The Game Changer, стр. 6

“That is so devious,” I said.

She shrugged. “It’s tradition.”

“All I know is Mary Jean said get a recipe and I’m getting a recipe. Story ready to go to print. What I’m more interested in talking to you about is murder.”

“This again?” She glanced through the van window, pounded on it with the flat of her hand, and pointed threateningly at a kid I couldn’t see.

“Yes, this again. You know you’re interested. You said you were interested. You’ve said it multiple times. I’ve even got a name for it. Knock ’em Dead. What do you think? The Knock ’em Dead podcast.”

“I think you’ve got a fixation,” she said, starting toward the driver’s side door.

“And so do you.” And that was the truth. Daisy always initially acted horrified when I brought up true crime, but within minutes she was spouting off facts and opinions and hypotheses right along with me. We’d spent many a summer evening sitting in her backyard, our feet in a plastic baby swimming pool, talking serial killers and suspicious widows long into the night.

It only made sense that we could put our deep-seated and somewhat mortifying love of true murder mysteries, books about serial killers, and missing person podcasts to good use. An idea began to simmer. And then bubble. And then boil. And then overflow.

Just about every evening ended with the same words: We should do this professionally. We should make a show. A podcast!

But in the morning, when the enchantment of mystery wore off, we were both hit with reality: I had a job at the newspaper and she was trying to get a small baking business off the ground. Who had time for podcasts?

But as every day—and every gravy story—rolled by, I was starting to be willing to make the time.

Daisy raked a hand through her hair. “I enjoy small talk,” she said.

“Mm-hmm, and you especially love small talk about big crimes,” I said. “Come on, Daisy. I’ll buy the equipment. I’ve got the name. You know you like the name—I could see it in your eyes. I’ve researched it and planned it out. We choose a theme, and do four or five episodes on that theme, then we move on to a new theme. So not just one murder per episode, but lots of them. I’ve already got our first theme. I’m ready to go.”

She had a hand on the door handle. I could see her thinking. She opened the door a crack and yelled inside. “I saw that, Jake! Cut it out or you’ll answer to your father, I swear it!” She slammed it shut again. “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot going on, with the kids, Mike’s new freelance job at home, the muffin business…And, besides, I’m just some random woman who bakes things. You’re the expert reporter. I’ll sound stupid.”

I gasped and swatted at her arm lightly. “Don’t say mean things about my best friend. You will not sound stupid. C’mon, I miss exciting stories,” I said. “Tonight, Mary Jean’s got me working on a story about hot dogs. Hot dogs, Daisy. My career plan was not to write stories about hot dogs. Unless those hot dogs were a murder weapon or used to rob a bank or—”

“How could someone rob a bank with a hot dog?”

This. This was exactly how our bests conversations started. I felt a jolt of excited energy. If I could ride this wave, the Knock ‘Em Dead podcast was as good as made.

I put my hand in my pocket and stuck my finger out like it was a gun and pointed it at her. “I’ve got a gun.”

“No, you don’t. You have a Ballpark Frank. I can smell it. It needs mustard.”

“Well, I mean, a frozen hot dog could be a weapon. And it wouldn’t smell.”

She thought it over. “Not really. A whole pack, maybe. But I just don’t see myself being too intimidated by a thawing hot dog. How much could that hurt? Ouch, you gave me a small bruise.”

“You’re missing the point. Actually, no, you’re not. These are the kinds of things we would talk about on Knock ’em Dead. It would be great. People would love us. I can’t do this forever.” I whipped out the notebook that I always carried in my bag and waved it at the Hibiscus. It flopped open to reveal Esther’s recipe. “Not if this is all I get to do. I’ve got to have an outlet. And you can’t do that forever without some sort of time out.” I pointed at the van window, which currently had a kid’s face smushed against it, nostrils flared. “You’ll go insane.”

“Oh, honey, I’m already there. Firmly and utterly.”

I stuck out my bottom lip. “Please? Just give it a try?”

“Can I use it to promote Mueller’s Muffins?”

“Of course! Promote away!”

She sighed. “Okay. Why not?”

I jumped and squealed, then wrapped her in a quick hug. “You won’t regret this. We’re going to have so much fun. Knock ’em Dead is going to knock ’em dead!”

She laughed while opening her door, unleashing a cacophony of noise onto the world again. “I think you’re right,” she said. “The show will be my moment of sanity. But we do it at your house. Otherwise, we will be knocking ‘em dead with a whole lot of background noise.”

“Deal. Oh, and by the way.” I leaned over her and mimed coming at her face with my fist and stopping just short of skin on skin. “Frozen frank to the eye! Weapon! Boom!”

“You are so morbid,” she said. She slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door, then rolled down the window. “But I love it.”

I watched her drive away, barely missing Wickham Birkland’s dented Mercedes on her way out of the parking lot. He was fervently following the car that dented him earlier, but paused to lay on his horn. Daisy laid on hers in return. Two kids peered out the van window as she pulled past him. They stuck out