It all started when we shaved the cat.
The last few weeks have contained bizarre and unexpected happenings.
I mentioned the excessive raccoon visitations last week…now there have been five more. All have been captured humanely and set free in much more welcoming environments. However, one or more of them apparently invited friends and relatives to our garbage can party and we are beginning to wonder if it will ever end.
Now that we are slightly paranoid, we’ve begun looking into this insane invasion and in the process have uncovered other issues that are making our lives less than serene. At first we thought the advent of financial tremors and leaking air conditioners might have something to do with Fabio. Could he be “waking up” at night and pranking us or acting out over being treated as just a two-dimensional object?
But no, the financial tremor began earlier. The relational maelstroms are new, but could Fabio have anything to do with them? I think not. Unless he is somehow throwing his voice. Hmmm. I’ll make sure to have the next serious conversation far, far away from Fabio, just in case.
The only other common denominator is the cat. Normally, people don’t shave cats. There are several reasons for this. Most of them can draw blood in a New York second.
However, Blackie (the GRAY) cat is elderly and fluffy. This is not a great combination when it comes to grooming aesthetics. Not at all. Taking pity upon her we had a family “shave the cat” night and liberated her from her unruly hair. Not completely mind you. She was left full-fur faced, full plume tailed and fluffy little slippers.
I’ll admit that she hated the process, just call me stumpy. But the after effects, though less than attractive, have been an improvement. She seems to like her sleek new look. Really.
But maybe not. Maybe the recent string of upheavals are the result of a cat curse.
You might want to check into that should you have a hankering to buzz cut a feline.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Monday, July 02, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat Cries Fowl
Pat’s fowl history extends beyond Sonny the parrot.
It involves strange roosters in obscure junk yards.
Pat needed a car part. Our town boasted a large junk yard, so the family piled into the good automobile to run for the part for the temperamental car.
Not sure why this was a family outing. Maybe because we were headed out toward “the country” and dad wanted us to see some wildlife. Or maybe he wanted company. Or just someone take out mechanically induced frustration on and he figured the children's legs would be the equivalent of a stress ball. There was a guaranteed opportunity for leg grabbing since the backseat would boast of at least one fight because we’d be in the car for over five minutes.
Regardless of the reason we were along – we became witnesses to an event we wouldn’t have believed if we didn’t see it unfold.
Pat left us all in the car while he disappeared behind the dilapidated fence. A quaint farm house sat to the left of the junk yard. We watched a woman as she weeded until she went back inside. None of us heard a barking junk yard dog, so we assumed Pat was safe. Eventually the tension around my mother's eyes faded and we relaxed into the assumption that this was indeed just a simple errand on a beautiful day.
As soon as I had that thought I spied Pat rounding the corner headed back to the car. As he drew closer to the car he started dancing a little jig. Wow, he must’ve gotten a great deal on that part.
Mom leaned forward and squinted. “What is he doing?”
So maybe it wasn’t the “I got a bargain dance.” Pat started laughing, but his hoots and hollers were interrupted with strange muttering and threats.
That’s when we noticed the rooster. A large white junk yard rooster attacked Pat’s legs with beak, spurs and enthusiasm. Pat spent his trip back to the car avoiding, dancing, kicking and laughing. Finally, he reached the car, opened the door and slid in, kicking all the while.
The woman from the farmhouse opened her door. “Henry!” The rooster took off, headed back to his house clucking in victory.
It involves strange roosters in obscure junk yards.
Pat needed a car part. Our town boasted a large junk yard, so the family piled into the good automobile to run for the part for the temperamental car.
Not sure why this was a family outing. Maybe because we were headed out toward “the country” and dad wanted us to see some wildlife. Or maybe he wanted company. Or just someone take out mechanically induced frustration on and he figured the children's legs would be the equivalent of a stress ball. There was a guaranteed opportunity for leg grabbing since the backseat would boast of at least one fight because we’d be in the car for over five minutes.
Regardless of the reason we were along – we became witnesses to an event we wouldn’t have believed if we didn’t see it unfold.
Pat left us all in the car while he disappeared behind the dilapidated fence. A quaint farm house sat to the left of the junk yard. We watched a woman as she weeded until she went back inside. None of us heard a barking junk yard dog, so we assumed Pat was safe. Eventually the tension around my mother's eyes faded and we relaxed into the assumption that this was indeed just a simple errand on a beautiful day.
