Free Decorated to Death by Peg

list. I figured what the heck—the more the merrier, Boy, was I wrong.” Sally’s usual upbeat disposition had all but disappeared. “If only Billy were here, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so outnumbered, but he’s staying at his girlfriend Tammie’s place until these people clear out. I don’t know when that’s going to happen, but it can’t be soon enough for me. What do you think I should do?”
    “Well,” I said, “I’m guessing that your guests are as anxious to leave as you are to see them go. Just be patient. Once Chief Stevens gives the okay, I imagine they won’t waste any time getting out of town.” I didn’t add that I hoped to interview them while they were still within easy reach.
    Unfortunately, I hadn’t a clue as to how I was going to accomplish this without being obvious. After my run-in with Rufus Halsted, I could hardly pass myself off as Sally’s parlor maid or long-lost sister. “Just be patient,” I repeated, “it’ll all work out somehow.” My advice covered Sally’s situation as well as my own.
    “I know you’re right, Jean, but I can’t help dreading breakfast time. These people make me feel as though I’m an interloper at my own table. Wait a minute,” Sally exclaimed with a sudden burst of enthusiasm, “I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you join us? Then I’d have someone on my side, if you know what I mean. It’s a serve-yourself buffet and I’ve got more than enough food. Please say you will. It would really mean a lot to me.”
    I could hardly believe my ears. Or my luck. With a hug and promise that I would join her and the guests for breakfast, I bid Sally a good night and made my way back to Kettle Cottage.
    “And some people say that there’s no such thing as the luck of the Irish,” I remarked to Pesty as we shared a late-night snack of soda bread, cream cheese, and blueberry jam.
    Later, climbing into bed, I recalled the words of the ultimate survivor, Margaret Mitchell’s Scarlett O’Hara, who, when confronted with the final adversity in Gone with the Wind , proclaimed that tomorrow was another day.
    While visions of a hot-blooded, puffy-shirted Charlie toting me up an immense staircase passed before my tired eyes, I fell into a deep sleep. I’d had a day that even Scarlett would have found exhausting.

Chapter
eleven
    Sunday morning arrived on the scene with blue skies and sunshine to spare. As expected, the weather forecast included record-high humidity, which meant it would be another hot and sticky summer day. With this in mind, I decided that my embroidered peasant blouse and skirt would be a wise choice. I pulled the gauzy, turquoise outfit from the laundry chute and tossed it into the recently repaired washing machine. Setting the timer on the quick, gentle cycle and the water on warm, I added a healthy squirt of detergent to the small load. Leaving the washer to do its thing, I headed for the kitchen and some coffee.
    With a firm grip on a mug of instant, microwaved coffee, I used my free hand to unlatch the top half of the Dutch door and pushed it open. Leaning on the sill, I took a deep breath of fresh morning air. Resisting the urge to break into my own off-key version of “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,” I became aware of snippets of conversation coming from the direction of the Birdwells’ backyard.
    Still dressed in my nightshirt, I slipped out of the house and made my way over to the tall, thick, property-dividing hedge. Feeling more like a nosy neighbor than a fact-gathering sleuth, I waited for the conversation to continue. Judging from the pauses and hearing only one voice, I guessed correctly that I was eavesdropping on someone’s cell phone call.
    “Murdered. Yeah, like I told you before, it pays to be thorough. Let’s just say, everything’s turning out the way we expected. No, don’t call me, I’ll call you. It’s safer that way. Ciao!”
    The surreptitious conversation had come to an end. I’d certainly gotten an