Drizzled with Death(13)

“I wouldn’t let it get to me that bad, sweetie. A good night’s sleep ought to cure you of any bad memories and you’ll be back to swilling the stuff by the gallon before you know it.”

“I’m not so sure. It was pretty gruesome.” I didn’t like thinking about the way the syrup had clung to her face when Grandma had turned her head to keep her airways clear.

“You need to get right back on the horse.” With that, Piper popped open a waffle iron and poured in some batter. Steam rose from the machine when she closed the lid, and the smell of crisp baking waffles filled the air. When the machine beeped, she pried it open and grabbed a plate. Placing a waffle on it, she reached for a syrup jug and uncapped it. “Here, do the honors yourself.” She thrust the plate and jug into my hands and I noticed the Greener Pastures label on the jug. There was no way Alanza was going to turn me off my favorite food. Besides, with my hummingbird-like metabolism, I might just perish without a steady stream of the stuff.

I sat the plate on the counter, drizzled on a healthy slug of golden goodness, and hacked off a bite with the side of my fork. The deep, rich sweetness touched my tongue then filled my throat. The crunch of the waffle combined with the full flavor of the syrup took the edge off the memory of Alanza. Two bites later and I had forgotten I had any concerns about never eating syrup again.

Before I had finished my waffle, the doors opened and community members and people from surrounding towns poured into the Stack Shack like it was opening day at an amusement park. Stringed instruments were tuned, guitars were strummed, and a harmonica let out a few trial notes. Tansey Pringle motioned me over from a big booth in the corner. Unfortunately, her son Knowlton sat next to her, stroking his thin excuse for a mustache, which looked more like a chocolate milk stain than the pelt I imagined he fancied it. Maybe it actually grew quite well, but he had rubbed it off from too much patting.

I screwed up my courage and crossed the room, weaving between friends, neighbors, and acquaintances to slide in on Tansey’s side of the booth. Knowlton lit up like a carnival midway, and I felt like a bad human because of how much I didn’t return his interest.

“Dani, just the girl I wanted to see. Knowlton and I were wondering just what we should bring to your house for Thanksgiving dinner. Your grandmother invited us again this year and we couldn’t be more pleased.” Just one more reason I don’t love the holidays. The family collects stray people like a pound collects dogs. And unfortunately the strays invariably include eligible men invited to free me from my prison of spinsterhood. Tansey is one of my grandmother’s oldest friends and almost since my birth those two ladies have been plotting our nuptials.

“You’ll have to speak to Grandma about that. I just show up and peel potatoes.” I’m a good cook but so are all the women in the family, even my mother, who’d rather snake drains than fix dinner. With so many capable cooks, our broth gets spoiled pretty fast if there isn’t a clear leader. On all major holidays, that leader is Grandma. Celadon plays second in command at Thanksgiving, and Mother does at Christmas. I do it at Easter. My grandfather and Loden are in charge of the Fourth of July barbeque celebration. I could make a fair stab at what Grandma would be serving since a lot of the menu didn’t change from year to year, but I wouldn’t have dared step on her toes by speaking for her about what a guest should bring.

“You know, Knowlton’s a wonderful cook. It’s a wonder no lucky girl has snapped him up already. You’d be lucky to have someone like him around the house if all you can do is peel potatoes.” Tansey leaned over and patted Knowlton’s skinny arm. “Go on and tell her about your squirrel stew.”

“I’ve got to run.” I scootched to the edge of the bench seat, the vinyl squeaking under my jeans. Knowlton reached a long slim arm across the table and locked his slim fingers around my wrist.

“You ought to be careful, Dani. There’s no telling what could happen to someone as small and helpless as you alone at night.” His pale blue eyes, light as thick winter ice, fixed on mine. I always avoided Knowlton, always found him a little creepy and disconcerting, but never was frightened by him. Suddenly, I felt a leeriness that was as unpleasant as it was unfamiliar. Someone had probably murdered Alanza. I felt like I was in a strange land, not the place I was born and raised and eager to leave as a college student because it was so tame and benign. I was looking at everyone with new eyes and that included Knowlton. Was he really as harmless as he had always seemed? Or was he one of those kids who had been pulling the legs off frogs for years when no one was looking?