Page 135 of Things We Hide from the Light
There was a man at the opposite end of the aisle pushing a cart in our direction.
“If you’re dead set against Nash, how about I reel this one in for you?” Mrs. Tweedy offered.
He was a buff-looking guy in his thirties with glasses and short, dark hair.
“Don’t you dare,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth.
But it was too late. Mrs. Tweedy came to a halt in front of the marshmallow and cartoon character cereal section and made ashow of stretching for the top shelf. A shelf I could have easily reached.
“Excuse me, young man. Would you mind fetching me a box of Marshmallow Munchies?” Mrs. Tweedy asked, batting her lashes at him.
I pretended to be fascinated by the lack of nutritional value in a box of Sparkle Pinkie O’s.
“No problem, ma’am,” he said.
“That is so sweet of you,” she said. “Isn’t that sweet, Lina?”
“Very,” I said through clenched teeth.
The man grabbed the box and flashed me a knowing grin.
He was close to a foot and a half taller than Mrs. Tweedy. Up close, he looked like an accountant who went to the gym a lot. According to his cart, Big Guy looked like he took his nutrition seriously. He had a rotisserie chicken, all the fixings for a couple of salads, a six-pack of protein shakes, and…a large bag of gummy candy. Well, no one was perfect.
“Are you married?” Mrs. Tweedy demanded.
“No, ma’am,” he said.
“What a coincidence. Neither is my neighbor Lina,” she said, giving me a shove forward.
“Okay, Mrs. Tweedy. Let’s leave the nice man with the long arms alone,” I said.
“Party pooper,” she muttered.
“Sorry,” I mouthed to the man as I dragged my meddling neighbor and our cart down the aisle.
“Happens all the time,” he said with a wink.
“Is there something wrong with your libido?” Mrs. Tweedy demanded when we were probably still within earshot.
I thought of waking up with Nash with his hard-on between my legs. “Very definitely. Now, come on. I need to stick my head in the ice cream cooler.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
SNAKES AND SHAKES
Nash
“I’m gonna burn this house to the ground,” Mayor Hilly Swanson griped as I emptied her coat closet of boots and gardening clogs.
“Probably shouldn’t be sayin’ that in front of the law,” I said as I shook out a snow boot and tossed it aside.
She was standing behind me on a step stool in the foyer, wringing her hands.
Officer Troy Winslow was backed up against the front door holding the twelve-gauge shotgun we’d relieved the mayor of upon our arrival. He was looking like he wanted to bolt.
“I should sue that dang real estate agent. If she woulda said ‘snake migration’ at any point during the buying process, my ass woulda said no thank you,” Hilly said.
She’d lived in this house for twenty years, and the Knockemout PD went through this ritual twice a year. In the spring, snakes slithered their way down from the limestone bluffs toward a swampy area of nearby state park lands for thesummer. In the fall, they slithered their way back to the bluffs to wait out the long winter.
