by N. C. Lewis
The man came out first, hands on his hips. "Better page Doctor Tobias, because he'll need to pronounce the victim dead."
Augustine, somewhat revived, climbed out of the Tahoe and stood next to me, her arms folded, staring nervously into the open unit. "Thought the choice of a storage unit would take a New York minute, but looks like it will take all night."
A sheriff's department cruiser swung into the parking lot, pulling up behind the ambulance. Deputy Dingsplat stepped out. He nodded at me as he walked toward the EMS personnel. A hushed conversation, then Deputy Dingsplat entered the unit.
A few minutes later, ashen-faced, he returned. He spoke softly into his radio, then strode over to where I stood.
"Ollie, what's the deal?" He had the this is serious stare—hard eyes, and a fixed scowl.
I described the events of the evening, with Augustine adding her perspective. The deputy took notes.
"Anything else?" he said, tapping the notebook.
"Nope."
Then I remembered the note. "Wait! I found this close to the body," I said, handing over the sheet of paper.
He unfolded and read it. As he placed it into an evidence bag, a glint of understanding flickered in his eyes. "This clarifies things," he said, rubbing his chin. "I'll still get the county lab team out here though."
Deputy Dingsplat turned to walk back to his vehicle. "Have to get a full account from y'all later." He rubbed his chin. "If you see Igor, have him drop by the sheriff's department. I'd like to speak with him."
The Havis County lab team finally arrived with Doctor Tobias. Soon the storage unit was swarming with technicians. They vacuumed fibers, took samples, sprayed chemicals, snapped photos, and recorded videos.
It was after eleven p.m. when I got home. I refilled Bodie's food and water bowls and headed to the office. There was still time to make progress with the student assignments. At the desk, I picked up the folder, but couldn't concentrate.
I took a pill and went to bed. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep, but I was out before my head touched the pillow.
Chapter 12
A gray mist swirled around, shards of light illuminated frightful faces of skeletal ghosts and phantoms. Mumbled voices cried out in agony. Through the swirling morass, an apparition, a painfully thin specter, almost a skeleton, emerged. It gaggled and hissed like an enraged hen, spitting and screeching with fury as it pointed a bony finger off into the distance. I knew it was a dream but turned to where the specter motioned.
Then I saw him, my husband John. His hooded head tilted down toward the ground as if searching for something.
I called.
John lifted his face up, eyes sunken and dark, forehead crumpled into a frown, and his usually smiling lips turned down into a scowl. "Barbara," he cried in a grizzly voice. "Barbara!" The mist grew dense until all I could see was swirling, gray vapors.
I woke up in a cold sweat, and my heart was pounding like a runaway train. The dream was about the previous evening, but I didn't want to think about it. Not this morning, not ever. A hot shower did little to wash away the disturbing images.
In the office, I reviewed my list for the day:
10 a.m. lighthearted, girly, coffee morning chat
Afternoon- prep work
7 p.m. dojo
I circled dojo because, no matter what, I would attend class tonight. I'm not very fit, a little overweight, and find the classes a challenge. But I enjoy it. The physical exercise and meditative practices both strengthen my physical body and help clarify my mind.
It was still early, only six thirty a.m. There would be plenty of time to finish grading student assignments. I let out a sigh. Today had to be better than yesterday.
In the bedroom, I slipped into a pair of shorts and an old T-shirt, ready for an early morning stroll across the Hill Country. I called Bodie, grabbed his leash, and we set off along the path that led to the trail.
The cool, early morning air filled my lungs. The only sounds were our footsteps crunching on the gravel, the rustling of leaves in the early morning breeze, and the occasional chirping of a bird high in the treetops.
"Ollie!"
Bodie yapped, tail swooshing from side to side. He recognized the voice—my neighbor, Emma Garcia. She was with her dog, a mutt called Benji. During the early morning, we often strolled across the Hill Country together. I waited for her to catch up.
