A Deadly Bouquet by Janis Harrison Page B

tactic—stuffing my arteries with cholesterol and grease?” Sid grimaced. “Make that two biscuits and you’ve got yourself a victim.”
    I found DeeDee in the kitchen squeezing oranges for juice. When I told her there would be three for breakfast, her face lit up.
    â€œCan do. I’ve got the b-biscuits in the oven. Won’t take but a s-second to s-scramble more eggs.” She flew into high gear, and I reluctantly went back to the library, where a stony silence greeted me.
    I looked at my father. Our relationship was still at that “getting to know each other” stage. I was glad he was back in my life, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to find him in my house each morning when I came downstairs. Opening my home to strangers, who were paying for their accommodations, would be easier than having a relative under my roof.
    This morning my father wore a pair of mocha dress pants and a plaid sports shirt. His wavy gray hair gave him a distinguished look. The mulish gleam in his blue eyes gave me a bout of queasiness.
    I settled next to him on the sofa but directed my comment to Sid. “Breakfast is on me, but it’s gonna cost you. For the next half hour let’s have pleasant conversation. No nasty remarks or harsh accusations.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad open his mouth. I hurried on. “I know you have a reason for driving out here, but unless it’s an emergency, it’ll have to wait until we’ve eaten.”
    Sid struggled to hold in his usual caustic remarks. He finally muttered, “No emergency, but I never eat breakfast. I’ll call this lunch.”
    And with that, the mood was set.
    When DeeDee announced “B-brunch is s-served,” in her most dignified manner, we filed silently into the dining room. To say this was a friendly occasion would be an out-and-out lie. Sid’s business with me or his need for food must’ve been powerful because he behaved rather well. “Pass the jam” and “Anyone got dibs on that last sausage?” was hardly titillating conversation, but at least there was no open hostility at the table. At least not until Sid wiped his mouth and tossed the linen napkin on his grease-smeared plate.
    â€œThanks,” he said, gesturing to the leftovers, which were scanty. He looked at my father. “You’re excused. Close the door on your way out.”
    Dad bristled. “You, sir, may be a law enforcement officer, but you don’t know peanuts from pecans when it comes to getting information.”
    â€œAnd you don’t know shit from Shinola. You’d better make sure you don’t step out of line in my county. I’ll be watching you so close you’ll think you’re casting a double shadow.”
    â€œWhoa,” I said. My head wobbled back and forth as I stared at the two men. “Did I miss something? What’s with you guys?”
    Dad regally rose from his chair. “The sheriff and I understand each other, Bretta. When he arrived, I offered him our services in his latest case—the murder—but he tossed that offer back in my face.”
    â€œI never tossed nothing,” said Sid. “I laughed. I thought he was joking. But hell no. He’s having a sign painted. Haven’t you heard that’s the first qualification for going after a killer?” He turned a fierce glare on me. “Put an end to this nonsense, Bretta, but do it later. I want to go over your statement. I’ve got a couple of questions.”
    I gave my father a placating smile and nodded to the door. He took my suggestion, but he had the last word. “This is an election year. If we decide against the detective agency, perhaps I’ll look into the sheriff’s position.” He swept Sid with a contemptuous stare. “The qualifications surely aren’t too rigorous.”
    He walked quietly out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. I shut my