed oily, that’s all. Oily and slick, as if he could slide through anything he wanted or shove anything he didn’t want under the table and look away.
    I had loved the way Scott’s truck smelled of leather and soap and oil. The kind of oil Mama Alice used on her sewing machine, a light golden and pleasant fragrance that made me nostalgic. Made me want more than ever the Littleboro of my childhood, where you could walk anywhere any time of day or night and be perfectly safe doing so. The kind of town where no one ever locked their doors, just hooked the latches on the screen doors at night and slept unafraid. There was nothing to fear. Crime