It’s Linda posting today. The Boss is helping us close the current case, HA-HA-HA-HA, while simultaneously working on an editing project and doing the 9-to-5. (At least she got over that t.p. obsession, though now she does seem to be fanatically focused on finding sanitizer products.)
Rey, JJ and I are sitting on the lanai again. It’s nice and quiet, save for the neighbor who decided to start a self-reno project, given he’s got a lot of time on his hand. The banging and clanging are a bit annoying, but nothing compared to the cussing when he hammers his finger.
The three of us at the Triple Threat Investigation Agency are still finding diversions—besides blogging and reviewing, I’m taking an on-line course on pet grooming, inspired by JJ’s gawd-awful “spruce up” of Button a few days ago. The poor dear’s still wearing that woe-is-me look. A dog with a mullet; who knew it was possible? JJ’s reviewing crime stories for the agency website. And Rey’s still reading Nancy Drew books, with great enthusiasm I might add. She’s been enacting scenes for us. Hey, it passes the time.
Considering there’s not much happening, I’ve no aversion to another diversion. So here you go, dear friends, another excerpt from HA-HA-HA-HA.
Continue to stay safe and healthy!
“Nice flowers,” Rey commented, peering over my shoulder at the gold-flecked carton that had just arrived at the agency.
It was a few minutes after noon and Linda had joined Mink for a casual lunch in the doggy-wear designer’s office. I’d declined as I’d already picked up shrimp won-ton mein at a noodle house across the street and Rey had passed with a monotone “not hungry”. Whether that was because she wasn’t a fan of Mink or the fact her BFF and Mink were becoming good pals remained to be seen.
She dropped onto the rattan sofa beside me with a thud.
“Hey, we can’t afford to replace broken furniture,” I chided.
“You going to open that?” She poked the carton with a long apple-red fingernail.
“My, my, my. Aren’t we curious?”
“We are. Now, open it!”
Chuckling, I untied the satin ribbon. Inside, wrapped in lightweight tissue were twelve long-stem crimson roses.
“Nice.” Her tone was flat, her gaze narrowed. “What about the card?”
I passed it. “You do the honors.”
She unsealed the small gilt-edged envelope like a pro. “Lovely flowers for lovely ladies.” She turned it over and shrugged. “Looks like you have—hold on, it says ‘ladies’. But the delivery was to you.”
“Looks like we have a secret admirer.”
She frowned. “They’re roses.”
“But they’re not black,” I said with a tight smile.
Her frown deepened. “You think they might be from GRP?”
“It’s possible, but I’d expect him to enclose a taunting or sinister message. And the flowers would be black, or close to.” I shrugged. “These could be from a former client or a mischievous friend.”
“Our few friends don’t have money to blow on high-end roses,” she stated, eyeing them circumspectly. “Maybe a client.”
I stood. “May as well put them in a vase.”
“We don’t have one.”
“Then I’ll run down to the little trading shop next door and buy one. They’re too pretty to let wither.”
“Take ‘em home.” She smiled faintly. “The place could use some color.”
“They still need water until we leave.”
She shrugged and started to remove them from the box—and shrieked. “Shit. I forgot about thorns.”
But it wasn’t a thorn that was sticking from a bleeding finger when she held it up—but a mini razor blade for a snap-blade knife.
She looked at me crossly. “You were sayin’ something about friends?”
The Writer's Grab-Bag 