Mind-Bending Murder

by Leslie Langtry

  Pastor Malone even made an appearance as Father Murphy, a gullible priest who was taken advantage of by half the town. The book claimed that he was manipulated by his congregation to get what they wanted. In retirement, however, it said Menachem was paying him next to nothing, and Murphy just couldn't get the courage up to ask for a decent wage.

  Was Vanderzee one of those manipulating him, either by blackmail or something else, to lie about seeing me that night? Another idea popped into my head. Was Mordecai the one who convinced him to do it? Either Vanderzee or Mordecai could have killed Tyson—especially if they thought he'd been the author. Sure, half the town had probably read it, but Tyson was ambitious. He could try to bust out with it and hit a larger market. Then everyone would know the truth about Bladdersly.

  If the book was the motive, since Kurt knew everyone in town, it was possible that the police chief or pawn shop owner thought Kurt had written the book. A nugget of an idea formed in my brain. I filed it away in hopes it would germinate.

  Vanderzee and Mordecai had a lot to lose if the book took off. The names were so thinly veiled that even those morons in Bladdersly could figure it out.

  I kept reading. And then there was Kurt Hobbs. Nero Fobbs, as I suspect he was named, wasn't just some kid with pie-in-the-sky hopes of finding the perfect job and landing Kayla as a girlfriend. It turned out he had a past.

  And that past included Tyson Pancratz—or Byron Dantz. That was interesting. According to the book, Nero and Byron knew each other. They'd met in juvie.

  I slammed the book closed. Rex arched an eyebrow at me, but when he realized the wheels were turning, he went back to what he was doing.

  All this time, I'd bought it. I'd believed that Kurt had no idea who Tyson was. And knowing that he'd been in a juvenile detention center, I'd thought nothing of Kurt's denial. But here, in this book, the two were in corrections at the same time. I opened the book and continued on.

  Nero and Byron were believed to have worked together on a scam that targeted the two tattoo shops in town. Now that was interesting. Everything in the book was confidently put forward as a without a doubt fact. But this was not. Did that mean it was just a rumor?

  According to Boats, Nero and Byron convinced Antelope (which I assumed was Bear) and Bob from the other tattoo shop (was that Neil?) that for $10,000, Lance Armstrong would visit their shop and sign autographs. The trick was, besides the fact that Lance Armstrong wasn't coming because he had no idea, that each man thought they would be the only one to have the disgraced cyclist. But maybe the worst trick would be that Nero and Byron would make $20K and run off into the night.

  But the scam fell through when Antelope privately reached out to Lance Armstrong to offer him a lifetime of free tattoos, only to find out that Lance had no idea what Antelope was talking about. The tattoo artist told Bob, and they confronted Byron to cancel the deal. And in something I wished I'd seen, both punched Byron in the face at the same time.

  Had Tyson written Boats? Had he thrown this story in to throw folks off the scent? And was that why he was murdered?

  The next chapter was just about Stella—and not her many liaisons. In fact, it was very interesting. My mind turned back to that amazing meatloaf. I needed to have lunch at Ella's tomorrow, I thought, as I turned out the light and went to sleep.

  I was in Ella's Diner the minute it opened at 11 the next morning. I ordered the meatloaf again and moaned with delight the entire time I ate. My goal was to confront the owner after eating so as not to spoil the culinary experience. In my opinion, Ella needed to write a cookbook.

  "How was it?" The large woman came over and topped off my water.

  "Excellent!" I gushed. "And surprising. Almost as surprising as something I just learned about you."

  Ella sat down across from me. "And what might that be?"

  I placed my napkin on my lap. "You own both Ella's and Ela's."

  She didn't protest or throw a fit. Ella merely looked tired as she asked, "How did you find that out?"

  I pointed at the plate. "Same meatloaf recipe."

  Ella's right eyebrow went up. "That's it?"

  "No, that's not it." I took a sip of water before continuing. "I have another source of speculation, but the meatloaf was the kicker."

