The Death of Pie by Tamar Myers Read Free Book Online
Authors: Tamar Myers
Freisen spent her teenage years with the moniker Shaggy Aggie.
Rest assured that by the time I reached the gates of the so-called convent, I was safely ensconced in my police cruiser, with the windows up, and the sirens wailing like a banshee on the Scottish moors. Perhaps Mama didnât hear me â based on my next electric bill â but the Mother Superior sure did. Mother Malaise, aka Ida Rosen, could hear a reference to her son texted from a bunker somewhere in wilds of North Korea. In short, my stout, ex-Jewish nemesis from Brooklyn, New York has Gabe-dar .
Call me remiss if I do not adequately describe the woman with the apron strings of steel. Rest assured that this is not judgment on my part, but merely a keen sense of observation. Although Ida is no relation to my much-adored cousin Freni, she shares her same top-heavy triangular figure. However, Idaâs ankles are matchstick thin, and her feet the size of a new born babyâs. It is above the triangle that the biggest differences are to be found: Ida has a neck. Granted, it is a stubby neck, but it is quite serviceable, allowing her oversized head to swivel a freakishly three hundred degrees by my calculations.
Yes, I have been known to exaggerate â just a tad â upon occasion, but Mother Malaise really did make one stop and consider the possibility that the woman might have owl blood coursing through her veins. Of course, it would have been a great sin on one or both of her parentsâ parts for interbreeding â well, it isnât my fault that my mind went there, is it? It was Mother Malaise who was to blame for wearing a dreary, greyish-brown habit with a wimple that sported two inexplicable tufts of fabric atop it like the ears of the Great Horned Owl. Like Freni, Mother Malaise required glasses, but hers were notable for their immense diameter rather than the thickness of their lenses.
So when my official police cruiser screeched to a halt in a spray of gravel and loose dirt, I was greeted by the visage of a Great Horned Owl flapping its wings and hooting â albeit something other than âwho.â That is to say, my mother-in-law has a vocabulary guaranteed to make even the most hardened Baptist blush. After a good deal of wasted time, when it appeared that sheâd run out of breath and had been reduced to a heaving habit beneath the giant rotating head, I jumped smartly from the car. The one thing that Toy had failed to outfit me with was a gun, mayhap rightly so; nonetheless, I patted my empty holster for dramatic effect.
âM-Magdalena,â Mother Malaise gasped when she could produce the necessary wind, âthis isnât Halloween, you know. You could get arrested for impersonating a police officer, and you certainly will get arrested for stealing a police car. In fact, Iâm making the call right now.â She began fumbling within the yards and yards of coarse fabric that hung from her bodacious bosoms.
âStuff and nun sense,â I said. âI am, in fact, the de facto investigator in the murder of Ramat Sreym, the nebbish novelist who plotzed in a pie.â
Ida yanked her fat, fumbling fingers out of her habit and pointed one at me. Given the meatiness of said digits, it looked like all five were aimed in my direction.
â Vhat? â she rasped. âI dunât understand a verd you are saying, Magdalena. Not a verd, but eet eez lies, all lies.â
I patted my empty holster again, and displayed a little attitude in the way I cocked my bony left hip. âHmm, if you ask me, this place is just begging for a few citations. When is the last time youâve had your kitchen inspected? You have any illegals working here? How about you? Your accent sounds funny to me.â
My mother-in-law ripped off her wimple, and I could see that her face was the color of boiled rice. âIt vas only one rat,â she said. âA small von â OK, so maybe not so small. Who knew dat
Rest assured that by the time I reached the gates of the so-called convent, I was safely ensconced in my police cruiser, with the windows up, and the sirens wailing like a banshee on the Scottish moors. Perhaps Mama didnât hear me â based on my next electric bill â but the Mother Superior sure did. Mother Malaise, aka Ida Rosen, could hear a reference to her son texted from a bunker somewhere in wilds of North Korea. In short, my stout, ex-Jewish nemesis from Brooklyn, New York has Gabe-dar .
Call me remiss if I do not adequately describe the woman with the apron strings of steel. Rest assured that this is not judgment on my part, but merely a keen sense of observation. Although Ida is no relation to my much-adored cousin Freni, she shares her same top-heavy triangular figure. However, Idaâs ankles are matchstick thin, and her feet the size of a new born babyâs. It is above the triangle that the biggest differences are to be found: Ida has a neck. Granted, it is a stubby neck, but it is quite serviceable, allowing her oversized head to swivel a freakishly three hundred degrees by my calculations.
Yes, I have been known to exaggerate â just a tad â upon occasion, but Mother Malaise really did make one stop and consider the possibility that the woman might have owl blood coursing through her veins. Of course, it would have been a great sin on one or both of her parentsâ parts for interbreeding â well, it isnât my fault that my mind went there, is it? It was Mother Malaise who was to blame for wearing a dreary, greyish-brown habit with a wimple that sported two inexplicable tufts of fabric atop it like the ears of the Great Horned Owl. Like Freni, Mother Malaise required glasses, but hers were notable for their immense diameter rather than the thickness of their lenses.
So when my official police cruiser screeched to a halt in a spray of gravel and loose dirt, I was greeted by the visage of a Great Horned Owl flapping its wings and hooting â albeit something other than âwho.â That is to say, my mother-in-law has a vocabulary guaranteed to make even the most hardened Baptist blush. After a good deal of wasted time, when it appeared that sheâd run out of breath and had been reduced to a heaving habit beneath the giant rotating head, I jumped smartly from the car. The one thing that Toy had failed to outfit me with was a gun, mayhap rightly so; nonetheless, I patted my empty holster for dramatic effect.
âM-Magdalena,â Mother Malaise gasped when she could produce the necessary wind, âthis isnât Halloween, you know. You could get arrested for impersonating a police officer, and you certainly will get arrested for stealing a police car. In fact, Iâm making the call right now.â She began fumbling within the yards and yards of coarse fabric that hung from her bodacious bosoms.
âStuff and nun sense,â I said. âI am, in fact, the de facto investigator in the murder of Ramat Sreym, the nebbish novelist who plotzed in a pie.â
Ida yanked her fat, fumbling fingers out of her habit and pointed one at me. Given the meatiness of said digits, it looked like all five were aimed in my direction.
â Vhat? â she rasped. âI dunât understand a verd you are saying, Magdalena. Not a verd, but eet eez lies, all lies.â
I patted my empty holster again, and displayed a little attitude in the way I cocked my bony left hip. âHmm, if you ask me, this place is just begging for a few citations. When is the last time youâve had your kitchen inspected? You have any illegals working here? How about you? Your accent sounds funny to me.â
My mother-in-law ripped off her wimple, and I could see that her face was the color of boiled rice. âIt vas only one rat,â she said. âA small von â OK, so maybe not so small. Who knew dat