talking about. Having been one of the discoverers made me somewhat of a celebrity. Given my druthers, I certainly wouldn’t have picked a dismembered appendage as a means for my fifteen minutes of fame. I would have chosen something more in line with winning the South Carolina Lottery. Or a dream vacation to Fiji on Regis and Kelly .
“Kate!” A woman’s voice exclaimed from behind me.
Seemed like I couldn’t wheel my shopping cart, or buggy as they’re called here in the South, halfway down the produce aisle before being waylaid by someone eager to get the lowdown. I stopped sniffing a cantaloupe and glanced over my shoulder.
“Hello, Shirley,” I said, recognizing the woman. Shirley Buckner and her husband, Jerry, attend the same church as I do. Jerry sings in the choir. Shirley organizes bake sales. A nice couple. A little on the dull side, but nice.
“I heard what happened the other day.”
“You and half the county, it seems.” I set the melon back in the bin and picked up another. Don’t know why I bother with the sniff test. It never seems to help. Truthfully, I sniff only when others are around so it looks like I know what I’m doing. If no one’s watching, I just grab the nearest melon and move on.
“It must have been horrible.”
“You might say that,” I replied, giving up on smell-the-cantaloupe.
“Jerry and I were talking over breakfast. Do you suppose the rest of that poor soul will ever be found?”
“I have no idea, Shirley.” I placed the melon in my cart . . . er . . . buggy. “I only hope someone else does the honors next time.”
Shirley searched through the mound of melons as if she actually knew what she was doing. “I heard people say”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“ parts are probably scattered all across the state from one end to the other.”
“Couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about.” A second woman joined us. Apparently Shirley’s whisper needed more practice. “It’s awful, just awful. Isn’t it?”
Sheesh! Did she expect me to disagree? “It certainly is,” I murmured, edging away from the cantaloupes and heading toward the tomatoes. I’m much more confident around tomatoes. It’s much easier to spot a ripe one. Just zero in on red.
The woman, who I seemed to remember went by the name Bootsy, followed. “We never even used to lock our doors. Now my husband is talking about putting in a security system.”
Shirley, not about to be left out of the conversation, abandoned melons for Roma versus vine-ripened. “We’re considering getting a dog. A rottweiler, or maybe a pit bull. One that will be a good watchdog and protect us.”
“What about you, Kate? You live alone. Aren’t you frightened?”
“To be totally honest, ladies, I haven’t given the matter much thought.” I could tell by their looks of disapproval they weren’t happy with my answer.
“You really ought to take this more seriously,” Bootsy advised. “A woman living alone can’t be too careful with a madman on the loose.”
“Bootsy’s right, you know.” Shirley squeezed a beef-steak, nodded once, then bagged it. “Maybe you should consider having a security system installed.”
“Or get a dog,” Bootsy chimed.
“I heard the Humane Society is a great place to adopt a pet.”
“A friend of mine . . .”
I abandoned the produce section in favor of frozen foods and a quick escape. Last seen, Shirley and Bootsy were still arguing the merits of security systems versus guard dogs. I had no immediate plans for either.
I kept my shopping to a bare minimum to avoid a repeat of the conversation I’d just had with the two women. It’s rare I enter the Piggly Wiggly with only five items on my list and leave with only five. Usually my cart . . . er . . . buggy is full. It seemed a shame to pass the “buy one, get one free” items. But today I made an exception. I didn’t want to talk about “arms” or, worse yet, whom they might belong
“Kate!” A woman’s voice exclaimed from behind me.
Seemed like I couldn’t wheel my shopping cart, or buggy as they’re called here in the South, halfway down the produce aisle before being waylaid by someone eager to get the lowdown. I stopped sniffing a cantaloupe and glanced over my shoulder.
“Hello, Shirley,” I said, recognizing the woman. Shirley Buckner and her husband, Jerry, attend the same church as I do. Jerry sings in the choir. Shirley organizes bake sales. A nice couple. A little on the dull side, but nice.
“I heard what happened the other day.”
“You and half the county, it seems.” I set the melon back in the bin and picked up another. Don’t know why I bother with the sniff test. It never seems to help. Truthfully, I sniff only when others are around so it looks like I know what I’m doing. If no one’s watching, I just grab the nearest melon and move on.
“It must have been horrible.”
“You might say that,” I replied, giving up on smell-the-cantaloupe.
“Jerry and I were talking over breakfast. Do you suppose the rest of that poor soul will ever be found?”
“I have no idea, Shirley.” I placed the melon in my cart . . . er . . . buggy. “I only hope someone else does the honors next time.”
Shirley searched through the mound of melons as if she actually knew what she was doing. “I heard people say”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“ parts are probably scattered all across the state from one end to the other.”
“Couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about.” A second woman joined us. Apparently Shirley’s whisper needed more practice. “It’s awful, just awful. Isn’t it?”
Sheesh! Did she expect me to disagree? “It certainly is,” I murmured, edging away from the cantaloupes and heading toward the tomatoes. I’m much more confident around tomatoes. It’s much easier to spot a ripe one. Just zero in on red.
The woman, who I seemed to remember went by the name Bootsy, followed. “We never even used to lock our doors. Now my husband is talking about putting in a security system.”
Shirley, not about to be left out of the conversation, abandoned melons for Roma versus vine-ripened. “We’re considering getting a dog. A rottweiler, or maybe a pit bull. One that will be a good watchdog and protect us.”
“What about you, Kate? You live alone. Aren’t you frightened?”
“To be totally honest, ladies, I haven’t given the matter much thought.” I could tell by their looks of disapproval they weren’t happy with my answer.
“You really ought to take this more seriously,” Bootsy advised. “A woman living alone can’t be too careful with a madman on the loose.”
“Bootsy’s right, you know.” Shirley squeezed a beef-steak, nodded once, then bagged it. “Maybe you should consider having a security system installed.”
“Or get a dog,” Bootsy chimed.
“I heard the Humane Society is a great place to adopt a pet.”
“A friend of mine . . .”
I abandoned the produce section in favor of frozen foods and a quick escape. Last seen, Shirley and Bootsy were still arguing the merits of security systems versus guard dogs. I had no immediate plans for either.
I kept my shopping to a bare minimum to avoid a repeat of the conversation I’d just had with the two women. It’s rare I enter the Piggly Wiggly with only five items on my list and leave with only five. Usually my cart . . . er . . . buggy is full. It seemed a shame to pass the “buy one, get one free” items. But today I made an exception. I didn’t want to talk about “arms” or, worse yet, whom they might belong
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