Flourless to Stop Him by Nancy J. Parra Read Free Book Online Page B

alive decades past his shelf life by the pure stubbornness of Grandma Mary before they both passed away the same night. They had been married sixty-five years, and it seemed that Grandpa had stayed alive until Grandma died and then simply gone with her. I suppose that was a romantic view, but then I liked the romantic view.
    Grandpa and Grandma had been gone five years now,but every Christmas I made pinwheel cookies and remembered the other side of my family. The side with slightly fewer members, who worked the oil fields and factories.
    The pounding at the back door startled me out of my thoughts and the fast dance of baking, filling, and frosting. I looked out of the peephole I had drilled. There was a bright orange triangle flapping in the wind. The loud banging again.
Wham, wham, wham.
“Toni? Let me in—it’s cold out here.”
    I unlocked the door and hadn’t quite opened it when Grandma pushed through on her Scootaround. “Grandma? It’s five thirty in the morning.”
    “I know. I need coffee.” She pushed her scooter up to the table, displacing the chair that Tim had tucked back under. “I take it the coffee’s ready.”
    “Good morning to you, too,” I said and dragged a third ceramic mug from the shelf. I poured thick hot brew into it and took it over to Grandma. She liked it as sweet as Tim did but instead of sugar, she used the pink packets. Not the blue ones; it had to be the pink ones. Grandma was also a lifelong member of Weight Watchers. It worked when she followed it—following it was the key. These days she didn’t care about her size, but the pink packets were a habit from those days that stuck.
    “I’ve been awake for hours,” Grandma said. “Trying to figure out who the victim was and why the killer would frame your brother.”
    Grandma took her brown fedora off. Today she wore a multicolored knit scarf that my cousin Desiree had knitted her. It was longer than Grandma was tall, but she wore it proudly wrapped around and around her neck. Under the scarf, she wore a thick puffy coat that had been blue at one point but now had coffee and cigarette stains on it until it was nearly brown. Under the coat I saw a white Peter Pan collar with a bright blue butterfly print on it.
    Grandma Ruth’s sense of style always amazed me. Herlegs were covered in brown corduroy men’s pants, her feet encased in thick boots. I handed her the coffee mug.
    “No gloves, Grandma? It’s less than twenty degrees outside.” I frowned at her.
    “Gloves are in my pockets,” she said and took the mug. Her fingertips were a telltale blue.
    “You can’t type if you don’t have fingers.”
    “I had them on, but I took them off when you didn’t answer my first knock. I figured they were muffling the sound.”
    As if her gloveless hands were my fault.
    She pulled five pink packets out of the holder and shook them deftly before tearing the tops off and dumping the contents into her cup. “Spoon?”
    “Right here.” I handed her a spoon from the side drawer. “Tim is going to stay at the homestead for a while,” I said. “I told him Mindy was coming, so he’s crashing in the back bedroom.”
    “Good.” Grandma nodded and stirred her coffee. She reached for the small pitcher of creamer that I kept on the table and poured a good dollop into her drink. “Do you have any leftover donuts?”
    “No leftovers, I made cranberry walnut today,” I said. “They’re in the front counter but if you wait a few minutes there are some cinnamon spice donuts in the oven. You can get them super fresh.”
    “I don’t see why you can’t fry your donuts like everyone else.” Grandma wrapped both hands around her mug and sipped her coffee. Her heavily freckled skin had a lovely tan hue to it that made her look nearly as orange as her hair. Her fingernails were strong and clipped short. A reporter needs to type more than she needs to have long nails, Grandma had always said.
    I liked her plain nails. I kept mine plain.