Any place Bridie McFee appeared, drunk or not, her entrance was greeted with a few hurried crosses, a bowed head or two, the occasional genuflection and a moment of silent reflection, and here in Final Spinz was no exception. Siofra curtsied, Mrs. Ming crossed herself and tried to reach for her rosary there on the floor, but it was too far away, Nurse Scadden genuflected and even Fionnuala seemed lost in silent reflection. Zoë seemed immune, just standing and staring, jaw slack, at the girl.
A while back, Bridie claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary in the lard of a chip fryer at the Kebabalicious where she worked. Many in town thought it a scam, or perhaps mental instability, a hallucination, but there were those who wanted to give the girl the benefit of the doubt. And Bridie's cold sores had disappeared soon after the visitation; they had been ever-present before. This seemed to signify something, and gave them hope. They wanted to believe. And so they did, because one never knew what deeds on Earth God was tallying up on his scorecard way up there in Heaven.
Siofra passed Mrs. Ming's rosary beads to her. The woman took them gratefully and clutched them tight, her arthritic fingers working over the beads as she stared in marvel at one of God's chosen.
“What are ye playing at, wee girl?” Fionnuala said, though calling the looking-much-older-than-her-29-years Bridie a 'girl' was a bit of a stretch, and 'wee' an outright lie. A glance at the straining seams of her Bjork World Tour 2009 t-shirt and her knockoff jeans revealed there was nothing wee about the lumpen creature, and the whole town knew this included her sexual appetite. “Flinging rocks at the window and shouting the odds like some headbin! I think ye've dented the window. Do ye want me to call the Filth, Mrs. Riddell?” She reached for the company phone on the counter.
This enraged Nurse Scadden to no end, and even Mrs. Ming gasped in shock.
“Bringing in the coppers?!” Nurse Scadden shrieked. “The Proddy Filth? Aye, ye see you, Fionnuala Flood,” her finger pointed accusingly as Bridie's had moments before, “ye've definitely gone over to the dark side. No Catholic in good standing, no Catholic who would hold their head up proudly as they stepped into St. Moulag's on a Sunday, would ever consider ringing the Proddy coppers! And windows kyanny dent.”
Bridie groaned and collapsed across the three yellow plastic chairs under the window. Mrs. Ming crossed herself again, the rosary dangling from her fist. Nurse Scadden whipped around to Zoë. “Can I not just get me uniforms back from this...this...this den of heathenism? I'll snatch them out of the machines meself. Let me back there, just. Let me back there now!”
Zoë grabbed her shoulder as Nurse Scadden flew past Fionnuala and made to shove her way beyond the partition.
“The secret!” Fionnuala wailed. The last thing she wanted was for Derry to learn dry cleaning was wet.
Siofra stuck out her foot, and Nurse Scadden fell against the partition.
“Right!” Zoë said, her lips thin. “Call the police, Mrs. Flood. That's trespassing.”
Just as Fionnuala picked up the phone, the door burst open for the final time that fateful afternoon. They all gasped, except Bridie, who had passed out, dead to the world. Three men propelled themselves inside. Three men in ski masks, balaclavas. One with a rusty pitchfork, one with what looked like a garden trowel, and one who had drawn the short stick and brandished a set of gold plated coal tongs from a fireplace set.
“Hands up, youse!” Pitchfork bellowed. “This is a stick up!”
Pitchfork raced to the counter, and Coal Tongs towards Zoë, waving their weapons. Mrs. Ming shrieked as Pitchfork kicked her walker to the floor. Trowel guarded the door with his body and sliced his mud-caked tool through the air as if he had been watching a kung fu movie marathon, or maybe jiujitsu?
As Fionnuala lunged for her flip-top pay-as-you-go phone and Pitchfork knocked it from her hand, Mrs. Ming clutched at her heart. She toppled against her overturned walker, banged against the counter and slid down it. The rosary fell from her fingers. The beads clinked and the cross clunked as the rosary hit the tiles. A sputtering and a moan escaped her withered, undulating lips. Her talons clawed the air. Then her frail limbs collapsed in a lifeless heap on the floor.
But unlike Bridie, Mrs. Ming wasn't dead to the world. She was
DID YOU ENJOY THIS excerpt? If so, get your copy now here.
Did you love Best Served Frozen? Then you should read Static Cling by Gerald Hansen!
PLEASE NOTE: Although this book is part of the IRISH LOTTERY SERIES, there is no cliffhanger. Though it is true that the characters get older as the series progresses, each book is a complete story, and can be enjoyed without having read the previous book.
When an armed robbery at Final Spinz, the dry cleaners where hardened matriarch Fionnuala Flood works, leads to the death of beloved pensioner Mrs. Ming, the ensuing investigation unleashes dark secrets that promise to bring Fionnuala closer to her husband Paddy, her mother Maureen, and the four children of her brood still in town. Or tear them apart forever.
The dysfunctional Floods are ripping apart at the seams. Fionnuala, banished from the family home for a heinous act that threatened the life of her most beloved son, must live, exile-like, in a dilapidated trailer on the outskirts of town, Derry, Northern Ireland. She's desperate to inveigle her way back into the family so she can rule over them once more with her iron rod and rapier tongue. Paddy and the family wanted rid of her, but if Fionnuala has her way, she's going nowhere. Like static cling.
Throw into the mix the return of a contestant from Safari Millionaire, some shocking DNA results, and Fionnuala's plan to save the world from evil, and bestselling author Gerald Hansen's fifth book about this shocking family is another hilarious ride—part roller coaster, carousel and ghost train—that will leave you gasping, wincing and, most of all, laughing.
Cover by Marco Maldera
Read more at Gerald Hansen’s site.
About the Author
Best-selling author Gerald Hansen was a Navy brat, starting school in Thailand, graduating high school in Iceland, with Germany, California and his mother's hometown of Derry, Northern Ireland in between. He attended Dublin City University, and also lived in London and Berlin. The first of the five-part Irish Lottery Series, An Embarrassment of Riches, was an ABNA semifinalist in 2011. He loves music, spicy food, traveling the world (still!), and wearing Ben Sherman. He now lives in New York City.
Photo by Marcin Kaliski
Read more at Gerald Hansen’s site.
Best Served Frozen (The Irish Lottery Series Book 4) Page 45
