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Authors: Between a Clutch, a Hard Place
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dear?”
“I reckon he’ll live.”
“You don’t sound very sympathetic. I suppose it’s because you know he and I are seeing each other and you’re afraid of getting dumped.”
I opened the jar of spaghetti sauce I had sittin’ on the counter. “I am sympathetic to Jim or else I wouldn’t be here, and I don’t think I’d go around telling people the two of you are seeing each other if I were you. He told me that when he couldn’t reach me the other night, he called you and had you meet him at Smiddy’s. He said he hates to dine alone.”
Tansie was carryin’ that new Louis Vuitton pocketbook she’d bought at Marcia’s, and she slammed it down on the counter. “Are you intimating that Jim asked me to dinner merely because you were unavailable?”
“No, I’m not intimating a thing. I’m flat out tellin’ you—you were second fiddle.”
She gasped. “You don’t honestly believe that?”
I took a spoon out of the dish drainer. “I know it for a fact; Jim told me so himself.” I turned and began spooning spaghetti sauce into the bottom of the casserole dish.
Tansie must not have appreciated my turning away from her in the midst of what she probably considered an important conversation, so she grabbed me by the shoulder. When she did, a spoonful of spaghetti sauce flung itself right at her. I say it flung itself because it was an accident—truly, it was—and one of Tansie’s own making. If she hadn’t grabbed me like that, it wouldn’t have happened. I was just puttin’ together a casserole, for pity’s sake.
Anyway, she had on this light blue crepe-y shirt, and that sauce spattered all over it. Not only that, it got on Jim’s nice linen tablecloth. I hated that. It was a lovely tablecloth.
“Now, look what you made me do,” I said.
Tansie started to ball up her fist; and I thought if she slugged me, she’d better get ready—they hit back where I come from.
She looked at my spaghetti spoon and then down at her shirt and apparently decided not to tangle with me anymore today. Instead, she flounced out of the kitchen to go find the bathroom.
I drained the spaghetti, got the cheese out of the refrigerator and finished fixing the spaghetti casserole.
By the time Tansie emerged from the bathroom with wet splotches all over her crepe-y shirt, the tuna casserole was done. I took it out and put the spaghetti casserole into the oven.
“I thought Jim might like this tuna casserole for lunch,” I said. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, thank you. I believe I’ll go speak to Jim and then be on my way.”
“He’s in the den . . . down the hall and to your right.”
She nodded.
Suddenly, I felt bad for Tansie and wished I hadn’t rubbed it in her face about her bein’ second fiddle. After all, she didn’t even suspect Jim of bein’ a killer.
She came back and stuck her head in the kitchen. “He’s asleep,” she said. “The dog is, too. I’ll just give Jim a call later.”
“I need to go, too,” I said, “as soon as the spaghetti casserole is done. If he’s not awake by then, I’ll leave him a note and let him know you stopped by.” Feeling magnanimous, I decided to smooth over her feelings. “He really does like you.” Boy, did she ruin my magnanimous gesture.
“Of course. I know he likes me,” she said.
It took everything in me not to jeer, “Second fiddle! Second fiddle!”
She went on out; and after getting the other casserole out of the oven, cleaning up my mess, and making sure everything was off, I collected Matlock and we left, too. I did leave the note for Jim, since he was still asleep. I told him I’d prepared two casseroles and that they were in the fridge. I added that Tansie Miller stopped by for a second but had to hurry on her way. (I didn’t want him to think she’d helped with the cooking!) I added that a bit of spaghetti sauce spilled onto his
“I reckon he’ll live.”
“You don’t sound very sympathetic. I suppose it’s because you know he and I are seeing each other and you’re afraid of getting dumped.”
I opened the jar of spaghetti sauce I had sittin’ on the counter. “I am sympathetic to Jim or else I wouldn’t be here, and I don’t think I’d go around telling people the two of you are seeing each other if I were you. He told me that when he couldn’t reach me the other night, he called you and had you meet him at Smiddy’s. He said he hates to dine alone.”
Tansie was carryin’ that new Louis Vuitton pocketbook she’d bought at Marcia’s, and she slammed it down on the counter. “Are you intimating that Jim asked me to dinner merely because you were unavailable?”
“No, I’m not intimating a thing. I’m flat out tellin’ you—you were second fiddle.”
She gasped. “You don’t honestly believe that?”
I took a spoon out of the dish drainer. “I know it for a fact; Jim told me so himself.” I turned and began spooning spaghetti sauce into the bottom of the casserole dish.
Tansie must not have appreciated my turning away from her in the midst of what she probably considered an important conversation, so she grabbed me by the shoulder. When she did, a spoonful of spaghetti sauce flung itself right at her. I say it flung itself because it was an accident—truly, it was—and one of Tansie’s own making. If she hadn’t grabbed me like that, it wouldn’t have happened. I was just puttin’ together a casserole, for pity’s sake.
Anyway, she had on this light blue crepe-y shirt, and that sauce spattered all over it. Not only that, it got on Jim’s nice linen tablecloth. I hated that. It was a lovely tablecloth.
“Now, look what you made me do,” I said.
Tansie started to ball up her fist; and I thought if she slugged me, she’d better get ready—they hit back where I come from.
She looked at my spaghetti spoon and then down at her shirt and apparently decided not to tangle with me anymore today. Instead, she flounced out of the kitchen to go find the bathroom.
I drained the spaghetti, got the cheese out of the refrigerator and finished fixing the spaghetti casserole.
By the time Tansie emerged from the bathroom with wet splotches all over her crepe-y shirt, the tuna casserole was done. I took it out and put the spaghetti casserole into the oven.
“I thought Jim might like this tuna casserole for lunch,” I said. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, thank you. I believe I’ll go speak to Jim and then be on my way.”
“He’s in the den . . . down the hall and to your right.”
She nodded.
Suddenly, I felt bad for Tansie and wished I hadn’t rubbed it in her face about her bein’ second fiddle. After all, she didn’t even suspect Jim of bein’ a killer.
She came back and stuck her head in the kitchen. “He’s asleep,” she said. “The dog is, too. I’ll just give Jim a call later.”
“I need to go, too,” I said, “as soon as the spaghetti casserole is done. If he’s not awake by then, I’ll leave him a note and let him know you stopped by.” Feeling magnanimous, I decided to smooth over her feelings. “He really does like you.” Boy, did she ruin my magnanimous gesture.
“Of course. I know he likes me,” she said.
It took everything in me not to jeer, “Second fiddle! Second fiddle!”
She went on out; and after getting the other casserole out of the oven, cleaning up my mess, and making sure everything was off, I collected Matlock and we left, too. I did leave the note for Jim, since he was still asleep. I told him I’d prepared two casseroles and that they were in the fridge. I added that Tansie Miller stopped by for a second but had to hurry on her way. (I didn’t want him to think she’d helped with the cooking!) I added that a bit of spaghetti sauce spilled onto his
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