***So far, Miranda Jessup Buckley has been jilted, fired and left to take care of her ex-lover's child.   After finding what appears to be the weapon that killed Ed Preston, Miranda gets sent home from work.  She gets advice from an old woman in the trailer park and decides to face her demons.  So, she tells Missy that they can meet for a drink. ***

 

 

 

 

 

I haven't been to a bar with another female, well, ever.  I married Farley when I was nineteen.  Never got that whole best friend thing with another woman.  I'm actually a little bit excited.  It would be great except it's Missy Toblerone I'm meeting.

 

Digging through the back of my closet, I find a dark purple top that my mom gave me a few Christmases ago.  I wiggle into a pair of black jeans that are tight enough to cause organ failure, but they look good.  As long as I don't breathe for a couple of hours, I'll be fine.

 

I look into the mirror in the bathroom.  Rarely do I put makeup on.  I'll put a couple strokes of mascara on but other than that it isn't my thing.  I'm starting to look old.  Maybe not old old but I don't look twenty something anymore.  In the past year I've picked my share of gray hairs out of my head.  I squint, trying to ignore the laugh lines around my eyes.

 

My reflection is very busy pointing out the soft skin that hangs under my chin.  "Better start saving up for Botox in a few years," she says.

 

"Oh, shut up.  I don't look that bad."  My fingers run across the lines at the corners of my eyes.  "What's the harm in a few laugh lines?"

 

My reflection laughs loudly at that.  "Laugh lines?  Ain't nothing that damn funny."

 

"I'm done with you."  I turn out the light in the bathroom and leave.

 

Waylon should be getting home soon.  It's already after three.  I need to find out where Missy wants to go to have a drink.

 

I dial her number again and wait until she answers.  " Miranda, I'm in the middle of my workout, what's up," she say, sounding slightly out of breath.

 

"Just trying to firm up the time and place tonight."

 

"Oh, um, how about eight o'clock at The Sand Bar. You know where it is, right?"

 

"I'll find it."

 

"Just put it in your GPS."

 

I roll my eyes.  "Sure.  Good idea."

 

She's babbling on about how much fun we're going to have and how she's has found some old pictures of us from high school.   I cringe.  I'm hoping she doesn't think we are going to pick up where we left off in tenth grade.

 

Waylon walks in, dropping his backpack beside the television.  He stares at me, obviously confused as to why I'm home.

 

"Ok, well, I need to get going, Missy.  I'll see you at eight."

 

"I'm so glad you're giving our friendship another chance. You have no idea how happy this makes me."

 

I bite my tongue.  I don't want to give her the wrong impression but there isn't any sense in making her suspicious as to my motive.

 

Hanging up the phone, I turn to smile at Waylon.  "You didn't flip Mrs. Fine off when you walked by, did you?"

 

"Nah, she was too busy yakking with the mail carrier."

 

I nod.  "Well, don't be rude to her anymore, okay?"

 

"Me?  She's a mean old bat.  She watches me like I'm on America's Most Wanted."

 

"Well, she's old and cranky.  Just don't do it anymore."

 

He doesn't argue just gives a non-committal shrug. "Thought you had to work today."

 

"Something came up."

 

"Do you have a date or something?"

 

"What? No.  Why would you ask that?"

 

He waves his hand at me. "You're dressed weird."

 

"It's called dressing up.  I'm meeting a," I say, pausing because I was about to say friend, but that's not true.  "I'm meeting someone for a drink.  Not a man.  Not a date."

 

"Ok."

 

 

                 ***************

 

 

Waylon ended up looking up The Sand Bar on his phone and I wrote the directions on a piece of paper. 

 

I get there at seven fifty and sit in my car at the far end of the parking lot.   When Missy pulls in, I duck down.  

 

I watch her walk from her car to the door.  She walks like someone with money, tossing her bottle blonde hair from side to side.  She has the aire of someone who owns the world or someone who has gotten away with murder.

 

I straighten my shirt, finger brush my hair and head for the door.

 

I look around until I see her waving at me.   

 

"Here goes nothing," I mutter then put on an Oscar winning smile and walk over.

 

She throws her arms around me in a big bear hug.  She squeezes me tighter than my jeans are.

 

"Look at you, Miss Hottie," she says. 

 

"Miss Hottie's been gone for a few years.  The best I could do is Miss Lukewarm."

 

"Stop it.  You are still stunning, you know, for your age."

 

I continue to smile.  And so it begins.  The borage of back handed compliments have begun.  Just like in high school.  The only difference is that sneaky Missy from high school has upped her game.  She is my prime suspect in one alleged murder and one very real murder.

 

I will have to be very careful.  Because an angry Missy is dangerous.

 

To be continued ...