Miss Pettybone's First Case

by Melissa Rees

  He ordered another drink and sat back. He couldn't shake the feeling that they had missed something important. With Otis bawling throughout the confrontation with Warren Jones, he had been unable to focus on what he was doing. His eyes widened in dismay when he realized that neither he nor Otis had thought to check the house. Warren Jones could have incriminating evidence on them and they had been too stupid to look for it.

  Aaron glanced at his watch and wondered if anyone had found the body yet. Otis would hate it but they would have to go back. Beckoning the waitress for his bill, he dug out cash that he kept for emergencies. He couldn't use his charge cards. He didn't want a record of ever being in Mississippi.

  He was not looking forward to telling Otis they had to go back. Infuriated with the situation, he stood up and headed for the elevator. It would be a long night. Otis would probably have a severe case of hysterics but it couldn't be helped. They would have to go back.

  Chapter 8

  The parking lot at the post office had cleared considerably since the early morning rush. Pulling the mail-truck into her space, Miss Pettybone turned the engine off. Taking the keys out of the ignition, she grabbed her trays and walked into the post office.

  Billie June and Lynn were sitting on tables behind the counter talking, their legs swung slowly back and fourth, as they waited for her to return. Lynn was tiny, with beautiful shoulder length blonde hair. Her tan face was still unlined, her complexion smooth at thirty-six.

  Lynn glanced at her best friend, raised her eyebrows at the look on her face, then jumped down and walked into the break-room. Putting some coins in the machine, she bought a cold can of Diet Pepsi. Walking back to stand beside her furious friend, she popped the tab and held out the can of soda. "Your face is bright red. Your blood pressure is probably through the roof."

  Miss Pettybone stacked the trays, and then reached for the soda. "That darn sheriff is a pain in the behind."

  “Loraine, he's just doing his job." Lynn pointed out.

  "He yelled at me."

  "He yelled at you about what?" Lynn asked, jumping back onto the table.

  "He said that I could have been killed. He said I contaminated the crime scene. He even threatened to arrest me for contaminating the crime scene. He was such a horse's ass that I decided not to speak to him."

  "You stopped speaking to the sheriff while he was interviewing you?" Billie June asked, intrigued. Billie June was the youngest of the women. She was a sturdy twenty-nine-year old woman with baby blue eyes, dark brown hair and a soft sensitive mouth. Always a devout Christian, Billie June spent a fair amount of her praying time focused on Miss Pettybone. Although she admired the woman for her independence, she worried a great deal about Miss Pettybone’s soul. She had decided early on in their relationship to save Miss Pettybone from herself. She spent a considerable amount of time and energy trying to reform her.

  Miss Pettybone threw Billie June an impatient glance, then sat down on a nearby chair. "I told him everything I knew the first time we talked. I had nothing to offer when he came at me the second time. So, of course I stopped speaking to him. He was yelling at me."

  "Start from the beginning and tell us what happened." Lynn urged.

  Miss Pettybone took a drink of soda and repeated what she knew and what she had told the sheriff. "Warren Jones was murdered sometime this morning. I heard the coroner tell, Dwight, I mean the sheriff, that he was killed maybe a couple of hours before I got there."

  "You could have seen the man being murdered." Billie June gasped. "And they would have killed you for witnessing the murder."

  Miss Pettybone decided to totally ignore Billie June and looked instead at Lynn. "He was shot in the left side of the head with some type of handgun."

  "How do you know it was a handgun?" Billie June inquired.

  Miss Pettybone glanced at the young woman and shook her head. "Because had it been a shotgun, he wouldn't have had much of a head left."

  "Oh." Billie June said, turning a little green at the thought of a shotgun blast to the head.

  Miss Pettybone continued. "I looked around his house and couldn't find anything that really explained what he was doing in Beatty."

  "I don't think he ever received any personal letters here." Lynn pointed out.

  "I wonder who he really was." Miss Pettybone mused.

  "Maybe he was in the witness relocation program." Billie June offered. "I watched a television program just the other night about that."

  "Or he was running from the people who killed him." Miss Pettybone pointed out.

  "What do you think the witness relocation people are scared of?" Billie June demanded.

  "Okay, you're right. I suppose he could have been in the witness relocation program." Miss Pettybone conceded. "But somehow I don't think he was."

  "Why not, Loraine?" Lynn asked, interested in spite of herself.

  "Because I think that people who are in that kind of program still have to work somewhere." Miss Pettybone answered, frowning in thought.

  "That's true." Billie June said. "The people in the television movie owned a pizza parlor."

  Lynn's glance touched Miss Pettybone and Billie June before jumping off the table, "You all ready to eat a late lunch?"

  "I am." Billie June said, jumping down.

  Still thinking of Warren Jones, Miss Pettybone only nodded.

  Chapter 9

  The Bent Twist Cafe was a regular eating spot for the town's local inhabitants. It was owned and operated by their old friend and school chum, Jewel Reed.

  Walking into the blessed coolness of the restaurant, the women scooted into a booth and waited until Jewel rushed over.

  "So, is it true? You found a body out at Malkowitz's old farmhouse?"

