Piggy: Four Women Tilting at Windmills

By Jane Roop

Franny Gunderson, nicknamed Piggy because she always wants more of everything, is old enough to know better, but her new boy toy worries her friends in The Quartet. When things start to smell fishy, a pink-shirted cowboy and a Russian sharpshooter complicate all attempts to stave off their dear Piggy’s financial ruin and lead the Dames Quixote on a quest to survive while those around them are dropping like pork rinds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S & H Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781633200531

Book preview

DAMES QUIXOTE

Four Women Tilting at Windmills

Book Three: PIGGY

Books by Jane Roop

IN THE DAMES QUIXOTE SERIES

Book One: Queen

Book Two: Warrior

Book Three: Piggy

FANTASY

Myri’s Hands

Piggy

Four Women Tilting at Windmills

Dames Quixote: Book 3

Jane Roop

S & H Publishing, Inc.

Purcellville, Virginia

Copyright © 2017 by Jane Roop

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

Jane Roop/S & H Publishing, Inc.

P. O. Box 456

Purcellville, VA 20134

www.sandhpublishing.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Piggy: Dames Quixote Book 3 /Jane Roop

ISBN 978-1-63320-051-7 paperback edition

ISBN 978-1-63320-053-1 ebook edition - Smashwords Edition

To Joseph McLeod Roop

for his unfailing patience and support

Chapter One

On August 16, 2006, two years after Henry Gunderson’s death, his widow, Franny, sat in front of me with her new boy toy. She always said she was going to use her inheritance to live the life she never had with Henry. I’m talking sex here not trips to foreign places. Henry had been a frosty Norwegian with no finesse in the bedroom. Franny was making up for over fifty years of sexual neglect.

The boy toy had a smooth, moon face. I knew a Siberian husky once with eyes like his, one blue and one brown. The Husky could be gentle, but he was innately a hunter and one summer had killed a rabbit in my back yard.

At the moment the boy toy was solicitous. He escorted Franny gently into my small office and into one of the two client chairs on the other side of my desk. He pulled up the other chair, sat and turned to me, then grinned. Two dimples the size of Crater Lake puckered his cheeks.

Jean. It’s a pleasure to meet you, he said, holding out his hand. Barry Hitt, here. Franny has told me so much about you.

Of course I was suspicious. His hand was soft, probably from rubbing Franny with massage oil in all those mysterious places poets are always going on about.

I’ve decided to make Barry my estate executor, Franny said.

You don’t need me for that. See your lawyer, I said abruptly, glad not be part of the mess she was creating. On her death her two sons would be furious at the intrusion into their family affairs by an upstart boy with a moon face and mismatched eyes.

And I want to put him on the account I have with you. The stack of silver bracelets on her left arm jangled as she reached up to push a whiff of bang to the side. She wouldn’t want to hide her heavily mascaraed, milk chocolate eyes.

You mean you want to take Rob and Eric off the account? I frowned. Again?

I should have retired when Mac retired, but I wasn’t sure I could stand the everyday breakfast-to-dinner routine. I threatened to retire. He scoffed. I put off the decision. At the moment, looking at Franny with her thick layer of face powder, reddened cheeks and dangling feather earrings, I was ready to toss in the towel. If I were retired I wouldn’t have to deal with Franny’s finances, her nutty family, or this new passion, Barry Hitt. She’d still be my friend and one of the Quartet, the intimate group of four mature women I’d been a part of for thirty years. Mature women as in over sixty with attitude.

Where did you two meet? I asked.

In my Russian class at the university, Franny said.

Russian, I said with astonishment. Really? Since when did you want to learn Russian? Probably since Mr. Boy Toy signed up for the class.

We met the first time on Ernie Pelton’s campaign, Barry explained. But we didn’t really connect until the Russian class. Franny is so smart. She knows so much about politics and history. And she must know half the people in the Tri-Cities.

