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A Hattie Cooks Mystery
No man. Bad job. And Murder. Hattie Cooks is still searching for her dream job and one might be available...in the Big Apple, far from friends, family, and Allan Wellborn, the man who still makes her heart race. In the meantime, she finds temporary employment at an accounting firm where two auditor friends turn up dead.
Detective Allan Wellborn dropped Hattie for Blonde Bimbo who, coincidentally, is employed at NLB where fishy things are taking place. When Allan interviews Hattie, he must determine why all signs point to her as a suspect.
Can Hattie discover why Allan dumped her and who is murdering auditors before death strikes again?
“Stop it, Hattie!”
Trixie had some nerve. Her reprimand, the one which skewered a stabbing pain to my right eye, sounded terribly out of character, like she had little patience for me.
Maybe she felt rushed.
Ordinarily, she was the nicest person I knew who didn’t have a mean bone in her body. The kind who rescued animals, picked up trash at Sommerville Park, and delivered Meals on Wheels to the elderly during her lunch hour.
Not today. I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest in a school-girl flaunt.
Trixie tilted forward in her ergonomically designed chair, her bosom almost resting on her desk. “This nonsense has to end. Your moan sounded like an obscure breed of a bizarre…untamed…wounded animal.” She returned to an upright and seated position. In tiny increments, she rotated from side-to-side, waiting for me to say something not insane.
In truth, Trixie had pounded the nail on the head.
I had nothing to add. My whole life had turned into an obscure, bizarre, bad reflection of itself, thus wounding me to my core. I sighed and pouted an if only.
Don’t go there.
My Funsister friend owned the employment agency Jobs Inc., and on occasion, she’d—mostly—happily assisted me in finding temporary work since my dream job had been flushed down the proverbial toilet a few months back, thus soiling my picture-perfect life. For this newest offered assignment, I’d be employed as an administrative assistant for the managing partner at Northside, Lancaster, and Brookside, Certified Public Accountants, headquartered in my hometown of Sommerville.
At first, she’d sounded oh-so pleasant when we began our chitchat about the opportunity.
“Think accounting,” she’d teased, followed by a small chuckle.
Her laugh had spoken volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica proportions. My imaginings took me to Trixie’s delicate hand brushing across the blue sky, creating a large banner decorated resplendently with a glittery rainbow, playful butterflies, and springtime flowers dancing in the breeze.
Gag me with a spoon.
Now, face-to-face to hash out the details of what she’d stashed up her black suit sleeve, the designer one I’d scored for her at a consignment store, I sprung to my feet and planted my hands on the edge of her desk. I huffed which puffed my side-swept bangs out of my eyes, then squeezed my orbs into python-like slits. “Are you crazy? Me…in accounting? You must be on drugs.”
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