by Melissa Rees
Miss Pettybone's First Case
Melissa Rees
Copyright 2010 by Melissa Rees
Smashwords Edition
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means(electronic,
Mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of owner and above publisher of this book.
I dedicate this book to my husband Steve, children Danette, Andrew, Casey and Samantha, and especially my mother, Billie June Jones. Many thanks to my friend Marie Handzlik who has been there for me for forty years. I also wish to thank my friend Millie Samuelson for all her help and encouragement. She has always been a huge inspiration to me. Thank you Michelle Gladish for my marvelous Book Cover.
Miss Pettybone’s First Case
Chapter One
Emotions are like catacombs, Warren Jones thought drunkenly, screwing his eyes together to shut out the early morning sunshine. You're up, you're down, you're in, you're out, you slip, you slide, you're light, you're dark and sometimes you tie yourself in a freaking knot.
He rolled over on his side and peeked through matted eyelashes searching for his glass of whiskey. Spotting it on the floor, he plucked the glass off the stained carpet, took a sip and then leaned back onto the rumpled double bed. The dirty sheet he had kicked aside earlier now lay in a crumpled ball at his feet.
That's where he was now, he decided closing his eyes. Tied up in a knot in the small town of Beatty, Mississippi. Beatty, Mississippi, population forty-five thousand, forty-five thousand and one, he corrected himself. Eight bars, six restaurants, two supermarkets, six gas stations, three liquor stores and fifteen Churches, all tied together in a bow. Of course, the bow was one sweltering son-of-a-bitch. New York was hot but Mississippi cooked. And the worst part of being tied in this particular knot was the whole thing was his own damn fault.
Most people, he figured, were decent individuals whose only goal in life was to work hard and do the right thing. Then there were people like himself. People who
skulked around on the fringes of life always looking for an easy way to get what they wanted. And sometimes overstepping the bounds of common sense, he reminded himself. Common sense would have told him that blackmailing two crazy antique dealers was not the smartest thing he could have done.
When they had approached him with their plan, it seemed like the right thing to do. Make a little stash, feel a little dangerous. The plan had worked well for thirteen months before he screwed it up by demanding more money. Groaning at his stupidity and greed, his eyes squinted against the blazing sun that burned its way through shades that hung lopsided from constant use. Two small windows were thrown open in hope of catching even the tiniest of Mississippi breezes.
He pushed himself off the bed, trying to balance the glass of whiskey and took another sip. Spilling some whiskey on his t-shirt, he brushed it off with a shaky hand. Gazing down, he grimaced. His white tank top was white no more. Spots of whiskey and cigarette ash covered the front part of his chest and a large portion of his faded blue jeans. He yawned and gave the shirt a last brush, then walked barefoot out of the small hot bedroom and towards the living quarters. He paused in the hallway, letting his eyes adjust to the shadowy contours of the living area. The room itself was dank and gloomy, smelling of liquor and stale cigarettes.
His landlord, being the cheap bastard he was, had installed Venetian blinds instead of an air conditioner in the futile attempt to ward off the heat from the sun. The aged cracked blinds were closed tight against the windows. The areas surrounding the windows, which were once white walls, now looked diseased with patches of mildew appearing sporadically across the drywall and baseboards.
The old house had come furnished with a decrepit brown sofa that squatted unsteadily in the middle of the room. A small black and white television set was perched on top of a battered kitchen cabinet that still wore its original hardware. Newspapers and empty whiskey bottles were scattered on the couch and end tables. Not the best place he ever lived, he reflected, but certainly not the worst.
He sighed and ambled across the room. Maybe he would drive into town and get something to eat. He could stop at the liquor store, buy what he needed there. It would be something to do; he decided as he wandered over and took a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboro Lights that lay on a three-legged wood table, and then searched for his lighter. Finding the small plastic yellow lighter in between the cushions of the couch, he lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
He was tired of his own company. Hiding out in the dilapidated farmhouse had seemed like a good idea month’s back. Now he was bored blind. The only good thing about the farmhouse was he seriously doubted Keel and Wagner would be able to track him there. The farmhouse was parked in the middle of a cotton field with only a few tired and dusty oak trees surrounding it. The complete silence had unnerved him when he first moved in but now he hardly noticed it.
He took a drag of his cigarette and thought about Aaron Wagner. What a schizophrenic that guy turned out to be. By day, mild mannered respected Antique Appraiser. By night, thrill seeking pervert.
Warren didn't hold with men dating men. Thought it unnatural. And it wasn't that he was unfamiliar with the whole gay pride thing. He grew up in New York City for God's sake. He saw men dancing with men before. He was wise to the world of different strokes for different folks. Unfortunately, he had soon discovered Wagner was also one cold son-of-a-bitch.
When Warren had demanded more money, he felt confident that they wouldn't have too much to squawk about. They would still be raking in the cash cow. Then one day they tried running him over with a damn loaded dolly. After he had rolled away and gotten to his feet, he had laughed. Two girlie men trying to kill him had seemed funny at the time.