As soon as I had that thought I spied Pat rounding the corner headed back to the car. As he drew closer to the car he started dancing a little jig. Wow, he must’ve gotten a great deal on that part.
Mom leaned forward and squinted. “What is he doing?”
So maybe it wasn’t the “I got a bargain dance.” Pat started laughing, but his hoots and hollers were interrupted with strange muttering and threats.
That’s when we noticed the rooster. A large white junk yard rooster attacked Pat’s legs with beak, spurs and enthusiasm. Pat spent his trip back to the car avoiding, dancing, kicking and laughing. Finally, he reached the car, opened the door and slid in, kicking all the while.
The woman from the farmhouse opened her door. “Henry!” The rooster took off, headed back to his house clucking in victory.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles ~ Not PETA Approved
My husband, Rob, likes to hunt. I don't understand this, but I don't really want to either. So we agree to disagree on this whole issue.
I create edible meals out of his "catches" and then I fix myself a bowl of Cheerios sans sugar. Two of our children eat game, one does not.
This week I created deer meatloaf and grilled deer steak.
Hunters call this venison.
I no longer call it fillet of Bambi's mother, and he no longer begs me to take just a tiny bite. Yes, good marriages are made of compromises such as this.
In addition to his deer-filled week, Rob's had a little hunting fun. Oh, it's not officially hunting season in Iowa. However, we have had some late night garbage can visitors, and Rob, being the very sensitive husband that he is, set a live trap. This is the kind that you bait, the creature enters and is unhurt by the shutting of the cage door. Then all good, responsible hunters drive the animal out of the city limits and set it free.
We are going on our third raccoon. Never, in the twelve years we've lived here have this problem.
No, it's not the same raccoon who returns "Homeward Bound" style.
The first one growled and "smiled" rather viciously whenever Rob neared the cage. The second lounged on it's back and poked and read a novel. When Rob opened the cage the raccoon had decided he kind of liked the lovely little box. I think he might be of the RVing genus.
Have a great weekend.
I create edible meals out of his "catches" and then I fix myself a bowl of Cheerios sans sugar. Two of our children eat game, one does not.
This week I created deer meatloaf and grilled deer steak.
Hunters call this venison.
I no longer call it fillet of Bambi's mother, and he no longer begs me to take just a tiny bite. Yes, good marriages are made of compromises such as this.
In addition to his deer-filled week, Rob's had a little hunting fun. Oh, it's not officially hunting season in Iowa. However, we have had some late night garbage can visitors, and Rob, being the very sensitive husband that he is, set a live trap. This is the kind that you bait, the creature enters and is unhurt by the shutting of the cage door. Then all good, responsible hunters drive the animal out of the city limits and set it free.
We are going on our third raccoon. Never, in the twelve years we've lived here have this problem.
No, it's not the same raccoon who returns "Homeward Bound" style.
The first one growled and "smiled" rather viciously whenever Rob neared the cage. The second lounged on it's back and poked and read a novel. When Rob opened the cage the raccoon had decided he kind of liked the lovely little box. I think he might be of the RVing genus.
Have a great weekend.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Serials and Scenarios - Jerome Teel's ~ The Divine Appointment
Click on the picture to see more about the Divine AppointmentTuesday, June 26, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Oh Fabio-ulous
Sometimes situations get out of hand. Simple little oops and comments get blown into gigantic proportions and then they are committed to memories of those who like to remind you of the time…
A simple typo can turn a professional sounding typed minutes into… well…inappropriately amusing. Such as was just pointed out to me – the keeper and typer of the minutes -- after I dispensed the copies to the proper parties.
This underscores the importance of proofreading and editing because spell check doesn’t have issues with those of us who add another “s” to as.
One Christmas during our Christmas celebration at church a young lady read an engaging story. She did a great job until she misread shiny axes. Oh yes. Every Christmas since, some twisted individual has to mention shiny a - - es.
Another such situation arrived on my doorstep last Wednesday.
A couple of years ago I wanted to cheer someone up. So I wrote a little story.
The story required a bronzed and muscled hero to come to the aid of a diminished damsel. What does one call a hero in a humorized version of a white knight tale? Why, Fabio, of course. I suppose this name is copyrighted but at the time this little ha-ha moment wasn’t for mass consumption, just for a friend who needed chocolate and had already gone through all she had in the house. E-mail was her only hope of sanity. I had to work fast.
