The Middle Finger of Fate (A Trailer Park Princess Cozy Mystery Book 1) by Kim Hunt Harris - HTML preview

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The Trailer Park Princess with Unsightly Bulges (Series Book 2)

Another day, another dead body. It's all in a day of the life of Salem Grimes.

Salem Grimes figures even a God who works in mysterious ways wouldn’t resort to a dead body in a dumpster in answer to Salem’s prayers to help her stay on her diet – excuse me – Strat-EAT-Gic plan. But a dead body in a dumpster it is, and now Salem and Viv, her octogenarian partner-in-crime-solving, are on the case once again. Salem finds the search for the killer a satisfactory distraction from all the things she needs distraction from – “dates” with the husband she hasn’t known for the past decade and growing jealousy of Viv’s friendship with Dale-the-Annoying-Hanger-On. As she seeks peace amidst praying prairie dogs and too much Chinese food, Salem struggles to disentangle what she believes from what she thinks she should believe, and – most frightening of all, the possibility that she might have to figure out for herself just where the truth lies. Oh, and avoid a murderer on the loose, if she can manage it. Get it – Click Here

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Praise for the Trailer Park Princess Mystery Series

“Love it - Really enjoyed this series and hope to read more. The murder mystery is only a small part of this book. The way Salem tries to get her life on track and be a better person is the best part.”

“I absolutely loved this book. It was so funny, I laughed out loud. This is one of the best books I have read in ages. I couldn’t put it down until I finished it. This girl is a hoot. She is down to earth, very vulnerable, and she has had to battle a lot in her life. Her friend, Viv, is a gem…Suffice it to say it is a great read, and I am pretty critical of my reads. I can’t wait to read more. I hope this is a long series. I would definitely recommend this if you want a funny read which also has serious overtones.”

PREVIEW OF BOOK 2

THE TRAILER PARK PRINCESS with

UNSIGHTLY BULGES

CHAPTER ONE

My friend and mentor, Les, is fond of telling me that I have to be careful what I ask God for.  “He just might give it to you,” he says. Always with one eyebrow raised, like who knew what horrific pandemonium would inevitably ensue if God gave me exactly what I requested for a change. His ways were above my ways, and all that.

But I didn’t think even a God who works in mysterious ways would send a dead body to fulfill my request that he help me stick to my diet.

Excuse me.  Strat-Eat-Gic Plan.  In Fat Fighters we were fined two units every time we said the “D” word.  See, I had prayed for help earlier, asking God to give me strength, willpower, discipline, a wired-shut jaw, anything to help me lose weight.  It had been that kind of day.  I knew I wasn’t supposed to turn to food to relieve stress, but since I could no longer turn to alcohol, drugs, or wildly promiscuous behavior, that left either violence or fried foods.  So you can see how a double meat, double cheese burger with extra mayo and jumbo fries was actually a fairly sensible option.

I scrubbed my face with my hands and tried to convince myself that I deserved to be sitting at Sonic (America’s Drive-In, where roller-skating carhops will bring your 237 grams of fat directly to your car window! You don’t even have to get out from behind the wheel!) at that moment. I had no reason to feel guilty, I told myself.  I’d been pretty good, considering…well, considering how bad I usually was.  I’d lost four pounds in the five weeks since my high school buddy Trisha and I had joined Fat Fighters.  Yes, I’d hoped to lose twenty.  Or thirty.  But four was nothing to sneeze at.  My pants were still too tight, but at least I could sit down without feeling like I was in danger of severing internal organs.  This trip to Sonic was my first real binge.  Then again, this was the first time a) my little dog Stump had coughed up something bizarrely shaped and of unidentifiable origin on my kitchen floor, b) I’d been bitten by a saber-toothed Pomeranian at work, and c) I had looming date with the husband. (That last didn’t sound like a big deal for most people, but…well, I wasn’t most people. Until the last few months, it had been ten years since I’d seen Tony. I thought we were divorced. Turns out, not so much. So all those other guys I’d been with over the last ten years…yeah. Things were a bit awkward.)

