by K. M. Waller
“New York City. Well, I’ve been fixin’ to get back up there for ages but just haven’t been able to swing it.” Harold laughed nervously as he rejoined me. He seemed different somehow from a few minutes ago. I wasn’t sure, but his accent had a slight tremble to it. Sweat started to bead on his bald head and roll down. Seeing he was only five feet tall, the top of his head was clearly in view. I watched his eyes flicker to Roseanne and Gwen, who were still battling it out despite Hazel’s plea for them to knock it off or take it outside.
“Not a fan of confrontation?” I offered up.
“No, not even a little bit.” Harold pulled at the collar of his turtleneck to give himself some air.
The sisters’ public row continued with names and insults flying from both of their mouths. Greta grabbed a fistful of chips and watched the action as if it were a daytime drama while Hazel attempted to shush her girls. Everyone else stood in stunned silence. Roseanne and Gwen had reached a point where it was impossible to ignore them anymore, and that was saying something. North Carolinians were nothing if not polite.
“Why did you ever come back? No one likes you.” Gwen motioned around the room for emphasis. Everyone turned away, but no one contradicted her.
“You two-timing tramp. You think you’re better than me?” Roseanne retorted. Greta sucked in a breath. My mouth snapped shut. The sweat dripped off Harold.
“Enough!” Gran hollered. “You’re a guest in my home, and I won’t be having that!”
Gwen blinked for a moment and blushed, finally realizing everyone was staring at her. Roseanne, on the other hand, downed the liquor in her glass and met everyone’s stare head on.
“Pardon me, I’m leaving. Sorry for the intrusion.” Gwen’s voice was barely above a whisper as she addressed the group. She kissed her mom on the cheek, leveled her sister with a stare, and quickly exited out the door. Roseanne turned around and refilled her glass with more liquor. A double by the size of the pour. Clearly, she wasn’t going anywhere.
You know that saying about one bad apple ruining the bunch? That’s how I was starting to feel about Roseanne and this little party. Thankfully, soon after Gwen left, another guest walked through the door.
“Daniel!” Greta exclaimed. Everyone welcome the man’s appearance, myself included, even though I didn’t even know who this middle-aged fellow was. It was just nice to have a fresh face join the party and defuse the tension.
“I thought Mom might be here when she wasn’t next door. Hope you don’t mind me dropping in?” Daniel asked Gran.
“You’re always welcome. You know that,” Gran replied. “How’s the campaign?”
“In full swing.” Daniel flashed a winning smile. “But it looks like it’s going to be a close one.”
“You have my vote.” Gran patted Daniel on the arm. “Daniel, I’d like you to meet my granddaughter, Maven Mackenzie.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I stuck out my hand and was greeted with a firm handshake. Daniel had that skill down pat.
“Nice to meet you. My mom said you’d be coming. Nice trip?”
“I’m not sure I’d call it that, but the scenery was beautiful,” when I wasn’t worried about navigating the curvy landscape.
“That it is. I do love it here.”
“I’m hoping I will too,” I answered honestly.
Daniel’s attention was then captured by another guest who had saddled up and started talking politics. I left him to his conversation and went to nab an hors d’oeuvre. It looked like Gran had put together my favorite ham rollups with cream cheese and pickles. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was one item she could pull off in the kitchen.
I started surveying the guests. I noticed that the warm fall day hadn’t stopped Daniel from wearing a full suit and tie. His suit was dark gray, the dress shirt light blue, and the tie was a combination of both. His wardrobe matched the rest of his looks—dark hair and light blue eyes. He was color-coordinated through and through and matched the ladies and gentlemen at the party, who were all wearing pressed pants and button-up shirts. When I was a little girl, I would have called them church clothes—the kind of nice clothes you would find at department stores and that required ironing. Like the outfits Gran would wear to Second Presbyterian and then out to brunch for waffles after.
Roseanne’s wardrobe, on the other hand, made her stick out like a sore thumb.
“Roseanne?” Daniel said her name as a question and seemed more than a bit surprise to see her. For her part, Roseanne seemed completely unfazed and unimpressed. She responded with a silent evil eye in his direction. Unless that was just her normal look? At this point, I was beginning to think so.
Daniel didn’t say anything else, turning back to his conversation instead. Roseanne continued to stare down anyone who even glanced in her direction.
As I watched Roseanne, I thought she looked like she’d been living a hard life. Bleached-out blonde hair, skin so tan and wrinkly it looked like leather, stained clothes. I still wasn’t sure her age, but seeing her mom was in her seventies and she was the younger sister, it was probably somewhere around forty-five. Speaking of family, Roseanne’s appearance made no sense given how put together both Hazel and Gwen appeared. I couldn't help wondering what Roseanne’s story was. It was something I picked up at acting school, how to study other people so you can emulate them. I was getting a whole slew of information just watching Roseanne in front of me. She refilled her glass for the third time and continued to glare at everyone as if daring them to approach her.
