Hey, Cozy Mystery fans! Here’s a continuing excerpt from my current work in progress. Heroine is Miss Tootsie. Time is 1920s. Place: small town.
Chapter Five
The sun shone warm against Miss Tootsie’s face as she trudged down the hill toward the bakery on Monday morning. Cocoa wasn’t with her. The little dog had made it plain this morning that she would rather stay home with Miranda and the kitten. Miss Tootsie’s heart felt light as she thought about her decision to offer Miranda a place to stay. It had been wonderful last night to have someone to talk to and this morning, the girl had insisted on washing breakfast dishes. That was nice. What a surprise Miranda had been yesterday, showing up at Miss Tootsie’s door. Had she been wise to take her into her home? Miss Tootsie relied a lot on intuition and her intuition told her she had done the right thing. Something about Miranda’s apparent helplessness tugged at her heartstrings. Today the girl’s plan was to check on some stores in town to see if anybody needed help. Maybe she could be a clerk in the grocery store? There were precious few opportunities in a town the size of Hickory Ridge.
When Miss Tootsie got to the footbridge, she paused to glance down at the town branch. It had swelled to flood stage after the recent storms but this morning it was back within its banks. Grasping the handrail, she leaned over and squinted. Something lay below her, half hidden among the wildflowers and cane stalks. Her heart thudded and landed in her throat. What was that shape, half in and half out of the water? Her eyes told her one thing but her mind refused to believe it. It looked for all the world like a body. She rubbed her eyes and leaned farther over the rail. A man? How could that be? Had he fallen off the bridge? Was he hurt and needing help?
Without wondering further, Miss Tootsie turned around, hurried to the end of the bridge, and started down toward the creek. She heard its subdued roar as she neared it, although it was not in flood stage now, it still carried more water than usual. Grabbing onto bushes, she slid and stumbled down the muddy embankment. Upon reaching the stream, she leaned down and peered at the fellow. His jacket was wet. She touched one of his hands, noticing the red and bruised look on his knuckles. The poor man must have fallen off the bridge and injured his hand in the fall. He was stone cold and now that she could see him well, she recognized him. It was banker Strummond. What had happened? Had he had a heart attack? Frantically, she felt for a pulse but found none. As impossible as it seemed on this lovely spring morning, Leonard Strummond was dead.
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