I sighed and leaned my head back against the seat, wishing the carhop would hurry up with my food.  If I had too much time to think, I would freak out about the weekend with Tony, what I was going to wear, what I was going to say, was he going to kiss me, for heaven’s sake, and if he did, how would I react? Would I kiss him back? I mean, he was my husband.

I also reflected on the unfairness of a world that had no sympathy when you say you’ve been bitten by a Pomeranian. Those suckers might be small, but their teeth could be like freaking (did I mention I’d given up cussing, too?) rattlesnake fangs.

And Stump. Good Lord. What could she eat that would look like that w

I heard a rumble and looked up to see the dumpster truck in the alley behind Sonic.  I watched idly, my mind whirling with the day’s happy events as the metal dumpster rose into the air and spewed its contents into the truck, much as Stump had done just that morning on the living room carpet.  Crushed cardboard boxes, black trash bags, various papers and cups.  Dead body.

I actually sat there for a few seconds, still worried about Stump, before it dawned on me that the dumpster behind Sonic is not our normal way of disposing of dead bodies.  What my reaction lacked in timing, it made up for with intensity.

 “Hey!”  I shouted.  Because that always helps. 

Unfortunately the carhop had just skated up to my window with my order, and she thought I was yelling at her.  She jerked back and my French fries went flying. 

“Sorry!” I yelled.  Because I was in yelling mode now.  “Dead body!  In the dumpster!”

She was too busy backing away, wide-eyed, to see the big picture.

The truck dropped the dumpster back down with a hollow thump and trundled on down the alley. 

I cranked the engine over and swung out of the space.  Probably I should have looked back; I almost ran down another carhop behind me, but luckily she was pretty quick with a dive.  I steered with one hand and dug through my purse for my phone with the other.  I bounced the car out of the parking lot and spun around into the alley at the same time my hand closed around my phone.  I charged my rusty little bucket down the rutted dirt alley while I punched in 9-1-1. 

“I need to report a dead body.” Wow.  Dejavu.  It was, what, two months since I had called the same number with the exact same message?  Maybe I ought to put 9-1-1 on speed dial.

I was proud of myself, however, for not bursting into hysterical laughter. I had done that last time. I had not wanted to, but I couldn’t help it. I have issues.

Maybe I should have been an old pro by now, but I was still pretty worked up. Plus the alley was in bad shape, probably from the rain we finally got last week, and my little pickle-mobile bounced all over the place as I hurtled it toward the truck.  So it took a few attempts for me to convey to the dispatcher what was going on, and even then I didn’t think she completely understood the gravity of the situation.  She seemed entirely too calm when she said, “Police are on their way.”

But the truck was now stopped at another dumpster, so I hung up and jumped out of the car.  I jumped onto the running board and shouted “Hey!” at the driver, slapping the window a few times.

He looked much the same as the carhop had when I’d shouted at her. 

“You have a dead body in your truck,” I mouthed through the closed window.

He stared at me.  I motioned for him to roll the window down.  After a second he leaned over, slowly, and inched it down, eyes wide.

“I was watching when you emptied the dumpster behind Sonic.  There was a dead body in it.”

He looked confused. “There’s a dead body at Sonic?”

“No,” I said. I did not say, “you idiot,” because I was trying very, very hard not to be that kind of person anymore. I took a deep breath. “There was a dead body in the Dumpster. Now it’s in your truck.”

He threw the truck into park and said, “You’re kidding.”

“Ummm, no.”  I stepped back as he flung open his door and jumped up onto the seat. He braced his hand on the top of the cab door as he tried to look inside the big tank that held all the garbage. 

I circled the truck in time to see him inching, toes barely clinging to a metal seam along the side of the truck, toward the big rectangular opening where the trash went.  He held onto a pipe with one hand and leaned to look in.  “Are you sure?  I don’t see anything – oh.  Oh good Lord.  Oh man.” 

He let go of the bar and dropped to the ground.  “I saw a foot.  Oh man.  Oh man.”  His eyes rolled back in his head and he staggered.

