Deep Fried Trouble (Eugeena Patterson Mysteries)
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Authors: Tyora Moody
Deep Fried Trouble
A Eugeena Patterson Mystery, Book 1
Copyright © 2013 by Tyora Moody
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Deep Fried Trouble
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by Tymm Publishing LLC
701 Gervais Street, Suite 150-185
Columbia, SC 29201
www.tymmpublishing.com
Cover Design: TywebbinCreations.com
Cover Illustration: CinnamonSaturday.com
Editing: TheJStandard.com
I should’ve turned around and gone back into the house as soon as I saw him. That would’ve been really silly since he’d already spotted me.
Eugeena Patterson, what’s wrong with you? Get it together, woman.
I took a peek at my neighbor again. A quiver started in my stomach as I walked down the stone pathway in front of my home. The change of life had already paid a visit so I certainly couldn’t blame my hormones for making my knees turn to jelly. More than likely my anxiousness had to do with being a widow almost three years. The loneliness of my home, once occupied by a family of five, had grown claustrophobic. Being officially retired, only a few days ago, after thirty years of service as a social studies teacher didn’t help matters. All this free time on my hands made me act peculiar.
I couldn’t believe that at my age, with three grown children and now three grandbabies, I had become infatuated with some man. An old one. But not bad looking, as far as I can tell with my new bifocals.
If only he wouldn’t be looking at me
.
Over the shrubbery that separated our property, Amos Jones waved at me. What could I do but be neighborly? I plastered a smile on my face and waved back.
Lord, please don’t let me say anything crazy.
So often I ended up feeling like I’d just put one of my size nine feet in my mouth.
With as much tact as I could, I smoothed my Pa
tterson Family Reunion shirt around my hips, which didn’t outline my rolls anymore.
Praise the Lord!
One good thing about walking, I’d lost thirty pounds. My steps even felt lighter. I never had an hourglass figure mind you, but at least my pants weren’t riding up between my thighs. That would have been too emba
rrassing.
Sure enough as I reached the sidewalk, Amos drove his lawn mower alongside me. The way he grinned, one would’ve thought his mode of transpo
rtation resembled a shiny red sports car. Men and their toys, especially the ones with wheels.
My impression of him remained the same as the first time I saw him over a year ago. He reminded me of Harry Belafonte. One of those men who managed to look more distinguished with age.
Now me? At fifty-nine, I looked nothing at all like the younger version of myself. Not that I was ever a beauty queen.
“How ya doing this morning, Mr. Amos?” My cheeks burned from grinning. “You got your grass looking all good, as usual.” My right eyelid started to twitch. I hoped he didn’t think I was batting my ey
elashes.
I wasn’t. The sun’s rays had thrown an awful glare on my glasses. I positioned my hand against my for
ehead.
“Good mornin’, Eugeena.” Amos tipped his straw hat. That hat had probably seen better days. It curled up around Amos’ balding head, fitting like a worn baseball glove. Little tuffs of white hair peeked out around the sides and the back. Amos must’ve handled a tractor at some point in his life. Those denim ove
ralls spoke farm boy to me.
But his deep brown eyes mirrored a sophistic
ation that defied the look he had going.
I shook my head, realizing those same eyes were ga
zing back at me with a puzzled expression.
Focus, Eugeena.
I cleared my throat
,
“Did you say something?”
“I said I see you’re out for your morning walk.”
He’d noticed.
“Yes, I got to manage this sugar,” I said, thin
king about the day a year before when my worst fear came to light. The day my doctor told me I had diabetes. Old folks liked to call it sugar. There was nothing sweet about the diagnosis. Since my husband’s passing and now with an empty nest, I’d taken eating alone to a whole new level.
Amos commented, “Keep it up. You’ll be fine. Hey, I see your grass needs attention. Wouldn’t take me long to fix it up real nice for you.”
My middle child, Cedric, lived nearby but he didn’t cut the grass with any consistency. I knew I could’ve pulled out Ralph’s old lawn mower, but I hated grass. My nose tickled from the freshly cut clippings stuck to the sidewalk and Amos’ lawn mower.
Before I could protest, Amos crossed over from his front yard into mine. I leapt out of the way and threw my hand up to thank him. I guess this meant I was going to have to invite him over for a meal.
He looked like a fried chicken man to me. Of course, I needed to adjust my recipe a little bit. I already killed one man with my cooking.
I certainly didn’t want to give Mr. Amos any id
eas though. The poor man’s wife hadn’t been dead quite a year. Most men couldn’t make it without a woman. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be the missing piece in someone else’s old puzzle.
My mind whirred with so many thoughts I hadn’t r
ealized I’d walked the opposite direction from my usual route. That Amos got my mind all off track.