Since then, said friend asks for a Fabio installment whenever disaster strikes. She’s a writer. Can you imagine how often she faces serious rejection? Yeah. Our story is ten plus chapters and gets pretty complex at times. We’ve covered conferences, jealousy, Raoul the agent, rejection, rejection and rejection.
Said friend came to visit Wednesday. We heard a knock on the door and went to answer it. There, on the porch, a life-size, shirtless, smiled a sweaty cardboard Fabio in all his glory. A chorus of giggles came from the side of the house.
What would you do with a life-size sweaty Fabio?
He’s been on a few field trips this week.
Though not sturdy enough to hold clothes he does come in handy while beading necklaces and bracelets. We’ve christened a new family member Fabio Jr or Mini-Fabio. Twice he has startled a few half-asleep visitors. But now he just stands guard.
We do have a softball game tomorrow night. He’d probably make a great umpire.
A simple typo can turn a professional sounding typed minutes into… well…inappropriately amusing. Such as was just pointed out to me – the keeper and typer of the minutes -- after I dispensed the copies to the proper parties.
This underscores the importance of proofreading and editing because spell check doesn’t have issues with those of us who add another “s” to as.
One Christmas during our Christmas celebration at church a young lady read an engaging story. She did a great job until she misread shiny axes. Oh yes. Every Christmas since, some twisted individual has to mention shiny a - - es.
Another such situation arrived on my doorstep last Wednesday.
A couple of years ago I wanted to cheer someone up. So I wrote a little story.
The story required a bronzed and muscled hero to come to the aid of a diminished damsel. What does one call a hero in a humorized version of a white knight tale? Why, Fabio, of course. I suppose this name is copyrighted but at the time this little ha-ha moment wasn’t for mass consumption, just for a friend who needed chocolate and had already gone through all she had in the house. E-mail was her only hope of sanity. I had to work fast.
Since then, said friend asks for a Fabio installment whenever disaster strikes. She’s a writer. Can you imagine how often she faces serious rejection? Yeah. Our story is ten plus chapters and gets pretty complex at times. We’ve covered conferences, jealousy, Raoul the agent, rejection, rejection and rejection.
Said friend came to visit Wednesday. We heard a knock on the door and went to answer it. There, on the porch, a life-size, shirtless, smiled a sweaty cardboard Fabio in all his glory. A chorus of giggles came from the side of the house.
What would you do with a life-size sweaty Fabio?
He’s been on a few field trips this week.
Though not sturdy enough to hold clothes he does come in handy while beading necklaces and bracelets. We’ve christened a new family member Fabio Jr or Mini-Fabio. Twice he has startled a few half-asleep visitors. But now he just stands guard.
We do have a softball game tomorrow night. He’d probably make a great umpire.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Scribbles and Scrambles - Barren-Souled
Our Wednesday night children’s ministry led worship at church on a recent Sunday morning.
A couple of two-year-olds sang with off-key gusto that brought tears to my eyes. And a few four-year-olds treated us to a holy break-dance.
The tweeners, well, depends…the boys moved their mouths robotically and their arms in slow motion replay. The girls perked their way through the songs, belting out the lyrics with Annie enthusiasm.
And then I had an urge.
I’ve done this before and regret it.
I glanced behind me -- at the congregation, during the song “Undignified.”
One man scowled through downcast eyes, his jowls draped over his arms that crossed over his chest.
I’ll admit this song, which shares David’s moment of unbridled passion at the Ark of the Covenant’s entrance into Jerusalem, makes me uncomfortable.
Wild behavior, especially dancing, feels a little too out-of-control for my reformed Baptist heart.
But I’m working on that.
I’ve even been known to raise my hands – until someone conspiratorially whispered, “Great, another hand raiser. Glad I’m not alone.” in my ear. Which kind of took the worship out of it for me now that I knew someone else watched for something meant as an intimate gesture toward God…
I’ve begun to work on my heebie-jeebies with extreme worship. So I understand how this man, who is old school and very uncomfortable with music outside of tradition, might feel.
As I participated with hand motions and childlike worship, a thought tickled my brain. David’s wife, Michal, ended up barren until the day she died because of her attitude toward David. Did it also have to do with an attitude toward his worship style? And even more important...her attitude toward his God?
Is it possible that this man sits there with a frown because of his attitude toward worship and he suffers the barrenness of soul that comes with it?