Of the half who knew her, half loved her. The other half hated her. Most of the high school English students she taught idolized her. Most of the local civic leaders made happy talk to her face because she could, and often did, write scathing letters about their bureaucratic incompetence to the Letters to the Editor. Behind her back, they rolled their eyes and called her the crazy lady who was over accessorized, over coiffed and looked like a hooker. Franny was a colorful dame they said, smirking.

I want you to come to dinner this Saturday to meet my professor. Her sister opened the new Russian restaurant in the Uptown. She’s promised avocado loaded with caviar and stuffed cabbage rolls and piroshkies, Franny said.

You will come, Barry asked, won’t you? Mara is a fascinating woman. He lowered his voice and continued, There are rumors she was a sharp shooter for the KGB.

I’ve invited Jenny and Margaret too. Franny glanced over at Barry. They’re the other members of the Quartet.

I know. He lowered his eyes. A très interesting group of ladies. I’m looking forward to meeting all of them.

Très interesting. I’d been called worse, but the sly implication he knew about our personal lives made me want to throw something at him. The leftover cold coffee on my desk was close to the edge. A slight mishap on my part would dump it right into his lap. I’m a plan ahead kind of person.

We’ve got to be going. Franny stood. We’re meeting Ralph at 1:00 PM about my will.

Ralph is your lawyer? I asked. I thought he was too expensive for you.

She sniffed. He is too expensive and I’ve told him so. He wouldn’t budge. He said I was too much trouble and he wouldn’t take less.

Always the best, Barry cooed. Always. For you. From the size of the diamond riding on his right ring finger, it was always the best for Barry as well.

He took Franny’s hand and then looked my way. Do you need anything from me to update Franny’s account?

The sneaky imp. He knew I did and didn’t want to leave the office without moving the situation forward.

Your full, legal name, social security number. I pushed a note pad his way. And could I see a driver’s license?

His face clouded. The first sign of irritation he’d shown.

It’s the new rules, I sighed dramatically, know your client.

He released Franny’s hand, stood and reached for his wallet.

And don’t forget your address, I said.

That’s easy, Franny said. He’s living with me.

Oh, brother. This guy had already dug himself in, had bewitched Franny.

He handed me his license with nonchalance, but I didn’t miss the momentary gleam of dislike in his eyes. We weren’t going to be buds. I’d do everything I could to delay, obstruct, and prevent this little gigolo getting any of Franny’s shekels. We both knew it. I studied the license with care, noting his age, thirty-one, and a previous address in Seattle.

Can you come back, say, after Labor Day? I asked. I’m volunteering all next week at the Fair. Then I’m leaving town for a few days—an anniversary celebration. I smiled sweetly. How about the first full week in September?

What day do you have in mind? Barry asked. His eyes narrowed. Our first skirmish. He’d better get used to it. Who was he after all? I’d find out, do a little checking before our next official meeting.

Thursday after the holiday work for you? I glanced at each of them.

Sure, Franny said. Don’t forget though, this Saturday, at five.

Chapter Two

Mac rejected the invitation. No way am I having dinner with the four of you, Franny’s new boyfriend, and a Russian, he said. I’ll get a pizza and watch the Mariners game.

Caviar, I said enticingly. Stuffed cabbage.

He held up his left hand. Stop.

Aren’t you the least bit interested in meeting a possible KGB sharp shooter? I asked, swirling the martini he’d just made me, enjoying the feel of the icy glass. A woman sharpshooter?

I met plenty of Russians at the lab. He wiped the bottom of his glass of beer before putting it on the patio table.

We were sitting out back on the porch at the usual time, 5:00 PM, enjoying our before dinner drinks. The withering August sun baked the other side of the house. There was just enough breeze to make the east side where we sat bearable.

Not too many birds out yet. He picked up the binoculars. I saw one golden finch earlier.

You never said much about Russians at the lab. I sipped the martini.

After the Chernobyl disaster, he said, the lab provided expertise on building the containment dome, and then after the Berlin wall came down, the flood of scientists from the East started.

Well, I’m not passing up caviar and stuffed cabbage, I said.

****

On Saturday I arrived at the Samovar, Home of Fine Russian Cuisine, a