Free Buzz Off by Hannah Reed

library’s bluegrass band event wasn’t playing when we paddled into Moraine near Stu’s. A few bar patrons standing along the river watched us come in. Hunter jumped out of the canoe and ran for his truck and took off back to join the other professionals in their search for answers. My thoughts were a jumble. I couldn’t get poor Faye’s face out of my head.
    And Clay. He would have to be told. Did I have to be the one to tell him the horrible news?
    After securing the canoe, I stood on the shore—barefoot, wet, and wind-whipped. Where had my flip-flops gone? Oh, yes, I remembered—into the river when the canoe tipped.
    More people were beginning to gather at the river’s edge. Word was spreading. I had to get out of here before they heard that Clay’s ex-wife had found his girlfriend’s dead body in her kayak.
    It was true that I’d wished Clay Lane dead a bunch of times, sometimes even verbally in front of witnesses, but I’d never extended that sentiment to any of his conquests. I figured they would be punished enough when they figured out that Clay wasn’t what he seemed.
    A terrible idea flittered across my mind. What if Clay had killed her? Impossible. The man wasn’t capable of that kind of extreme emotion. Through our entire relationship, he’d never displayed passion for anything other than his own creature comforts. Good food and sex without borders, those were his most important needs.
    Someone wrapped a towel around my shoulders. My mom and grandmother appeared out of nowhere and rescued me from the crowd of spectators, guiding me to Grams’s Cadillac Fleetwood, refusing to let anyone interfere with our progress.
    I heard the band tuning back up.

    After I took a hot shower at home, Mom handed me a cup of steaming tea, settled me in a kitchen chair, put on her everyday scowl, and went to work on my confidence. “What were you thinking to get involved in something like this?”
    My defensive hackles went up. I forced them down.
    Being the oldest sucks. Personally, I’ve always suspected our mother/daughter conflict has everything to do with me being the firstborn female. I had a theory about relationships between mothers and oldest daughters. They couldn’t get along no matter how hard they tried. I’d seen it time and time again by observing other families. While Mom had a hot, poisonous tongue and spoke out before thinking about how harsh her comments were, most mother/daughter relationships were cooler and crisper. Sometimes I wished for a cold, restrained version of Mom.
    Since most of my immediate family lives within a ten-mile radius of each other, I really try to get along with them the best I can. But I seem to be the only one who has unresolved issues with Mom.
    Grams squeezed my arm to show support. She had her gray hair pulled up in her standard cute little bun with a new, fresh daisy tucked into it. Grams, at eighty, was an avid flower gardener, card player, and amateur photographer.
    “You didn’t kill that girl, did you?” Mom asked. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
    “Of course not. I just found her. That’s all there is to it.”
    “What must people think?” That’s my mom, she really focused on the important things in life.
    “Now, Helen,” Grams scolded my mother. “It’s your daughter we should be most concerned about, not the neighbors.”
    With a little coaxing from Grams, I told them what I knew, which was next to nothing other than that my kayak had gone missing and Clay had given me the impression this morning that Faye was with him, when all along she must’ve been lying dead in my kayak.
    “You’re still shaking,” Grams said when I tried to take a sip of my tea and my trembling hand gave me away. “I’ll get you a sweater.”
    “I’m fine,” I said.
    Grams didn’t believe me about being fine. She went into my bedroom to find a cover-up. Her departure gave Mom another opportunity.
    “When are you going to stop causing problems for us?” she