We can’t expect to like all forms of music – please don’t ever twang at me. But can’t we embrace the truth of that worship? Aren’t most worship and/or Christian songs written as some sort of tribute to God, inspired by Him?
If the birds and their singing praise and glorify God, can’t I, a lousy sparrow, chirp out a few notes that might please Him as much as the songbird? If that’s my desire – to please Him.
After all Jesus said the very rocks would cry out if the worshippers were silenced. I don’t expect this to change anyone’s heart, open anyone’s mind. But I expect this discovery to maybe chip away at the pieces of barrenness in my own life. How about you? Harboring any barrenness?
A couple of two-year-olds sang with off-key gusto that brought tears to my eyes. And a few four-year-olds treated us to a holy break-dance.
The tweeners, well, depends…the boys moved their mouths robotically and their arms in slow motion replay. The girls perked their way through the songs, belting out the lyrics with Annie enthusiasm.
And then I had an urge.
I’ve done this before and regret it.
I glanced behind me -- at the congregation, during the song “Undignified.”
One man scowled through downcast eyes, his jowls draped over his arms that crossed over his chest.
I’ll admit this song, which shares David’s moment of unbridled passion at the Ark of the Covenant’s entrance into Jerusalem, makes me uncomfortable.
Wild behavior, especially dancing, feels a little too out-of-control for my reformed Baptist heart.
But I’m working on that.
I’ve even been known to raise my hands – until someone conspiratorially whispered, “Great, another hand raiser. Glad I’m not alone.” in my ear. Which kind of took the worship out of it for me now that I knew someone else watched for something meant as an intimate gesture toward God…
I’ve begun to work on my heebie-jeebies with extreme worship. So I understand how this man, who is old school and very uncomfortable with music outside of tradition, might feel.
As I participated with hand motions and childlike worship, a thought tickled my brain. David’s wife, Michal, ended up barren until the day she died because of her attitude toward David. Did it also have to do with an attitude toward his worship style? And even more important...her attitude toward his God?
Is it possible that this man sits there with a frown because of his attitude toward worship and he suffers the barrenness of soul that comes with it?
We can’t expect to like all forms of music – please don’t ever twang at me. But can’t we embrace the truth of that worship? Aren’t most worship and/or Christian songs written as some sort of tribute to God, inspired by Him?
If the birds and their singing praise and glorify God, can’t I, a lousy sparrow, chirp out a few notes that might please Him as much as the songbird? If that’s my desire – to please Him.
After all Jesus said the very rocks would cry out if the worshippers were silenced. I don’t expect this to change anyone’s heart, open anyone’s mind. But I expect this discovery to maybe chip away at the pieces of barrenness in my own life. How about you? Harboring any barrenness?
Friday, June 22, 2007
Serials and Scenarios - Jill E. Nelson Runs Off
Jill Elizabeth Nelson takes time away from her life of crime to answer some questions.
Pick one…..Pink iguana, purple cow, periwinkle giraffe. Which one and why? Can be negative or positive.
Pink iguana. They’re cute, and to my surprise, pink is actually a good color for me. Besides, I’ve often wondered what the world would look like being that small and living so close to the ground. They eat leafy greens, fruits, and uncooked veggies, so I’d probably lose weight and be amazingly healthy. Also, I’d get to bask in the sun a lot.
What makes you feel alive?
Laughter. Something that’s genuinely funny without being crude, or gross, or mean. When I get to laughing so hard I can barely breathe, I start to sound like Muttley from those old Dastardly and Muttley cartoons. My family rolls their eyes and goes, “Here comes Muttley!” Then they laugh AT me, not WITH me. That’s fun, too.
Book, music, person, food you would take with you on a very long trip.
Book: The Bible (duh!) and several novels from my To Be Read pile, which currently includes The Novelist by Angela Hunt and Full Tilt by Creston Mapes, among others.
Music: Whisper to the Wild Waters by Maire Brennan, Unveiled by Jean Watson, Odyssey by David Meece, and Overtaken by the Christ for the Nations worship team (You said this is a LONG trip.)
CDs: scripture teaching by Keith Moore
Person: My wonderful husband
Food: Dill pickle chips and sunflower seeds (not chocolate—yeah, I know that makes my femininity suspect, but I’m just a salty gal. Ask my wonderful husband!)
Favorite season and why?
Indian summer. In Minnesota, that means gorgeous colors on the trees and blue skies and balmy temperatures to enjoy them with. Oh, and few bugs because there’s already been a freeze.
Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?
