“Holly’s Corner,” part 9

[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 8.]

by David E. Booker

I tossed the wet wipe in the trash and stepped through the curtain and behind door number one was the woman who had threatened me with her rolling pin. She was still gripping the deadly device.

#

“You heard her side of the story. You’re going to hear mine,” she said.

“I’m not the Dear Abby of the recipe world.”

She was sitting in my one good client chair. I decided not to sit down. Maybe she’d get the hint and stand up and step out.

It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly’s Corner.

“That little trollop would spread lies about Christ himself if she thought it would advantage her.”

“Be careful what you say,” I said. “There’s a priest in the office.”

She sloshed her disheveled hairdo toward the other room. “Him? He’s harmless. We had a nice conversation waiting for you, we did.”

She was looking up at me. There seemed the hint of a foreign accent in her speech. English maybe. Either that or that’s the way she talked when she was inebriated. I once knew a Jewish guy who took on a Russian accent when he was drunk. He would also start referring to himself in the third person and how “that worthless Jew” needed a trip to a pogrom. In the past few years I had lost contact with him and hoped he wasn’t off somewhere punishing himself. I think he wanted to be comedy writer.

“Your half-sister is not my client, so you don’t have to stay,” I said, still standing near the doorway.

“Then I want to hire you.” She curled away from me and toward her purse, which was beside her on the chair. She popped it open, jammed her right hand inside, then pulled out a wad of bills and shook them at me like a rustling bouquet of flowers. Green flowers. Andrew Jackson and Benjamin Franklin flowers.

“Tea anyone?” Father Brown wriggled himself around me and walked into the room carrying a wicker service tray that was sagging slightly toward the center from the weight of the teapot.

(To be continued.)