Texas Troubles

by N. C. Lewis

  TEXAS

  TROUBLES

  An Ollie Stratford Cozy Mystery

  Book One

  N.C Lewis

  Copyright © 2017 by N.C. Lewis

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author at: info@NCLEWIS.COM.

  Prologue

  “Number fifty-five!” cried the auctioneer, a woman with striking dark eyes and flawless skin. The auctioneer’s name was Mary Ellington. I knew this because I attended every auction.

  The auction room was on the upper level of a Manhattan skyscraper, floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows with soaring vistas of the city skyline. People eager to grab a real estate deal crowded into the upscale room. Along one wall were booths, each occupied by a representative of a distant buyer. Out they came, cell phone in hand when the auctioneer called a lot number, of interest.

  Auctioneers make it their business to recognize regulars by name. I'm Ollie Stratford, female, age forty-six, with my forty-seventh birthday coming up in a month. Three years ago my husband passed, four kids, all grown. Last year I was “let go” from my corporate job. Now I teach part time at a local college, an adjunct professor of statistics. Every week I scour the auctions for my real estate deal. The remote buyers always outbid me.

  “Number fifty-five! A ten-acre homestead with ranch house in need of much repair, with attached outbuildings, in the great state of Texas,” yelled Mary.

  That was my cue. To the edge of the room I strolled. This gave a better view of the proceedings. The bids came in slowly at first. A young couple in blue jeans with matching designer T-shirts which screamed "recently married" were the first to enter the fray. A businesswoman wearing a navy blue, belted dress, bid higher. The couple responded instantaneously. The businesswoman nodded her head at the auctioneer.

  I pressed my lips together and watched as the young wife growled something to her husband. He jumped to his feet, stood still in front of his chair. He clutched the bid card so tightly in his hand, his knuckles turned white. At this point I saw him pause, then take a small step backward as if in retreat from an angry foe. In a faint voice, he whispered, “Are you sure, darling?”

  “Yes, I am, it will be a great family vacation home. I can see our future children at play.” She patted her stomach. Then to make the point, gave him a sharp shove. Haltingly, he raised the bid card.

  The room became still. Everyone looked at the designer-T-shirt husband, frozen like a miniature version of the Statue of Liberty—hand in the air. The wife sat bolt upright, eyes focused on the business-woman opponent.

  “Any advance,” screamed the auctioneer.

  The businesswoman shook her head. The wife relaxed, a smile inching across her face.

  “Any advance,” repeated the auctioneer.

  Silence.

  Then a young man, in his early twenties, dressed in a dark pin-striped suit, rushed out of a booth. He moved into the sight line of the auctioneer. With cell phone glued to his ear he nodded. The young man was taking orders. “Yes, yes, of course, yes. The property will be in your hands shortly. That is a guarantee.” Then looking up, the young man waved his card.

  “Up fifty,” he screamed.

  This raised the bid by a large amount. I sucked in my breath. Designer-T-shirt man flung himself back into the chair beside his wife. She growled. I twisted my lip. Yet another wealthy bidder! A dull anger gathered in the back of my mind. The price was now above my expectation, above my comfort level, above my severance payout. I suddenly snapped. A thought emerged and lingered, bid the price higher and drop out at the last moment. Again, I sucked in breath then waved the bid card as I muttered, “That'll teach them!”

  The auctioneer looked at me. “Your bid?”

  “Up fifty,” I squealed. This is fun!

  The entire room turned to observe.

  “Any advance,” yelled the auctioneer.

  The young man removed the cell phone from his ear, looked at the device, then shook it. “Hello, hello, can you hear me?” Then punched in numbers in a frantic panic, his distraught plea echoed around the room. “No, oh Lord no! Not now, please God, no!”

  There was a long silence.

  “Any advance,” yelled the auctioneer again. The room became very still. The young man wrestling with the phone looked up, the color draining from his face, and his eyes wide open.

  With a smash of the gavel, the auctioneer cried, “Sold to Dr. Ollie Stratford!” It took a few moments for the full meaning of her words to penetrate, and in the silence which followed, I felt a wave of dizziness rise in me.

  “Oh crap!” I exclaimed to no one in particular.

  Chapter 1

  Six months later...

  I parked the Chevy Tahoe on a dirt patch next to three wooden shacks, each in various states of dereliction. In the bright light of the afternoon sun, I blinked, as beads of sweat formed on my forehead and trickled down my neck.

  “Well, here is Ealing Homestead, a little slice of Texas,” I muttered.

  This place had disturbed my dreams, images of a ghost ranch, with tumbleweed rolling through the front yard. I took a long hard look at the abandoned buildings.

  “No tumbleweeds,” I said out loud, and picked up my bags.

