Welcome to Tuesday Tales, powered by a small group of authors, where word prompts inspire passages in the books we’re writing. I’m working on a cozy mystery, Pumpkin Patch Murder, that is in revision and editing. Our word of the day is sharp. When you finish the passage, make sure to visit all the talented authors of Tuesday Tales.
She waved a hand. It may have been an elegant gesture, if her fingers weren’t smeared with green paint. “Not my cup of tea. Don’t misunderstand, history is in my blood. It had better be, with my Heritage Club connection, but scary—no. Besides, I’ll wager the inn and tea shop will keep you too busy for any side venture.”
“You may be right. Speaking of which, I’d better get back to it.” A sharp crack sounded from the back room. Startled, I turned. “What on earth?”
Her cheeks had pinkened. “Oh, just the wind blowing the door shut. I left it open for the neighborhood tabby. Keep me posted on how the renovations are coming, will you? Poor Jack left a lot undone. Oodles of work for you.”
I found myself biting my tongue, but only a little. “Actually, I’m amazed at how much he did get accomplished. The main thing is—the plans are paved like streets of gold. Be seeing you.”
I swiveled and hurried out. Instead of returning the way I’d come, down the public sidewalk, I decided to cut across the area behind the store. I really didn’t want to talk to anyone else right now. The encounter with Angora hadn’t gone the way I had planned, and it left me uneasy. I hadn’t felt comfortable showing her the ring case. She seemed unlike herself—touchy and bristly.
I had just rounded the corner of the building and stepped into the back alley, when Angora’s voice floated to my ears. It wasn’t raised, but the angry tone was evident. I plastered myself to the wall and edged behind a tall sheet of tin that sheltered a row of garbage cans. I poked my head out enough to see her flowered skirt fluttering out the threshold of the back door, the one she said the wind blew shut. Then all of her appeared, as she took a further step and vehemently wagged her finger in the face of a man standing there.
It was Phil Meadows, the one Robin had gone gaga over. He looked drawn and tightly strung, and his voice was as cold as a polar wind. “You’ll regret this.”
“You’ll be the one doing the regretting if you show your face here again. That’s all I’ve got. I’m done. Do you hear me?”
He said something else, but this time it was too low for me to make out.
Thanks for stopping by. I hope you enjoyed the piece inspired by the word sharp. If you haven’t done so already, check out the other excerpts at Tuesday Tales.
Cheers & Happy Reading!
Flossie Benton Rogers, Conjuring the Magic with Spirited Stories
All rights reserved, copyright @ 2025 Flossie Benton Rogers
Sounds like there’sanother mystery brewing here. Great job.