A few months ago someone said they had to re-read my debut novel, Reluctant Burglar, because they couldn’t stand the wait until the release of Reluctant Runaway. She told me my book was destined to become dog-eared. I tell you, I sniffled out loud, because it is a rare compliment of the highest order to have someone RE-READ your book.
CREATIVE CORNER:
Pick a Genre - Describe a kiss….Suspense
From the man’s POV: Tony grasped her shoulders. “First off. Never—” he shook her—“and I mean never—” he shook her once more—“make yourself a target again.” He wrapped her so close he didn’t know if either of them could breathe. But breathing wasn’t important. Not at the moment. He lowered his head and his mouth trapped hers. (This is from Reluctant Burglar.)
From the woman’s POV: She grinned up at him, and he joined their lips. Gentle exploration deepened. She twined one arm around his neck, fingers playing in his springy hair. The other went around his back. His hands caressed her ribs, the side of one leg. A melting sensation flowed through her veins. (This is from Reluctant Runaway. And yes, this is a CBA novel. You’ll just have to read the book to find out where I go with this and why it has the blessing of my editor.)
Pick one of the “story starters” below and give us a sample of your voice.
Swirling leaves, riding the chill wind, danced up Leisel's airline hostess skirt.
The leaves weren’t the only things stirred by the breeze, which now carried the cloying scent of death.
If only she’d gone straight home from the airport instead of stopping at Tyler Park to clear her head. Why had she thought a walk in the fresh air would do her good? As if she didn’t have enough trouble, she’d found a dead body, for crying out loud.
Her throat burned, and she swallowed, hands fisting in the pockets of her cardigan. And why had she gotten carried away with the Christian duty drilled into her from childhood and called the cops and actually waited around for them? But she’d kept thinking about the poor man’s family, so she hadn’t done the smart thing, and now she was going to be in big trouble with—
“Miss?” A plain-clothes officer beckoned from the swarm of police and crime scene personnel buzzing around the shallow gulley where it lay.
He. Leisel forced her feet to move toward the officer. Not long ago, the body down there had been a living, breathing man. From the blond hair untouched by gray and the well-worn jeans, probably a student from the nearby university campus. But now it—he—was . . . Don’t think. Just answer questions and get out of here.
“Yes, Detective.” She stopped in front of the bushy-browed man.
Both brows went up and then snapped down as he studied a note pad where he’d already recorded her brief statement. He lifted his gaze to hers, blue eyes flat and cold. “You said you didn’t touch the body and only approached to within a few feet of it. Is that correct?”
Leisel stifled a sharp laugh. So the police called him it, too. Not inappropriate, after all, for a lump of clay minus the soul. “That’s right. I had no reason to check for a pulse. Not with the smell and the blood and the flies. . .” Stomach rolling, she stared at the toes of her loafers.
A big hand squeezed her shoulder. Leisel looked up. The detective’s blue eyes had softened.
“We’ve got your contact information if we have any more questions,” he said. “Let me round up a uniform to escort you to your car.”
Leisel shook her head. “Not necessary. I came here for a walk, and right now, that’s exactly what I need to do.”
“Suit yourself.” The officer shut his note pad, his gaze moving past her to activity beyond.
Hugging herself, Leisel hurried away up the path and didn’t look back. Bryce would kill her if she drew any more attention from the authorities. There was too much at stake—for both of them. Kill her? Bad turn of phrase, but he’d sure murder her with his eyes, his voice. She’d been a fool ever to let that man back into her life. But she was in too deep now. No way out.
Happy weekend, Dregites... Thanks a bunch, Jill.
Pick one…..Pink iguana, purple cow, periwinkle giraffe. Which one and why? Can be negative or positive.
Pink iguana. They’re cute, and to my surprise, pink is actually a good color for me. Besides, I’ve often wondered what the world would look like being that small and living so close to the ground. They eat leafy greens, fruits, and uncooked veggies, so I’d probably lose weight and be amazingly healthy. Also, I’d get to bask in the sun a lot.
What makes you feel alive?
Laughter. Something that’s genuinely funny without being crude, or gross, or mean. When I get to laughing so hard I can barely breathe, I start to sound like Muttley from those old Dastardly and Muttley cartoons. My family rolls their eyes and goes, “Here comes Muttley!” Then they laugh AT me, not WITH me. That’s fun, too.
Book, music, person, food you would take with you on a very long trip.
