Cemetery Silk by E. Joan Sims Read Free Book Online Page B

chance.
    Try as we might, moving and pushing and sweating, we had no luck. The two big yellow flower print chintz sofas did not look good anywhere except in their long accustomed places on each side of the fireplace with the low Queen Anne table in between. And so we moved everything back from vase to rug and plopped down on freshly plumped yellow down cushions to marvel at our industry. I hopped back up immediately when a sharp poke in the rear called a broken sofa spring to my painful attention. Cassie leaned back and stretched, dreamily unaware of my predicament.
    â€œLooks great, huh, Mom?”
    â€œI’ll say.” Mother stood in the doorway looking like an ad for Ralph Lauren in jeans and chambray shirt with a perky red bandanna around her hair.
    â€œHow about some lunch now that you have validated my decor? You are evil, wicked children! At least you had the decency not to slip me another one of those sedatives that dreadful Doctor Morbus ordered.”
    â€œMother, you look great. And yes, you are as right about decorating as you are about everything else.”
    â€œThank you, for the compliment, Paisley. At least I think so,” she replied. “Maybe after lunch you will let me convince you that some big weasel has been up to no good. If you promise not to call in the entire medical profession of Rowan Springs or send me to a home for the dim-witted and simple.”
    â€œReally, Mother, that’s unfair!” I argued. “I was just worried about you. You were very, very upset.”
    â€œWell, wouldn’t you be very, very upset if you had just figured out there was a possibility that some greedy villain might have done away with your dear, sweet cousin so he could abscond with her sick old husband’s money?”
    â€œOh!” Cassie and I said together. We were stunned! Neither of us had thought of that little angle.
    â€œNow, let’s go have some lunch,” she said brightly. “You all look exhausted.”

Chapter Five
    Mercifully, before playing Sherlock Holmes, Mother let us dive into a scrumptious shrimp salad with homemade mayonnaise, just the tiniest hint of capers, and fresh croissants. I don’t know how she did it. Martha Stewart, eat your heart out!
    I was just finishing my second helping and planning on a dainty third when the phone rang. Cassie, going on the assumption that no one over thirty ever receives a call and only uses the phone to dial 911, made a mad dash for the hallway. It made me wonder if there was a new love in her life.
    â€œMom, it’s Pam in New York.”
    â€œThank goodness! Keep your fingers crossed, Mother. God, I hope she was able to negotiate a decent advance on my book.”
    I stuffed the last bite of croissant in my mouth and struggled out of my chair. I was certain I had regained those seven pounds.
    Pamela Alison Winslow had been my college roommate and was still my best friend. After graduation she had moved to New York, and into the publishing world. With a little help from her very influential family and a lot of her very own brains and talent, she had made quite a name for herself while I was happily filling the role of wife and mother.
    After my reason to be a wife vanished into thin air, I called Pam for a job. She had already become the adoring godmother to my bouncing baby girl and hated to see me quit being a “stay at home mom.” It was at her suggestion that I began to write down the bedtime stories that I made up for Cassie. With her help, I had managed to make a successful career. My series of children’s books had been in print for the last ten years. For the last couple of years, it had become more difficult for me to come up with ideas. I was out of touch with the younger set. I think they had outgrown me. It was a new generation of children. They all had little toddler computers and video games. They were busy zapping alien attackers from the crab nebulae and hacking into the