Harold, on the other hand, was still standing next to me, sweating away.
“Would you like to join me outside?” I offered. It seemed like the polite thing to do and I was sure he’d like to get away for a moment.
“Yes, ma’am, I sure would.”
I had him lead the way, and we walked through Gran’s living and dining rooms into the kitchen and out the back door to the patio area. It was a comfortable space set on a cement pad identical to the neighbor next door, and the neighbor after that, and after that. The only variation was in the style of patio furniture and potted plants. Gran had chosen a gold and orange theme with marigolds, black-eyed Susans, orange blanket flowers, and mums of both hues that were just starting to bud. The flowers stood out amongst the dark brown wicker and cream-cushioned furniture.
“Better?” I asked Harold with a smile on my face.
“From the way I heard it, you were the one who needed saving, and now here you are saving me. My angel.”
I couldn’t help but blush. Gran was right. Harold was a charmer.
“What made you leave New York City, darlin’?”
Harold’s question was innocent enough, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Instead I replied, “Oh, this and that.” New York was exciting, but it was also exhausting, and it can be overwhelming and downright depressing when your dreams come crashing down. Suffocating, heart breaking … that’s the New York City I knew.
Harold saw right through my ruse. Either that or Gran told him more than she should have. “Oh, I’ve met a couple this and thats in my day. Don’t worry, you forget them eventually,” he said, patting my hand.
I smiled in reply, even though I knew it didn’t reach my eyes. It was the best I could do.
“That’s a beautiful cane you have there.” The light-colored wood was carved to look like a tree with a bird perched on the top, acting as the handle.
“Why, thank you. Carved it myself.”
“Really? That’s amazing.”
“Just a little hobby of mine.”
“There you two are.” Hazel joined our little tête-à-tête.
“Just getting some fresh air,” I said.
Hazel handed us each a fresh drink. The clear, fizzy liquid with a slice of lime had me second-guessing Hazel’s memory.
“Vodka tonic,” she said as if reading my thoughts.
I laughed. “Good to know.”
Harold looked slightly confused but didn’t comment.
> “What are you going do now?" Harold brought the conversation back around to me.
"Well, first things first, I guess I need to find a job. Gran has been gracious enough to let me stay with her, but I know the complex has rules for how long I can stay.”
Since I was under fifty-five, I couldn’t be a permanent resident. Not that I’d want to be per se. Nothing against Gran, but it would feel good to be on my own two feet again, holding my own.
“So, I need to get a job and then my own place, and I guess we'll see." I shrugged my shoulders. That's as far as I had allowed myself to think ahead.
"Well, it's nothing major, but I do need help moving some furniture. I’d ask my son, but with the campaign in full swing, I don’t want to bother him.” The accented voice came from behind me. I hadn’t heard Greta approach.
“What campaign’s that?” I asked.
“U.S. Senate. He’s going to win, too. I know it.” Greta beamed. I looked around for the source of her pride, but Daniel seemed to have already left. Come to think of it, perhaps Roseanne did, too. That would be wonderful.
Greta was still talking, and I forced myself to pay attention. “I’d be more than willing to pay you for your help. How does that sound?” she finished saying.
“I can give you a hand.” I started to say that she wouldn’t have to pay me, that it would be a neighborly thing to help her out, but then Harold piped up.
"My shutters need a little sprucing up. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not as strong on my feet anymore. You take a tumble at my age and you don’t necessarily get back up.”
I pictured Harold up on a ladder and was horrified at the thought. “Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.”
“If you’re taking on clients, my garden could use an extra hand if you don’t mind pulling weeds,” Hazel chimed in. “Roseanne’s always saying she’ll get it, but we all know that ain’t gonna happen.” Greta nodded in agreement and I had to bite my tongue on that front.
“I guess I can do that.” There wasn’t much room for gardening in our apartment in New York City, but I could certainly pull weeds. How hard could that be? I don’t suppose I’d be raking in the dough anytime soon, but it would get me out of the house and make me feel useful. That was almost, if not more, important than the cash.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly. Roseanne did in fact seem to disappear, which significantly lightened the gathering’s mood, and I was able to get to know my new neighbors. I was dead on my feet by the time the last guest left. Maybe it was from all the socializing, but I had a feeling the vodka tonics Hazel kept handing me played heavily into it as well. I was asleep before my head even hit the pillow.
