Free TREASURE KILLS (Legends of Tsalagee Book 1) by Phil Truman

committee’s chairperson, who had served on other committees with Nan. She knew that Nan tended to editorialize her minutes to fill in the gaps. Her minutes tended to read more like the gossipy Hometown Happenin’s column than committee minutes.
    “No, no,” Nan had said. “I insist. I’m really the only one here qualified for the job.”
    “I think she’s right,” Hayward Yost said with a sly smile. Hayward had an ornery streak and a sense for the sardonic. “I nominate Nan to be secretary,” he added.
    Since none present wanted to hurt Nan’s feelings, and out of respect for Hayward’s seniority, the committee let her keep the job. Besides, no one else particularly wanted it.
    Punch had arisen from his seat, put his balled fists onto the top of the oval conference table, and leaned forward, his face red with anger and indignation. Most of the others around the table drew back reflexively in their seats. They knew about Punch’s temper, but few expected an outburst at this monthly gathering of the committee. It surprised them because the only words Punch had uttered in the previous six meetings were when he’d had a sneezing fit and said, “Got dangit!” between the forth and fifth sneeze. However, Nan Dorn hadn’t included them in the minutes.
    Throughout the proceedings up to this point, Punch sat in his seat next to the window looking either bored or asleep. So most felt a little surprised at this sudden contribution. Only the two emeritus members did not—eighty-four year old Hayward Yost and eighty-six year old Socrates Ninekiller. They’d known Punch all his life and pretty much knew his hot buttons, as well as his political leanings.
    Hayward looked over at Soc and chuckled once Punch had said what he said. Soc looked back at Hayward and grinned silently. Chairwoman Purinton, a stout and stern woman, grabbed her gavel and whacked it twice on its wooden base.
    “You’re out of order, Mr. Roundstep,” Euliss said firmly. Euliss knew her parliamentary procedure. “The Chair recognizes Miss Sunflower Griggs as having the floor. Miss Griggs, do you wish to yield to Mr. Roundstep?”
    “Well, I... uh, okay,” Sunny Griggs said.
    Sunny Griggs sealed the door for Punch, so he could present his argument against the hexagon bags , although I’m not sure why , Nan wrote.
    Normally, Sunny would not yield an inch when it came to social issues. She considered herself a champion for the poor and downtrodden. Her hippie parents had ingrained that in her from the day she was born in 1968, until the State of Oklahoma put her into foster care at the age of eleven. As a childhood veteran of many protest rallies, Sunny would fight to the bloody death, for causes in which she believed.
    But Punch was different. Despite the gap in their age, she found him somehow attractive. Sunny hated everything Punch did and said and stood for. No two people could be more opposite in their beliefs and outlooks on life and social conduct. And, yet, she found herself drawn to him by some animal instinct. The whole thing confused her greatly, and sometimes caused her to hesitate.
    “The Chair recognizes Mr. Roundstep,” Euliss said. All eyes once again looked up to Punch. Punch looked at the group sitting around the table as if suddenly becoming aware that he’d jumped to his feet and addressed them.
    “Well, I say we ain’t flyin’ no Mexikin flag in this town. That’s all,” he said and sat back down. He rubbed the three-day red stubble on his cheeks, then scratched an armpit. With fire still in his eyes, he looked over at Sunny, then to Hayward. The elder looked back at Punch giving him an approving nod and wink.
    Sunny closed her eyes and raised her hand. “Madam Chairwoman,” she said in a calm and quiet voice.
    “The Chair recognizes Miss Griggs.”
    “I just want to say... to the committee... that Tsalagee now has a sizable Hispanic community in proportion to the rest of the population— ”
    Sunny pointed out