Sue Ann Jaffarian - Too Big to Miss (The Odelia Grey Mysteries)

Table Of Contents

Too Big To Miss

An Odelia Grey Mystery

Sue Ann Jaffarian

Hard Shell Word Factory

Dedication
For Rudy

2006 Sue Ann Jaffarian
eBook ISBN: 0-7599-4360-5
Published September 2006
Hard Shell Word Factory
PO Box 161
Amherst Jct. WI 54407
books@hardshell.com
www.hardshell.com
Cover art 2006
All rights reserved

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatever to anyone bearing the same name or names. These characters are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

Acknowledgements

Writing can be a lonely occupation, but it is never done entirely alone.
Thank you with all my heart to "Team Odelia"my agent, Whitney Lee of The Fielding Agency; Barbara Moore, my acquisitions editor; Rebecca Zims, my production editor; Ellen Dahl, my cover designer; Kelly Hailstorm, my publicist; and all the other folks at Llewellyn Worldwide/Midnight Ink for believing in this book and in my ability to tell a good story.
And for their patience and continued love and support during this long and very bumpy journey, I want to thank my friends: Marlaine Burbank, Kevin Gillogly, Susan Groeneweg, Dennis Pollman, Glen Ratcliff, Susan Schwartz, Laura Thomas, Kate Thornton, Lori Tillman, and my web master and nephew, Tom Jaffarian.
And a special thank you to the members of the Los Angeles Chapter of Sisters in Crime.

Chapter One

MY WEEKEND WAS DOA...dead on arrival.
Two o'clock on a bright Sunday afternoon, and I was already counting the hours until I could go back to work. Now that's sad.
Stopped at the corner of Newport Boulevard and Seventeenth Street in Costa Mesa, I waited to complete a right turn. It was a busy intersection, even on a Sunday. I tapped my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and looked around.
SIZE DOES MATTER!
The giant advertisement caught my eye like a hook in a trout's lip.
Behind me, someone honked. I dragged my attention away from the billboard and saw that the traffic light was green. I hit the gas and turned the wheel of the car sharply, causing the vehicle to swerve as it rounded the corner.
"Careful, Odelia," I cautioned in a low tone. "No need to season your foul mood with a crunched fender."
There it was again. This time on a billboard overlooking the grocery store that was my destination.
SIZE DOES MATTER!
It was all the sign said. Just three words emblazoned across a gargantuan advertisement for a new model sports utility vehicle; as if the damn gas guzzlers couldn't get any bigger.
Without much trouble, I found a parking spot near the front door of the market. Turning off the engine, I smoothed the fabric of my sun dress across my ample lap, and sat quietly in the car to think. Not about the groceries waiting to be bought, but about the three words now burned forever into my brain.
SIZE DOES MATTER!
You bet your sweet ass size matters. It matters a lot. Though how and to what it is applied is ambiguous. Size seems to matter in random chaos. No hard and fast rules, just whatever fits your needs at the moment. Jumbo burgers, super-sized fries, and biggie drinks were a good thing. Small paychecks were bad. Big houses were good. Small diamonds bad.
From the first time Adam noticed shrinkage and explained it to Eve, men have been trying to tell women that size didn't matter when it came to their manhood. Small penis. Big penis. Made no difference. Both were good. The same men have been telling women that size does matter when it comes to breasts, butts and hips. To add to the confusion, big and small could also be good and bad at the same time. Big smile good. Big ass bad. Small waist good. Small tits bad.
It was a puzzle. A girl needed a scorecard or, at the very least, a seminar with a syllabus to make any sense of it.
I was feeling sorry for myself. On top of licking wounds from a particularly confusing date the night before, I had just come from visiting my father. Poor sweet Dad , I thought, shaking my head. That recent memory alone was enough to entice me into restarting my engine, and driving my old but dependable car right through the plate glass window of the grocery store.
Giving a deep sigh, I took a minute to think about it. I wasn't the type to look at life through rose-colored glasses, but neither was I a doom and gloom sort. Yet I'd been on edge all weekend. And it wasn't PMS. I'd ridden that roller coaster last week. No, it was something else. Disenchantment maybe, possibly disgruntlement. Rut was written all over my life. R-U-T in big bold letters, outlined in neon tube lighting. It competed for attention with the now important Size Does Matter. For better or for worse, I definitely needed a change. Standing still wasn't an option any longer.
Stuffed in my wallet were two one-dollar-off coupons for my favorite comfort food, Stouffer's Macaroni and Cheese. Later, I was going to throw myself a pity partya big onecatered by Sara Lee and all her friends from the frozen food section.
"Odeliaaaaa," I scolded audibly, drawing out the last syllable in a menacing tone. "Eating this stuff is not going to help matters."
No it wouldn't, but change could start tomorrow. It seemed natural, new beginnings on a Monday. Diets always began on Monday, so why couldn't other improvements? You never hear of anyone starting anything of importance on a Tuesday or a Wednesday.
By the way, Odelia is not my imaginary friend. I am Odelia, Odelia Patience Grey, and I tend to talk to myself when alone, though why is beyond me since I never listen. I am hardly a scintillating conversationalist at the best of times, and can be a real nag when my mood is less than sunny. Like now.
Turning the usual deaf ear to my own lecture, I hoisted myself out of the car and wandered into the store. The brightly-lit aisles of the market beckoned me with specials, and new and improved items. I strolled down each one, gripping a red plastic basket in one hand. It was my misguided opinion, and denial of choice, that if I used a smaller, hand-carried basket rather than a full-size cart, I would be less apt to load up on junk food. Sometimes the theory worked. Most of the time I just experienced shoulder pain from lugging a too full and too heavy basket.
Meandering the well-stocked aisles, I plucked items from my list off the shelves. Tea bags, two bars of bath soap, and several cans of cat food for starters. I also picked up an assortment of things not on the listE.L. Fudge cookies, the vanilla ones with the chocolate centers, and the much sought-after, large size macaroni and cheese in the red rectangle box. Out of guilt, and with a bow to nutrition, along the way I tossed in a bag of pre-washed salad mix, a few tomatoes, and a small bunch of bananas. The next stop was the frozen dessert section, where I debated between a carton of Cherry Garcia ice cream and cheesecake, with the latter already in my hand. Using one leg to support the now heavy basket, I deliberated my choice.
"Put down the Sara Lee, and nobody gets hurt."
I gave a little jump at the unexpected but familiar voice. Turning around, I held the chilly box in front of me like a hostage in a shoot-out.
"You'll never take me alive!" I declared.
A few feet away, wheeling her own full cart, was Zenobia Washington, my dearest friend. She approached me, slowly shaking her head side-to-side.
"Girl," she said firmly, "you were supposed to call me this morning and let me know how it went last night."
Zenobia, called Zee by everyone but her father, a man fiercely fond of the unusual name he had chosen for his only daughter, fixed her large, liquid, brown eyes on me and placed a hand on a generous hip. It was an intimidating stance; a posture that worked on most people, but only made me roll my eyes in childish defiance.