Free Blessed Is the Busybody by Emilie Richards Page A

remarkable smile. Apparently there’s hope for them after all.
    “You must have been scared to death when you found that body,” Tara said.
    “It wasn’t what I was expecting.” I held out the doughnut platter and hoped she got the last one with chocolate icing before Betsy Slavonik, always ravenous, made a grab for it.
    She took a plain glazed and broke it into tiny bits, popping the first into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I bet you’re trying to figure out why the body ended up at your house, aren’t you? And who killed her.”
    I wanted to deny it, but honesty is the least I can do to speed the Meanies on the road to maturity. “I’m certainly curious.”
    “You’d be good at solving crimes. I bet you’ll figure it out.”
    “Why do you think I’d be good at it?”
    “You pay attention to everything. What is Shannon wearing? Don’t turn around.”
    Shannon Forester was somewhere behind me, but that was no problem. I’d taken note already. “A purple sweatshirt that says ‘Go for the Grape,’ faded blue jeans, tennis shoes that need to be replaced, and gold clips in her hair.”
    “The shoes are her brother’s. He wore them when he scored the winning basket against Wellington last year. She thinks they’re cool.”
    I made a note that Shannon’s feet must be ultralarge and growing, in case I ever noticed giant footprints outside our windows.
    “The police need to find the killer,” I said, trying for virtue. “I bet you were brought up on old Nancy Drew mysteries.”
    “Agatha Christie. I like Miss Marple best. Hercule Poirot is an egotist, and there are too many of those in the world.” She leaned forward. “Half of them in this room.”
    I wanted to giggle.
    The Meanies vanished after a time. You can always tell when the Meanies are gone. Not only by the silence, but by the torrent of oxygen rushing back into the room. I took a few deep breaths and considered whether I should do what I’d contemplated through long, sleepless hours of the night.
    The struggle didn’t last. I dialed my own best friend.
    “Ed has a meeting tonight,” I told Lucy without preamble. “And Jennifer Marina was waiting tables at Don’t Go There before she took up residence on my front porch.”
    Lucy didn’t need an explanation. “What time do you want to go?”
    I did the math. “If I can get Stephanie to babysit . . . let’s say eight. We might even beat Ed back home.”
    “You’re not going to tell him?”
    “I think I’ll forget to mention it.”
    I hung up, and while I gathered sticky juice glasses and brushed away doughnut crumbs, I asked myself why I was snooping where I didn’t belong.
    The answer came down to this. I felt like I belonged. The body was deposited on my front porch. My husband knew the victim and was still protecting her secrets. Gelsey’s honking over Ed’s involvement in Jennifer’s death was getting louder and louder. I no longer felt safe in my own house and worried about my children. Tara, one of the smartest eleven-year-olds I know, thinks I have something to bring to this investigation.
    And, last but certainly not least, I am terminally curious. Make that exceptionally curious. Terminally has a ring I’m not crazy about just now.

    By seven fifteen Ed was on his way to the parish house for what promised to be the kind of finance committee meeting where a change of clothes and a toothbrush are required. Over vegetable lasagna with soy cheese he’d told me not to wait up for him.
    Not a problem.
    By seven forty-five, fifteen-year-old Stephanie Blakely was nodding off as I gave last-minute instructions. I knew she would perk up the moment she had access to the television and telephone, plus half a dozen leftover doughnuts.
    Stephanie is a good babysitter. Once when the pilot light on our old gas stove went off, she noticed the smell and opened all the kitchen windows. Then she took the girls to stay at her house until her father could come back and re-light it.