Knickers in a Twist
The Trailer Park Princess, Volume 4
Kim Hunt Harris
Published by Kim Hunt Harris, 2017.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
KNICKERS IN A TWIST
First edition. July 15, 2017.
Copyright © 2017 Kim Hunt Harris.
ISBN: 978-1386439448
Written by Kim Hunt Harris.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the Trailertopians – you’ve become my own personal cheerleading squad that keeps me encouraged, but also helps me spot errors. I can’t imagine anything more valuable to a writer. You guys amaze me.
Knickers in a Twist
The Trailer Park Princess Cozy Mystery
Book 4
Kim Hunt Harris
Kim Hunt Harris Books, LLC
Lubbock, TX
Copyright © 2017 by Kim Hunt Harris.
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 publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
Kim Hunt Harris Books, LLC
3410 98th St., Ste. 4-157
Lubbock, TX 74923
www.kimhuntharris.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the “Special Sales Department” at the address above.
Book Title/ Author Name.—1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9977734-5-3
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the Trailertopians – you’ve become my own personal cheerleading squad that keeps me encouraged, but also helps me spot errors. I can’t imagine anything more valuable to a writer. You guys amaze me.
Acknowledgements
My most sincere gratitude goes to Matt Sherley for answering my numerous questions about crime scene investigations and police procedure. Any errors in those areas are entirely my own.
My thanks also to Dr. William Lawson, who helped me early on in determining just what the deal was going to be with this book. Dr. Lawson wrote a paper called Soil Sampling on Sword Beach, which became the inspiration for Donald Baucum’s WWII service. Do yourself a favor: Google that paper and read it. I am going out on a limb to guarantee it will be the most fascinating paper you’ll ever read about soil sampling.
Thanks also to Kelly Hunt for helping me get the scenes with Tri-Patrice’s job right, for being my sounding board when I get stuck, and for the idea about the difference between how Europeans and Americans write the date.
And as always, my eternal gratitude to Darryl Harris, husband-slash-author-assistant extraordinaire. It all finally started coming together when you got on the team, and I’m loving every second of it.
Note from the Author
This is a work of fiction, but as with most fiction, some of the things in it are true. Here’s a quick overview:
Injection wells used in the hydro-fracking of oil are associated with earthquakes: True. However, these quakes are relatively small, and no major damage has been caused by them such as the damage described in this book.
People in West Texas don’t know what Earl Grey tea is. False. Sorry.
Allied forces conducted soil sampling on French beaches before the D-Day Invasion: True, except in the real mission, no American troops were involved.
Women pilots flew in the WASP (Women Airforce Service Pilots) program to ferry planes to men in combat, and they trained in Sweetwater, Texas: True, and you really should visit the WASP Museum there. It’s awesome. http://www.waspmuseum.org/index.html
These women were righteous and amazing: Also true.
Everything sounds better in a British accent: True, obviously.
If you enjoy Knickers in a Twist, I would love it if you could take a few minutes to leave a review on Amazon, iBooks, Kobo, Barnes and Noble, or GoodReads.
Table of Contents
Somewhat Married
Nigel the Brit
Bridled Enthusiasm
The Fascinator
To The Rescue
The Best-Laid Plans
Smashing
The Grenade
Heel-Grabber
Itsy Bitsy Spider
Space Cops
Vibe Detecting 101
Every British Man’s Fantasy
What’s in a Name?
Charade
You Still Have Your Health
Truth Defender
Epilogue
Chapter One
Somewhat Married
“Okay, now I want you to lift up tall... breathe in... aaaand...lift up tall tall tall.”
I lifted up tall in my triangle pose. Or rather, as tall as I could, given that I am only of medium height and that I was also trying to keep one hand wrapped around my ankle. I shifted my feet on my yoga mat and tried to find my center of balance. Where was that crazy thing?
I glanced over at Viv, her lean legs in bright pink and yellow tie-dyed leggings, her bare feet planted solidly on her own mat beside me.
I couldn't decide what was worse: the fact that I, a young, healthy woman in the prime of her life, was bad at yoga, or the fact that my best friend, Viv, who was somewhere in her eighth decade of life, was so good at it.
Sweat poured out of every cell of my body, and I felt like my face was about to catch fire.
“Mmmm...this pose is a fantastic stress reliever,” the instructor purred.
“Fantastic,” I grunted under my breath. My feet were sweaty and felt like they were going to shoot out from under me, sending me into involuntary splits. I struggled to keep them on the mat.
“Just relax and focus on your breath. In... and out. In... and out.”
I prayed for it to be over.
“Okay, now, one more breath. That's it. Relax into it.”
For the life of me, I could not understand how anyone could relax into this. I felt like my ribs were breaking. Was I supposed to feel like my ribs were breaking? This couldn't be right.