  "Huh. No one in this town has noticed that in five years. And some of them act like they only patronize one diner or the other, but really, they hit both places."

  I had to ask. "Why did you open another restaurant with the same name and menu across the street from your current place?"

  She shrugged. "Competition."

  Either Ella didn't really understand how competition worked or she had an odd business sense.

  I leaned forward. "You went into competition…with yourself?"

  Ella smiled wearily. "Of course! Starbucks does it all the time. There are places in the world where there's a Starbucks across the street from another one."

  "Oh. Right," I said.

  She tapped her forehead. "And that's what gave me the idea. See, business was kind of slowing down. People were getting bored with the same old thing, and since there was only one restaurant in town, they started going to Oleo's in Who's There. Why they'd want to eat in that train wreck of a town, I'll never know."

  I was about to protest that it was actually Bladdersly that was a stinking cesspool but realized that might stop her from continuing her confession.

  "So I thought, what if I just invented a brand-new restaurant and made it look like major competition for my place, and it worked."

  I still couldn't wrap my head around it. "It did?"

  Ella nodded. "Sure! People who wanted something new went across the street. They stayed in town. And to my surprise, some folks were mad and decided to demonstrate loyalty by coming here more often."

  That prompted another question. "So if you own both places, who is Ela?"

  "A cousin's kid." Ella waved me off. "Grew up in Muscatine. No one would know her here."

  I tried to wrap my head around her logic, but this wasn't why I was here.

  "I have to admit that I got some of the idea from that book, Boats of the Midwest," I said.

  Ella's face darkened with fury. "What a load of crap! And it isn't true either, about me being a hooker! The nerve of that guy!"

  So she wasn't upset that it gave me the idea for splitting her business, but she was convinced that Stella, the town prostitute, was supposed to be her.

  I pressed. "Do you have any idea who wrote it?"

  With complete certainty, she said, "Mordecai Brown. But I can't prove it."

  "Mordecai?" So she didn't think it was Kurt or Tyson. "Why do you think he wrote it?"

  She slammed her hand onto the table. "Because Pastor Malone was in here one day laughing about how people had been pawning their copies, while Mordecai has boxes of the stuff in the shed! I told Vanderzee that, but he said that's not proof of anything!"

  This wasn't going down how I'd expected. I thought Ella would think Tyson wrote it. But Mordecai? Okay, it made sense. Even though I hadn't seen boxes of the book, I'd only seen a dozen on a bookshelf.

  Had Mordecai written the tell-all? He had seemed smug about the things he knew about the townsfolk. But as a pawnbroker, he'd know all kinds of things—who pawned their wedding ring, their grandmother's silver, etc. And he allowed hookups in the shed.

  Why hadn't this occurred to me before?

  Ella was still ranting. "…and if I did have proof, he wouldn't be alive anymore, I can tell you that!"

  I let this settle in the air a bit. "What did you think about Tyson Pancratz?"

  Her stormy look turned darker. "That no-good bastard! He's stolen from every single store in town. He knows things—" Ella's face was filled with confusion for a moment. "I guess he could've written the book."

  She came to that conclusion easily but seemed surprised by it. Which meant maybe she hadn't killed him.

  "Huh," she went on to say. "I guess I should stop putting laxati
ves in Mordecai's triple-chocolate cheesecake."

  I was rethinking ordering dessert. "You've been doing that?"

  She nodded. "For a year now. I heard he's been seeing a doctor in Des Moines about digestive issues." Ella smiled. "But I guess, until we know more, there's no point in poisoning him."

  "Considering that it's probably assault and battery, that's a good idea," I said.

  Ella studied me. "Do you think I should come clean? About the diners?"

  I waved her off. "Nah. What they don't know won't hurt them, and you've got a booming business because of it. I won't say anything."

  The woman got to her feet and picked up my empty plate. "Do you want dessert?"

  For the very first time in my life, I said no. It seemed like the safest option.

  After lunch, I parked in the lot across the street from the Pump & Pawn. Mordecai may have been the author of the book. Ella certainly thought so, and she'd know more than I did. Mordecai had been on my suspect list for Tyson's murder. But did the two things tie together?

