If I could get him started confessing his sins, I would activate the voice recorder app on my smart phone, and then drive his recorded confession straight to the police station. I was very proud of the plan I’d developed, and was mentally patting myself on the back for a job well done. So naturally, I was then terribly disappointed when instead of reciting a detailed description of how he’d murdered his ex-wife, he merely passed out cold on the couch, dropping his nearly full beer on the linoleum floor.
Watching the beer flow out of the bottle onto the dark, grimy floor, creating a large puddle, the urge to urinate became more than I could control. As much as the thought disturbed me, using this man’s new-fangled crapper had become a necessity. I’d used enough gas station restrooms in the past to perfect the art of peeing without one inch of my flesh ever touching the toilet seat, and I would have to utilize that talent again now.
When I was done relieving myself, I’d head home and leave Bo to sleep it off in his chair. There’d be no more conversing with him until he sobered up, and I needed to get home shortly anyway, to avoid worrying Stone.
I found the bathroom behind the second door down the hallway. The restroom was every bit as nasty as I’d imagined, but I’d have to risk untold germ and bacteria exposure, and use it. I locked the door behind me in case Bo woke up and came looking for me. Evaluating the toilet in front of me, I tried to imagine what bell or whistle it had that the old one might not have, and came up with nothing. Unless, I thought, it was the black mold under the lid, or the ring around the bowl a jackhammer couldn’t chip off.
After peeing while performing a world-class balancing act, I realized there was no toilet paper on the holder. There was not even an old Sear’s catalog in the john. Thank God I carried a small pack of Kleenex in my fanny pack just for emergencies such as this one.
After completing the task at hand, I grasped the doorknob only to find it wouldn’t unlock. I shook the rusty knob as violently as I could, jammed my fingernail file in the key opening, and wiggled it frantically. I then hollered out as loudly as I could, hoping to raise Bo. When those attempts failed, I looked for door hinges to remove the bolts from, but for some odd reason the door opened outward instead of inward, putting the hinges on the other side of the door.
My next thought was to crawl out the window, but was forced to accept the fact that, although I might be able to squeeze my arms and head out the tiny window, the extra junk in my trunk was going nowhere. Even if I busted out the window, and greased the window frame with oily residue off the floor, there was no hope of squeezing my rump and thighs through the opening.
Damn that Wyatt Johnston! If I didn’t always have to keep so many fattening treats on hand to satisfy his sweet tooth, and then feel obligated to taste-test them before serving them to him, there might have been a prayer of escaping Bo’s utterly disgusting privy.
I tried messing with the doorknob again, while intermittently calling out Bo’s name, to no avail. Glancing at my watch, I knew it was Stone calling as soon as my phone rang. I could be evasive, or even downright lie about my situation, but what good would that do me at this point? It wouldn’t get me out of the slimy, stinking bathroom anytime soon. I decided to bite the bullet and explain to him what had happened. I knew it would result in a lecture about my appalling disregard for my personal safety, and my lacking the sense God gave a lemming, on Stone’s part, and a lot of shameless crying and pleading on mine, but it had to be done.
Apparently, Stone was getting accustomed to my impulsive nature, and the unfortunate and sometimes dangerous, predicaments this bad trait sometimes landed me in. He was angry, disgusted, and bitterly disappointed with me, but he didn’t sound at all surprised. He sighed and asked for directions to Bo’s place. Before he hung up, he asked, “This dude actually bought your story of being interested in buying his harrow?”
“Well, sure, I was very convincing. He even believed I might want to purchase his old toilet, since he done went and bought himself one of those new fangled crappers.”
Stone didn’t laugh, comment, or even sigh again. He just rudely hung the phone up in my ear. I could tell it was going to be a long, long night.
Just Ducky
by
Jeanne Glidewell
~
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Just Ducky
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Jeanne Glidewell and her husband, Robert, live in Bonner Springs, Kansas. When not traveling or fishing in south Texas, Jeanne enjoys reading, writing, and wildlife photography. She’s the author of Soul Survivor, and five Lexie Starr mysteries. A member of Sisters-in-Crime, she’s working on more Lexie Starr mysteries. You may contact her through her website, www.jeanneglidewell.com.
Jeanne is a pancreas and kidney transplant recipient and volunteers as a mentor for the Gift of Life program in Kansas City. The promotion of organ donation is an important endeavor of hers. Please be an organ donor, because you can’t take your organs to heaven, and heaven knows we need them here.
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Excerpt from THE SPIRIT OF THE SEASON - A Lexie Starr Mystery, Novella
Excerpt from JUST DUCKY - A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 5
Meet Jeanne Glidewell
Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 04 - With This Ring Page 23