We walked in silence for about a quarter of a mile. The dogs, off their leashes, scampered ahead investigating bushes, trees, and chasing the occasional rabbit.
I enjoyed spending time with Emma because she was not one to gossip and only gave an opinion if asked. Emma worked as an administrative officer at the Medlin Creek Community College and ran a part-time Mexican restaurant with her husband, George.
"How are things going with the restaurant?" I asked, already knowing things were going well.
"Better than we deserve. The three nights we open are crazy. Last week every table was booked!"
"Fully booked—that is amazing!"
"Yep. Starting this week patrons have to book ahead."
"No walk-ins?" I quizzed.
Emma turned, and a smile filled her contented face. "That's right."
I felt a pang of jealousy. Why had her business taken off so effortlessly while mine struggled? "Emma, you'll have to give me the secret," I said, hoping she would share.
Emma giggled. "Sorry Ollie, our recipes are a family secret—can't share those with you."
"No, not your recipes. I enjoy eating, but I am no cook. What's your secret to being fully booked?"
Emma let out a sigh. "I'd like to think it is the high-quality food we serve. George says we stumbled on a niche and are serving it well. I have to admit, George might be right."
"The right niche," I echoed.
That last word struck me. It struck me like a hard object propelled with great force, and it hurt. It was the realization I haven't found the right niche for my event center, yet. I stopped walking. "George is right," I said in an excited whisper.
Emma sighed again. "The county food inspector will visit at the end of the month. What if they close us down?"
"Don't worry Emma, you'll pass with flying colors."
"Hope so," she sighed. "Our kitchen is new, and so is most of the equipment, but there are so many regulations it can be difficult to keep up." Emma's hands fidgeted as she spoke.
We continued walking.
"Anyway," she said after a short while, "what's happening with you?"
I recounted the events of the previous evening.
"That's grisly," she said, her mouth aghast. "Poor soul, I wonder who they were?"
"There was a note with the body," I explained.
"What did it say?"
I told her.
"So, you think the victim's name is Barbara Nadel?"
"That's my best guess. Do you know anyone with that name?"
Emma placed a hand on her cheek. "No, I don't think so. I'll ask George, it might ring a bell with him."
George worked in the construction business, I doubted there were many females, let alone women called Barbara. I'd only ever known two, and both were politicians.
We continued for several minutes in silence.
"George saw a Bee Mound Drilling company truck near your abandoned well yesterday," Emma said, giving me a quizzical look.
"Got a surprise call, and they are keen to help me reopen it."
Emma smiled. "Good for you. Bee Mound Drilling is Nancy Fisher's company. Ollie, you'll do much better with them than with…" Her voice trailed off, it was not her style to criticize, condemn, nor complain.
I didn't have such qualms and finished the sentence for her. "Havis County Engineering Company and Bryant Reynolds."
Emma's head moved in an almost imperceptible nod. "Mom always told me if you don't have a good word to say, don't say anything." She paused, glanced sideways, and continued, "So, I'm not going to say anything about Bryant Reynolds."
Fortunately, my mom said no such thing. Even so, I held my tongue and kept my thoughts about Bryant Reynolds to myself.
Chapter 13
The morning rush was over when I arrived at Moozoos. The air was still heavy with the yeasty fragrance of fresh-baked bread mixed with the earthy scent of bubbling, hot coffee, but the café was strangely quiet. A handful of customers sipped their morning beverages and nibbled pastries. The occasional grinding of the espresso machine whirred above the background mumblings of contented voices.
The barista leaned on the counter surveying the café. "Why don't you take your break," he said, with a sideways glance at his assistant.
"Sure thing, boss," the assistant replied, scurrying past me out of the café.
"Ah, Doctor Stratford," the barista said with a welcoming nod. "What will be your pleasure?"
I glanced at the menu board.
"Large cappuccino."
He half turned, hesitated, then swiveled back. "You were busy last night, weren't you?"
"Who told you?" I asked.
"Medlin Creek is a small town, news like that travels fast," he said, avoiding my question.
