Death by Deep Dish Pie Read Online Free Page A

I do, though.
    And any man who mixes prisoner-teaching, elderly lady-reading, philosophy, psychology, religious studies, agnosticism, and cuteness—plus is one very fine kisser—is not a man to interrupt, even when he’s rambling on. That’s why Owen is my boyfriend.
    â€œUh, Josie, aren’t you listening?” Winnie said.
    â€œWhat? Oh, sure,” I said. I’d drifted into a cow-pasture-cornfield-tree-stand-hamlet-old-barn-watching reverie. “Owen was just describing Trudy’s psychological condition—”
    â€œI’d moved on from that,” Owen said, kindly, no spite. He’d gotten used to people drifting off midramble. “I wanted to know why Trudy wants to come to the play meeting tonight. What’s this play all about anyway?”
    Owen is a newcomer to Paradise, which means he wasn’t born there. I met him when I signed up for a popular-culture class of his at Masonville Community College. Owen has lived in Paradise for almost a year, having moved here from his hometown of Seattle when he got the college job. We’ve been dating for about nine months. But it wouldn’t have mattered if Owen had lived in Paradise ten, twenty, or thirty years. He was a newcomer, and always would be until the day he died. Even if he keeled over right at the intersection of Maple Avenue and Main Street. Even if he never so much as stepped a toe across the Mason County line, except for the vacation every Paradisite takes at least once in a lifetime, up to Lake Erie and Cedar Point Amusement Park.
    Now, Owen’s kids—especially if born of a native Paradisite, such as me, might be considered real Paradisites, especially if one of them became, say, a football hero or a head cheerleader. Grandkids, most likely, would definitely be considered Paradisites, no matter their social status. But although I’d allowed myself a thought or two about happily-ever-after with Owen, we really weren’t that far along in our relationship. And in any case, Owen would always be a newcomer in Paradise. I didn’t hold it against him.
    â€œTrudy wants to be an actress,” I said. “And she wants to make her debut in the annual Founder’s Day play, A Little Taste of Paradise.”
    Winnie gasped. “My goodness, Josie. You didn’t agree to that, did you?”
    â€œNo,” I assured Winnie. “I just promised to sponsor her as a guest at tonight’s meeting. It’s supposed to be to go over details about the play.”
    â€œWhy couldn’t she just come to the meeting?” Owen asked.
    â€œIt was understood for years that Paradise Historical Society meetings were for members only, and by invitation for everyone else,” Winnie told Owen. “Then old Tom McGalligan crashed a meeting about ten years ago demanding that a huge fossil rock—”
    â€œHe really, really prides himself on that rock—” I said.
    â€œThat this rock be moved to the center of town,” Winnie went on, “right smack in the middle of the traffic circle, because what could be more historical than that?”
    â€œThe historical society members were meeting to decide on some historical monument to go in the middle of the circle,” I added.
    â€œAnd they didn’t want Tom’s rock?” Owen asked, sounding a little bewildered already.
    â€œThey didn’t,” Winnie said. “And they really didn’t want their meeting crashed. Tom got very hysterical when someone—I think it was Nancy DeWitt—told him a flat rock in the middle of a traffic circle would not only be unappealing as a monument but that the rock needed to stay on the farm where it belonged.”
    Owen frowned. “But there’s no monument in the traffic circle.”
    â€œNo. They could never come to an agreement on that. But they did decide that visitors have to be sponsored.”
    â€œWhich is why Trudy needed me to sponsor her