Coastal Cottage Calamity - Abby L. Vandiver Page 0,2

meaning of the word ‘discretion?’”

“Oliver thinks he’s a lady killer,” Miss Vivee said. “That they’ll all bow down to him and let him have his way.”

“He’s too old to even try to keep up with that many women,” I said. “If you know what I mean.”

“They don’t care about that so much as they care about his money,” Miss Vivee said. “A lot of money will replace a lack of libido any day. His money makes them all want him.”

“Apparently they want him bad enough to kill each other to get him.”

Then as if on cue, the rumble of his disgruntled paramours began to build to a crescendo, drowning out even the whistle of the tea kettle. Miss Vivee readied the tea and had me carry it in. Initially hurrying, I slowed as I reached the doorway of the dining room.

White-blondie had her finger in strawberry-blondie’s face. And frosted-highlighted blondie was yelling at Renmar.

It seemed Oliver liked blondes as much as he did those e-cigarettes he was always puffing on.

“He doesn’t want you, you liver-lipped hussy,” said the white-blonde to the strawberry haired one.

“If he doesn’t want me, why was he at my house last night?” Strawberry blonde queried.

“He was not!” White blonde screamed. She was visibly upset by the comment.

“And the night before. And the night before that. And the night before that!” Strawberry taunted.

“I don’t know what for,” Frosted-highlights yelled. “Being with you,” she spat her words at Strawberry. “Is like throwing a hotdog down a hallway, you whore!”

“Who are you calling a whore?” Strawberry-blonde shouted.

Both White and Frosted said, “You!”

The Strawberry-blonde haired hussy grabbed a butter knife from the table and wielded it like she was holding a machete. “I will cut you six ways from Sunday,” she screeched. “Both of you. You’ll get Oliver over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged,” Frosted said. With that she jumped past Renmar and lunged at the knife brandishing, fruity-colored blonde.

And then came a scream from the foyer that would silence a banshee. It certainly quietened everyone in the room.

We all stopped and looked toward the foyer.

There was no one there.

We looked at each other.

I walked into the foyer and swinging from my waist did a one-eighty and surveyed the rest of the room. No one. Then I remembered the closet Miss Vivee hid with me in to give updates when solving Gemma’s murder.

I walked over and opened the door and there was Koryn Razner. Her hands over her ears. Tears streaming down her face.

“Koryn. Are you okay?” I asked.

“I just can’t take it anymore. All the noise. All the screaming. I just can’t take it anymore.”

I turned around and looked at the crowd that had made their way to the archway that separated the two rooms. Everyone staring with their mouths open.

“Bring her in here,” Miss Vivee instructed.

I reached my arm in and guided Koryn out of the closet. I walked with her to the dining room, and pulling out a chair I helped her sit in it.

“Are you okay?” Strawberry put down her knife and came over and rubbed Koryn’s back.

“See what you’ve done?” White-blonde hissed at Strawberry while rubbing Koryn’s opposite shoulder.

“Don’t cry,” Frosted voiced soothingly. “And please don’t scream like that anymore.”

“Give her some tea.” Renmar picked up a mug from the wait station. “Everyone. Just have some tea.”

Chapter Two

“Logan Dickerson.” Brie called my name and waved an envelope at me. “You’ve got mail,” she said and giggled. She was so corny.

I’d been staying in Yasamee for almost a month and for it to be such a small place, there had been a lot of disorder going on, the day’s events included. But the one constant – the calm in the storm – was a handwritten note from my mother that I got each week I’d been there. Blue Mountain or Hallmark, the card came faithfully filled with the goings on at home. She said that emails were too impersonal for us to stay in touch.

Jury wasn’t in on how I felt about her bombarding me with cheerful, humorous tidbits of sentiment. One of the many tribulations (perks?) of being the youngest child even though my twenty-ninth birthday was fast approaching, my mother was always close.

Sometimes I felt like the light of fame didn’t . . . couldn’t shine on me because I existed in my mother’s shadow. I guess I’d put myself there going into the same occupation as she. Still I just wanted to do as much as she had.

Maybe more . . .

My