A week later someone had taken a pot shot at him outside his apartment building late one night. The bullet had missed his head by inches. He had decided then that it would be prudent to vamoose out of New York and start running. He had run all the way to Beatty, Mississippi before he stopped. Stretching wearily, he wondered if he were safe even now.
When he had called them six months ago and insisted that they send him more money, they had agreed on the amount. He had provided them only a post office box address. He didn't think he was as clever as them but how clever did you have to be to hide? Hell's fire, rabbits hid.
He sighed when he heard a noise coming from the back of the house and walked towards the kitchen. It was probably the broad from the post office again. She had been there three times already this week. He didn't know what she wanted. Didn't care what she wanted. He would tell her to take a long walk off a short pier.
He jerked the door open and came face to face with Keel and Wagner. Backing away from the men, he stared down at the small handgun that Wagner was holding.
Swallowing hard, he wondered how they found him. The woman at the postal service had assured him that they did not reveal the address of people who used their post office boxes.
The last six months he had spent wallowing in an alcoholic stupor flashed in his brain. He should have been running. His eyes sent an urgent message to his brain that he was going to die. The two properly dressed men in front of him were going to kill him. Lifting his middle finger, he flipped them off.
Chapter 2
Miss Loraine Pettybone lay tangled in her sheet, annoyed with herself for spending another night tossing and turning. What was the matter with her? She never had this much trouble sleeping. She did, like every woman she knew, have the occasional restless night. But it had been well over two weeks that she had been waking in the early hours of the morning.
&
nbsp; Exhausted, she lay still waiting for the alarm to signal the start of another work day. Hearing the soft buzz of an oldie station click on, she rolled over to turn the alarm off, then sank back onto her bed for a few minutes before pushing herself up.
Lately she had been waking long before dawn, curled up in her bed listening to the creaking sounds of her old house as it adjusted to the time and temperature of a new day. She had come to the realization during the night that the insomnia had started the week before her birthday party, which had been fourteen days past. She couldn't pin point why she was so upset about her birthday but she was. The lack of sleep was making her feel dull and out of sorts. Her best friend, Lynn Cooper, thought she was just experiencing the blues because they were coming upon the big 4-0. Maybe she was right, maybe that was all it was.
She slipped off the bed and walked into the bathroom. After giving the bathroom mirror a cautionary glance, she bent down to twist the faucet on. Adjusting the water temperature, she shrugged out of pajama bottoms and a light blue t-shirt, and then stepped under the water. She gradually turned the hot water to a lower temperature and finished her shower shivering and shaking.
After twisting the facet to the off position, she grabbed a fluffy white towel from the towel rack and stepped out. She quickly dried herself, and then wrapped the towel around her body. Picking up the discarded pajamas, she threw them into the bathroom hamper.
She was a neat freak. Not by nature or choice but by conditioning. Her mother's strong belief that cleanliness was next to Godliness had ingrained itself deep inside her the last thirty-six years.
As she strode into the bedroom and to the closet, she gave a fleeting look around her room. Everything in place and a place for everything, she muttered, painfully aware that she said the same thing to herself every morning. She vaguely wondered if you could bore yourself to death. She reached into her closet and pulled light yellow top and gray postal shorts off a hanger. She preformed this same ritual six days a week all her adult life. Days, weeks and months had blended seamlessly together into seventeen years. Each day in her life exactly the way it was the year before.
Miss Pettybone dressed, brushed her shoulder length brown hair into a pony tail, then walked to the bed and carefully pulled the sheets and bedspread back into place. She straightened and glanced in the same mirror she had used all her life. She saw a tall thin woman with ash brown hair and big gray eyes staring back at her. She briefly wondered if mirrors trapped images over time. If they did, this one would not have much to report. After sending the mirror a belated apology for all the years of monotony she had inflected on it, she headed downstairs.
She was reluctant to admit it, even to herself, how unhappy she had become. The fact that she was giving inanimate objects emotions was probably a red flag she should pay attention too. She exhaled noisily at her life, then stopped in the kitchen long enough to grab a Diet Pepsi.
The light from the refrigerator briefly illuminated the wide wood plank floors of her kitchen. The only sound she could hear was the quiet humming of the refrigerator. She popped the tab of her soda, and then walked out of the kitchen and into an attached two car garage.
The early morning heat settled around her as she climbed into her immaculately maintained ten-year-old Chevy Impala. Pushing the garage door opener, she eased her car out of the garage and headed for work. At five-thirty in the morning in Beatty, Mississippi, it was dark.
Slowing down at the intersection of Fourth and Willow, she peered into the darkness and found what she was looking for. She braked and shifted the car into park, then scooted out. She left the car sitting in the street, headlights on, beams of lights shooting ahead into the darkness.
Miss Pettybone walked over to the bundle of clothes that lay in the street and bent down. Shaking her head, she poked a finger into the forehead of Lenny Crabtree. “Lenny, get up and get on the sidewalk.”
Head rolling to the side, he groaned.
“Leonard! The school bus is going to be by here pretty soon. You scared a little girl almost to death the last time she saw you. She thought you were dead. Now get up!”
