Doggone Dead. Dane McCaslin

      I’d convinced Nora to give her a little extra pay for the shock, assuring her it was worth it to keep Karen from running straight back out of the apartment.

      “She should be paying me,” Nora grumbled, reaching over to gingerly poke at her swollen big toe. “I tell you, Gwen, she’s lucky I’m not suing the pants off her. Who uses a metal bucket anymore?”

      I didn’t bother answering. Instead, I brought her an ice pack, a notepad, and a pencil.

      “What’s this for?” She stared at the items, a truculent expression on her face.

      “The ice pack is for your toe.” I spoke with more patience than I was actually feeling. “The paper is for that list you still need to write. Or I can write it while you give me the names.”

      “Oh, fine.” She gave an exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms over her chest in a petulant motion. “Get ready. Some of these names are doozies.”

      “Worse than Grace or Mercy?” I looked up from the notepad, grinning.

      To my relief, she smiled back. Crisis averted. “I must have married every man in Oregon who liked strange names. First up, Jebediah.”

      “Jedediah?” I was sure I’d heard incorrectly.

      “Nope. Jebediah. With a B.” She laughed at my befuddled expression. “Told you they were odd. My first husband’s mother was a direct descendent from the Mayflower Biddles and boy, did he like reminding me of that little tidbit.”

      I stared at her for a moment, uncertain if this was a joke or not. I didn’t see any mirth on her face. Instead, I thought I spotted a trace of sadness, a souvenir from a time she didn’t really like to revisit.

      “All right, Jeb-with-a-B it is.”

      Next was Verity, which was actually kind of cute, and then Charity, which smacked of all things Plymouth Rock and Puritan. By the time we’d completed what amounted to a roll call of obscure names from the offspring of husbands one to five, it was nearly three and I was starving. The breakfast casserole seemed long ago and far away, and I was ready for lunch. My stomach, always one step ahead, gave a loud grumble.

      “Are you hungry?” Nora glanced up from her cell phone, a secret smile tucked in one corner of her mouth. She’d been texting someone in between names, and, judging by that smile, it was a M-A-N. Maybe I needed to ask her what his children were named.

      “Ravenous. Should we go out or stay here?”

      “I vote for out.” Nora stood, testing her weight on the injured foot before dropping back down with a grimace on her face. “Or not. Maybe we’d better call out for something.”

      “Or I can walk to somewhere nearby.” I glanced at the phone Nora had tossed aside. “Besides, Brent will be back soon and he’ll be starving.”