Free Bad Hair Day 7 - Dead Roots by Nancy J. Cohen

framed by a waterfall of ebony hair that hung to her waist. She wore a sarong that wouldn’t suit well in the kitchen but would work just fine in the bedroom. As her nickname implied, the chef presented a sweet confection that men must feel tempted to sample. Marla’s nose detected a familiar lilac fragrance.
    “Brownie’s been telling me about the meals planned for our family events,” Jeff said.
    “Is that so?” Would Jeff fudge his response if she accused him of cheating on his wife? Then again, he’d get his just desserts if she tipped Lori herself. Or maybe she should e-mail Jeff a cookie to a family therapist. Marla smiled to herself as her cousin’s spouse led them toward the well-lit pool area.
    “On Friday we’re having a beach picnic with shelling. It should be a blast,” he said. “Then that night is the outdoor luau. Sorry, no roast pig on the menu; it’s not kosher. We’ll have chicken instead. You gonna do the rumrunner’s jog? Sounds like a hoot”
    “Where is Lori?” Marla asked bluntly.
    “Poor girl has a headache. I came out for a stroll and ran into Brittany, er, Brownie.”
    I’ll bet you did more than run into her . “Don’t tell me you just met,” she scoffed.
    “Lori and I have been to the resort before. It’s one of our favorite getaways. We’ve always complimented Brownie on her dessert cart selections.”
    Yeah, right . “How often do you come here? I understand Aunt Polly returns every year.”
    “Oh, our visits don’t usually coincide with hers. We’ll both be disappointed if this place is torn down, though.”
    “If that theme-park idea gets passed, it’ll ruin things for everyone,” Brownie said in a smooth voice with a gritty undercurrent, like molasses tinged with coffee grounds. “Do you realize they don’t plan to build another hotel? At first I thought it would be a great opportunity to step up and take charge as master chef. But now, I think the changeover could turn into a disaster. Who’ll come to see a recreation of some old buildings with costumed cast members?”
    “The town council met earlier to debate the issue,” Marla said. “Did you happen to hear the results?”
    “The developers are putting up a strong argument. They say a living-history museum will bring more jobs to the area as well as tourist dollars,” Jeff replied. “That’s baloney. They get plenty of tourists here already. I don’t see any advantage to destroying Andrew’s legacy.”
    Marla peered at him closely, but she couldn’t discern his thoughts from his placid expression. How much did he know about their family secrets? “So I gather you and Brownie are opposed to the theme-park idea. You’d rather see the money put into remodeling. What about the ghost stories?”
    “The spirits would be a lot happier if we fixed their home,” Brownie said, her dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
    As they parted company, Marla considered her options. Should she report this encounter to Lori? If it was truly a chance meeting, as Jeff claimed, she’d only stir up trouble.
    A cough sounded behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, Marla noticed a figure on one of the lounge chairs by the pool. “Michael, are you alone out here?” she asked her brother.
    His face, a male reflection of her own, gave her a weak grin. “I had some drinking to do. I thought I’d sit and listen to the waves. Maybe the right decisions would come to me.”
    She didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s wrong?”
    He waited while she sat on the adjacent chair. “A lot of things. The stock market…You know how things took a dive. People tend to blame their financial advisers.”
    Marla felt her blood chill. It had been only a few months since she’d consulted a psychic in Cassadaga, a spiritualist camp in Central Florida. The Reverend Hazel Sherman’s words had been clear: Your brother is experiencing tremendous emotional difficulties that he’s created for himself. It’s producing a snowball