I ducked my head and looked at the other people in the class. No one else seemed to be on the verge of cardiac arrest. I must be doing it wrong.
I checked Viv again. She had never looked more serene.
“Okay, now we're going to go down to our mat, on our shins.”
I silently said a prayer of gratitude and dropped to my knees on the mat.
“We're going to go gently down to our mats,” the instructor said with a pointed look at me. “On our shins and then down to our forearms.”
I cringed, but did as I was told and tried not to imagine how wide my posterior must look to the row behind me. Note to self: always claim the back row in yoga – and everything else, if possible.
“Now, I want you to just relax your heart into your forearms—”
What? Relax my heart into my forearms? How did that...what?
“And breathe into your kidneys.”
I
started to draw in a breath but stopped. Breathe into my kidneys?
I thought about that for a moment, then noticed that the rest of the class was moving on to a different position. I hadn't even figured out how to breathe into my kidneys yet! Wait!
Everyone else seemed to be lifting in that triangle thing, with their palms and feet on the floor, their booties in the air. I floundered around and finally got my hips up, rocking precariously back and forth before I caught my balance, spread my feet a little further apart, and then tried my best to maintain the pose. The backs of my thighs screamed.
“If you want, you can bring your legs in a little bit closer to your body, and drop the backs of your feet closer to the ground for a deeper stretch.”
I was on the balls of my feet, and I felt like the stretch was quite deep enough, thank you. The blood was rushing to my head. My lungs felt buried under every other organ in my body.
My head hung between my shoulders. I tilted it just a bit. Viv's bony feet were flat on the ground. She turned her head and smiled sweetly at me.
I gave her a flat smile in return. “I will not forget this,” I promised her.
After the class ended and I could summon the strength to stand, I rolled up my yoga mat and slung it over my shoulder. I could feel that my face was red as a clown nose and dripping sweat. Sweat rolled down my neck and the small of my back. I had been thoroughly disabused of my assumption that yoga was going to be relaxing and easy, kind of like stretching before you get out of bed.
Viv, on the other hand, looked positively dewy as she pulled her jacket on over her form-fitting yoga outfit.
“This is going to get easier, right?” I mumbled as we followed the other students to the parking lot.
“Oh, sure,” Viv said with a wave of her hand. “In a couple of weeks you'll really get the hang of it and love it.” She stretched her bony arms over her head and did a tree pose.
“Mmmhmmm,” I said, because I was fairly sure that, even with my recent weight loss, my body would never be as limber and flexible as Viv's. It seemed patently unfair that she had that willowy, lithe body at 80-something years old while I was stuck with my basic fireplug structure. But it was what it was, and I didn't have enough energy left to do anything but accept it.
“I wonder why Tri-Patrice didn't make it.”
Tri-Patrice was my childhood friend Trisha, who had decided to change her name to Patrice when she became a high-falutin' anchor on the local NBC affiliate, KBST. I'd tried to make the change, but my mouth always said, “Tri-” before it remembered she was Patrice now. So, I gave up and went with it. To me, she was either Trisha or Tri-Patrice, and we'd both come to accept it. Much as I'd accepted my fireplug body.
I opened the passenger door on the Monster Carlo and tossed my yoga mat and gym bag inside. As soon as the bag hit the seat, my phone beeped.
“Sorry,” I said. I took the phone out of the bag. “She just sent me a text. She probably got stuck at work.”
Trisha did the six and ten o'clock news, which was a pretty demanding job. To some people, it looked like she worked for an hour and a half every day, but I knew she put in some intense time at the station.
“Sorry, can't make it (obv). I think they found Peter. Not good.”
I flipped the phone around and showed Viv.
She peered at it, then said, “Crikey.”
“Crikey?”
“It's a word. I wonder what's not good.”
Peter Browning was a hotshot reporter on KBST. He was pretty high profile, even for a big fish in a small pond like Lubbock. He had a reputation for hard-hitting investigative interviews, like the one a few months prior about the collapse of an elementary school following an earthquake that might have been caused by fracking for oil in the area. Or something like that—to be honest, I hadn't paid much attention. I knew there was a little girl who'd been crippled; Browning had gone after the guy who designed the building; and, not long after that the guy had been found dead. Browning was soon showing up in interviews with major networks as some kind of expert on damages caused by fracking-related earthquakes.
Then a few days ago, he'd disappeared. Half the town had been out looking for him. His wife, a pretty young thing with an eight-months-pregnant belly, was on the news several times a day, pleading tearfully for information.
I think they found Peter. Not good.
“It could be anything,” I said. “Maybe they found him in Las Vegas, drunk out of his mind and blowing all his money on show girls.”
“I saw a story about a woman whose car had gone off a bridge, and she was trapped in the bottom of a ravine for three days before anyone found her. It could be something like that.”
