Love Songs: The Wrong Note - A Collection of Short Stories

Out of Place

She surveyed the table. Perfect. Nothing out of place. She stole a sample of her deliciously rich Chocolate Decadent Delight brownies. Those things were more addictive than nicotine, she mused, looking around and grabbing another off the plate for good measure.

What a glorious, magnificent, wonderful day.

That is, if it didn't rain.

She looked up at the sky. Summer thunderstorms were sneaky critters.

A few cottony clouds floated overhead. Massive. She'd read an article about clouds. Heavy, they were. Though they looked as light as a feather. Funny. Things could fool you like that.

Sometimes.

Like the time she walked up on Elowen. She'd known that gal since grade school. A stifled snicker, a pat on the back, and lo and behold . . . it wasn't Elowen. At least not the Elowen she knew. Birdie Finch nearly wet her britches at the look on Arwen's face when the stranger turned around and gave Arwen the evil eye.

Arwen blushed scarlet at the mere thought of that faux pas.

Or the time she grabbed a mason jar off Cressida's shelf, thinking she'd use the dark, sweet liquid in a new recipe. Blackberries were Arwen's favorite, after all. And Cressida would never miss one jar of juice.

She'd baked all afternoon for that special supper. And when the Reverend Pearlie and his wife, Nell, bit into that pie, the sour look on their faces was like nothing she'd ever seen on any face – human or animal.

Arwen was just glad the berry juice she'd snitched wasn't poisonous. Bitter as all get out, yes. But thank the good Lord, the couple escaped with only a bad taste in their mouths, a bit of nausea, and a few stomach cramps.

Arwen knew if she'd given the poor old souls a case of the trots or heaven forbid, sent them to the hospital for a charcoal stomach pumping, she'd be ex-communicated from the church. Or at the very least, the topic of gossip for ages. At least until somebody had the terrible misfortune to be murdered or something horrendous like that.

It would be a lifetime, Arwen reflected. Nobody had ever been murdered in Pickle Flats. There were just too few souls. Besides, Arwen pondered, it was never the murder that was the problem. It was getting rid of the corpse.

"Oh hey, Wing," Arwen said.

"Isn't he just the most adorable thing you've ever laid eyes on," Blanche Bliss gushed, after Wing Oakley had walked out of ear shot.

Arwen eyed her friend.

"Ah, Blanche."

The beehive hair was quite high today. Arwen wondered if Blanche would topple over while bending over to arrange her bowls of potato salad and green beans among the other offerings on the long table.

Blanche stood up, brushing non-existent crumbs from the front of her dress.

"Guess not," Arwen muttered, still chewing another decadent morsel.

"You guess not what?" Blanche asked.

"Well, I suppose you canceled your appointment."

"Arwen Armstrong," said Blanche, "whatever makes you say such a thing? Have you been talking to Delia again."

"You know I haven't spoken two syllables to that hussy since she kissed Ferris at the lodge."

"Delia didn't mean nothing by that. That was just a congratulatory peck," said Blanche. "It's not every day a man is elected Grand Tassel at the lodge. If not Delia, who? Who blabbed? Come on, Arwen. Spill the beans."