  I guess they could. Perhaps Tyson had been blackmailing Mordecai because he found out he had written the book. How would he have found that out, I wondered. Notes. There had to be notes. And maybe among the notes Mordecai had used to write the book, there were pieces of evidence that backed things up.

  That would be a threat. I could see Vanderzee locking Mordecai up and throwing away the key if he thought the pawn shop owner had the goods on his crooked scams. I wouldn't put it past the corrupt police chief.

  After all, he had iffy evidence against me. I never made a phone call threatening Tyson because I hadn't known who Tyson was until I woke up in the same room with his corpse. I wouldn't put it past him to set Mordecai up.

  I still was unsure of my idea that Vanderzee kidnapped the pastor in order to keep him from admitting he lied about seeing me that night.

  Time was running out. Malone was in danger, and Jane said the Bladdersly PD was rushing my case through the system at breakneck speed. If I was going to solve this, it had to be soon. Now I just had to psychically convince Mordecai to leave work and lead me to the truth.

  Easy, right?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I pulled a mint tin out of my glove box. Inside was a tracking device I'd been playing with that looked like a wad of chewed-up gum. It was an old piece of technology from my CIA days. Back then, we didn't disguise them because they resembled a bit of wire that, when attached, looked like it belonged on the underside of the car.

  Since I had some time on my hands, I'd played around with some of my own spy toys. After finding a wad of chewing gum under my breakfast bar, it gave me an idea.

  By the way, I never did find out who did that. The girls strenuously objected when I accused them. Betty even volunteered to do a DNA swab. But in the end, Kelly suggested that, with my lack of diligence in cleaning, it could've been left there by the previous owner, and I dropped it.

  I wasn't sure what Mordecai's car looked like, but there was only one vehicle in his parking lot—a very expensive, shiny, tricked-out black pickup. For a moment, I thought that maybe a wad of chewing gum would be noticed by someone who was so fastidious about his vehicle. Then again, it was only for one day. Maybe he wouldn't notice.

  The trick was to cross the street and place it without being noticed. In broad daylight. I exited the van and backtracked down the alley behind the bars, diner, and tattoo shop. Turning left, I crossed the street and walked a block down.

  I figured I could follow the alley to the lot and the truck. But I remembered that Elrond had a security camera. Did I waste time, and possibly miss Mordecai leaving, by disabling the camera?

  Screw it. It was go time. I walked confidently down the alley as if I belonged there. The truck was actually closer to The Opera House, facing the Pump & Pawn, so I had a little cover as I crouched down and crept to the back of the truck.

  The gum-like substance was sticky enough, so it wasn't hard to reach under the flatbed and place the tracker. I slipped back to The Opera House and turned the corner, only to run smack into Harold.

  "What are you doing?" Harold asked.

  "Nothing," I said as I went past him.

  "Merry, you're up to something," Harold warned.

  I backtracked. "Yes, Harold. I'm up to something."

  We stared at each other for a long minute.

  Harold broke into a grin and clapped his hands together. "Is it a surprise for me?"

  I wasn't sure whether it was better to smack him in the face or agree. I opted for the safest bet.

  "Why yes, Harold. It's a surprise for you. You've really helped Stewie become a better…um…gladiator. And I thought I'd thank you for that."

  "I knew it!" Harold squealed. "What is it? Is it money? An award? A case of petrified duck heads?"

  That gave me pause, but I recovered quickly. "I can't say right now. Just wait. You'll see." And without another word, I fled.

  A case of petrified duck heads? I climbed into my van and closed the door. At least I hadn't told Harold when he could expect…whatever I was going to give him. The important thing was that I got away quickly so I could be ready whenever Mordecai left the shop.

  I was afraid it was going to be a long wait…which it ended up being. That's the problem with surveillance. You never knew what the person you were following was going to do. And never, ever, in my history with the CIA, did a stakeout last less than three hours.

