by Dovie Ruth
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Detective Travis tapped his ballpoint pen on his desk and frowned. It was the Monday morning after the standoff in Gusher Flats, and it was not looking to be a good one. “Mr. and Mrs. Fox, I can understand why you are angry at me.”
“You’re darn tootin’!” Chad’s face twisted into an angry knot. “I’m going to make this quick and dirty: Why was the news media told that Mavis Beasom was murdered by Rhonda Buffalo and Bucky Dobbs, but we were not?”
The evasive snooper stammered. “To be honest with you, Mr. Fox, things just came to a head Saturday morning.”
“That’s my point, sir. If you can remember just two days ago, you called my wife and me at home. It was Saturday morning. You had the gall to encourage us to go north for a little vacation knowing full well that something big was about to go down in Gusher Flats.” Chad squeezed Delaney’s hand. “And here we sit on a Monday morning, and you have yet to give us an explanation.”
Detective Travis’ black eyes shifted sideways. “Well, first of all, we finally located Mavis’ estranged sister. She was able to supply us with some photos. Most of them were old, but at least we could start to get a better idea of what she looked like. When we compared them to our mug shots of Rhonda Buffalo, it was clear they were not the same individual. Even Mavis's sister agreed.”
“Then where is Mavis?” Delaney pressed.
“I am afraid we can be reasonably confident that she is deceased.”
Delaney hung her head, mourning what could have been. “Are you sure? I really wanted her to be my mentor.”
"Yes, I'm sure," the detective confirmed. "We were able to find Miss Beasom's dentist in Exeter. The teeth you found, Delaney, matched those dental records. The lab was unable to get a DNA profile from the molars, but we’re sure we’ve identified the correct person.”
Chad offered to give Delaney a high five. “Way to go, super sleuth!”
“I'm not feeling so super.” Delaney buried her face in Chad’s chest and sobbed. “I feel so bad for Mavis Beasom. Why did someone have to do that to her?”
The dutiful husband patted his wife on the shoulder. “Bucky and Rhonda are obviously heartless creeps.”
Delaney wasn’t finished venting her dark feelings. “So I thought I was getting the chance of a lifetime to study under a world famous author. I should have known I was being duped by an imposter.”
“I’m truly sorry that happened to you, Mrs. Fox. It’s taken a long time to unravel this entire situation.”
“What else do we not know?” Chad’s voice escalated in volume.
The cautious investigator folded his hands on his desk and waited for the emotions in the room to wane.
“I asked you a question, sir,” Chad prompted in a strong voice.
“Please try to remain calm, Mr. Fox. So much information has just come to light. You see, Grantham, our skyclad warlock, finally decided to squeal.”
“Grantham?” Delaney clarified. She had all but forgotten the young cowboy.
“Yes. According to Grantham, he was relatively new to the group at the time of the spring equinox. As you might remember, he’s always claimed the other coven members were mere acquaintances.”
Chad guffawed. "I'd say they were pretty friendly if they were dancing naked together on a mountaintop."
Detective Travis grunted. “As time went on, the individuals began communicating with each other. We got bits and pieces of information through the telephones we were monitoring. Once we had all of our facts lined up, we confronted Grantham again. Finally, he caved and revealed the names of the coven members. One thing led to another, and we began to put a much clearer picture together.”
“So, why did they murder poor Mavis?” Delaney blurted. Her voice was so loud that everyone outside of the detective’s office became privy to their conversation.
Two older women who sat in chairs waiting for another officer turned to stare.
“Sh!” Chad prompted.
“The tale would be humorous if it weren’t real,” Detective Travis proceeded. “It seems that a little over three years ago, Rhonda Buffalo took a trip up to see Mavis Beasom – just like you did, Mrs. Fox. She was writing a novel about falling in love with an incarcerated man. Naturally, she wanted Mavis’s opinion of her story. As it turned out, Mavis wasn’t at all impressed with Rhonda’s writing ability or her story. She made no bones about it.”
Chad shook his head. “That was a bad decision.”