Not a problem. I would just have to deal with the steep hill ahead. My body wouldn’t be happy, but I did have another thirty pounds to lose.
Our neighborhood, known as Sugar Creek, was older than most of the new developments here in North Charleston. Many houses were brick, but most were wooden, their architectural style dating back to the mid-1940s. Most homes were two stories, fit with a garage or a carport. Large oaks covered with Spanish moss lined the street, but some trees were destroyed decades before, thanks to Hurricane Hugo.
I increased my pace, feeling the tension in the back of my calves as I climbed the hill. In a few hours the sun would be roasting. June arrived a few days before, breathing hot air down our necks like some irate dragon.
At the top of the hill, a white house came into view. Despite the weathered exterior, it still looked beautiful, surrounded by the oaks and magnolia trees.
I used to visit the occupant of the house, but we, that is Mary Fleming and I had long since parted ways. Our exchange was always awkward. I would wave hello and she’d wave back. We would display weak smiles. The kind of smile, where you barely showed any teeth or just let your mouth curve slightly upward. As soon as I passed her house, my steps seemed to grow more diff
icult the farther I walked away.
My chest heaved from having to climb that st
upid hill. I thanked the Lord I’d reached the top.
I didn’t have long to rejoice about my victory when something ran alongside my line of vision. The brown and white blur not only romped next to me, but was barking its little head off too. I slowed down and looked over at Mary’s Corgi.
“Porgy.” Yes, Mary named that dog after the character from
Porgy and Bess
. The name always seemed odd to me. The little noisemaker’s round tummy shook as he waddled beside me. He should have been named Porky instead. “What are you doing outside?”
One thing I knew about Mary, she guarded Porgy with her life. She’d never let that pooch out of her sight and he certainly wouldn’t have been in the front yard.
I peered through the fence a little closer. Something wasn’t right with Porgy’s fur. The normally well-groomed dog looked matted and just plain dirty. “Porgy, you been into some mud hole. Mary is going to have a fit.” I couldn’t keep walking. Besides, my legs were killing me.
This must have been a sign from the Lord. Mary and I had held onto our grudges long enough. It wouldn’t hurt to have a real conversation for a change. Amos and I weren’t the only widowed folks on this street. Poor Mary had lost not only her spouse, but her only child seven years ago in a horrible car accident. Sometimes I felt like the Lord was leading me to rekindle the friendship. I dealt with loneliness, but my children and grandchildren came to visit me. Poor Mary, she’d lost everyone dear to her and had become a bit of a hermit.
Porgy barked his little head off as I unlatched the white fence door. Yes, a white picket fence. This house had all the elements of a perfect home down to the wrap-around porch and shutters. Most houses down the hill had bits and pieces, but none of the houses, including mine, spoke grandness like Mary’s.
Once inside the fence, I followed the erratic dog around to the back. “Mary?” Around the side of the house, daylilies ranging from pink to yellow were in full bloom. The woman had always been a master gardener. I tried, but can’t say I had much of a green thumb.
This really felt strange. I hadn’t been in the Fleming’s backyard in years. Not much had changed. Same wrought iron furnishings with overstuffed green cushions. The big gas grill sat covered on the side. I remembered when Mary planted the hydrangeas and azaleas along the deck’s sides.
It was beautiful back there. Quiet.
Too quiet.
The boards of the deck creaked as I placed my weight on the steps. Since the blinds were pulled back, I could see clearly through the patio sliding door. I tapped the glass and shouted, “Mary, are you in there? Porgy is outside about to have a fit.”
The dog yapped, sounding more like a chimpanzee as he ran in circles. My goodness, poor little fellow. How long had Mary left him outside?
I cupped my hands to my face and peered i
nside. On the other side of the door, the kitchen sparkled. No. Really. I could see the shine from where I stood. Old Mary was somewhat of a neat freak and she loved her stainless steel appliances. I’d always thought she would’ve been perfect in a Mr. Clean commercial or something.
I shifted my eyes around the kitchen. I froze. Now mind you, a glass of water sitting on the counter shouldn’t produce alarm. For some reason, my mind recollected every tidbit I knew about my former friend. The Mary I knew wouldn’t just leave a glass sitting on her granite countertop. After you drank from it, you rinsed the glass and put it in the dis
hwasher. My own children were familiar with the routine whenever they visited the Fleming’s home.
Next to me, poor Porgy whimpered. I walked to the other glass door and again cupped my hand around my face.
“Sweet Jesus.” I stepped backwards.
Porgy yelped.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your tail.” I also wished I hadn’t seen what I saw.
The woman I once counted as a close friend lie on her kitchen floor. Her blank stare seemed to beg for hel
p. Oh, but I couldn’t help her.