Book: The Bible (duh!) and several novels from my To Be Read pile, which currently includes The Novelist by Angela Hunt and Full Tilt by Creston Mapes, among others.
Music: Whisper to the Wild Waters by Maire Brennan, Unveiled by Jean Watson, Odyssey by David Meece, and Overtaken by the Christ for the Nations worship team (You said this is a LONG trip.
CDs: scripture teaching by Keith Moore
Person: My wonderful husband
Food: Dill pickle chips and sunflower seeds (not chocolate—yeah, I know that makes my femininity suspect, but I’m just a salty gal. Ask my wonderful husband!)
Favorite season and why?
Indian summer. In Minnesota, that means gorgeous colors on the trees and blue skies and balmy temperatures to enjoy them with. Oh, and few bugs because there’s already been a freeze.
Which compliment related to your writing has meant the most and why?
A few months ago someone said they had to re-read my debut novel, Reluctant Burglar, because they couldn’t stand the wait until the release of Reluctant Runaway. She told me my book was destined to become dog-eared. I tell you, I sniffled out loud, because it is a rare compliment of the highest order to have someone RE-READ your book.
CREATIVE CORNER:
Pick a Genre - Describe a kiss….Suspense
From the man’s POV: Tony grasped her shoulders. “First off. Never—” he shook her—“and I mean never—” he shook her once more—“make yourself a target again.” He wrapped her so close he didn’t know if either of them could breathe. But breathing wasn’t important. Not at the moment. He lowered his head and his mouth trapped hers. (This is from Reluctant Burglar.)
From the woman’s POV: She grinned up at him, and he joined their lips. Gentle exploration deepened. She twined one arm around his neck, fingers playing in his springy hair. The other went around his back. His hands caressed her ribs, the side of one leg. A melting sensation flowed through her veins. (This is from Reluctant Runaway. And yes, this is a CBA novel. You’ll just have to read the book to find out where I go with this and why it has the blessing of my editor.)
Pick one of the “story starters” below and give us a sample of your voice.
Swirling leaves, riding the chill wind, danced up Leisel's airline hostess skirt.
The leaves weren’t the only things stirred by the breeze, which now carried the cloying scent of death.
If only she’d gone straight home from the airport instead of stopping at Tyler Park to clear her head. Why had she thought a walk in the fresh air would do her good? As if she didn’t have enough trouble, she’d found a dead body, for crying out loud.
Her throat burned, and she swallowed, hands fisting in the pockets of her cardigan. And why had she gotten carried away with the Christian duty drilled into her from childhood and called the cops and actually waited around for them? But she’d kept thinking about the poor man’s family, so she hadn’t done the smart thing, and now she was going to be in big trouble with—
“Miss?” A plain-clothes officer beckoned from the swarm of police and crime scene personnel buzzing around the shallow gulley where it lay.
He. Leisel forced her feet to move toward the officer. Not long ago, the body down there had been a living, breathing man. From the blond hair untouched by gray and the well-worn jeans, probably a student from the nearby university campus. But now it—he—was . . . Don’t think. Just answer questions and get out of here.
“Yes, Detective.” She stopped in front of the bushy-browed man.
Both brows went up and then snapped down as he studied a note pad where he’d already recorded her brief statement. He lifted his gaze to hers, blue eyes flat and cold. “You said you didn’t touch the body and only approached to within a few feet of it. Is that correct?”
Leisel stifled a sharp laugh. So the police called him it, too. Not inappropriate, after all, for a lump of clay minus the soul. “That’s right. I had no reason to check for a pulse. Not with the smell and the blood and the flies. . .” Stomach rolling, she stared at the toes of her loafers.
A big hand squeezed her shoulder. Leisel looked up. The detective’s blue eyes had softened.
“We’ve got your contact information if we have any more questions,” he said. “Let me round up a uniform to escort you to your car.”
Leisel shook her head. “Not necessary. I came here for a walk, and right now, that’s exactly what I need to do.”
“Suit yourself.” The officer shut his note pad, his gaze moving past her to activity beyond.
Hugging herself, Leisel hurried away up the path and didn’t look back. Bryce would kill her if she drew any more attention from the authorities. There was too much at stake—for both of them. Kill her? Bad turn of phrase, but he’d sure murder her with his eyes, his voice. She’d been a fool ever to let that man back into her life. But she was in too deep now. No way out.
Happy weekend, Dregites... Thanks a bunch, Jill.
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