A Death in Duck: Lindsay Harding Cozy Mystery Series (Reverend Lindsay Harding Mystery Book 2) by Mindy Quigley Page B

While Simmy had managed with great effort to keep from fainting, she remained weak-voiced and wobbly.
    “I’m sorry to make such a spectacle of myself, honey. I think that business with the truck and all that cold rain affected me worse than I thought. Seeing your mama pop outta the kitchen like a jack-in-the-box was just one shock too many for my nerves. Sometimes, when I forget that I’m old, my body finds a way of reminding me.” She propped herself up and took a grateful sip of the bourbon. “You probably need a drink more than I do. Are you okay?”
    “I don’t know. I just can’t imagine why Aunt Harding would invite that scheming viper into her house.”
    “It must’ve been quite a surprise for you.”
    “Surprise?! Honestly, I would have been less surprised to find Vladimir Putin and Smurfette having a tea party in my kitchen. I think I will have a drink after all,” Lindsay said, taking a swig of Simmy’s bourbon. “Did you know she stole my father’s Billy Graham Bible? What kind of person steals a Bible from a minister?” She shook her head in disgust.
    “It’s sometimes hard to believe that y’all are related.”
    “Strange but true. Flugelhorns originally came from Germany, but so did Nazis.”
    “Now, honey, like it or not, that woman gave birth to you. She’s family. You can’t burn that bridge.”
    “I didn’t burn it. She did. Then I rebuilt it, and she set it on fire again. That woman is a serial bridge burner.”
    There was a sharp knock, and the door flew open to reveal Aunt Harding standing there, flanked by her ferocious dog. “Supper’s gettin’ cold. Y’all coming or not?”
    “Patty, don’t you think you owe Lindsay an explanation? It should really come from you.”
    Aunt Harding emitted another snort-sigh. “Fine. But only ‘cause I don’t like eating cold chicken. If you must know, Sarabelle showed up on my doorstep a few months ago. She’d lost her apartment, her man, her car. She was thin as a rake, practically starving.”
              “She brought all that on herself! My dad told you what she did. She tried to blackmail him. She sicced that scumbag boyfriend of hers on us and God only knows what he would’ve done to us if he hadn’t been arrested!” Lindsay’s voice was so shrill she feared that it could only be heard by Kipper. “Anyway, since when do you have such a tender heart? I’ve never known you to take someone else’s problems on yourself.”
    “What do you think I did when you turned up on my doorstep? Were you my problem? No. But I wasn’t gonna let you end up in some nasty foster home, getting the fire beat outta your scrawny behind every day by some other strange orphan children that nobody else wanted.”
    The shot hit home, and Lindsay felt the familiar ache of her parents’ abandonment and the familiar sting of Aunt Harding’s frostiness. When Lindsay spoke again, her words were quieter. “She’s not even a blood relation to you.”
    “But she is to you, so why don’t you act like it. Now y’all come on out here and eat this damn chicken.”
    Lindsay considered her options. She could head out in the stinging rain and pitch darkness to spend a couple of hours trying to winch Simmy’s Toyota out of a sandbank with a tow rope. She could hide in the bedroom, drinking bourbon until her liver exploded. Or she could go out into the dining room and eat Christmas Eve dinner with the person she most despised in the world.
    Five minutes later, Lindsay was sitting at the table, filling her plate with mashed potatoes and buttered carrots. Sarabelle might be a despicable human being, but there was no denying that the woman could cook.
    Simmy sat next to her, still looking nervous and slightly wobbly. Aunt Harding perched at the opposite side of the table, stiff as a concrete pillar. Sarabelle sat at the head of the table wearing full makeup and a smile straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. “I’m so glad you decided to