“You really think we’ll find ourselves a couple of rich husbands tonight?”
I laughed. “Just yesterday, you quoted from that book you love so much…something about rich men on the hunt for wives.”
Chief Rollins had waited for weeks to watch his beloved Eagles face off against the Chiefs in Super Bowl LVII, but the call that the mayor’s diamond bracelet was stolen during her 2023 party upended his plans. “At least,” he said to Detective Tabitha Stephens, “We’ll only miss the half-time show. We’ll catch glimpses of the game on her TVs.
These days I take pleasure in the little things. My life, so often pinched by work demands, got some much-needed breathing room after my retirement. Now, it’s wonderful just to discover an unexpected parcel of time during the day. It’s like putting on your jacket and finding money in the pocket that you didn’t know was there.
“One jolly fat man?”
“With a long white beard,” I elaborated. “We’ll supply the Santa suit, the elf, and the reindeer.”
The woman on the other end of the line said, “Our Santas are booked solid through the holiday season—”
The blue sedan brakes at the end of Aunt Ronna’s block. The driver and passenger look like they’re consulting a GPS, but what if they’re onto me? My breath turns ragged. Halfway up the block in the other direction, a FedEx truck veers to the curb, its flashers on. Nobody jumps out with a package. Am I being followed? Do these folks know what’s under the quilted cover of my casserole dish?
Pongo Smith's adrenaline could have burst a fire hose. The cash wouldn't stop gushing. He had to keep pulling bills from the slot to make room for the ATM to feed new ones. Then his sluggish brain kicked in. This is too good to be true. He felt a blast of fear as cold as the snow-packed slopes that surrounded the Indian casino.
First came the swipe of something wet and warm on my eyes. Then I felt a puff of hot air on my face. It stank of rotten meat. A low roar pressed against my eardrums, pushed against the inside of my skull. Pain came and erased everything, and I slipped down a pit where there was no feeling at all.
“What should we do with the body?”
“We won’t do anything if he doesn’t die.” Lizzie McGuire, always the one to make the major decisions, gazed at her twin sister. Betsy had a knack for handling a variety of situations, but none came under the category of personal importance or social necessity.
Tim clenched his teeth. Not only was the new boss continuing to mispronounce Tim’s last name (it was Feret and rhymed with the French hat), now he objected to a report Tim had been doing the same way for the last seven years.
As a prominent attorney, I have made a name for myself. Whatever name that is depends on whom you ask. At any rate, names don’t concern me. I am only interested in helping those unfortunates who would otherwise be victims of circumstances beyond their control by big corporations and an uncaring public. The money isn’t bad, either.
