Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) by Jeanne Glidewell Read Free Book Online Page B

effect.
    Looking closely, I saw a single tomato plant in the back corner, one bell pepper plant
     near the steps leading down from the porch, and in the very middle of the backyard
     was a solitary pumpkin. It was by far the largest pumpkin I'd ever seen in my entire
     forty-eight years. Harriet must have gone through a full gallon of Miracle-Gro on
     that one plant alone.
    "Big critter, ain't it?" Harriet commented when she saw me staring at the humongous
     pumpkin.
    "I'll say," I agreed. "If it had an antenna and a bud vase it could easily be mistaken
     for an orange VW bug. You need to enter that monster in the county fair, Harriet."
    "Reckon I otter. Won't be worth a tinker's damn to eat—that size and all. But I ain't
     got the heart to whack it outta there. Maybe I'll make a jack-o'-lantern outta it
     and put it on the front porch come Hallerween. Fer the kiddies, ya know."
    "Oh, yes, you should, Harriet. If I'm still here, I'll help you carve it."
    Harriet had pointed me to a hanging hammock-type chair swinging from the rafters of
     the porch. Nestled in the seat was a green and white striped cushion. Harriet sat
     down opposite the chair on an upside-down five-gallon bucket that looked like it had
     been around as long as she had. There were spots where rust had eaten completely through
     the metal.
    "Harriet, let me sit there. You take the chair. You've been working this morning,
     and I haven't," I said. I didn't want to imply I was offering the chair to her because
     she was old. Despite her age, I was certain that Harriet could work circles around
     me.
    "Nah, rather sit here. Been sitting on this here bucket for years. Iffing I was to
     git too comfy, I'd git lazy."
    I plopped myself down into the chair and sighed. It was like sitting on a cloud. I'd
     never sat in anything so comfortable in my entire life, and I could visualize myself
     spending all my free time here in this very spot.
    I opened my notebook. Pen in hand, I felt I resembled the freelance writer that I
     was pretending to be.
    "So, tell me, Harriet, what do you know about the Pitt case?"
    "Well, ever body around here knows that the Pitt boy weren't no good. That much is
     fer shore. He'd been running 'round on Eliza fer a long time, iffing ya ask me. Clay's
     what they call a 'rounder' in these here parts. Likes to drink, fight, and pick up
     trashy broads. Ain't seen him 'round in a spell, but he used to chase tail down at
     that strip joint down the road, drunker than a skunk ever night. One night he got
     tanked up and shot the weathervane off the top of the sheriff's house. Spent the weekend
     in the slammer too, he did. Yes sir-ee! Shoulda left him there and thrown away the
     key."
    "Wow, he sounds like a real pillar of sobriety, er, society," I said.
    Harriet ignored, or didn't understand, my pun, and kept talking. "He's meaner than
     a snake too. Thumped his missus ever chance he got. Poor girl come awandering into
     Mabel's hair store one day with a cracked tooth and a split lip. Said a softball smacked
     her, but even that tongue-wagging, gossip hound, Mabel, knew that were a lie. Softball,
     hell, covering fer that no 'count husband of hers was what she were doing."
    "Did Clay know that Eliza was expecting their child?"
    "Shore he did. That's what set him off, iffing ya ask me. Didn't want to be shackled
     to the wife, much less no kid. That's why he did her in fer good, iffing ya ask me.
     It weren't no surprise to no one, I can tell ya that fer shore. Don't know why them
     damn silly cops ain't smart enough to see that. Says they ain't got no evidence. Why,
     bloody hell, that split lip otter had been evidence enuff."
    By this point I knew all I was going to get out of Harriet was her somewhat biased
     and speculative opinion. It sounded more like rumor and supposition than a factual
     accounting. Harriet hadn't told me one certifiable detail I could record in my notebook
     yet, but she was looking at me quizzically, so I jotted down,