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wrong. Not really. They had been trapped together behind the
stable.
"Luke was there. He'd heard me snooping around upstairs
when he came in to put the tables and chairs away."
"That must have been a bit, well, awkward," Millicent
commented.
Jessie appreciated the understated understanding. "It
was."
Jessie's annoying ringtone interrupted them and she
quickly answered the phone.
"Elf?"
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That Voodoo That You Do
by Ann Yost
She ignored the burst of excitement she felt and corrected
him. "My name is Jessie."
He ignored that. "The chief called. I've got a list of
stomach contents here. See if it means anything to Mabel and
the others."
"Shoot."
"Chocolate, milk, flour, egg, oatmeal and peanut oil."
Jessie let out a little shriek. "Murder by peanut oil."
The old ladies exchanged a grim glance.
"Looks like Prendergast bagged another one," Millicent
said.
"Now, Mil, we don't know that for certain," Mabel Ruth
reminded her.
"We know it," Maude said, with uncharacteristic fierceness.
"But we need proof."
Francine emerged from the bedroom, still pale, but
insisting she felt much better. Jessie was wild to start
investigating Letty's death but she'd promised to stay with
her friend. Besides, she didn't know exactly where to start.
Apparently Mabel Ruth could read her mind. "There's only
one place to get the answers we need," she said. "The horse's
mouth. Francine, dear, where do you keep your board?"
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107
That Voodoo That You Do
by Ann Yost
Chapter Eight
Mystic Hollow had no public Fax machine.
He shouldn't have been so surprised. After all, a town
whose market stocked only gut-rot beer, was a town stuck
back in the '50's.
So, because of Mystic's retro ways and because he refused
to drag his heels in getting the final loan for marketing his
search machine, Luke found himself driving the twenty-five
miles to Roanoke. It wasn't all bad. He got a good cup of
coffee. Besides, it removed him from temptation.
It also removed him from his job as protector of that
temptation.
Now it was early afternoon and he was sitting in traffic on
I-80. He stared broodingly, at the snowflakes that drifted
onto his windshield. Maybe the Shenandoah Valley would
have a white Christmas this year.
Christmas! He sat up straight. Surely Jessie Maynard
would go home for Christmas. She had Norman Rockwell
written all over her. It was already December twenty-second.
Would she leave today? Tomorrow? He told himself not to get
his hopes up but his spirit lightened anyway.
If Jessie would only go home for Christmas he could leave
Mystic Hollow for the last time. He could return to his
unfurnished D.C. apartment. He could leave the emotional
past behind and start fresh. Alone. He frowned. The idea
wasn't as compelling as it should have been. Naturally he'd
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That Voodoo That You Do
by Ann Yost
have preferred a warm home and a welcoming woman but it
wasn't in the cards.
Crystal's "Dear John" e-mail had taken care of that.
Bitterness erupted inside him and he snapped on the radio.
The flakes, it turned out, were a scouting party. The rest of
the frozen troops were scheduled to descend tonight. His gut
tightened.
He'd be snowed in tonight in a warm house with a wary
woman; one he couldn't touch. He forced himself to focus on
Letty Appleby's death. He had a feeling he'd find an answer or
two at the J. Mortimer Epps Mortuary: Embalming A
Specialty.
If he'd had his druthers, Dennis wouldn't have bothered
with a three-thousand dollar coffin but he had to keep up
appearances. Everyone knew Miss Leticia Appleby didn't
approve of cremation. She'd made a big enough fuss about it
after Blanche Maynard's death. So here he was, pretending to
care about her final resting place when all he wanted to do
was find a hole and throw her in.
"That one." He pointed to the first one he saw. Dark
veneer with a blue lining. "Smith should release her
tomorrow," he told the mortician. "You can pick her up at the
M.E.'s office in Roanoke."
Mort nodded.
"We'll have the service tomorrow evening. I'd like to get it
out of the way before Christmas.
Mort looked at him over the top of heavily rimmed glasses.
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