Solve-it-your­self mys­tery

Woman's World - - Thsi Week In A Woman's World -

Re­tired teacher An­gela Potts had heard some sur­pris­ing news in her life, but none more shock­ing than this. “Mor­ton La­zlo?” she gasped. “Mov­ing here?” Sher­iff Charles Jones nod­ded. “Al­ready moved, ac­tu­ally. Into the old Jenkins place.” “But…he’s a no­to­ri­ous mob­ster,” she stut­tered. “Re­tired,” the sher­iff em­pha­sized. “Ap­par­ently, now he wants to live a peace­ful life.” An­gela scoffed. “That’s if his en­e­mies don’t come here look­ing for him! That’s all we need now: or­ga­nized crime, mob wars, hit men…” “Well, you can ask him all about it,” Sher­iff Jones smiled. “He wants to meet you.” “Me? Why?” “Says he knew one of your kin­folk. You and me have been in­vited to call on him at two-thirty.” “You and I,” she cor­rected. “By the way, you’re in­vited to lunch at my house to­mor­row with my sewing group. I’m try­ing to get rid of all my Thanks­giv­ing left­overs.” “Sure, I wouldn’t miss that!” he said with a wink. his Mor­ton At cruiser 2:28 La­zlo’s in the the sher­iff new drive­way res­i­dence. parked of A but­ler an­swered the door with a grace­ful flour­ish. “Mr. La­zlo has been ex­pect­ing you both. Please fol­low me.” In the study, the for­mer crime boss lay face down on a mas­sage ta­ble, a white towel draped over him. La­zlo looked up and smiled. “You must be Ms. Potts,” he purred. “What a plea­sure. Sit, please. You too, Sher­iff Jones.” As they took their seats, a grim-faced and mus­cu­lar young man in a sweat suit en­tered from an­other door. When he saw the two visi­tors, he paused. “My apolo­gies, sir,” he said to La­zlo. “I thought you were ready for your mas­sage.” “I will be, after I chat with my new friends. Don’t leave.” To An­gela and the sher­iff, La­zlo said, “Vic­tor is my new mas­sage ther­a­pist. I’m sure he’ll work won­ders—my back is a mess.” “I’m merely a masseuse,” Vic­tor said, low­er­ing his eyes. La­zlo turned to his visi­tors. “And you are my wel­com­ing com­mit­tee! Thanks for com­ing to see me to­day.” “Our plea­sure,” the sher­iff said. An­gela was too busy frown­ing at the man in the sweat suit to re­ply. “I told the sher­iff it’s a small world, Ms. Potts,” La­zlo said. “I was an as­so­ciate of your cousin, Hamp Smith.” She nod­ded, “I’m not at all sur­prised…” “Ex­cuse me?” “I didn’t know crazy Cousin Hamp well, I’m afraid.” “Do you know his cur­rent where­abouts, by chance?” “I have a pretty good idea where he is…hamp died in prison a few years ago.” “Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.” “So were his cred­i­tors.” The sher­iff cleared his throat. “Well, I hope you’ll like our town, Mr. La­zlo. . .” An­gela went back to study­ing the mas­sage ther­a­pist, who stood ner­vously some dis­tance away. “Where did you get your mas­sage train­ing, Vic­tor?” He flinched at her ques­tion. “At “Which an out-of-state school?” school.” Again he hes­i­tated, his eyes dart­ing back and forth. Be­fore he could an­swer, An­gela snatched the sher­iff’s re­volver from his hol­ster and aimed it at Vic­tor’s chest. “Hands up!” she said. “And keep ’em raised.” Sher­iff Jones’s jaw dropped. “Ms. Potts? What are you—” “Search him,” she said, the gun rock-steady in her hand. Mo­ments later, the sher­iff found a ten-inch butcher knife in Vic­tor’s back waist­band, and La­zlo called his men to hold the would-be as­sas­sin’s arms while Sher­iff Jones cuffed him. The fol­low­ing day, over their Thanks­giv­ing lunch, the sher­iff shared some news: “Mr. La­zlo’s de­cided to move back to the coast. Says it’s safer there.” “I doubt it,” An­gela mut­tered, reach­ing for a drum­stick. Sher­iff Jones loaded his plate. “La­zlo took a fancy to you! So… are you go­ing to tell me how you pegged Vic­tor as an as­sas­sin?” Ms. Potts replied with a grin, “I just knew he wasn’t who he said he was.” — John M. Floyd Q: What gave Vic­tor away to Ms. Potts?

“Can you get curds and whey out of a tuffet?”

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