Page 112 of Booked for Murder

“We really did. To be honest, the instant we got everything into the Hampton residence, Mrs. Hampton took over, had us wash everything us rough, crude men could handle without incident, and took care of the rest herself. Your reward boots are, unfortunately, being replaced with the same ones except a better size for you. You, apparently, have monster calves, so the boots wouldn’t be comfortable for you. She found the manufacturer, got your accurate calf size, and had them remade. They’ll be ready in six months.”

“How did she get my accurate calf size?”

“She measured you while you were sleeping and conferred with Dr. Mansfield.”

Damn. “My reward boots are the wrong size?”

“Don’t cry,” Bradley ordered. “You still have your reward boots, they’re just going to be even newer but otherwise identical. You still have your old pair, too, they just won’t fit.”

“You made sure they’d fit?”

I thought that was worth crying over, as it’d been so long since I had someone anticipate the little things in life I might need. It’d been me, myself, and I plus Ajani for so long I couldn’t remember how I was supposed to feel. Even with co-workers who would have helped, I’d never asked—and no one had ever really offered.

I had myself to blame for that. I’d worked too hard to be self-reliant.

“And that’s how you make certain she cries,” Ren complained, reaching to the passenger seat, snagging a box of tissues, and handing them to me. “We were warned to bring tissues. I have two more boxes where that one came from. If you want to cry, think about the orange chicken I’m about to go get for you, and we ordered a special present from the restaurant just for you.”

“What present?”

“Several jars of the sauce to tide you over until we come back to Manhattan. I called, explained you were being released from the hospital, and would be in the country for a while. They are putting together a care package for you. There will be soup, because you’re sick and need soup. A lot of soup. I think they’re trying to fill the trunk with the entire restaurant, truth be told. So, be ready for that. But the important thing is, you will have your orange chicken sauce, extra spicy, just for you.”

“And you’re telling me not to make her cry,” Bradley complained. “That’s definitely going to make her cry.”

It did, and I took the box of tissues, as I’d surely need the entire damned thing.

The orange chicken did me in, and I passed out so hard someone carried me to my parent’s couch without waking me, and it took the enticing aroma of beef roast to lure me back to consciousness. In a half-asleep daze, I followed the plate of food all the way to the dining room before comprehending my mother had resorted to tricks from when I’d been a toddler to get me to do what she wanted.

Whatever. Her tricks led to my stomach’s happiness. I mumbled the obligatory thanks, waged a war with my utensils until I remembered how they worked, and began the important work of eating.

“Wow, Janette. I had no idea the hospital had actually converted you into a zombie,” Beatrice said.

I couldn’t flip my middle finger at her without relinquishing my knife or fork, so I settled with a grunt between bites and ignored the evil woman.

“Give her five or ten minutes,” my mother said, her tone amused. “She’s been like this ever since she was little. When she’s not feeling great and hasn’t eaten enough, she becomes a zombie, but she’s a zombie who can be easily moved with a bribe of food. Roast beef works the best. She’ll ignore chicken soup and go back to bed. Spaghetti is hit-or-miss, but she’ll run if lasagna is available. Should she capture the plate, she will stop, sit, and immediately begin to eat, so it’s important that she does not get a hold of the plate before she has reached where you want her to go.”

“That’s pathetic, Janette,” my beloved yet hated rival informed me.

“I really can’t argue with that,” I admitted.

“Good. You’re back with us?” my mother asked.

“I think so. Maybe.” I took another bite of the roast beef. “Yeah. Hi.”

Bradley, who sat to my right, laughed, reached across the table, and picked up a reddish-orange jar. “If you want some of your orange sauce, put it on your plate so we can put that back in the fridge. Your mother made a chicken breast just for you so you can dip it in your sauce.”

I blinked, and sure enough, a grilled chicken breast waited nearby.

Damn. My mother loved me and wanted the world to know it. Accepting the jar, I pulled the chicken closer, unscrewed the lid, and poured on the essence of life until the chicken disappeared. Only when certain not a single piece of chicken could be seen did I return the lid and give it to Bradley, who took it and headed for the kitchen. “Thank you, Mom.”

“You’re welcome. You’ve earned some pampering, and your doctor asked us to make sure you ate as much as you could stomach for the next few days. You’re underweight, and you’re to be spoiled.”

I loved my doctor. “I need to send Dr. Mansfield flowers, chocolates, and a card.”

Everyone at the table laughed. It amazed me the table could fit my parents, all of my new accomplices in our budding investigative cell, and the Hamptons. What I didn’t understand was why were they laughing at my statement. I scowled.

Bradley’s mother reached across the table and patted my hand. “We already sent her all of the above to an excessive degree. How much were you told about the operation?”

“It happened, I panicked coming out of sedation as usual, and then it happened again so I could be in the boot. Dr. Mansfield probably tried to tell me the specifics, but the medications make me stupid, so I just kept asking her if she’d be amputating my foot. I’m never going to live that down, but at least I can blame the drugs.”