“As you can imagine, Rhonda began to see blood, but she didn’t do anything at the time. She waited until Bucky got out of prison. Then she returned to The Tilted Plume under the guise of attending another weekend as a student. Unfortunately for Miss Beasom, there were no other students there at the time.”
Delaney put her hands over her ears. “I don’t know if I can bear to hear this.”
“It wasn’t a violent death,” Detective Travis assured his small audience. “Rhonda slipped a fatal dose of a tranquilizer into Miss Beasom’s hot tea, then simply waited for her to die. Bucky came the following day, and they burned Mavis’s remains to smithereens in the fire pit. Or at least they thought they had.”
Delaney finished what she knew to be the rest of the story. “Then Rhonda assumed Miss Beasom’s identity, and she continued to run the writers’ workshops at The Tilted Plume. Right?”
“Correct.”
“No wonder the teaching at the retreat was so bad. Come to think of it, Rhonda kept avoiding writing altogether. When she finally did read the beginning of my manuscript, she came unhinged.”
Chad pointed his finger at Delaney and laughed. “She just didn’t appreciate your witch story, Miss Delaney.”
“How was I supposed to know she was a witch? And a bad one at that?”
Detective Travis chuckled at Delaney. “Anyhow, young lady, that’s how Rhonda and Bucky got their own little slice of heaven up there on Mineral King Road.”
“For a few years, anyway,” Delaney grumbled.
“Despicable!” Chad muttered.
“They were also able to take over Miss Beasom’s bank accounts – and everything else for that matter,” the gumshoe explained. “The only thing Rhonda couldn’t do was write with the skill of Mavis Beasom. She was unable to convince Miss Beasom’s agent or publisher to accept anything she had written under Miss Beasom’s name. Eventually, the royalties from Mavis’s older books dried up, especially since there was nothing new coming out to stir up interest. That being the case, it was no surprise that the business at The Tilted Plume dropped off. Of course, like you said, Mrs. Fox, Rhonda Buffalo’s teaching ability was less than adequate. Attendees were sorely disappointed, and they discouraged others from attending. As I see it, Rhonda and Bucky were aware that their time at The Tilted Plume was running out.”
Delaney leaned close to the edge of the investigator’s desk. “So what did they want from me?”
“It’s fairly simple, Mrs. Fox – money, and your identity. According to Grantham, Ada unwittingly helped Mavis give you a tranquilizer. She thought Mavis had mixed electrolytes into the grapefruit juice.”
“But why would Mavis drug me?” Delaney pressed.
“She and Conin planned to have one of their comrades go through your purse while you were at the Ostara ceremony. Since it was dark, you probably didn’t notice that one of the coven members was not present at the beginning of the ritual. His plan was to quickly go through your belongings, then hurry to the fire ring before he was missed.”
Delaney gasped.
“Rest assured, Mrs. Fox, most of the coven was not privy to the scheme. But when the unexpected happened – namely, the fire – Conin and Mavis just stole your belongings and ran.”
Chad pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Excuse me, officer, but I want to get back to this situation in Gusher Flats.”
“Is my Mustang there?” Delaney badgered.
The officer laughed out loud. “Young lady, your Mustang
is what gave the crooks’ hiding place away. Bucky and Rhonda tried to conceal your car in an old chicken coop in back of their hideout. The old structure turned out to be is as holey as a sieve. Your Mustang was still visible through gaps in the corrugated sheet metal, and some passers-by noticed it right away. Pardon me for saying this, but I guess that sparkly red paint stuck out like a petunia in an onion patch.”
Delaney beamed with delight. “And how about that battery cracking at just the right time? What are the chances of that?”
“Very slim indeed, Mrs. Fox. Most stolen cars end up wrecked, burned, or parted out in a chop shop.”
“So when can I pick up my Mustang?”
“Oh, it will be weeks — maybe months — before the forensics team processes it. But the good news is that you will get it back.” The investigator paused, pressing the tips of his fingers together to form a steeple. “I understand you will be selling your car — is that not true?”