"Suppose so."
The barista's eyes glinted with curiosity. "Is it true Augustine Granger slipped, falling headlong into a box from which the corpse rolled out?"
My mind raced. If I denied the story, my words would be kindling to the swirling rumors. "The sheriff's department will make a statement at some point," I said, holding eye contact but revealing nothing.
The barista regarded my face closely, placed a hand on his cheek, and his lopsided eyes twinkled. "Guess the story came through too late to make the morning paper." He picked up a copy of the Medlin Creek Times from a basket beside the counter. The headline read, "Sisters of the Creek Coffee Circle Sell 300 Tickets to Fish Fry." "Don’t think that article is one of Millie's. She'll be here in a moment. We're having a girls' coffee meet up."
There was no more news to be had about the incident from me. The barista understood this, turned, and busied himself preparing the drink, all the while humming a soft melancholy tune.
Eventually, he returned to the counter, my drink in hand. "Such a gruesome find, and you so new to Medlin Creek." He shook his head handing over the cappuccino. "Don't suppose you've met Barbara Nadel?"
"Nope," I said, picking up the cup. "Did you?"
He puffed out his chest like an early morning rooster welcoming the sun. "Few people met Barbara. The word on the Creek is that she came to Texas from out west, California. They say she was a sweet lady but somewhat mysterious."
I leaned forward. "What do you mean 'mysterious'?"
The barista tilted his head to one side. "No one travels from California to Medlin Creek to commit suicide..." His eyes glazed, and he glanced toward the café exit.
"Go on," I said, leaning forward. There was more, and I wanted to hear it.
His lopsided eyes regarded me with curiosity. "All I know is that Barbara Nadel had a very good reason to end her life in our town."
"Reason? What possible reason could she have?" I quizzed.
"The age-old reason—love. But I can't think why she would do it in one of those storage units." He nodded in the general direction of the warehouse district.
"Anonymity," I suggested.
Again, he shook his head. "Why the suicide note?"
"I don't know."
He shrugged. "Don't suppose we'll ever find out. An unsolvable mystery, that's what this is."
Just then, the doorbell tinkled. Two tourists wandered into the store.
"What will be your pleasure?" asked the barista, with a broad smile.
Chapter 14
At my favorite table by the window, I glanced out onto Creek Street. The spot was a wonderful place to muse while waiting for Millie. My eyes half closed, I drifted off into a daydream.
Someone tapped lightly on my shoulder.
"Ollie, wake up!"
It was Millie.
She slipped into a chair.
"Oh my gosh, this is so exciting!" she said, taking a sip from her cup. "Another murder in Medlin Creek, I can't believe it."
"Not sure it's a murder," I said.
But she wasn't listening. "Spoke with the newspaper owner this morning, asked if I would cover the story. Should get a feature on the front page." Her voice overflowed with eagerness.
"It deserves to be on the front page, and you need to write the story," I said.
Millie jumped up, a thrilled grin on her face. "This is it! The warehouse district murder is my gravy train to a full-time position at the Medlin Creek Times. A story as big as this might even headline in Austin. Imagine it, my article on the front page of the Austin American Statesman!"
Several customers turned to peer in our direction. Their eyes curious, heads tilted, ears pointed in our direction to better hear our conversation. The barista moved in front of the counter.
Millie sat down rubbing her hands together, her eyes wide with excitement. With a satisfied smile she took a gulp from her cup.
"The only problem is, I haven't been able to find a photograph of the victim. An internet search didn't turn up anything, not even a social media page. I'll need a picture or something for my story."
She took another sip from her cup. "Anyway, a contact in the sheriff's department told me, Dick Doxson, her ex-boyfriend is flying into Austin tomorrow."
"From where?" I inquired.
"Shoshone, California. That's close to Death Valley National Park. Dick works as some sort of guide."
Just then the barista hurried over. "Millie, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. You'd better check your facts. From what I understand the death was suicide."
"Suicide?" Millie cried, her eyes narrowing.
