Trouble in a Big Box (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery) by Judy Alter Page A

schools, down side streets that twisted and turned, and finally by my mom’s house, now sporting a wonderful fall garden that she and Keisha had planted. We were getting there—many more houses in Fairmount were in good shape than not, but I felt in my bones that the shopping center would set back efforts to restore this glorious old neighborhood.
    I was headed back to the office before I saw Bella’s green Nova on my tail. So much for my faith in a fast conversion. Mike and Joe were right.
    I didn’t mention the tail to Keisha, but she looked out the window, saw the car, and said, “You hungry? I saw all those tacos in the trash. Bagged it and took it to the dumpster—don’t like spicy food smellin ’ up my office.”
    I grinned, wanting to remind her that it was my office. “No, I’m not hungry. I have to get the girls soon. I’ll fix a good dinner tonight.”
    “Such as?”
    “The menu tonight is hamburger stroganoff, green beans, and salad,” I said righteously.
    “Lots of greens, that’s good. ‘Course that stroganoff has sour cream in it.”
    “Light sour cream.”
    Keisha laughed aloud. “Me? I’m fixin ’ fried chicken and cornbread and greens for José and Otto Martin. Gonna’ be a southern feast. I get time I may make a chess pie.”
    “Otto Martin?”
    “Of course. That poor old man needs company. Then maybe we can talk him outta killin ’ Tom Lattimore . Then again, maybe that’s not such a bad idea. That man almost needs killin ’.” She turned back to her computer, cutting off the conversation.

Chapter Eight

    “Mom,” Em said from the backseat as we drove home from school that afternoon, “you forgot again.”
    Oh, Lord. What now? “What did I forget, Em?”
    “Halloween. You always do.”
    She was right. Halloween always hit me like a brick had been thrown at me. “What do you want to be, Em?”
    A big sigh. “I don’t know. I’ve been a princess and a cat, and there’s nothing left.”
    Such melodrama. I stifled a laugh, but Maggie jumped right in. “Em, I have my ballet clothes—I bet they’d just fit you now, even the shoes. You could be a ballerina in a tutu!”
    Em considered. “It’s pink, isn’t it?”
    “Yep, it’s pink. When we get home, pull it out so Em can try it on.”
    That afternoon the green car stayed behind us from the school to the house and then sped away. I didn’t mention it, but Maggie saw it. “I’m not walking Gus this afternoon. I’ll throw the ball for him in the yard.”
    “Okay. Just clean up any mess he makes.”
    Another sigh, this time from my oldest child. I made a mental note to buy a pooper-scooper.
    The girls greeted Mike, who was working at his computer on the dining room table. Each day he was getting around better, using the walker a little less, especially if I was nearby for him to balance on. He still hobbled, and he still went to therapy three times a week, but as he improved physically I could have drawn a chart of his emotional improvement.
    I gave him a kiss and asked how his work was going—he was back at work on his history of fallen policeman in Fort Worth.
    “Good. I’m up to 1900, but I’m thinking of going back and including peace officers of Tarrant County from the time of its incorporation.”
    Sounded deadly dull to me, but it would keep him occupied.
    “Conroy’s taking me to lunch tomorrow. That new burger place—what’s it called? Smashburger . He says just to visit but I suspect he has more on his mind.”
    “Good for you. I’m going to lunch with John Henry Jackson at the Fort Worth Club.” I waited for a reaction, but there was none.
    I sat down across the table, bursting to tell him about my meeting with Christian and Jim Price, my non-lunch with Tom Lattimore , and my curiosity about my lunch date the next day with John Henry Jackson. I knew he’d love the tale of me throwing the tacos in the trash and Keisha bagging them. I was just getting to the good part, where I told Tom to take