Free Half-Price Homicide by Elaine Viets Page A

kids.”
    “Can’t happen now,” Helen said.
    “Word of Mom’s impending demise must be out on the local WIC,” Kathy said.
    “Wic?” Helen asked. “Do you mean Wicca, as in witches?”
    “No, WIC is what I call the widows’ information circuit, though there are a few witches in that group. The parade of homemade meals for Lawn Boy Larry has started already. Larry loves pot roast. I can’t pass his house without seeing a widow with a foil-wrapped dish ringing his doorbell. Mom’s funeral will be jammed, and not only with her friends. Every unmarried older woman in the parish will be in her best dress, trying to bag Larry. They’ll proposition him over Mom’s casket.”
    “Larry?” Helen asked. “Who would want him? The guy is bald and built like a broomstick.”
    “You’ve overlooked his assets,” Kathy said. “Larry has all his own teeth, plays bridge, has a fat pension, and best of all, he can drive at night. He’s the Daniel Craig of the senior set. I’d be surprised if Mrs. Raines didn’t tackle him at the burial. She’s the front-runner—excuse me, hobbler—for his hand in marriage. Her pot roast is said to be fork-tender.”
    “I’d better give Larry the news before his new flame flies to Florida and puts a pillow over our mother’s face,” Helen said.
    Kathy started giggling, then said, “I shouldn’t laugh.”
    “Why not? The thought of any woman pursuing Larry is hilarious. Instead of making pot roasts, they should wave their bank statements at him. I’ll call Larry.”
    “You’re a good sister,” Kathy said.
    Right, Helen thought as she hung up. Like I’m a good daughter.
    Before she could dial Larry’s number, her cell phone buzzed. It was Vera, Snapdragon’s owner. “Helen, can you meet me for lunch today?”
    “Uh, no,” Helen said.
    “Are you okay? You sound funny,” Vera said. “I’m at the nursing home. Mom is worse. She only has another day or so.”
    “I’m sorry, sweetie.”
    “I shouldn’t be so upset,” Helen said. “I’ve been expecting this.”
    “My mother died of cancer,” Vera said. “No matter how well prepared you think you are, it’s still a shock. Let’s forget lunch.”
    “How about tomorrow?” Helen said. “I could meet you for breakfast.”
    “Sure,” Vera said. “The shop will still be closed. Swarms of cops are crawling all over the place. How about nine o’clock? We could go to the Coral Rose Cafe in Hollywood. Best breakfast in Broward County. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
    “See you then,” Helen said, and shut off her phone as Phil’s black Jeep pulled up under the Sunset Rest portico.
    Helen felt like she was running toward life when she jumped into the Jeep. She admired her fiancé as his Jeep plunged into the stream of traffic. The wind ruffled his silver-white hair. The man was hot as Florida, but in a good way. Helen sighed with happiness. Phil was her reward after her wretched marriage to Rob.
    “Margery has a cold glass of wine for you,” Phil said. “There’s a beer waiting for me.”
    “I can use it,” Helen said. “I need to fortify myself before I call Larry, Mother’s husband.”
    “Margery and I will be at your side.” Phil reached over and squeezed her hand.
    “Good. You can restrain me from reaching down the phone and tearing out his throat,” Helen said.
    At the Coronado, Helen was touched to find that Phil had fixed lunch for the three of them. The food was set out on Margery’s kitchen table.
    “I got you and Margery salads with grilled chicken and made an onion-and-rye sandwich for myself,” Phil said. “There are cupcakes for dessert.”
    “What else is on your sandwich besides onion?” Margery asked.
    “Irish butter,” Phil said.
    “You’re eating a butter-and-onion sandwich?” Helen said.
    “You’re always telling me to eat healthy,” Phil said. “This is a Bermuda onion. It has powerful antioxidants.”
    “It has something else powerful, too,” Helen said, waving her