  The drive from New York, a leisurely five days—with frequent stops for sightseeing—was lots of fun, but now I was in Texas, and tired.

  Next on the list, a shower and sleep, and tomorrow I would meet my college friend, Tanner Holgate.

  “Ollie, you bought a house where?” Tanner had asked.

  “Medlin Creek, a small town an hour and a half southwest of Austin. Do you know it?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s where my martial arts academy is. Opened the school five years ago. A great sleepy town, very quiet. Mom and Dad moved down, they’ve been here over three years, my apartment is close by. Anyway, you’ll love the place, not as fast as New York City, though. Thinking about getting back in shape?”

  Tanner and I trained together on the college karate team. That was over twenty years ago. New York pizza, pastrami and bagels had left me potbellied and out of shape.

  “Well, yes. Since the last month anyway. Tanner, I’m pushing fifty, need to lose a few pounds. Exercise in the city involved running to the front of the pizza line. If not great shape, then at least, into a different shape. I’m aiming for fig rather than melon.”

  Tanner had laughed, as he spluttered, “What could be better than a new life in Texas with a great shape from karate?”

  Beyond the largest shack, I observed the metal roof of the ranch house. With a sigh of relief, I picked up the bags and trudged along a dirt path to a small wrought-iron gate. The ranch house sprawled across a dusty lawn shaded by tall oak trees. The wraparound porch and lattice windows gave the place an air of elegant respectability.

  The painted wooden front door swung wide open as I reached for the key.

  “Where the hell have you been?” asked a red-faced woman dressed in a charcoal-gray business suit. Her dark-blue stilettos paired with a Stuart Weitzman handbag flapped against pencil-thin hips. Clutched under her left arm, a bunch of papers, yellowed at the edges and ever
y page looked water-stained. The size and shape of the sheets reminded me of documents signed in a lawyer’s office.

  I took a step backwards.

  “Who are you?”

  “Marsha Pennington,” she said, “the local realtor assigned to this property.”

  A sharp gust of hot, humid wind whipped one of the papers from under her arm. The others followed in a disorderly procession, scattering like confetti thrown at a wedding, drifting down to the ground. With urgency she bent down, and together we scurried around to gather each sheet.

  One caught my eye, it appeared to be very old and burnt yellow, with an official stamp on the corner. An ancient property outline covered most of the sheet. Marsha snatched away the paper before I had a chance to digest the cursive lettering written across the top. Then barked in frustration, “Don’t just stand there, come inside, the air-conditioning is escaping.”

  Marsha waved me ahead into the house, the harsh clap of her stilettos on the polished concrete floor followed.

  The room was dark and cool—air-conditioning cranked up high—pumping out cold blasts which smelled of dust and mold.

  I put the bags down on the bare floor of polished concrete. The walls were magnolia, with paint peeling in the corners. There was furniture. A leather Chesterfield sofa, with threadbare cushions, next to a wood-carved coffee table which sat atop a rust-colored knotted rug. High on the mantel stood a clock of polished oak, the hand stopped at three o’clock.

  Marsha’s nose twitched, sniffing the air. “Mayor Felton asked me to keep a close eye on the place. The property has been empty for several years. Used to be the homestead of Castleman ranch. The Castleman clan owned all the land around here at one time.”

  Grateful for the titbit of local history, I nodded, then thought about a shower and sleep.

  Marsha looked at her watch and squealed, “Well, now you’re here, I’d better give you a tour.”

  “Oh, goodie,” I mumbled, making a mental note to strike Marsha off my list of potential friends, a list which was depressingly short, only one name, Tanner Holgate.

  Marsha ignored my lack of enthusiasm and continued. “As you can see,” and pointed in a long dramatic arc around the room, “this place is a little dated. Looks like the original owner redecorated several decades ago. I’m sure this style will come back into fashion. Just not sure which century!”

  She cackled at the cleverness of her little joke. I scowled.

  The kitchen, utilitarian, contained a giant wood-burning stove, a sink the size of a small bathtub, and a 1950s fridge next to a kitchen table made of pine. The fridge hummed like an angry wasp. As I turned to inspect it, I saw Marsha's eyes watching me. Like a kid in school when the teacher grades your work, I felt nervous.

  “That fridge is ancient. Must be worth a few dollars,” I said, to deflect my thoughts.

  “It's junk, just like the rest of this place!”

  I didn’t respond.

  She drummed her fingers on her arm, then sneered. “Guess if you like the fridge you’ll love what's next. Come this way.”

  I held my tongue and followed Marsha outside into the bright sunlight. The oppressive heat and humidity closed in as we crossed the dusty front yard.

  Marsha made her way to the shade of a large oak tree clutching onto the little stack of papers. The branches were long and spiny, laden with dark green leaves, nature’s perfect awning for a hot Texas day. I shaded my eyes as I surveyed the scene.

