Land of a Hundred Wonders by Lesley Kagen Read Free Book Online Page A

Florida’s pies.”
    Miss Jessie rests her hand on my knee, a mushy look coming into her eyes. “You and I both know that I already have feelin’s for somebody, and that somebody is not Sheriff Johnson.”
    â€œI perceive that you are hot for Grampa,” I say, gathering up my reins.
    She gives Peaches a sharper than normal slap on the rump and says, “Well, I perceive this conversation has just drawn to a close. Git.”
    â€œSometimes he calls out your name in his sleep,” I say, steering out of the coolness of the barn into the muggy heat.
    Miss Jessie chases me down. “What’d ya just say?”
    â€œI said you are hot for Grampa.”
    â€œNo, after that. Something about your grandfather callin’ out my name in his sleep?”
    I don’t recall saying anything of the sort. “Are ya feelin’ all right, Miss Jessie? As you well know, I have been trained in basic Red Cross. Maybe you’re havin’ a heatstroke. Are ya seein’ stars? Do ya . . . well, speak of the devil.” I point over her shoulder at the Grant County Sheriff car that’s speeding up her drive. (Considering our previous conversation, him showing up like this doesn’t look too good for her. Makes her look Culpable: Blameworthy , don’tcha think?)
    â€œWhat in tarnation does he want?” Miss Jessie says, flushing flamingo.
    â€œHe wants to gobble you up—”
    â€œHush,” she says out of the corner of her mouth as the car comes sliding to a stop next to the barn.
    Watching the sheriff walk our way, I think about how he’s always reminded me of a past-prime peach. With fuzzy orange hair on top and all over his arms, and while not exactly fat, he is real mushy around the middle. “Afternoon, Miss Jessie,” he says to her with so much lust in his eyes it’s practically squirting out. “Miss Gibby.”
    I say, “Good afternoon,” but what I want to say is—it was until you showed up anyway, you rancid bully—and am real proud of my restraint.
    â€œLike they say, two heads are better’n one. Got time to sort out Buster’s disappearance with me, Jess?” he asks, offerin’ his arm.
    â€œPardon me, Sheriff,” I butt in, because Almighty God, the memory of finding that dead body this morning has just floated back into my mind! “Would ya know if Mr. Buster Malloy was well known for his swimmin’ ability?” I will need this information for my awfully good story, because even though Mr. Buster wasn’t drowned, but punctured in the chest and messed up in the neck, it would be an interesting background fact. I wish I had my blue spiral with me. I should be getting this down.
    The sheriff, putting up a nice front for Miss Jessie, says to me in the dearest of voices, “And for what purpose would you be wantin’ to know that information?”
    â€œFor the article I will be writin’ about him once he turns up dead, ya big asshole.”
    â€œGib!” Miss Jessie shouts, givin’ me the cut-throat sign. (That’s her secret code to warn me I’m cursing.)
    The sheriff is waitin’ on me to, but I won’t give him my deepest of apologies, I won’t.
    â€œWell, now,” he says, removing his mirrored sunglasses. “Guess ya got ahold of some bad information, Miss Gibby. Mr. Malloy is not dead. He’s missin’, is all.”
    I coulda corrected him, even mentioned that I got pictures of that dead man sitting in the camera that’s inside my briefcase that’s under those bushes in front of the barn, but I don’t. Because at last summer’s Cray Ridge Days, where there were running contestsand buffet food, I overheard the sheriff remark to his deputy, “That McGraw girl’s gotta be dumber than anthracite coal.”
    â€œStay on the path,” Miss Jessie calls to me as she and the sheriff head toward a shaded picnic table and