By Jess Lourey
Probably it is time for me to depart this loopy city, hightail it again to Minneapolis, and turn into a cat-collecting, fist-shaking, asexual English professor... livid after being stood up via neighborhood hottie Johnny Leeson, Mira makes a decision to desert conflict Lake, Minnesota, the place the ladies are churchgoers, the lads wish to hunt, and the physique count number is above general. but if a cheerleader bites the airborne dirt and dust, Mira loiters lengthy sufficient to snoop. Mira is extremely suspicious of the recent Millennium Bible Camp, a worrying position with a Stepford other halves meets Hee Haw vibe. earlier than ditching conflict Lake, Mira is hell-bent on confronting her personal demons and catching a killer.
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There’d be no white knight to save me, I thought petulantly, missing Johnny so much in that moment that my skin felt swollen. I hadn’t heard from him since our unpleasant July phone conversation. When a rap came on the door behind me and pulled me out of my self-pity, I was grateful. Mrs. Berns, I figured. Now I’ll have someone around to be mad at. I turned and was surprised to see a young and pretty woman instead of a geriatric and libidinous one. For a moment I thought it was Lucy, the peppy high school girl who had been helping me out on the busy weekends, but the woman shifted her face and I saw she was a stranger.
Sigh. I was going to miss Battle Lake, a little bit. I changed the roasting time on the recipe from three hours to five—I didn’t want to get sued for giving someone salmonella—saved the recipe on my computer, and cruised to unlock the front door in anticipation of Sarah Ruth’s arrival, as she didn’t yet have a key. It was nine thirty, and the library wasn’t due to open for another half an hour. To my dismay, there was an oddly dressed family of three making their way down the street toward me. The male was clad in a lightweight black coat and slacks and a preacher’s collar, one of the females was in a wheelchair and a turtleneck on this sultry August day, and the other, younger female pushing the wheelchair was wearing a modest dress.
I revised my search to “Moving Food,” with the thought that I would soon be relocating. I think the computer thought I meant food that moved one’s bowels because I clicked on a whole slew of strange edibles. ) as too obvious. I wanted to go out with a bang, with something really wild and memorable. That’s when I tripped across it: Turdeasant—a turkey stuffed with a duck, stuffed with a pheasant, stuffed with dressing. How grody toad meaty was that? Three dead birds in one. People’d be eating it long after I’d moved.
August Moon by Jess Lourey