Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) by Judith Ivie Page A

I met Strutter and Margo at the Town Line Diner for brunch. We had agreed that what used to be an occasional indulgence would become a regular date as we waited out the slump in the real estate market. We caught up on the few clients who were new to us and shared information on Vista Views, the retirement community that kept us on retainer in the wild hope that one of these days, we would sell a unit. Then we moved on to more interesting topics like family and food and men.
    This morning, we shelved that last topic, since Margo's husband John was with us. The handsome Lieutenant Harkness was in charge of homicide and other major investigations for the Wethersfield Police Department. Our paths had crossed as a result of two situations in which we had been involved during the past two years, totally involuntarily. “The homicide biz certainly has picked up since the three of you came to town,” John had been heard to comment a bit sarcastically. Watching how Old Hardnose, as he was called by his subordinates, blossomed under Margo's adoring attentions, I didn't think he had any serious complaints. The man practically purred with contentment.
    “I don't know how you gals do this every week and keep your figures,” he said now, patting his midsection. “Another one of those omelets, and I won't be able to buckle my belt.”
    “It's all a part of my master plan, Darlin’. You know I'll do whatever it takes to get those trousers off you.” Margo winked at him across her coffee cup, and John blushed to the roots of his hair. After a year of marriage, he still squirmed uncomfortably at Margo's lascivious repartee.
    “Is there anywhere in the world you can go these days to escape people yapping on their cell phones?” Strutter helped him out by changing the subject as a particularly obnoxious ringtone sounded in the booth across the aisle from us. The matron to whom it belonged dug furiously in her purse for several seconds and finally produced the thing.
    “HELLO, PHYLLIS? YES, I CAN HEAR YOU NOW. CAN YOU HEAR ME?” she yelled into it. We all cringed.
    “Well, we can sure as hell hear you, as can most of the people sittin’ in this restaurant tryin’ to enjoy their breakfasts,” Margo sighed.
    “I’M HAVING BREAKFAST WITH GINNIE AT THE DINER BEFORE WE GET ON THE ROAD. NO, THE DINER, THE DINER! D-I-N-E-R. YOU KNOW, THE ONE AT EXIT 24 OFF THE HIGHWAY WHERE WE HAD LUNCH THAT TIME YOU AND HARRY VISITED. THE COFFEE WAS SO GOOD THAT HARRY DRANK TOO MUCH, AND YOU HAD TO STOP THREE TIMES ON THE WAY HOME SO HE COULD PEE.” She brayed with laughter at her naughty story and started to cough. Her companion looked embarrassed and slapped her on the back rather harder than was necessary, I noted.
    “Why do they always have to yell?” I wondered aloud. “If Phyllis was here at the diner with her, she'd speak to her in a normal tone of voice, but you hand someone a cell phone, and the volume triples.” I glared at the offender across the aisle. “It's very annoying.”
    John had been silent, but now he chimed in. “I've noticed that a lot of places have started putting signs up at the entrance asking patrons to turn off their cell phones while they're inside. I think it's a good idea. Why don't you suggest it to the owners here? The three of you eat here all the time. I'm sure they wouldn't mind a constructive comment.”
    “I'll do it on the way out today,” I promised.
    Two cell phones rang simultaneously in our booth. Strutter rolled her eyes as John and I looked at each other in embarrassment. He began slapping his pockets, and I fumbled for my purse beneath the table. Margo snorted into her coffee cup, that inelegant response she had when something struck her as amusing. John slid out of the booth and headed for the exit, his phone to his ear, while I slapped at Strutter's legs underneath the table. She cackled with glee as I struggled to retrieve my purse.
    “It's your fault,” I hissed. “I never have the damned