Florida Is Murder (Due Justice and Surface Tension Mystery Double Feature) (Florida Mystery Double Feature) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Diane Capri, Christine Kling
hairbrush, entered the steamy bathroom and confronted him directly.
“What others?”
“All of the offspring, too. $1,000 a plate.” He said as he ducked under the shower to avoid my outrage.
“ Eight Richardsons ?” I shouted to be heard over the running water.
“I couldn’t invite Pricilla Worthington and not invite her brother.” Attempting to placate me by naming a guest who actually was one of my favorite people. No chance.
Steam heated me up and wilted my hair. The dress felt scratchy against damp skin. I escaped into my dressing room to finish my ultra short hair. It doesn’t take much; whatever shape it’s going to have flows from cut, not effort.
When George shut down his shower, I asked, “Who is Pricilla’s brother?”
“We’ve lived here ten years, Willa,” he said, truly exasperated. “The CJ is Pricilla’s brother. How could you not know that?”
Indeed.
How could I not know that?
Denial. Pure and simple.
“The interrelationships of Tampa society don’t interest me.” Indignation is often the best defense. “Who else is coming to this thing?”
With exaggerated patience, as if explaining to a simple-minded child, he said, “It’s a Junior League function. Anyone and everyone willing to pay will be an honored guest.” He had finished making a perfect bow of his black tie, patted my cashmere-covered butt, and left the room saying, “If you’re really curious, there’s a copy of the guest list on the desk.”
Still thinking about Carly, I skimmed over the names, which only reinforced how boring this evening would be. Every person on the list could afford to pay a thousand dollars a plate, all right. But this wasn’t Silicone Valley. People who had that kind of money around here had made it the old fashioned way--inheritance.
About midway down, on the third page, found the name I’d hoped for-- Dr. Michael Morgan and guest . The discovery lightened my heart.
He couldn’t be dead if he was walking around our dining room tonight, right?
Find him, prove Carly’s suspicions wrong. Then, I’d find her.
I wrinkled my nose and fumed at George.
This is the part of being married I don’t like--the compromise, the accommodation. A single tonight, I’d be out with real friends, or working, or just relaxing with the dogs.
Friends tell me the best part of being single is doing whatever you want, whenever you want. No holidays with the in-laws, whiskers in the sink, toilet seats left up, or refusals to eat zucchini. Most definitely no interminable evenings spent with insufferable bores to raise money for the worthy-cause-of-the-moment.
Like the CJ, for instance. Chief Judge Ozgood Livingston Richardson, Senior--”Oz,” to his friends (which does not include me)--is 65 years old, going on 95. Actually, I think the CJ was born old. If he ever laughs, it’s politely. He knows which fork to use at eight-fork table settings. He married a debutante back in the day when that was important. Each of his three children, two daughters with husbands, and “Junior,” (as Ozgood Livingston Richardson, II, is not-so-affectionately known) are firmly ensconced in society, and they’re all just as interesting as processed white bread. If any of them had ever had so much as a ten-word conversation, the listener had to be hearing impaired.
The CJ’s wife is regarded by one and all as a fixture in Tampa. She’ll tell you, each and every time you’re introduced, “I’m Marian Wright Richardson, and I’m a fifth generation Floridian.”
If you live in Florida, you recognize immediately how remarkable that is. You’re lucky if you can find someone who was born here, let alone a fifth generation resident. This makes her children sixth generation, the equivalent of royalty.
The rest of us are expected to kiss the ring.
Repeatedly.
I dropped the list of party guests, puckered up, and went to do what had to be done.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tampa, Florida
Wednesday 7:45 p.m.
January 6,
“What others?”
“All of the offspring, too. $1,000 a plate.” He said as he ducked under the shower to avoid my outrage.
“ Eight Richardsons ?” I shouted to be heard over the running water.
“I couldn’t invite Pricilla Worthington and not invite her brother.” Attempting to placate me by naming a guest who actually was one of my favorite people. No chance.
Steam heated me up and wilted my hair. The dress felt scratchy against damp skin. I escaped into my dressing room to finish my ultra short hair. It doesn’t take much; whatever shape it’s going to have flows from cut, not effort.
When George shut down his shower, I asked, “Who is Pricilla’s brother?”
“We’ve lived here ten years, Willa,” he said, truly exasperated. “The CJ is Pricilla’s brother. How could you not know that?”
Indeed.
How could I not know that?
Denial. Pure and simple.
“The interrelationships of Tampa society don’t interest me.” Indignation is often the best defense. “Who else is coming to this thing?”
With exaggerated patience, as if explaining to a simple-minded child, he said, “It’s a Junior League function. Anyone and everyone willing to pay will be an honored guest.” He had finished making a perfect bow of his black tie, patted my cashmere-covered butt, and left the room saying, “If you’re really curious, there’s a copy of the guest list on the desk.”
Still thinking about Carly, I skimmed over the names, which only reinforced how boring this evening would be. Every person on the list could afford to pay a thousand dollars a plate, all right. But this wasn’t Silicone Valley. People who had that kind of money around here had made it the old fashioned way--inheritance.
About midway down, on the third page, found the name I’d hoped for-- Dr. Michael Morgan and guest . The discovery lightened my heart.
He couldn’t be dead if he was walking around our dining room tonight, right?
Find him, prove Carly’s suspicions wrong. Then, I’d find her.
I wrinkled my nose and fumed at George.
This is the part of being married I don’t like--the compromise, the accommodation. A single tonight, I’d be out with real friends, or working, or just relaxing with the dogs.
Friends tell me the best part of being single is doing whatever you want, whenever you want. No holidays with the in-laws, whiskers in the sink, toilet seats left up, or refusals to eat zucchini. Most definitely no interminable evenings spent with insufferable bores to raise money for the worthy-cause-of-the-moment.
Like the CJ, for instance. Chief Judge Ozgood Livingston Richardson, Senior--”Oz,” to his friends (which does not include me)--is 65 years old, going on 95. Actually, I think the CJ was born old. If he ever laughs, it’s politely. He knows which fork to use at eight-fork table settings. He married a debutante back in the day when that was important. Each of his three children, two daughters with husbands, and “Junior,” (as Ozgood Livingston Richardson, II, is not-so-affectionately known) are firmly ensconced in society, and they’re all just as interesting as processed white bread. If any of them had ever had so much as a ten-word conversation, the listener had to be hearing impaired.
The CJ’s wife is regarded by one and all as a fixture in Tampa. She’ll tell you, each and every time you’re introduced, “I’m Marian Wright Richardson, and I’m a fifth generation Floridian.”
If you live in Florida, you recognize immediately how remarkable that is. You’re lucky if you can find someone who was born here, let alone a fifth generation resident. This makes her children sixth generation, the equivalent of royalty.
The rest of us are expected to kiss the ring.
Repeatedly.
I dropped the list of party guests, puckered up, and went to do what had to be done.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tampa, Florida
Wednesday 7:45 p.m.
January 6,
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