  Miss Pettybone glanced around the small cafe. All faces were turned to their table.

  "So I heard it was that guy from Hotel Six?" Jewel asked, looking down at the women.

  "Yes, poor man." Billie said solemnly. "God rest his soul." She added as an afterthought.

  "I heard Dwight was pretty mad at you." Jewel continued, staring at Miss Pettybone.

  Lynn gave her a quick shake of her head, warning her not to bring up that particular subject. Jewel jerked out her pad and laid it on the table. "What can I get for you girls today?"

  Miss Pettybone took some napkins from the holder and dabbed them on her face.

  “What's the special?"

  "Spaghetti."

  Miss Pettybone hastily shook her head remembering Warren's Jones brains and blood all over the walls. "I think I’ll just have a salad."

  "I’ll have the special." Lynn announced, shoving the menu back behind the napkin holder.

  "Me too." Billie June said, looking at Miss Pettybone. "Are you okay? You look funny."

  Miss Pettybone rolled her eyes and looked at Jewel. "I need a soda."

  Jewel frowned at Miss Pettybone and said. "I agree with Billie June. You do look a little pale."

  Annoyed, Miss Pettybone chose her words carefully. "You would look funny to if you had just seen a man's brains all over the walls."

  "Gross." Billie June said, turning white.

  "I know, it's not a pretty thought." Miss Pettybone admitted to Billie June, reaching for her glass of water.

  **

  Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Warren Jones. The memory of what his face looked like kept repeating itself over and over inside her head.

  Miss Pettybone glanced at the clock that sat on the nightstand next to her bed. The large black alarm clock told her it was one-fifteen in the morning. She knew she would not sleep until she could think things through. She lay quietly, allowing her mind to run through the day’s events.

  She had actually gone into a room where a murdered man lay dead. She had probably missed her calling, she reflected. After the initial shock, she had acted how she imagined a professional would have acted.

  She had cased the joint. Stopping, she briefly wondered if that was the proper
terminology. She would have to look it up.

  What had Warren Jones done to deserve to be murdered in the prime of his life?

  Something hideous, she suspected. Maybe he was a bank robber who had flown the coup with the stolen money. Or a member of a crime family who had ratted someone out and had to run for his life.

  If she had gotten to the farmhouse a few hours earlier she might have seen the perpetrators. Again she stopped and thought about the word perpetrators. She would need a book on crime, she decided.

  Impatiently, she pushed the covers back and scooted to the edge of the bed.

  Turning on a lamp, she grabbed her robe and tugged it on. Yawning, she headed down the back stairs to the kitchen.

  She took a carton out of the refrigerator and poured herself a small glass of milk. Glancing around the large country kitchen felt comforting. Except for the brief period of time she had lived in a small apartment, she had resided in the house most of her life. And excluding new appliances periodically showing up and different color walls, the kitchen hadn't ever changed.

  She loved the room. It was long and narrow with the refrigerator and stove positioned on the north side of the kitchen. On the east and west sides were floor-to-ceiling white cabinets surrounding a long oak Harvest table. The table rested in the middle of the room with the south wall taken up with huge windows overlooking the cow pasture.

  As if it happened yesterday, she could picture her mama calling the farm hands in to lunch. The men, hot and tired, gathered around the long kitchen table drinking large canning jars of iced tea.

  When she focused on the memory, she could almost smell the sweat mixing with fried chicken and green beans. The slight scent of peach perfume her mama used wafting behind her as she bustled around filling plates. Sighing at the memory of her parents, she put the milk away. Picking up her glass, she headed for the sun room.

  Every day that she lived in the old house, Miss Pettybone considered herself fortunate. She thanked her lucky stars and her parents for inheriting the old three-story farmhouse.

  She thought her farmhouse was charming. Painted white with black shutters, it sat solemnly surrounded by six hundred acres of woods and pastures. Most of the farmland she rented to Jerry O'Beck, her neighbor, who alternately planted cotton and corn.

  Although the old barn and various out buildings weren't used, she had them repainted the previous summer. Miss Pettybone was extremely conscientious about the maintenance the old place required.

  But it did have its drawbacks. It had been hard to change things. The furniture that belonged to her parents still sat in every room with the exception of her bedroom.

  After watching a home decorating show on television, she decided her bedroom needed a makeover. So she bought a white bedroom set, and she and Lynn had painted the walls a soft cream.

  When she attempted to pick out a matching bedspread, it caused more anxiety than Miss Pettybone could endure, so she ended up buying a cool beige and white bedspread and curtains.

  She had tried to think of doing something unexpected as the show suggested, but in the end gave it up. She figured she had used up all the creativity she possessed just picking the paint color for that one room. And though she held her breath the whole time she had the seldom-used sun room renovated, neither of her parents appeared from the grave to complain about the mess.

  The sun room was her favorite place in the house now. The floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls beckoned light into the room from sunup to sundown.

  In the summer the central air conditioning kicked in and kept the place cool, and in the winter she could start a fire in the huge wood-burning fireplace that resided in the middle wall.

  She turned on a lamp and sank down in a deep blue upholstered chair that sat beside the fireplace. Propping her feet up on the matching ottoman, she took a sip of milk and thought about Warren Jones.