  I passed the time checking the news on my phone, listening to a couple of true crime podcasts, and staring at the building in hopes of sprouting Jedi powers to tell the man to leave. It didn't work.

  It was just after dark when Mordecai locked up. I ducked down behind the steering wheel, waiting to follow him.

  I wasn't really sure what this was going to prove. Maybe nothing. It just felt like I needed to do something. Confronting the man would be my next plan. I just didn't want to jump straight to that.

  There's a lot to be said for taking things one step at a time. I once built a rock-solid case against a Latvian wrestler named Pavlis the Marauder, who was passing state secrets to his contact at wrestling meets. He would do it by signals and codes. So if he broke a chair over his opponent's head, it meant he had technology intel. A chokeslam meant military secrets. And a Boston Crab, I later found out, meant absolutely nothing.

  I had to attend twenty-three matches just to pin down who he was signaling and about what. And then it took ten more matches for me to get the goods on him. That was a very long November in Latvia.

  Acting like you aren't following someone when you are the only two cars on the road in a small town is tricky on the best day. So I pulled over as he was leaving the city limits and turned on my tablet to track him.

  I was holding my breath and crossing my fingers in hopes this little device would work. Once he was about a mile ahead of me, I started the car and headed his way.

  I know every gravel road around Who's There. And the roads surrounding Bladdersly weren't too much different. Walls of corn hid you and those you were seeking. When I noticed he'd stopped, I turned off my headlights and proceeded with care.

  He was at a house in the middle of nowhere. I drove past quietly and backed into a cornfield. Then I hiked back, keeping just inside the perimeter of the cornfield. It was a good thing I was wearing dark green today. That was a stroke of luck that I didn't always have. It's the reason I never wear neon colors if I can help it. You really stand out in a wheatfield in Russia when you are wearing an electric yellow hazmat suit, believe me.

  The house was simple, a one-story frame house. It wasn't fancy like the big black truck. Maybe Mordecai wasn't flashy about his house. It made sense in a way. Iowans aren't big on having a house that's more than they need.

  The curtains were closed, but I knew he was there. Were the curtains drawn because he was hiding something? Was it stolen merchandise? Was he playing host to Pastor Malone? I remained frozen in place and strained to listen.


  It was quiet. Too quiet. In my experience, that implied that there was a trap. In fact, I had no idea if this was Mordecai's primary address or not. If it was, was there any point in spying on him? If it wasn't, what had I stumbled on?

  Headlights flickered through the corn, and I melted farther back into it, out of sight. It was a police cruiser, and it pulled into the driveway. The sedan parked, and Vanderzee got out. He looked around very carefully. And for just a fleeting moment, I thought we had locked eyes.

  I held my breath and didn't move, hoping I'd imagined it. The police chief finding me here was the last thing I needed. After a few moments, Vanderzee locked the cruiser with a beep and went inside.

  Now that was interesting. What were these two doing here together? It was possible that they were just hanging out in the middle of nowhere. However, since both of these guys were suspects in my book, it wouldn't hurt to take another look.

  But first, I needed to test something. Vanderzee hadn't tripped any motion-sensitive security measures, but maybe he'd turned them on once he was inside. There were two fixtures on the outside of the house that looked like possible security.

  I picked up a rock and tossed it into range.

  Bright light flooded the yard, and Vanderzee and Mordecai dashed out onto the front porch.

  "Who is it?" Mordecai shouted.

  A squirrel chattered at the men before running up a tree.

  "It's a damn squirrel!" Vanderzee said. "You're too paranoid. Running out here like an idiot looks suspicious."

  "To who? The squirrel?" Mordecai groused.

  Then the two men went inside.

  My cell buzzed, and I retreated farther into the field. Rex wanted to know where I was and when I'd be back. Kurt had called for the millionth time to ask if I was on the run, and if so, could I please tell him where I was so that he could hunt me down and bring me in?

  I wasn't going to learn any more here today. I texted back that I'd be home soon and headed to the van. I just needed to make one stop first.