When elderly Prudy Lewis takes her shedding fur coat out of storage, it means she’s back and Sandi Webster is about to learn a lot more about life and death.
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Marja McGraw - Author
Prudy Lewis used to wear a full-length fur coat, cowgirl boots and she carried a long, black cigarette holder. She was a P.I. at a time when most women stayed home -- during World War II. Now in her eighties, Prudy wants Sandi Webster to help her solve the case that got away from her, a case with a personal element.
When Sandi reluctantly agrees, Prudy pulls her old fur coat out of storage. Prudy is back with a vengeance! Look out senior citizens, and look out Sandi Webster.
"Sandi," my mother whispered, "she's just a little old lady. You can't take her back to Los Angeles and let her get involved in a murder case. You're going to have to do this on your own."
That's when the trouble began. And it all started over blueberry blintzes. I turned toward Prudy when I heard a loud voice.
"Hey, ol' lady, that's mine."
I glanced up to see a kid around sixteen, maybe five feet and five inches wearing a sleeveless, ribbed white undershirt and baggy pants held up at the waist by a tightly cinched belt. He had a knit cap with no cuff pulled down on his head, covering his ears. He sported nasty-looking tattoos on each muscular arm and across his back. He worked his neck around and flexed his back muscles, posturing and showing off. His stance was apparently a tough guy thing, but it was actually very reminiscent of ballet, with one foot backed up and centered against the inside of the other foot.
Prudy and the kid were each reaching for the last Blueberry Blintz, both of their hands within easy grabbing distance.
Before I could open my mouth, Prudy said, "You're in my way, sonny. You move, because it's mine. I was here first." Uh oh. Trouble was a-brewin'.
"Look, you skinny ol' crow, you're on my streets now, an' you better get outta here. Now!" He took a threatening step toward Prudy.
I moved forward, but Prudy put her hand behind her back and made a waving motion at me and my mother as if to say, leave me alone.
"Okay, you little snot-nosed, candy-ass pain in the butt hoodlum, now hear this. Move it or lose it. This isn't your 'hood. This is my 'hood, and you don't belong here." The buffet was her 'hood? His streets? Had they both completely lost their minds?