“I called the police.  Hey, don’t –” But it was too late.  He keeled over.

I was holding his head in my lap and giving his cheek increasingly firmer “pats” when I heard sirens.  The guy blinked a couple of times and looked up at me.  “Oh man,” he said again.

“Yes I know.”  I scooted him off my lap and stood to wave at the squad car that was slowly making its way down the alley. I was happy to see a patrol officer I didn’t recognize get out and do the cop-swagger toward me.

I knew it wouldn’t be Bobby Sloan, because he was a detective now. He had shown up at my last Finding-Of-The-Body, but that was really just a fluke.  But it could have been Watson, another cop with whom I was on more-familiar-than-was-comfortable terms.  I would prefer not to see Watson again, and I was sure the feeling was more than mutual.

This guy looked young, probably just out of the academy, and he wasn’t going to take my word for it that there was even a body at all.  He asked me a lot of questions about what I’d seen, where I was parked and then he asked the driver a lot of the same questions.  The driver kept looking up at the opening of the hauler, as if the foot he saw was going to pop up any second.

The cop spoke into the handset clipped to his shoulder and asked me to fill out a form.  He still hadn’t even looked in the truck.  It was kind of irritating.

The cop took my sheet and the driver’s – who was still kind of pale and kept looking at me like he wondered if I was going to tell the cop he’d fainted – and walked slowly around the truck, speaking into his handset.  I heard my name.

Bobby Sloan pulled up in a white sedan.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he said as he got out.

I shrugged.  “Wish I was.”

He walked up and squeezed my shoulder.  “Salem Grimes.  Reporting a dead body.  Now here’s something you don’t see every day.  Every week, maybe, but not every day.”

“I was minding my own business, Bobby, I swear.  I just looked up and saw the body falling out of the Dumpster and figured it was my civic duty to report it.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and wished I’d been able to lose those thirty pounds already.  I was never comfortable around Bobby, but he’d kissed me the last time I saw him, and I still didn’t really know why. The moment he stepped into the alley it was just about all I could think about. 

Bobby ordered me to stay put and went over to talk to the patrolman.  I dropped onto the ground at the edge of the alley, beside the truck driver.  He sat with his legs in front of him, arms on his knees, and shook his head every few seconds.

“Kind of weird, isn’t it?” I asked, feeling sorry for him.  The sight of that limp body tumbling into the truck ran over and over through my head, but to be fair the guy did look worse than I felt.

He turned to me.  “You don’t think there’s any way I’d get fired for this, do you?”

“Why on earth would you get fired?”

He shook his head again.  “I don’t know.  But I keep getting fired and I was really hoping this job would last a while.  I don’t really know where I’d go from here.”

I knew what he meant.  Probably from driving a dumpster truck there weren’t many lower places to go.  “I work in a dog grooming shop.  We’re always looking for people to bath the dogs.  Maybe I could train you.”

“I’d have to be trained to give a dog a bath?”

“You’d be surprised,” was all I had time for before the patrolman came back.

And okay, here was the really bad part.  I started to wonder what was going on with my double meat cheeseburger and fries.  That was bad; I knew it was bad.  More proof – as if I needed it – that I’d replaced my addiction to alcohol with food.  Out of the frying pan and into the fat pants.  On the upside, I hardly ever picked fights with total strangers after I had a Stupendous-size order of fries and a king size Snickers bar.  I was usually too sluggish.

Bobby came back.  “Tell me again what you saw.”

I took a deep breath.  “I was sitting at Sonic, waiting for my order, and I saw the truck pull up.  The dumpster lifted up and the body came tumbling out with all the trash.  So I followed him down the alley to tell him.”  I jerked a thumb toward the truck driver.  “That’s it.  That’s all I did.”

He stuck his hand out to shake Bobby’s.  “Dale Coffee.  Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Dale, I’m Bobby Sloan.  Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.”

“Me too,” Dale said sincerely.

“Tell me what you saw.”

Bobby had on his cop face.  The thing about Bobby is, he’s always had a cop face.  Maybe that was one of the things that fascinated me about him.

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