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Mateo’s Spicy Crockpot Creamed Corn
Hey all, it’s me Mateo. Rosie attempted to cook me dinner which almost ended in disaster. I fixed her version of corn chowder the best I could, but next time she’s in the mood to cook, I’ll stop her before she turns on the stove. Then I’ll give her this recipe to try. Or maybe I’ll just cook it with her since we’re almost an item now. Almost.
Creamed Corn is usually a side dish, but once you add the bacon I think it’s cool to consider it a full meal. Add a roll or two from the deli to “sop up” anything left in the bowl. Perfect for a guy who needs to catch up on his sleep after a shift and wake up to a warm belly-filling dinner.
Ingredients
2 (15 oz.) cans of sweet creamed corn
1 (14 oz.) can of sweet whole kernel corn (drained)
½ (8-ounce) package cream cheese, cut into cubes
1 cup shredded triple cheddar cheese
1/4 cup butter, cut into cubes
½ cup whole milk
1/3 cup finely diced fresh jalapeños
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 pound center cut bacon, cooked to extra crispy and chopped into chunks
Instructions
Spray down a 4-quart crock pot with your choice of cooking spray. Stir together all ingredients except the bacon in the crock pot. Cover and cook on HIGH for 2 hours, stirring once or twice half way through. Thirty minutes before serving add the bacon.
Nutritional values: I’m sure there are some values, but as with most recipes passed from family to family, we never write that stuff down.
Servings: Feeds three roommates
A Note from the Author
Dear Readers,
Ten years ago, my Granny was diagnosed with moderate Alzheimer’s disease. I’m sure many of you either know someone or have a relative that battles either Alzheimer’s or dementia. Memory loss diseases are cruel and persistent diseases. At some point that person who smiled when you walked into a room will no longer remember who you are. It’s brutal for family members and I can only imagine even more so for the patient.
Since my Granny’s diagnosis she’s gone from having my parents as her primary caregivers, to a resort-style assisted living facility, and finally after a stroke, to a nursing home.
While she lived with my parents and at the assisted living facility, she had her loyal companion dog by her side. At the nursing home she couldn’t take Breta with her and one of the nurses gave the sweet Cocker Spaniel a new forever home.
It breaks my heart that her memory won’t allow her to call me by my name, but I know her soul carries the love I have for her and that she’s shown me over the years.
In my book, Mourning Express, my main character Rosie is dealing with a grandparent in a memory care assisted living facility. Her need to continue the best care for her Grammy is the catalyst for becoming involved in the professional mourning business.
The relationship between Grammy, Rosie, and Grammy’s dog are inspired by my relationship with my Granny as well as observing her relationship with her own dog.
The loving and attentive nurses in the book are also inspired by the many nurses and healthcare professionals I’ve met over the years. Many of whom stopped to give Granny a hug and tell me secretly that she’s one of their favorite residents.
I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. I look forward to writing more cozy mystery adventures featuring Rosie and her movie-loving, albeit memory challenged Grammy.
Happy Reading,
K.M. Waller
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I am always thankful to my mom and dad for giving me a love of reading and believing that I can do anything I set my mind to. Without the support of my family (and that includes all of you crazy boogers), I’d never have the courage to sit down and write a book. Thanks awesome fam! Secondly, thank you to my tremendous editor Megan Kelly from MK Books Editing. She is truly a gem and makes me work harder every time we edit a manuscript together. Next, thank you to my dear Alaskan friend Becky. You are my first and last reader and I appreciate your friendship and mentorship. Lastly, but certainly not least, thank you to my best friend in the entire world. Hope—not only are you an inspiration to me every single day but your strong and loving nature makes me strive to be a better person. P.S. thanks for inspiring me with your creamed corn recipe to share with my readers as Mateo’s recipe.
I am truly blessed.
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Professional Mourning can be a deadly business. Luckily, these 6 out-of-work actresses are on the job!
Mourning Routine by S.E. Babin
Kitty Crawford reached for stardom and fell hard. Now, in desperate need of some way to make ends meet, she skulks back to her hometown of Asheville. Unfortunately, the employment offers are slim pickings for a has-been whose sole talent is being able to cry on cue.
That is, until one odd turn leads to another, which leads to the little-known profession of Personal Mourning. Here, the better Kitty can fake it, the more dollars she’ll find stacked up in her bereft bank account. Talk about a role she was born to play!
And townsfolk are just dying to hire her. Her first gig casts her as the bereaved girlfriend of one newly deceased Chase McCormick, someone she would never have dated in life. Still, Kitty will have to act like her life depends on it, because--OMG!--it does.
Can she perform an investigation that could turn out to be murder before she gets her own curtain call? Find out whodunit in this hilarious mystery series filled with fake tears and a very real body count... Order your copy and start reading today!