Free Guess Who's Coming to Die? by Patricia Sprinkle

club,” Cindy reminded him.

    “I’ll only be gone three days, though,” Walker added, “testing her out.”

    Have you ever noticed how men call their favorite cars “her”? And then get upset when their wives and girlfriends claim that the cars have become competition?

    “Looks like a ‘him’ to me,” I said. “I’d name him Roger.”

    “Roger?” Tad’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Mighty Motor would be more like it.”

    “Mighty Motor will do,” I agreed.

    Jessica stroked the shiny hood. “Hey, Mighty Motor. I’ll be able to drive you in a couple of years.”

    “Dream on,” her father told her. “You’re not driving this baby until you are sixty.”

    “So when do I get to drive it?” I teased. “I’m past sixty.”

    He gave me a long, level look, then handed me the keys. “Take her for a spin, Mama. Go on. I dare you.”

    I have never yet refused a dare from one of my sons. Besides, I was itching to get behind that wheel. I slid across a leather seat soft as butter and started a motor that sounded like we could lift off into the stratosphere. Knowing they were all watching me, I made sure to shift smoothly as I pulled out of the parking lot. Even with my sore hand, that car handled like a dream. I tooled through town and waved to several startled friends, then went down through the sheriff’s detention center parking lot to show off to any deputies who might be around. I saw a couple and gave them a wave, sure they’d report back to their friends. I considered taking off for Dublin or even Macon — spending the whole afternoon cruising up and down country roads. Never before had I coveted anything either of my sons ever had, and I was generally content to live pretty simply, but I could get used to a Corvette.

    Reluctantly I headed back to the store. They were all lined up in the parking lot, waiting for me. “Thought you’d gotten lost,” Walker greeted me, opening the door.

    “It’s a great drive,” I admitted. “Leave it to me in your will, okay?”

    “No, leave it to me!” Tad insisted, grabbing his daddy’s arm. “Me-Mama will be dead before you are. She’s old!”

    Cindy frowned at her son. “Old, is she? Too old to buy birthday presents in a couple of weeks for grandsons who insult her?”

    “Almost,” I agreed, giving Tad a considering look.

    “You’re not old,” he had conceded. “Just too old for a Corvette.”

    “So help me,” I muttered as they drove away, “I will join that investment club and we will make lots of money. I will get so rich I can buy my own Corvette. I’ll get a red one.”

     
    Instead, here I was, dripping wet, climbing up into Cindy’s huge SUV while she was being questioned about her activities during the time a murder was being committed.

    “Walker, come home quick,” I begged as I hoisted myself up onto the seat. I had reached for my cell phone to punch autodial when I decided I’d let his daddy explain what was going on. Walker was sure to think it was my fault Cindy was in this predicament, and he tends to pound things when he’s upset. Not people, but walls and doors. I didn’t want him damaging a perfectly good motel. Besides, it was Joe Riddley I wanted to talk to.

    The air inside the vehicle was hot and muggy and the windows were steamed, but it was raining too hard to open a window. I started the engine and figured out the windshield defroster, then called home. “I’ve got to go over to Walker and Cindy’s, honey. Willena Kenan got herself killed tonight. Somebody screwed a corkscrew into her throat. And Charlie is honing in on Cindy as a suspect.”

    “Cindy?” His astonishment mirrored what I was feeling. The idea of our chic daughter-in-law committing murder was about as credible as Laura Bush participating in mud wrestling.

    “Yeah. You know Charlie — six cents short of a dime. I’m going over to Cindy’s while he questions her some more. Could you call their lawyer, then come over to the