Aretha Moon and the Dead Hairdresser: Aretha Moon Book 2 (Aretha Moon Mysteries) by Linda Ross (reading books for 7 year olds .TXT) 📗

Jimmy made a note.  “What else?”

“She either cut them or destroyed their property.  She was violent toward all of them.”

“Except Ralph Pierce.”

“Right.  I guess he didn’t cross her.”

“Or he didn’t appeal to her in any way.  She seemed to have an attraction for all of her victims.”

“But if one of them is the one who killed her and sent me the text message, then they weren’t just a victim.”

Jimmy put down his pen.  “They would be just as much a psycho as she was.  It was payback time, giving her what she’d given them, but fatally.”

That made me shiver.

“What about her sister Rose?” I said.  “Same gene pool.”

“We haven’t turned up any information about Rose ever being violent, but it’s something you might want to ask about Monday in Arnold.”

“Right.”  I was actually looking forward to getting away from Hannibal for a day and putting some distance between me and the killer.

“So,” Jimmy said, “what are we going to do tonight?  Any plans?”

I’m a menopausal fifty-year-old, so my Saturday nights generally consist of junk food and TV.  I wouldn’t mind a repeat of the night I’d eaten the weed brownies when Jimmy had been amorous.  But, in retrospect, I wasn’t sure how much of that I’d imagined.  Fifty Shades of Grey described my hair better than my sex life.

I must have looked blank, because Jimmy said, “Didn’t you have sleepovers as a kid?”

“Well, yeah, until after my mother died.”

“So what did you do?”

“Seriously?  I was just a kid.”

“Well, you must have done something.”

I thought back to my childhood sleepovers, mostly involving my first-grade friend Stella McPherson.  The last I’d heard Stella was married to an undertaker and living somewhere in Missouri.  Stella liked to eat as much as I did.  I think that was what I’d liked most about her.

“I remember we used to make s’mores,” I said.  “Dad would build a fire for us.”

“I don’t want you venturing outside with someone threatening to kill you.”

“We could always toast the marshmallows over the stove.”  I didn’t want to admit it, but I’d done that on previous occasions when I really wanted s’mores.

So I rummaged in the pantry and brought out graham crackers, marshmallows and Hershey bars.

“I see you’re prepared for any contingency,” Jimmy said.

“Well, I never know when I might get stranded here.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said dryly, “this being a wild, mountain region.  The closest gas station is probably only half a mile away.”

“Do you want s’mores or not?”

That shut him up.

The trick with toasting marshmallows over a stove burner is to be sure not to let them drop on the burner.  I was going to have some clean-up to do the next day.  But the s’mores were excellent.  As was the fudge we made next.  It was the chocolate chip kind, but I’m not fussy when it comes to fudge.

Jimmy had been pacing himself, limiting the amount he ate, and I was already well into a chocolate buzz.

“Now what?” Jimmy asked as I popped a fifth piece of fudge into my mouth.  “What else did you do?”

“Well, we painted our nails.”

“I’m vetoing that one.”

“We wouldn’t have to paint our own nails,” I said, remembering the times I painted Wonder Woman’s nails.

“So whose nails are we going to paint?”

I looked around.  “How about Nancy?”

“Really?  You want to paint your dog’s nails?”

“Well, we’re keeping with a theme here, aren’t we?”

Jimmy sighed.  “Okay.  Come on Nancy.  Time to get beautiful.”

Jimmy sat on the couch, and I tossed an old towel on his lap in the event that Nancy’s bladder let loose during her beauty treatment.  Nancy sat on Jimmy’s lap, and I went to work on her toes.

I have to admit it was a little weird blowing on a dog’s toes to dry the nail polish.  Nancy seemed mildly annoyed by the whole process, but Jimmy massaged her shoulders and back while I worked, and that nearly put her in a trance.  It would have put me in a trance too.

“Do you know what we need?” Jimmy asked when Nancy was curled up beside us on the couch, her nails a lovely shade of pink.

“More s’mores?” I offered.

“Music.  We need some music.”

Jimmy turned on the radio on my counter and tuned around until he found an oldies station.

“That’s my parents’ music,” I told him.

“Yeah, the music that got you your name.”

He had a point there.  My mother was a big fan of Aretha Franklin.  Hence my name.

“So did you and your slumber party friends ever dance?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”  Actually, we tried it a lot, taking turns pretending to be the boy.  Usually I ended up in that role.

“Come on.  I haven’t danced in years.”  He held out his hand and I put mine in it.  I could feel another hot flash coming on.

The first song was The Spinners’ Working My Way Back To You, and after I got over my inclination to lead we did pretty well, moving around the living room while Nancy watched from the couch.  Captain and Tennille were next with Do That To Me One More Time. I was starting to get the hang of it, and I liked the way Jimmy’s hand rested on my waist at the back.  I could almost forget that I was fifty, prone to hot flashes and my libido only worked sporadically.

When Aretha Franklin’s Natural Woman came on, Jimmy smiled down at me.  “Your theme song,” he said.

“I’m as natural as you get,” I said on a sigh.  From my graying hair to my chubby thighs, I was all nature.  I’d been thinking about getting my hair dyed, but I hadn’t gotten up the nerve.  As I’ve said, my