"Seems so," the barista replied. "Ollie here found a note with the body. She gave it to Deputy Dingsplat."
"Eh?" Millie moaned, her forehead sagging into a deep frown.
"A suicide note, isn't that right Ollie?" said the barista turning to glance at me.
I nodded.
Millie's face hardened. "What did it say?"
"That she was sorry, and this was her only way out," I said wondering whether I'd said too much.
"So sad," added the barista shaking his head and walking slowly back toward the counter.
Millie's shoulders slumped. "So, it wasn't a murder. What am I going to do?"
"Write the article," I responded. "You can interview me and Augustine for an eyewitness account."
Millie sniffed, reached for her handbag and pulled out two sock puppets. One was purple and wore a white shirt with a little black tie—Professor Purple. The other, blue with frizzy brown curls and a pleated skirt—Madame Bleu.
"Oh Ollie," said Millie as she opened and closed the mouth of Professor Purple. She was no ventriloquist; her lips moved with each word, and the deep male voice quite clearly came from her throat. "The newspaper owner expects an article from Millie by two p.m."
"What's wrong with that? Millie's a reporter; isn't that what reporters do?" I was confused.
Madame Bleu spoke up, "Ooh la la." She had a rich French accent. "The owner of the newspaper treats Millie like une calculatrice numérique, how you say in English, a digital calculator."
"A digital calculator!" I was still confused.
"Oh oui," cried Madame Bleu, her eyes wide. "Press this button and that button, and voilà! A story about a murder comes out. Such is not the life of a writer. Where is la joie de vivre, the joy of life? Where is la passion?"
"Now, now," said Professor Purple, his eyes narrowing. "It is not wholly unreasonable for the owner of the newspaper to expect Millie to write a story about a murder..." He paused, and his sock puppet head turned from Millie to me. Millie frowned, and Professor Purple grinned. He continued,"…Given that she called the owner to say she had the inside scoop."
"Oh, Millie!" I said, shaking my head.
Chapter 15
The puppets ret
urned to Millie's handbag, and she stared out of the window onto Creek Street. It seemed to be a therapy of sorts, a calming influence in troubled times. The sidewalk was empty, too early for tourists, and too late for office workers. Several large, yellow school buses rumbled past on their way to the depot.
Millie turned to watch an elderly couple walk into the café. Then, without looking at me, she said, "Do you think it was murder?"
"I don't know," I replied.
"Why else would the body be there?"
"We'll have to wait for the medical examiner's report," I said, an uneasy feeling rising from the pit of my stomach. Our lighthearted girly coffee morning chat had descended into a gloomy space.
"It's either suicide, or the body was dumped there," Millie said. "What other possibility is there?"
"I don't know," I said again.
Millie reached for her handbag. Out popped the puppets.
"Ooh la la, c'est romantique," cried Madame Bleu.
"Romantic?" said Professor Purple swiveling his head to peer at Madame Bleu. "What the devil do you mean?"
Madame Bleu let out a sad sigh and shuddered. "Dick, her fiancé flies high across the sky to Medlin Creek for news of his love. Alas, it is un amour lost forever in the mists of time."
Professor Purple frowned. "It is not inconceivable that Barbara Nadel died as a consequence of foul play. If so, logic and probability dictate Dick Doxson as the most likely suspect."
"Impossible!" cried Madame Bleu. "A man who drops everything to travel across the country on such sad news is full of, how we say in French, émotion et passion. A man like that could never do such a terrible thing." Madame Bleu trembled as she disappeared back into Millie's handbag.
Millie sighed. "Oh well, I guess it's back to writing about the rotary club fish fry, and the Boy Scouts summer popcorn fundraiser."
Professor Purple nodded. "You must work the small stories. If you do that well you will graduate to the big stories, and then on to a full-time position. Is that not the case, Doctor Stratford?"
I wasn't so sure but didn't want to say so. "Millie, what stories are you working on?" I said trying to sound upbeat.
