“Jack said as I sat down on the bar stool next to him.Ruby Bee stopped drying glasses and stared at him. “Somebody taken poorly back home?”“Nothing like that. Arly and I have been invited to a picnic. Miss Hathaway seems to think it’ll provide an opportunity for all of us to meet each other and discuss the logistics for the week. Both impressionists are already here, along with a smattering of other people.”“And just where is this picnic?” I asked without enthusiasm, since I already knew what th...e answer would be. Death, taxes—and Mrs. Jim Bob, equally inevitable, but no more palatable. If I were on the path to hell (as she’s so fond of telling me I most certainly am), she’d be standing on the shoulder selling asbestos cardigans to raise money for the ignorant heathens in Africa.“The mayor’s house. We can still pick up some tamales later.”Ruby Bee raised her eyebrows. “And just where are you planning to eat these tamales? Alongside Boone Creek?”I told myself it would not be seemly to lean over the bar and flick gray dishwater at her.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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