“Not anymore,” Chad responded. “After all of this, the Mustang has become just like family. If she could talk, she would certainly have some tales to tell.”
“Maybe she could tell us where Bucky and Rhonda have gone,” Delaney mused. “I still can’t believe they got away.”
“They’re slick,” Detective Travis agreed. “And together, they’re almost invincible. But mark my words; someday Bucky and Rhonda will slip up. They’ll be caught.” The investigator paused to study Delaney’s dejected face. “I do have some good news for you, Mrs. Fox.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I have your personal belongings — the ones you were forced to leave at The Tilted Plume. Our technician has put them in two boxes for you. I believe one has your clothing, and the other contains your stories. The pages might be out of order, but hopefully, you’ll be able to make sense of the jumble.” Detective Travis lifted the two boxes from the hiding place behind his desk.
Delaney lifted the lids on the pair of boxes and peered inside. Tears welled in her eyes as she thumbed through the loose pages that used to be neatly organized manuscripts. “I don’t know that these were worth bringing down the mountain.”
“Now don’t say that, honey.” Chad soothed.
Detective Travis’s somber expression warmed. “Mrs. Fox, I wish you the best with your writing. I understand that becoming an author can be a long road. But as I see it, you can view this recent adventure of yours on Mineral King Road as a curse – or as a blessing. As a writer, your experience could be terrific grist for your story mill. I encourage you to take advantage of it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Delaney paused before she and Chad turned to leave. “I will.”
THE END
PREVIEW
THE MURDER OF MISS TOADVINE
MYSTIC CALIFORNIA COZIES — BOOK TWO
When quirky Eunice Toadvine is found dead in a desolate Central California oil town, a young autistic man is suspected of the spinster’s murder. Mary Carol Satterlee, who is home from college, doesn’t believe the accusation for a minute. Everybody in Roughneck, California knows that Eunice has been flirting with danger for years. Just weeks before her death, she’d placed an advertisement in the local newspaper for a witch to cast spells. Sergeant Rodney Gullett isn’t of a mind to listen to Mary Carol’s arguments in defense of the accused youth. The officer just wants a quick and dirty trial. After all, there are so many young ladies to chase in Roughneck. Including Mary Carol.
CHAPTER ONE
The patrons at the Wildcat Café paused with their forks and spoons halfway to their mouths and pivoted their heads toward the commotion outside. With great interest, they studied the gyrating rattletrap that had just pulled into the parking lot. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen it before. The beat-up sedan arrived promptly at three o’clock every afternoon.
The viewing was easy since full-length plate glass windows along the front side of the building enclosed the diner’s stale air. The retro establishment had been built in the 1940s. More than four decades later, it was still a popular eating spot for the folks in Roughneck, California.
Mary Carol Satterlee did her best not to stare at the sputtering car like the other locals. She was home from her private women’s college for a spell and had done her best to bring her manners with her. In fact, Mary Carol was more than a little annoyed at her mother’s unsophisticated demeanor. Jeannine Satterlee had also been to college in her younger days. But there she sat, snickering at the flatulent contraption without an inkling of shame on her powdered face.
Jeannine’s two friends, who shared their booth, were no better. Lunch and gossip at the Wildcat Cafe was part of their daily routine.
At the wheel of the jalopy was a graying woman. She hadn’t bothered to park in a proper space among the crowded lot of oilfield trucks and sensible family cars. Instead, she pulled right up next to the establishment’s front door — just like she did every day.
“Muckenfuss!” Several of the regulars announced the family’s arrival in hopes of moving the impending transaction right along.
Harold O’Hall, the proprietor and head cook at the Wildcat Café, pointed his spatula at three boxed meals, which were stacked next to the cash register. “Ready!”
The idling car backfired, lurched slightly forward, ricocheted backward, then rocked from side to side. Everybody knew it was Mrs. Jane Muckenfuss who sat at the helm of the colicky car and kept it running in preparation for their speedy departure.
The back passenger windows were darkened with film, making it difficult to see what was causing the small sedan to rock back and forth and from side to side. Whatever or whoever was the cause had to be huge. But everybody in Roughneck already knew the answer to that, too.
