I rolled down the window, hoping to dissipate the stale smell of menthol cigarettes with fresh air. Nope, just a lot of other downtown-type smells—asphalt, exhaust, fast food grease—good stuff like that. The detective hopped in and started up the car. We smiled at each other, both relieved, I think, that Uncle Bob was going to be fine. “Thanks for driving me home,” I said, “Mr., uh, Pink?” “Pink’s a nickname, but everybody calls me that. Short for Pinkstaff.” I knew a drag queen with that name. I decided not to mention it. “And you,” he said, “you like to be called Olive?” “Olive or Ivy.” “Isn’t that a Christmas song? The Olive and the Ivy?” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, to see if he was kidding. He chuckled. I was beginning to see why he and my uncle were friends.
What do You think about Macdeath (An Ivy Meadows Mystery Book 1)?
