Free Killer Chameleon by Chassie West

and—”
    â€œDon’t, please. All I had for breakfast was a corn muffin and a banana.”
    â€œYou poor child! Why don’t I warm you a little barbecue soon’s I finish in the bedroom? I brought rolls and everything.”
    I couldn’t have said no if you’d paid me, even though, truth be told, the only reason I hadn’t eaten more for breakfast was because I’d been a little queasy. Perhaps the three-fire-alarm chili and Zinfandel Janeece and I had feted with last night hadn’t been the best combination.
    â€œBy the way, Duck hasn’t stored one of my boxes in the linen closet, has he?” I peered past her into the bathroom.
    â€œNo, ma’am,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing in there but sheets and towels and the like. Can’t find your knickknacks?”
    â€œI found them all right but a box is missing and I can’t imagine where he might have put it.”
    â€œIt’s bound to be around here somewhere,” she said, with a pat of assurance on my arm. “Let me go change these sheets and dust so I can feed you. Shouldn’t take me two shakes.”
    Suddenly, her left hip began to trill “America the Beautiful.” She grinned at my surprise and dug into her pocket, pulling out a tiny cellular phone. “Just my way of waving the flag,” she said and flipped open its top. “What, Sister? I’m busy.” Executing a perfect about-face, she hurried into the bedroom.
    I left her to it and went back into the kitchen. I hadn’t checked under the cabinets. I knew which ones contained the holy Calphalon. No point in looking there. No room. The others were empty, waiting for my assortment of cooking utensils. Frustrated, I grabbed the tea kettle, filled it, and put it on to boil, then just in case I should have enough for two, stuck my head in the bedroom door.
    Clarissa, smoothing the bottom sheet with one hand as she circumnavigated the bed, barked into the phone. “No, ma’am, I will not sub for Geneva Ladyslipper tonight. You know what she’s got her students reading? War and Peace, for Lord’s sake! I agree they ought to be introduced to the classics, but Tolstoy? They aren’t ready for that. What’s wrong with Hemingway or O. Henry?” Spotting me, she blinked. “Hold on a minute. Need something, sugar?”
    â€œSorry to interrupt,” I said. “I just wanted to know if you’d like a cup of tea.”
    â€œThat would be nice. I’ll be done shortly. Sister, I’ve got to go or I’ll never finish this bed.”
    Back in the kitchen, I found the tin of tea bags, the conversation from the other room drifting across the hall.
    â€œYes, she’s as nice as can be and looks just like her picture. She likes to shove furniture around, just like you. Even moved the sofa. You wouldn’t think somebody as little as she is could even budge it.”
    I glanced down. Granted, I’d lost some weight over the last month, worrying that my backside would strain the seams of that blasted wedding suit Janeece had talked me into buying. But “little” is not a term I’d ever associate with my one hundred and thirty-something pounds. Even my height wouldn’t qualify. I was five-six, and that’s average in anyone’s book.
    Determined not to eavesdrop, I returned to the guest room. I had to figure out which box was missing or go nuts. Rifling my desk, I found the detailed list I’d made of what was in what. It was supposed to make unpacking simpler. The boxes were numbered as well as labeled, most on all four sides. One or two near the bottom, of course, were not, their marks facing the wall or the one adjacent.
    After checking off the numbers of those I could see, I grabbed the top layer of the first stack, moved them to the floor to get to those on the bottom, in the process dropping one. Fortunately, it wasn’t marked