"Kiser, Marcia - Some Like It Hot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kiser Marcia)
By Marcia Kiser
The tension in our little town was as thick as blackstrap molasses. When you're used to just a dab of humidity, 80% makes people mean. And the one thunderstorm we'd had last week hadn't helped at all. Add in the 100+ temperatures we've been having, and, well, you get the picture.
With tempers flaring like they were, I guess it wasn't surprising that somebody turned up dead. Familiarity doesn't necessarily breed affection, like it says in the books, but when there's only 300 souls in a town and all of 'em are hot, sweaty and sticky, tension builds and something's gotta give. I guess Daisey Mae Ratliff got in the way.
My name is Fiona Simpson. And I want to tell you about what happened in our little town a few weeks back. I guess you could call me the town historian, seeing as I usually know just about everything that's going on in town. Since I have two years at Southern State School for Secretaries and Beauticians, folks expect me to write a column for the county newspaper. And this was big. It's not often we get a calamity, of any size.
I was walking to my shop -- Fiona's Hair Hut -- when I found her. All I saw at first was a nicely shaped leg sticking out of the mountain laurel in the Main St. park. Naturally, curiosity got the best of me. I mean, how often do you see a leg sticking out of the bushes? I moseyed over, parted the bushes, and let out a yell that would've done a rebel officer proud.
Daisey Mae (yes, that's her name and she took her share of kidding over it, I can tell you) was a pretty, young thing with a figure that popped more than a few necks and caused a few cold showers. She didn't need make-up, a beauty operator, or a personal trainer. She looked good when she got up in the morning, and I should know. Daisey Mae worked for me at the Hair Hut, and more than once her date had dropped her off at the door after an all-nighter.
Okay, so maybe Daisey Mae hadn't decided which bed she liked sleeping in the best, but I'll say this for her, she didn't sleep in every bed offered to her. Her rule, and she stuck to it, was she didn't mess with married men. They had to be separated at least six months or divorced before she'd give 'em a second look. 'Course that rare commodity, a single, never-married man, was fair game.
But no matter all that, she didn't deserve to be strangled and tossed aside, naked, like an empty beer can.
After I got a breath, I rushed up the street to Jimmy Bob's office. Jimmy Bob is my sister's second husband's oldest daughter's youngest son, so he's not exactly family, more like shirt-tail kin, but he's fairly intelligent and we've always gotten along at all the family doings; you know, weddings, funerals, barbeques, that type of thing. Plus, Jimmy Bob happens to be our local sheriff, which is, of course, why I headed to his office.
When I told Jimmy Bob what I'd found, he didn't waste time asking a lot of fool questions, just got his hat and followed me back to the park where Daisey Mae's leg was still sticking out of the mountain laurel.
While Jimmy Bob started looking around, I ran down to the shop and got a couple of extra-large towels to cover her with, and I called the mortuary like Jimmy Bob asked. We don't have an ambulance, so people around here get to ride in the hearse before their time.
When I got back, Jimmy Bob had collected whatever evidence he could find. At least, I guess he had. I handed him the towels and he just nodded. Said he'd talk to me later. Acted like I was his personal assistant.
Well, of course, I had to tell Minnie Lou why I was late. Now, I want to make one thing perfectly clear before I go any farther. I've been accused of being a gossip-spreading busybody, but I'm here to tell you that simply ain't true. Is it my fault my fool of a husband left his tractor in gear and plowed himself under right along with the wheat stubble and left me to fend for myself? Is it my fault the only thing I knew how to do besides plow and cook was fix hair? And is it my fault that after I took the insurance money, passed the state exam and got ready to open my shop that the only available space that would work for a beauty shop just happened to be right on Main Street? I ask you, is any of that my fault?
Now, let me ask you this: is it my fault that when a bunch of women get together they share information? Pooling their resources, I think, is what its called back East. So I admit it, a lot of information passes through my shop, but, I, personally, never repeat a word that I don't know to be absolutely, positively, 100% true. On occasion, I may offer a personal observation based on my years of experience and what I see out the shop's windows, but I am not and never have been a busy body or a gossip.
That day, though, I have to admit, I did enjoy my fifteen minutes of fame. Being short-handed since Daisey-Mae wasn't coming in, Ethel and I were busier than one-armed paper-hangers. Everybody and their cousin needed a new do suddenly. Between rolling up and combing out, I barely had time to talk on the phone, let alone tell my story to anybody who asked.
When I finally closed (thirty minutes early), I walked over to Jimmy Bob's office. I was feeling a little protective about Daisey Mae since, well, I mean, after all, it was my body. I found her.
Jimmy Bob, dang his hide, wasn't talking -- to me or anybody, Bessie, his dispatcher said. Well, I told Bessie to hop on up and skedaddle into Jimmy Bob's office and let him know I was there. I figured he'd want to talk to me, seeing as how I was Daisey Mae's employer and all.
I was right, too. Bessie hustled out of Jimmy Bob's office and escorted me to his door like I was the governor of the state or something.
Jimmy Bob was reared back in his chair, his scuffed boots propped on the top of his desk and his Walker Feedstore cap shoved to the back of his head showing that oh-so- attractive sweatband line on his forehead.
"Well, who killed her?" I asked as soon as I shut the door in Bessie's face. No need in letting her hear everything.
"Not a clue," Jimmy Bob said. "The doctors over to Lubbock said they might know something tomorrow or the next day, but right now I don't know a blame thing."
"Was she strangled?"
"Near as I can figure. She had bruises all over her throat. I wouldn't be surprised if she was. . . " Jimmy Bob paused, his face turning redder than sun-ripe a tomato.
"Raped, Jimmy Bob?" I asked.
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