Chapter 11
Beatrice knocked on DeeAnn’s door and Jacob answered. He looked haggard. It had only been a few days of DeeAnn being out of commission and the man looked like he was going to keel over.
“Hey, Bea,” he said.
“How do?”
“Come on in. Let me help you with that.” He took the fried chicken from her.
“I know how much DeeAnn likes my fried chicken,” Bea said.
“She’s on the couch.” Jacob tilted his head in the right direction.
When Beatrice walked into the room, the sound of the TV blasted her. DeeAnn was watching the news.
“Hey Bea,” she said. “Thanks for coming by.”
“Brought you some chicken.”
“Thank you. You know I love that chicken. You gave me the recipe, but mine never turns out as good as yours.”
“What do the docs say about your back?” Beatrice asked, but DeeAnn had gone back to watching TV.
“What?”
“Turn the friggin’ TV off,” Beatrice said in as nice a tone as she could muster. After all, DeeAnn was hurt.
DeeAnn clicked her remote. “I was watching the news. Sorry.”
“The doctors?”
“I just have to rest until it’s better. I have a slipped disk. They recommended surgery, but I haven’t made up my mind about it yet. It would mean time off from work . . . and to think I was thinking about retiring. Then this happened.”
“What? Why would you retire? You’re still young,” Beatrice said.
DeeAnn’s lips pursed. “That’s precisely why. I want to enjoy life a little. Baking is hard work, Bea. My back has been bothering me awhile. And my feet.”
“Pshaw. Let the younger people do the hard work.”
“Yes, but I got into baking because I love it. It’s hard to not do it. I’m not sure what the answer is.”
Beatrice thought it over. DeeAnn was not quite fifty. She had a lot of good years left in her.
“In any case, you’ve got to take care of yourself now,” Bea said.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Jacob asked as he entered the room.
“No thank you. I can’t stay long. Just wanted to bring the chicken by and see how Ms. DeeAnn is doing,” Beatrice said.
“The medicine makes her a bit loopy”—he smiled—“but at least she’s not in any pain.”
“Can I bring you some books? Puzzles? Ya can’t sit there all day watching TV. Good Lord,” Beatrice said.
“I’m not much of a reader,” DeeAnn said. “I’ve never sat still enough to get interested in a book. But maybe now is the time.”
“What do you think you’d like to read? I’ve been reading some mysteries. Would you like that?”
“I can try it out.”
“I’ll stop by with some books tomorrow. In the meantime, try not to watch too much trashy TV. It will rot your brain.”
“I was watching the news about the recent murders,” DeeAnn said with an edge to her voice.
“Is it what they are saying? Murder?” Beatrice’s heart skipped around in her old chest.
“Yes. They were scrapbooking sisters, evidently,” Jacob offered.
“Scrapbookers? What does that have to do with anything?” Beatrice asked.
“Who knows? DeeAnn said, her eyes widening. “Maybe nothing. But maybe everything.”
“Uh-oh,” Beatrice said. “Something tells me it’s a good thing you’re laid up right now.”
Jacob agreed. “Let’s leave the sleuthing to the professionals this time.”
DeeAnn shrugged. “We never meant to get involved with any of the other investigations.”
“Humph,” Beatrice said. “Tell that to the man you knocked down over on Jenkins Mountain.”
“Well,” DeeAnn said, grinning and crossing her arms. “It was him or me, Ms. Matthews.”