It's Murder at the Buy-Right

7

Maybe if she pinned a little bit right here. Maybe a belt or sash would help. Maybe, she'd throw a sheet over the whole mess and call it her toga look.

"Mirror, mirror on the wall – why can't you cut old Daisy Ann some slack before she bawls? You're a cruel beast, Mirror! I mean it. I look awful!"

It was hopeless. As she stood staring, she felt her stomach doing flip flops under her rib cage.

She glanced at the clock. Where had the time gone?

The ill-fitting shirt was going to have to do. Who'd notice how bad her shirt fit, she mused. Those pea-green, magenta, and lemon yellow stretch pants were the bomb.

"And I wish they'd exploded to smithereens before I got them home."

They'd looked so good on the rack. What had happened to them on the way home? The clerk offered to let Daisy Ann try them on.

Who had time?

It was late.

The store was closing. She had to have something to wear, and she didn't want to hold the clerk up.

So cute as she held them up to that blouse in the aisle of the store. And only five bucks.

A steal.

They were a steal, alright.

Too bad she hadn't been driven off the side of the road and robbed on the way home.

What evil gremlin had cast a spell on those greenie meanies after she'd paid for them and walked out of the store?

She made up her mind right then and there.

She'd kill Imogene.

Or barring that, she'd cook her some dinner.

That would fix her.

To say Daisy Ann was a horrible cook was akin to saying roadside tar makes great bubble gum. It takes artful magic, as well as science, to whip up mouthwatering culinary masterpieces. It part imagination and part 'secret' ingredients that often combine to take a simple recipe, and a chef, from adequate to extraordinary.

Everyone is born with a talent. But cooking was not Daisy Ann's. She'd been into processed food since she was a teenager.

She simply loved preservatives and those fifty-dollar words on the ingredient labels that boosted the normal shelf life of boxed goods and can stuff into the next century.

If opening a couple of cardboard flaps was all the preparation needed, or if it could be nuked in a microwave, or simply add water and stir, Daisy Ann bought it.

Taste was not a priority, if Daisy Ann was in the kitchen. It was all about convenience, quickness, and a minimum of effort. Edible was only half the battle, after all.

Her little sister graduated from another school of thought.

Iggi, who was into whole grains and home-grown foods, was a fabulous cook. She needed more chemical preservatives and dyes in her blood to clear her thought processes, Daisy Ann decided.

Yep, a few scientifically modified factory-manufactured imitation courses for dinner would do the trick.

Oh, who was she kidding?

"Stop fiddling around. It's getting late," she mumbled.

Nothing to do but go out and face the day. Her shoes barely lifted off the ground as she slowly made her way to the car. She left the paper lying in the driveway, and opened the passenger door.

Her shoulders slouched. She slumped so far down into the driver's seat, her eyes barely shown over the dashboard. She cranked the car.

For a quarter, she'd lay her head on the steering wheel and mourn her pitiful predicament until the sun set. But just her luck, nobody was handing out change.

She looked around.

Her performance was being appreciated only by the red ant that crawled across her speedometer.

Her eyelids fell halfway down, and one corner of her mouth pursed. A mockingbird landed on the light pole nearby. It began to sing a riotous chorus as if its heart was bursting with joy.

Daisy Ann listened, looking in the mirror and winking to herself.

At least, she'd remembered to top of the tank the day before. Wouldn't it would be the cherry on top of the chocolate fudge sundae if she ran out of gas and had to thumb a ride to the Buy-Right?

Not today, she thought.

Although, the way she was dressed, it wouldn't surprise her if she blew the motor or had a flat on the way.

The lovely chorus faded as these thought filled her mind.

And what about the ribbing she was going to have to take from Deke?

Gastric juice burned the back of her throat.

It was going to take more than a limp micro-waved meal on a paper plate to make up for this.

A whole heck of a lot more.

She turned onto the hard-surfaced road and headed to the store. She jumped when a bug kamikazied her windshield. It left a huge splat stain.

Like she was going to leave Iggi.

Despite the mess, the thought made her smile.

She really was going to kill her little sister.