“Exactly. Or maybe he got mixed up with the mob and he decided to go incognito—dyed his hair, grew a mustache, changed his name.”
“Clearly, we need more information. Let's go up to the station to see what Patrice knows.”
I wasn't surprised. Viv lived at Belle Court Retirement Home, and on Tuesday nights she usually found a reason to be gone because of Taco Tuesday. “You can't imagine what they consider a taco there,” she said once, and shuddered. “I'd rather eat my own hair.”
“I need to check with Tony first. He has Stump tonight.”
“You have shared custody of your dog now?”
“No,” I said, rolling my eyes at her and pulling on my own jacket now that the early-November chill was starting to hit my sweat. Viv knew about Stump's separation anxiety and why I could never leave her alone at our place in Trailertopia. “Frank is out of town and I didn't want to miss this class—which you promised would be fun –” I slapped her lightly on the arm with the back of my hand. “So, I took her over to Tony's.”
“Well, he might as well get used to her if you're all eventually going to be one big happy. Listen, there's no sense in taking two cars. Let's take yours.”
“Sure, but only if you'll drive.”
“Oh, okay,” Viv said, pretending (badly) to be a little put out by the idea. Viv was seriously envious of my 1974 Monte Carlo. Apparently forty-years-ago Viv had wanted a Monte Carlo like Sue Ellen Ewing drove on Dallas and had been deprived of that experience. She was the one who had talked me into buying the ancient metal monstrosity in the first place, and I expected any day now she was going to offer to buy it from me. She just had to come to grips with the idea that the Cadillac she bought around the same time I bought the Monster Carlo was a lemon, at over twenty times the price I'd paid for her dream car. She appeared to still be in the denial phase of her grieving process.
Viv pulled onto Clovis Highway and headed for the loop so we could make the trek to the complete other side of town quickly. I called Tony. “If it's okay with you, Viv and I are going to head over to Channel 11 to talk to Trisha. Apparently, something has turned up on that guy Peter Browning.”
“That might be what's on the news right now. They cut into America's Got Pizazz. Right now they're broadcasting from some place out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Really? Like, a crime scene?”
Viv looked at me, bug-eyed.
“Eyes on the road when you're driving my car,” I told her.
“They haven't said anything about a crime,” Tony said. “Just that the body of an adult male was found and the police department would have a press conference at nine.”
“Whoa.” I pulled the phone away and told Viv, “They found a male body somewhere outside of town and the PD is having a press conference at nine.”
Viv floored it.
“You can't tell where they're broadcasting from?”
“No, it looks like any road you'd see outside of town. Dirt road along a stripped cotton field. You're not going to try to find it, are you?”
“No,” I said with a laugh. I glanced over at Viv, who most definitely looked like she wanted to find it. “Maybe. Do you want me to come back?”
I was trying really hard to be considerate of the fact that I was a somewhat-married woman now
and needed to take Tony's opinion into consideration from time to time.
He was silent for a moment. “No, Stump is fine and I doubt you can get into much trouble with all the news cameras and police around.”
I laughed and said to Viv, “Tony thinks we can't get into much trouble with the news cameras and police around.”
“Has he met us?”
I turned back to the phone. “I think you've just thrown down the gauntlet to Viv.”
Tony sighed. “Well, if you get arrested for interfering with a crime scene or creating a public nuisance or something, just let me know. Stump and I will come bail you out.”
“There's a reason I love you two,” I said happily. “We'll probably be no more than an hour.”
I ended the call and slid the phone into my gym bag.
“Oh, gag,” Viv said. “Look at you grinning like a fool.”
“You're just jealous because I'm a happily somewhat-married and you're not.” I called Tony's and my relationship somewhat-married because, although we were legally married, we'd only recently resumed our relationship after a ten-year hiatus. We hadn't yet made the leap to living together full time because cohabitation was a bit more than either of us was prepared to deal with at the moment.
Viv rolled her eyes. “Believe me, I am not jealous of any married person, somewhat or otherwise. I've been there, done that, got a five-pack of t-shirts. And it just so happens that there is a new gentleman in my life.”
“Oooh, Viv,” I said. “Who?”
“I'm not even going to tell you.”
I waited fifteen seconds.
“His name is Nigel and he is British. All those silly old widows up there are sniffing after him. I call them all The Gaggle. Like a bunch of geese.”
I knew she couldn't hold out long. “Nigel the Brit, huh? That sounds like a nice change.”
Two of Viv's late husbands had been stinking rich, having made their respective fortunes in oil and Dairy Queen franchises. One of them was nicknamed “Hoss.” They'd made it possible for her to live in the lap of the Belle Court Retirement Home luxury, but neither those two, nor the first three ex-husbands who had not been wealthy, were anything but red-blooded American.
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