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She shrugged her shoulders, reaching down to take the squealing Kat from my arms and calmed him with a single stroke of her fingers. “Yeah, he’s dead.”
“Where…where…where…” My lungs still couldn’t hold onto an ounce of air. I gasped and sputtered. “Where is…Grammy Jo?”
Someone had to get to the bottom of this. If Grammy Jo killed Allen with her potion, we needed to spring into action. Maybe send her into hiding? A forgetfulness potion for the whole town? Or batten down the hatches and prepare to fight off the authorities. I was up for anything.
“Settle down, child.” Grammy Jo strolled through the backdoor, still wearing her gardening gloves and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Dirt coated the knees of her psychedelic leggings. It wasn’t uncommon for my grandmother to sport the crazy patterns more suited to a younger generation. Still, if anyone with a striking gray pixie cut and a little too much blush around the cheeks could pull them off, Grammy Jo could. “What’s all this hubbub about?”
“Allen…Allen White is dead.” Finally, my lungs fully expanded, filling my chest with the sweetest air. “He’s dead, Grammy Jo. We just saw his body.”
Her lips pressed into a firm line and she paused in the middle of removing her gloves. “Really?”
“Yeah, the whole town knows by now. He’s dead, Grammy. As a door knob.”
Her blue eyes traversed the kitchen, making contact with everyone. The room was silent for a full thirty seconds. Then she shrugged and sighed, tossing the gloves on the counter. “Oh, well. When you got to go, you got to go. Better him than me.”
I gaped at her casual brushoff of Mr. White’s death. Surely, she wasn’t that cold-hearted. The grandmother of my childhood had taught us how to rescue helpless birds and repair a squirrel’s broken leg. Of course, Raven was much better at it due to her ability to communicate with animals. Still, Grammy Jo had seemed so caring once upon a time. The last ten years I’d spent in Arizona with my mother hadn’t been long enough to erase the grandmother I loved. At least, that’s what I hoped.
“Although,” Grammy Jo’s face wrinkled into a mask of deep sorrow. Finally, she was starting to think straight. “I will miss those roses of his. Gosh, that man could grow a flower. I wonder what’ll happen to them when he’s six feet under.”
The kitchen broke into an uproar over Allen’s garden, remembering the scent of the flowers and the way they made the perfect addition to any beauty potion. I had to sit in the nearest chair to steady myself. This couldn’t be happening. A man was dead and all anybody cared about was his garden? Was that the kind of legacy I would leave behind someday?
“The man might’ve grown the most beautiful roses in the state,” Aunt Piper confirmed, “but he certainly was no angel. Did you hear how he was evicting poor Rita O’Brady and her five kids from his rental property down on Jefferson? The woman got a yellow slip on her door just the other day. Ten years of paying rent and making that little cottage a home, and that’s what she got. He didn’t even want to give her a week to move out. Disgusting.”
“I guess she won’t have to move out now,” Raven offered quietly, her fingers stroking Kat’s chin.
Aunt Viv stared at the space above her daughter’s head, her attention drifting. I wanted to throw something at her, but doubted it would wake her up to the bizarreness of this conversation.
Blythe threw her hands in the ai
r, her thin arms flapping like a bird. “Not unless someone equally awful inherits his property. Does he have any relatives?”
“Not anymore,” Grammy Jo chirped. “It’s just him. I’ll bet he left everything to the city. That man wouldn’t give a dime to charity if the entire world depended on it.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that house of his.” Blythe stared dreamily out the window. A pink blush flowered on her peaches and cream complexion. “That’s the kind of place you could get married in. I’ll bet it has a beautiful wooden staircase and oak floors. I’d have my wedding in there.”
“To who? Drew Warring?” Raven snorted. “Did I miss the wedding announcement?”
Blythe shot her a dirty look and perched herself on the edge of a wooden stool standing next to the breakfast bar. “Maybe. Who knows? I’ve got a good feeling about this one. I do have the power to see the future, after all.”
This was all too much. I shot up from my chair and waved my arms. “Hello? Does anyone even care that the man was murdered? Someone poisoned him. They’re looking for a killer.”
Silence fell on the kitchen as everyone stared. It took me a minute to realize no one was actually looking at me. They all gazed at something just past my shoulder. I turned around to see Momma Tula, her blonde wavy hair in a wild bird’s nest on top of her head. An oversized t-shirt hung off her frame, nearly hiding the boxer shorts she wore underneath. She turned her bare feet inward, swaying from the effort it took to stand.
“Someone was murdered?”
I rushed to her side and put my arm around her shoulders. Stupid, stupid me. “Momma, I didn’t know you were here. Take a seat.”
She pushed my hands away and shook her head. “No, who was murdered? You said someone had been killed.”
I wanted to pinch the inner flesh of my arm for bursting out like that when Momma Tula was in the room. She had enough to work through. Escaping Arizona and the man she’d called her boyfriend had been rough on both of us. She didn’t need any more worries on her plate.
“It’s nothing, Momma. Really. You just sit down.”
Again, she waved me off. I could see the effort from standing was already beginning to weigh her down. She leaned against the door frame and grabbed my hand tight. “Hazel Marie Brunick, you promise me you won’t get involved in any murder investigation, you hear me? I don’t want any talk about crimes or murders. Am I understood?” She lifted her chin to look at her sisters. “And I don’t want any of you encouraging anything, either. It’s the last thing we need around here.”
This unexpected flicker of my old mother sprung tears to the corners of my eyes. I blinked them away and nodded. “Yes, Momma Tula.”
She nodded and shuffled back toward the staircase, the t-shirt clinging to her bent form.
