Free Death Crashes the Party by Vickie Fee Page A

supplies and brings together volunteers to do home repairs for the elderly and disabled in our community—a cause I wholeheartedly support.
    Today’s work site was the home of Miss Lacey Canon, who, at eighty-five, was still as spry as a spring lamb. She had made enough homemade biscuits to feed a platoon and served them up with a choice of sausage or peach preserves. She kept coaxing the dozen or so volunteers working on the house to eat more.
    Miss Lacey brought a plate of hot biscuits out to the front porch, where Di and I were scraping wood, prepping for a fresh coat of primer and a buttery shade of yellow paint.
    â€œNow, precious, you better eat something,” Miss Lacey said. “I know you young folk rush out the door in the mornings with nothing ’cept a cup of coffee. That ain’t no good for a body. You need some real food.”
    â€œMiss Lacey, if I eat any more of your scrumptious biscuits, I’m going to pop,” I said.
    She turned her attention to Di, who was up on a ladder, scraping paint from above a double-hung window.
    â€œNo, thank you, ma’am. I’ve had my fill for now, too.”
    â€œI’m keeping some warm in the oven if you change your mind, precious,” she said, giving Di’s calf a little love pat before she shuffled back into the house.
    â€œIt’s sweet the way you’re spending your day off working on somebody else’s house, considering the shape yours is in,” Di said.
    â€œIt’s honestly a relief to work on somebody else’s house for a change,” I said. “It’s especially nice to be able to see progress actually being made.”
    Earlier in the summer, the RR team had put a new roof on Miss Lacey’s house. Kenny Mitchell, the godsend who had speedily fixed the punctured ceiling at my house, was inside, working with another guy to repair a water-damaged ceiling in Miss Lacey’s living room and hallway. The rest of us were getting the exterior ready to paint.
    Kenny passed through the porch on his way out to a truck in the driveway to get some supplies. When he came back up the front steps, I introduced him to Di.
    â€œNice to meet you, Ms. Souther. Good to see you again, Ms. McKay,” he said. “Be sure to call me if you have anything that needs fixing.”
    â€œWill do,” I said.
    â€œWhy don’t you take him up on his offer?” Di said after Kenny had disappeared into the house. “Next time Larry Joe’s out of town for a couple of days, why don’t you hire a plumber—or maybe a crew of plumbers—to get your upstairs bathroom working, and let Kenny patch up after them? Larry Joe might be miffed, but he’d get over it.”
    â€œI’ve certainly entertained the idea,” I said. “In fact, the thought of a working shower upstairs is a frequent subject of my fantasies.”
    â€œIf you fantasize about plumbing, you have bigger problems than renovating your house. You should see a shrink.”
    â€œThe thing is, Larry Joe really believes he can fix up the house himself, despite all the evidence to the contrary. And he does try. He puts in untold hours working on the place—albeit without much to show for it. If I gave up on him, I think it would break his heart.”
    â€œYou’re more patient than most wives,” Di said. “Though, Lord knows, Larry Joe has his own cross to bear being married to you.”
    I dipped my paintbrush into a bucket of primer and flicked the brush in Di’s direction, spattering the back of her shirt.
    â€œOh, you don’t want to go there,” Di said. She reached over and tried to wrest the paintbrush from my hand, and we both burst out laughing.
    Winette walked out, clapping her hands. “More painting and less playing, ladies.”
    With insincere looks of contrition, we straightened up and got back to work.
    â€œWinette’s a real taskmaster,” I said.
    â€œYeah.