A mousy young dishrag of a woman popped out of the front passenger door. Although she wasted no time in exiting the vehicle, Loretta took care to lock the door behind her prior to heading for the café. Averting her eyes from her rapt audience behind the diner’s windows, she scurried inside where a waitress delivered the boxed meals into her outstretched hands.
No money changed hands. It never did. The young lady shifted from foot to foot while Flois, the waitress, returned to the kitchen for some condiments.
Mary Carol didn’t really know Loretta. The Muckenfuss family had blown into the desolate little oil town about fifteen years before. They had traveled a long way from their home in the Midwest, searching for an affordable place to live on the West Coast. They landed in the foothills bordering the southwestern reaches of California’s Central Valley. Rent was low, and public assistance was generous in comparison to most states. Their story wasn’t a whole lot different than many of the other townspeople who had stumbled in on the tail of some disaster like the Dust Bowl. That was one of the reasons Mary Carol had hardly noticed when the Muckenfuss family moved into town so many years ago.
Dodie Dengle chewed her last bite of blackberry cobbler before she picked up a cigarette and poked it into her mouth. Smoking was allowed in the already stuffy diner, but out of consideration for her friends, she refrained from lighting up. Instead, she carried on her diatribe with the unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of her orange-painted mouth. “Talk about service,” she mumbled as she elbowed Mary Carol in her bony ribs. “I wish I could get free hot meals here.” Dodie’s dark critical eyes trailed up and down the slender silhouette of Miss Muckenfuss. Then she searched the faces of her own middle-aged friends to see which ones were going to agree with her.
Jeannine Satterlee was one of Dodie’s best friends. However, she was too busy wrestling with a hunk of chicken fried steak to show any support.
Lil Bordeaux abandoned her knitting needles, which accompanied her most everywhere. “Dodie Dengle, who are you kidding? Unless your husband’s oil wells run dry, you can afford to buy and sell this entire diner.” The knitter paused to push her pink plastic eyeglasses back up her short white nose. “Besides, Loretta Muckenfuss is not getting those meals for free. She works here.”
“What?” Th
e startled oil matron choked on the dark words she had been shooting across the table. “I’ve never seen Loretta working here.”
“That’s because Loretta arrives every morning at the crack of dawn,” Mama Satterlee explained. “She does all the baking and prep work in the kitchen. There’s no way Mr. O’Hall could run this place without her. On top of that, she makes all the homemade biscuits, fruit cobblers, and cornbread. She sets up the salad bar. Harold has even trusted Loretta with the secret recipe for his famous chile.”
Lil set her jaw with resolve. “There’s no reason Loretta shouldn’t have food to take home to her family. Most of it would just be tossed out at the end of the day anyway.”
Dodie smirked and patted her tall, stiff bouffant. It was as black as her heart. “So Loretta is working for handouts to feed that strange family of hers?”
Mary Carol gasped. She wanted to protest but knew better than to start a firestorm with her mother’s friend, especially Dodie Dengle. And especially in a restaurant.
Lil frowned over the click, click, click of her knitting needles. “I’m sure Mr. O’Hall pays Loretta wages on top of the meals, too. He’s an honorable man.”
Dodie wasn’t finished with poor Loretta. She ran her critical eyes up and down the young lady’s faded pedal pushers and cotton shirt as she stood waiting by the cash register. Flois still hadn’t returned with the ketchup.
“Oh, lordy!” An oil field worker in the adjacent booth jumped to his feet.
His buddy followed suit. “Looks like we’ve got trouble.” An audible contagion of gasps swept across the diner as all eyes pivoted toward the main entrance.
Loretta’s face turned as white as a fresh kitchen apron. “What are you doing in here, John Fred? You were supposed to wait in the car with Mom.”
John Fred didn’t answer his sister. He never did. In fact, no one in Roughneck had ever heard him utter a single word. The most he ever did was grunt and growl. He towered over Loretta, grimacing and pressing his fists together. A deep crease between his eyes belied the fact he was in his early twenties.
