Page 35 of Satisfied By the Slime
“Since the camera lens warps everything at that distance. You know this. We’ve talked about this.”
“We’ve talked about it, and you’ve been wrong, and I’ve been right, and then you say ‘let’s agree to disagree,’ which is what people say when they’ve lost.” She turns to me withbright, expectant eyes. “Maisie. What do you think? Javelina or cryptid?”
I take the phone and squint at the photo.
It is, beyond any reasonable doubt, a javelina.
A big one, sure, but the desert grows them sturdy.
“That’s a javelina,” I say.
“Traitor,” Mrs. Pritchett says cheerfully. She reclaims Gary’s phone and tucks it back into his shirt pocket with a pat. “Fine. When it turns out to be something else, I’ll accept your apologies in writing.”
Gary catches my eye and gives me the smallest possible smile.
We’ve both been on the receiving end of Mrs. Pritchett’s investigations enough times to know the drill.
“Well, then. What brings you in early?” Mrs. Pritchett asks, turning her full attention to me with the seamless pivot of a woman who treats every conversation as a potential deposition. “You’re usually a weekend shopper.”
The fact that she knows my shopping schedule should alarm me more than it does.
“Ran out of a few things. Big order came in.”
“Oh, business is picking up? That’s great to hear.” Her face lights up, and I remember why I like her despite her keen-eyed scrutiny. “How many units?”
I give them a rough estimate.
Gary whistles, low and quiet. “You’re doing that alone?”
Mrs. Pritchett’s eyes narrow by a fraction.
Just a fraction.
The investigative fraction.
“That’s a lot of production for one person,” she says.
“Sure is,” I laugh awkwardly, trying to think of any way out of her investigation. “Speaking of managing things alone,” I say, turning to Gary, “how’re Gram’s boys doing? I keep meaning to drive out and check on them myself, but last time Basil spat on my good flannel and I’m still holdinga grudge.”
Gary’s mouth twitches as he imagines the scene: Me, vastly outnumbered and outgunned against Gram’s three alpacas.
“Basil’s fine,” he reports. “Got out twice last week. Barnaby brought him back both times.”
“Barnaby’s a saint.”
“Bartholomew watched from the hill and did nothing.”
“That tracks.”
For a moment, I think I’m in the clear, but then Mrs. Pritchett slides back into our conversation like she had never left it. “But you’re doing all that work by yourself?”
The woman has a homing instinct for unanswered questions.
“That’s a lot of lifting, honey. A lot of stirring. Are your hands holding up?”
“I’m managing,” I say, and smile, and change the subject with the practiced ease of someone who’s been deflecting Deborah Pritchett’s curiosity for four years. “Those pots for the barrelcactus starts?”
This time, she allows the change in topics. Her face shifts into vendor mode, and she launches into a detailed account of her propagation timeline and the new gravel mix she’s testing.