  The murdered man was a mystery. He had almost slipped into town six months previously without anyone noticing.

  Of course, with thirty-six single women above the age of forty in Beatty, he didn't go unnoticed long.

  Mildred Bartlett noticed him first. Mildred Bartlett was what her grandma scathingly used to call a hoochie mama. She wore her hair a short carrot top red. She had dark green eyes set in an oval tanned face. There had even been talk around town she had breast implants.

  But Miss Pettybone figured that at Mildred's age, she had probably only reinforced what breasts she already had.

  Mildred also had a deep and abiding passion for members of the opposite sex. She claimed her great grandmother started the first house of ill repute in Mississippi. Why she should advertise that fact had always intrigued Miss Pettybone.

  Mildred's wisdom came from having been married four times and widowed once. When she offered up advice on men, Miss Pettybone paid attention. Not that she cared a great deal about men's feelings, but she was always fascinated with any kind of abundance in knowledge.

  Mildred had him figured for a widower or a gay. She said when she bent down in front of him at the gas station in her favorite low cut blouse he hadn't even noticed. She finished the milk and set the empty glass on the table that sat beside her chair.

  Miss Pettybone went over the things she did know. Warren Jones showed up at the motel, six months ago. That would mean he had arrived in Beatty some time in February. That seemed like a peculiar time to be looking for a home. Most people that moved did so in the summer months.

  She picked up the glass and stood. Bending down, she rubbed the damp ring where the glass had set with her hand. After depositing the glass in the sink, she filled it with water.

  Yawning as she walked to her office. Miss Pettybone had renovated the kitchen pantry into an office when she first bought her computer. The room had been painted a bright white. It was small but cozy.

  She sat down in her office chair and scooted up to the computer. Clicking it on, she made a new file. She thought about what she knew about him. Typing in Warren Jones at the top of the page, she put time and date in the right hand corner of the screen, then paused again to think. Typing carefully, she wrote:

  1. Arrived in Beatty in February.

  2. Stayed out at Motel Six for two months before moving to Zeb Malkowitz's rental house in March.

  3. Always paid cash for rent.

  4. Stayed away from town as much as possible, coming in only for liquor and supplies.

  5. Drank heavily but never went into any bars that she knew about in town.

  6. Hadn't much luggage, only a couple of duffel bags. No personal papers of any kind.

  7. Drove a late model Honda automobile.

  8. Smoked Marlboro Lights.

  9. Age around thirty-six, thirty-seven.

  10. Dead.

  Pleased at getting the information in a file, she leaned back into the chair.

  Not much information on a man's life though. Everyone has some type of past, she reflected. Parents, friends, co-workers. Someone who cared if they lived or died. Warren Jones hadn't even had a telephone installed, which seemed odd. No cell phone was found in the house or his car. No way to communicate other than the pay phones in town. She wondered if the telephone company kept records of phone calls placed on pay phones. That might be a way to start the investigation, she decided.

  It didn't make sense that he never got in touch with anyone. For all practical purposes the man came to Beatty, Mississippi just to drink. At least that’s how it appeared. Clicking the save button, she stood up and stretched. She had to be up early for work.

  She ambled up the stairs and into the bathroom, and then gazed at herself in the mirror.

  She was thirty-six years old and ready for a change in her life. She was weary of being bored and working only because she had nothing better to do. Her parents, who never spent an unnecessary penny unless they had too, left her well off.

  Twenty-seven years of depositing her wages in the bank had added to that. She didn't really have to work, not to pay
her bills. She did it because she had always worked, every since she was a small child.

  She truly believed if she didn't grasp this opportunity, she would live out her days and nights exactly as she had lived all her life. Bored. Did she want that?

  Walking back into the bedroom, she folded herself into bed. The bedroom was as familiar as her hands. She could find every crack and corner blindfolded. She was tired of the same routine she had always followed. Time to take the bull by the horn as the saying went. You want something to happen, you make it happen.

  She clicked the light off, and then rolled over on her side. She decided she needed a plan. She would get on the Internet tomorrow afternoon and order some books on detecting.

  Although she figured she had read every mystery book that was ever published, there had to be practical advice on what to do when you started an investigation.

  She flipped on her back and stared at ceiling. If she decided to investigate, really investigate the murder, she would not do it half way. She would follow the clues where-ever they led.

  Smiling happily in the dark, she felt excited about the next day. Something that she hadn't experienced since she was a small child. She would try and keep the investigation professional. She would keep proper notes and write up a report every other day.

  Someday, maybe she could open up her own investigation business. Closing her eyes, she fell asleep thinking about what to name her business.

  Chapter 10

  The next morning Miss Pettybone slowed down at Fourth and Willow looking for Lenny. Not spotting him, she heaved a sigh of relief. He must either have stayed home the night before or taken a different route. What she didn't see, she didn't have to deal with, she rationalized.

  She parked her car in the same spot she had used for seventeen years and walked into the post office, turning immediately into the break-room. Hitting the button, she watched as the can of soda dropped into the slot at the bottom of the machine.