Read Real Women Eat Cake: A Yellow Rose Cozy Mystery (Yellow Rose Mystery Series Book 1) for Free Online
Authors: K. P. Hilton
11
As the morning radio personalities buzzed the airwaves reminding listeners the world was still there, Betty drove, trying to organize her thoughts. She'd meant to go by the shop, but instead found herself driving up near the north end of town along the I-35 access road. She took a left and drove into the parking lot of a convenience store and parked in one of the few available spaces.
She later attributed what she did next to stress. Her nerves had been on edge for the past several days with no let up in sight. She didn’t like revisiting old habits, yet she also didn’t like constantly feeling like her head was about to crack open.
“Marlboro Lights. Box,” she told the woman behind the register.
The woman pulled a pack down from a nearby shelf. “Anything else? Lighter?”
“No. That’ll do.”
Betty gave her the money and stuffed the change into a side pocket. Outside, she threw the box’s plastic wrapper into the trash, a Don’t Mess With Texas sticker clinging to the side. She tamped the box, flipped open the top, and pulled out a cigarette.
She was standing a few feet to the right of the entrance to the store, underneath a covered area that resembled an old-fashioned porch. To her left was a bench where three men in their late sixties to early seventies sat. They’d been in deep, unhurried conversation when she’d gone in.
“Need a light?” one of them asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
The man eyed her like he had something else he wanted to ask. A green sign with large yellow lettering hung above his head. Spit-free Hard Snuff. A thin line of brown spittle lined the left side of his chin. Guess some people do need a good spit every once in awhile , she thought. He returned his attention to his companions and rejoined the conversation. For a few minutes they discussed the weather and how the heat from the past summer had adversely affected various crops across the state. Talk of politics surfaced. Several local citizens were considering running for the city council next year. Their merits and backgrounds were discussed.
The conversation continued with shifting topics and varying points of view. Illegal aliens. Alien kidnappings. Kidnapped neighbors. Neighbors arguing. “The world hasn’t made sense since Dan Rather stopped doing the news,” one of them said. Betty decided a jolt of something highly caffeinated would help her headache. Plus something upbeat on the radio.
As she was leaving, she threw her cigarette into the trash. Since she was tempted to keep the remaining nineteen, she thought it best to toss them as well.
The trio on the bench watched her. “Expensive habit,” said the one who’d originally offered her a light.
“So are long-term medical bills. One of the reasons why I stopped years ago,” she said, heading inside the store for a diet soda. Soon she was back in her car and on the road.
Betty hadn’t dropped by The Shop, owned and operated by Ojudh, in some time. A thinking woman cannot wind down if she never takes a break and remains semi-isolated from her friends.
Ojudh was a Belizean who'd set up a tattoo/coffee shop in town years ago. Nobody knew much about him except that he was strong, quiet, and great with tattoos. He also let some of the younger crowd hang out in the coffee end of the shop, sometimes dispensing advice, sometimes simply allowing a safe place for them to hang out. Betty liked the custom coffee blends and recommended them to her customers and friends alike. He stopped briefly in the midst of outlining a fresh new tattoo.
“Hold on, Betty. I'll be over there in a second.”
Some scrawny kid was resting back into Ojudh’s chair getting a Celtic cross etched onto his shoulder.
“Smells like you’ve been getting into some hard kicks,” Ojudh told the kid while pushing up his glasses and continuing to darken the outer illustration with the buzzing
As the morning radio personalities buzzed the airwaves reminding listeners the world was still there, Betty drove, trying to organize her thoughts. She'd meant to go by the shop, but instead found herself driving up near the north end of town along the I-35 access road. She took a left and drove into the parking lot of a convenience store and parked in one of the few available spaces.
She later attributed what she did next to stress. Her nerves had been on edge for the past several days with no let up in sight. She didn’t like revisiting old habits, yet she also didn’t like constantly feeling like her head was about to crack open.
“Marlboro Lights. Box,” she told the woman behind the register.
The woman pulled a pack down from a nearby shelf. “Anything else? Lighter?”
“No. That’ll do.”
Betty gave her the money and stuffed the change into a side pocket. Outside, she threw the box’s plastic wrapper into the trash, a Don’t Mess With Texas sticker clinging to the side. She tamped the box, flipped open the top, and pulled out a cigarette.
She was standing a few feet to the right of the entrance to the store, underneath a covered area that resembled an old-fashioned porch. To her left was a bench where three men in their late sixties to early seventies sat. They’d been in deep, unhurried conversation when she’d gone in.
“Need a light?” one of them asked.
“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”
The man eyed her like he had something else he wanted to ask. A green sign with large yellow lettering hung above his head. Spit-free Hard Snuff. A thin line of brown spittle lined the left side of his chin. Guess some people do need a good spit every once in awhile , she thought. He returned his attention to his companions and rejoined the conversation. For a few minutes they discussed the weather and how the heat from the past summer had adversely affected various crops across the state. Talk of politics surfaced. Several local citizens were considering running for the city council next year. Their merits and backgrounds were discussed.
The conversation continued with shifting topics and varying points of view. Illegal aliens. Alien kidnappings. Kidnapped neighbors. Neighbors arguing. “The world hasn’t made sense since Dan Rather stopped doing the news,” one of them said. Betty decided a jolt of something highly caffeinated would help her headache. Plus something upbeat on the radio.
As she was leaving, she threw her cigarette into the trash. Since she was tempted to keep the remaining nineteen, she thought it best to toss them as well.
The trio on the bench watched her. “Expensive habit,” said the one who’d originally offered her a light.
“So are long-term medical bills. One of the reasons why I stopped years ago,” she said, heading inside the store for a diet soda. Soon she was back in her car and on the road.
Betty hadn’t dropped by The Shop, owned and operated by Ojudh, in some time. A thinking woman cannot wind down if she never takes a break and remains semi-isolated from her friends.
Ojudh was a Belizean who'd set up a tattoo/coffee shop in town years ago. Nobody knew much about him except that he was strong, quiet, and great with tattoos. He also let some of the younger crowd hang out in the coffee end of the shop, sometimes dispensing advice, sometimes simply allowing a safe place for them to hang out. Betty liked the custom coffee blends and recommended them to her customers and friends alike. He stopped briefly in the midst of outlining a fresh new tattoo.
“Hold on, Betty. I'll be over there in a second.”
Some scrawny kid was resting back into Ojudh’s chair getting a Celtic cross etched onto his shoulder.
“Smells like you’ve been getting into some hard kicks,” Ojudh told the kid while pushing up his glasses and continuing to darken the outer illustration with the buzzing
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