Read Online Michaela Thompson - Florida Panhandle 01 - Hurricane Season by Michaela Thompson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michaela Thompson
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socked his fist into his palm. “I’d sure like to get ahold of that—”
“Shut up.” Bo glanced at their father, who was drinking noisily, then surveyed his brothers. “You all know what we have to do?”
“Watch Elmore,” Sonny said.
“Damn right, watch him,” said Bo. “Find out who the hell he’s getting that whiskey from. Find out, and you’ll find the son of a bitch that blew up the still.”
The room was silent except for the old man’s slobbering. Then came the sound of footsteps, and Miss Myrna entered the room.
Miss Myrna, small and white-haired, had spent her life turning her back on what her husband did for a living. The effort had left her dazed, and befuddlement was her usual expression. Now, however, she looked more alert than usual. “The most awful thing,” she said. She looked around, waiting until the old man noticed her and put his coffee cup down.
“That was Voncile, down at the post office,” she said. “There’s been a murder. At the landing.” She stopped to let attention build. “Diana Landis got beat to death with a cast net and thrown in the water. She was hanging there all tangled up.”
A second or two of shocked silence followed. Bo, with a convulsive motion of his arm, knocked his mug of coffee to the floor. Sue Nell stared at him, her eyes brackish in her pale face.
Miss Myrna looked at the spilled coffee and said, “Oh my.”
“What happened? Somebody killed?” snapped Old Man Calhoun.
Miss Myrna leaned closer to him. “Diana Landis!” she bawled. “Snapper’s daughter! Murdered!”
“I swan,” said the old man.
Miss Myrna did her best to answer the questions that followed, but she knew little else except that Sheriff Malone had discovered the body after getting an anonymous phone call telling him where to look.
“Do they know who did it?” Bo’s voice sounded pinched.
“No idea at all, Voncile said.”
“One of her gentlemen friends, most likely,” said Sue Nell. Her lips were trembling.
“She’s dead and gone now,” said Miss Myrna. “Don’t speak ill.”
Bo and Sue Nell looked at each other. Sue Nell seemed about to speak, then pursed her lips. Bo’s face, pale up till then, began to grow pink.
Miss Myrna cleared her throat. “How about if I get you all some cake?”
Bo didn’t seem to hear her. He got up and walked out the front door. In a moment, the Calhouns heard the sound of his car engine, which soon faded as he drove away.
Condolence Call
Lily took the peach cobbler out of the oven, turned off the gas, and swayed, overcome by the heat. Jell-O mold would have been easier and cooler, but on these occasions it was important to take trouble. Setting the hot dish down and removing her apron, she walked out of the kitchen and sank into the rocking chair on the screened porch, leaning back and pulling the damp, humid air into her lungs. She’d have to bathe before she left.
Sitting in tepid, rust-colored water in the deep, claw-footed tub, dusting herself with talcum powder afterward, Lily wondered how Snapper really felt about Diana’s death. He was sure to do and say the proper things, but it was no secret that Diana’s reputation had hurt him in the last election, and the challenge from Gospel Roy was the strongest he’d ever had. “Talks about weeding out the subversives. He can’t even handle his own daughter”—Lily had heard that more than once since the campaign had gotten under way.
Still—she pulled her second-best dress, navy with white polka dots, over her head—a daughter was a daughter. Lily didn’t always see eye-to-eye with her own daughter, Wanda. Wanda, Lily had always thought, lacked spunk. Marrying Woody Malone was a good example. But Lily certainly would be terribly upset if Wanda were murdered, spunk or no spunk.
It was too bad Diana’s mother had died, and Snapper had always been so busy. The girl had been left to the maid, Pearl, who did her best, but—Lily zipped her dress and ran a
“Shut up.” Bo glanced at their father, who was drinking noisily, then surveyed his brothers. “You all know what we have to do?”
“Watch Elmore,” Sonny said.
“Damn right, watch him,” said Bo. “Find out who the hell he’s getting that whiskey from. Find out, and you’ll find the son of a bitch that blew up the still.”
The room was silent except for the old man’s slobbering. Then came the sound of footsteps, and Miss Myrna entered the room.
Miss Myrna, small and white-haired, had spent her life turning her back on what her husband did for a living. The effort had left her dazed, and befuddlement was her usual expression. Now, however, she looked more alert than usual. “The most awful thing,” she said. She looked around, waiting until the old man noticed her and put his coffee cup down.
“That was Voncile, down at the post office,” she said. “There’s been a murder. At the landing.” She stopped to let attention build. “Diana Landis got beat to death with a cast net and thrown in the water. She was hanging there all tangled up.”
A second or two of shocked silence followed. Bo, with a convulsive motion of his arm, knocked his mug of coffee to the floor. Sue Nell stared at him, her eyes brackish in her pale face.
Miss Myrna looked at the spilled coffee and said, “Oh my.”
“What happened? Somebody killed?” snapped Old Man Calhoun.
Miss Myrna leaned closer to him. “Diana Landis!” she bawled. “Snapper’s daughter! Murdered!”
“I swan,” said the old man.
Miss Myrna did her best to answer the questions that followed, but she knew little else except that Sheriff Malone had discovered the body after getting an anonymous phone call telling him where to look.
“Do they know who did it?” Bo’s voice sounded pinched.
“No idea at all, Voncile said.”
“One of her gentlemen friends, most likely,” said Sue Nell. Her lips were trembling.
“She’s dead and gone now,” said Miss Myrna. “Don’t speak ill.”
Bo and Sue Nell looked at each other. Sue Nell seemed about to speak, then pursed her lips. Bo’s face, pale up till then, began to grow pink.
Miss Myrna cleared her throat. “How about if I get you all some cake?”
Bo didn’t seem to hear her. He got up and walked out the front door. In a moment, the Calhouns heard the sound of his car engine, which soon faded as he drove away.
Condolence Call
Lily took the peach cobbler out of the oven, turned off the gas, and swayed, overcome by the heat. Jell-O mold would have been easier and cooler, but on these occasions it was important to take trouble. Setting the hot dish down and removing her apron, she walked out of the kitchen and sank into the rocking chair on the screened porch, leaning back and pulling the damp, humid air into her lungs. She’d have to bathe before she left.
Sitting in tepid, rust-colored water in the deep, claw-footed tub, dusting herself with talcum powder afterward, Lily wondered how Snapper really felt about Diana’s death. He was sure to do and say the proper things, but it was no secret that Diana’s reputation had hurt him in the last election, and the challenge from Gospel Roy was the strongest he’d ever had. “Talks about weeding out the subversives. He can’t even handle his own daughter”—Lily had heard that more than once since the campaign had gotten under way.
Still—she pulled her second-best dress, navy with white polka dots, over her head—a daughter was a daughter. Lily didn’t always see eye-to-eye with her own daughter, Wanda. Wanda, Lily had always thought, lacked spunk. Marrying Woody Malone was a good example. But Lily certainly would be terribly upset if Wanda were murdered, spunk or no spunk.
It was too bad Diana’s mother had died, and Snapper had always been so busy. The girl had been left to the maid, Pearl, who did her best, but—Lily zipped her dress and ran a
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