  Then something tugged at my jeans. I looked down, surprised to see a small black dog nudging my leg. The dog was as far as possible removed from being a good-looking beast. The message conveyed by its eyes was that it had once enjoyed the comforts of domestic quarters. Now it faced the dangers which plague feral life.

  The dog didn’t bark or growl, but sat there looking up, almost as if it was asking for help.

  “Hello, from where did you come? What’s your name?”

  The dog wagged its tail.

  Marsha looked over her shoulder and continued walking toward the far end of the yard. “That’s Bodie, the nasty critter comes with the place. Moved in a few months ago, not sure from where.”

  Bodie looked up at me with huge black eyes, I looked back. The creature was a sorry sight: matted fur, crooked teeth, and so thin I could see his ribcage. Tiny red sores pockmarked his dull black fur, and his little body trembled.

  “Pitiful thing, he looks very hungry,” I said.

  “Oh, I promised Emma Garcia I’d stop by and feed the mutt every morning. Can’t find the time most days. Anyway, he’s a hound dog. Hound dogs feed themselves. Not my fault Bodie is too lazy to catch and kill vermin. Plenty of critters around here.”

  At the sound of his name Bodie sprang forward, trotting toward Marsha.

  “Get away you pesky flea-bitten mongrel!”

  Bodie didn’t understand.

  Marsha swung her handbag at his head.

  But he was too quick, sidestepping out of the way.

  “Get out of here!”

  Bodie dropped his head, whining pitifully.

  Annoyance pulsated through my veins. “Bodie, over here.”

  The dog looked, then moved cautiously toward me.

  In my pocket, I had a package of crackers. Kneeling, I placed them on the ground in front of him. Bodie sniffed, then in one gulp devoured the salty crispy snacks, licking his lips.

  “Over this way,” Marsha called.

  I was so preoccupied petting Bodie, I didn’t hear her. Bodie licked my hand, and feeling safe, rolled over for a tummy rub. We were old friends in minutes. I made a mental note to buy dog food on the next trip into town.

  Piles of junk filled the backyard. Decades of debris captured little snippets of ranch life. Parked next to a dilapidated Ford Bronco was a red Toyota Avalon, Marsha’s car. Next to it: an ancient tractor, a corroded plow, a wagon wheel, a rusted rotary-drilling rig, and various other items of mechanical equipment from a bygone era.

  Marsha, now under the shade of a stunted cedar tree, snorted. “As you can see, this place is in a rather desperate state of disrepair.”

  I had to agree with Marsha’s observation, if not her attitude. Yes, the place needed a little work. Okay, a lot of work!

  There was a long silence as I took another slow look around the yard. The place was a mess, a forgotten junkyard scattered with obsolete objects. A wrinkle forming in Marsha’s brow broke my thoughts. Then her mouth opened and closed as if she was forming the thoughts into words. Words designed to warn, even scare.

  “Dr. Stratford, you will keep away from the creek, won’t you?”

  “The creek?”

  “Yep, Medlin Creek runs through your property. Floods terrible after a heavy rain. One minute it’s a dry creek bed with a gentle flowing stream, the next it’s a torrent of raging water. Wash away that Tahoe truck of yours. Keep away from it. Don’t want anything nasty to happen to you, do we, Dr. Stratford?”

  My heart sank at her words. I willed it to rise, it did not obey. Seems I have spent my severance money on a pile of tumble- down derelict buildings surrounded by rusty junk which floods when the creek rises. Oh crap!

  Marsha turned to face me, her eyes reflected concern mixed with wisdom.

  “Ma’am,” she said, “I can’t understand how this place sold for such a high price. If I were in your shoes, Dr. Stratford, I’d burn it down and sell off the land.”

  She sucked in her breath and continued, “In this market, I might be able to sell it for half the appraised value. Might help recoup a little of your losses.”

  Again, she paused, her eyes narrowing.

  “Listen, I would not advise spending your hard-earned money on fixing up this place. That would be throwing good money after bad.”

  Marsha glanced at her cell phone. “Anyway, I’d better skedaddle else I’ll miss the next appointment.”

  With that, Marsha Pennington turned and walked toward her parked car. As she searched her handbag for the key, she tu
rned. “Now, if you would like, Dr. Stratford, I’ll take the entire place off your hands.” A greedy smile inched across her face, her pupils the size of pinheads.

  “Let me think about it,” was all I could muster in my disheveled state.

  Marsha placed her hand on the car door and the cell phone rang. The words whispered but audible. “Not sure, don’t know, think he’ll sign. If he doesn’t I’ll kill him. The trick is deciding if I have to.”

  Then she opened the car door, placed the papers on the passenger seat, and climbed in. Off she went, along the dusty dirt road, around a corner, and then she was gone.