“Leave me alone, Miss Pettybone.” He muttered, rolling onto his side, his bright blue polo shirt and black polyester pants dusty and wrinkled.
She glanced up at the sound of a vehicle approaching and saw an old brown Ford station wagon turn the corner under the street light. Slowing, the wagon jerked to the side of the street, then pulled to a stop opposite Miss Pettybone's car.
Jumping out, Mary Alice McKidding trotted over to Miss Pettybone and looked down. “What's going on?”
Mary Alice McKidding was a familiar sight around Beatty, Mississippi. Although she insisted that she was in her late fifties, most people around town knew that she was at least sixty-five years old. She kept her thick black hair in a bun at the base of her neck. Her pencil thin eyebrows fitted nicely over sharp dark brown eyes. Her face was long and her lips were always painted a bright red. She wore a red pair of cargoes with a red and white short sleeve blouse. Thin to the point of emaciation, she had never been known to just walk. She trotted everywhere she went.
Mary Alice was also a known scavenger. What she didn't talk people out of; she bought for little money and then sold it on e-bay. It was rumored that she made a very good living that way.
Pleased to see the older woman, Miss Pettybone smiled a welcome. “Mary Alice, what are you doing out and about this early in the morning?”
Mary Alice took the last bite of a biscuit she held in her hand, and then chewed hurriedly before answering. “Dumpster diving.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ain't you ever heard of dumpster diving, Miss Pettybone?”
“No I haven't.”
“This here is trash day. I come out before the garbage truck runs and see what I can find.”
Interested, Miss Pettybone looked around. “Do you ever find anything good?”
“Oh yeah, people throw all kinds of things away.” She informed Miss Pettybone before glancing back down at Lenny Crabtree. “What's up with him?”
Miss Pettybone glanced at her watch and sighed. “Help me drag him off the street, Mary Alice.” Both women bent down and grabbed him under his arms, then hauled him up onto the sidewalk. Very carefully, they leaned him against the telephone pole before stepping back. The security light shone above, highlighting his bald head like a halo.
Stepping forward to straighten his clothes, Miss Pettybone complained. “Lenny, you and Nora need to work things out. You're driving everybody in town crazy.”
“Nora hates me.” He whimpered his round face and double chin quivering with emotion.
“Well, if you'd stop drinking and go home at night, she wouldn't be mad.”
He opened his eyes and stared at the face who was patting his clothes into place. “You're not gonna call the sheriff, are you?”
“No, but he's been telling everybody in town that he'll lock your butt up if he catches you lying in the street again.”
“I won't do it anymore.” He promised, his eyes narrowed, his forehead wrinkled as he concentrated on getting his words out. Glancing over at Mary Alice, he groaned and closed his eyes.
Mary Alice stared down at Lenny, then leaned towards Miss Pettybone and whispered. “Nora ought to cut his thing right off.”
“Mary Alice!” Miss Pettybone reproved.
“Well, why do you think he's stinking drunk, lying in the street?” Mary Alice wanted to know. “He's been whoring around with that slut Susie Wilson and is scared to go home.”
“You know he can hear you?”
“I don't care. It's the God fearing truth. This country would be better off if we kept some men for breeding and castrated the rest. The government would be able to think a lot better, let me tell you that!”
Miss Pettybone grinned at Mary Alice's philosophy. “Your political views are interesting, Mary Alice, but it's too early in the day for me to worry about castrating the government.” She bent d
own to look at Lenny and noticed he had drawn his legs up and wrapped his arms protectively about his lower body. “Lenny, I'll call Nora and tell her to come and fetch you.”
“She won't come.” He whispered, almost crying.
“She'll come. She may be mad but she won't want to bail your behind out of jail.”
When his head fell back onto his shoulders, he let out a big burp.
Straightening, Miss Pettybone leaned hurriedly away from the foul odor that had emanated from him. What a God awful smell whiskey leaves a man, she thought, glancing down at him.
Mary Alice was frantically waving the air in front of her. “Geez Lenny, your breath stinks to high heaven.”
Miss Pettybone looked down at Lenny's sweaty face and dusty clothes, and then sighed. Putting her hand on top of his head, she patted it lightly. “I have to get to work, Lenny. I'll call Nora.”
“Yea, I need to get busy too.” Mary Alice reminded herself. Taking the tip of her tennis shoe, she poked it into Lenny's side. “You need to wake up and smell the roses, Lenny Crabtree. That girl's after your money, you stupid old fart.”
Miss Pettybone grinned as she watched the older woman stalk to her wagon and jump in. Mary Alice threw a smirk her way, rammed her car into gear and screeched past the Chevy, giving Miss Pettybone a quick wave as the old wagon shot by.
Miss Pettybone slid inside her own car and reached for her purse. Grabbing her cell phone out, she pushed in Nora Crabtree's telephone number. “Nora, its Loraine Pettybone.”
She heard Nora give a tired sigh at the other end of the phone. “How far did he get?”
“Two blocks from your house.”
“Where's he at?”
“Fourth and Willow.”
“All right, I'll come get him.”
“Get him before the school bus runs.”
