Murder for a Rainy Day (Pecan Bayou Book 6)

by Teresa Trent

  MURDER FOR A RAINY DAY

  Copyright 2014

  Teresa Trent

  All Rights Reserved

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Pat Cegan for sharing her poem, Dreams. I would also like to thank MSgt Brian J. Lamar from the Air Force Reserve 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron or the "Hurricane Hunters" for his valuable information.

  Finally, I would like to thank my editor, Diane Krause. Your attention to detail is amazing. Thanks for helping me to be a better writer.

  Dedication

  To my dad. I will always treasure our time together.

  Books in the Pecan Bayou Series on Kindle

  #1 A Dash of Murder

  #2 Overdue for Murder

  #3 Doggone Dead

  #4 Buzzkill

  #5 Burnout

  #6 Murder for a Rainy Day

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  HELPFUL HINTS FROM THE HAPPY HINTER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dreams

  What are dreams?

  Do they hold some mystical

  message? Are they wrappings

  for lessons we need to learn?

  Prophesies? Warnings, promises?

  How concealed is all, yet at

  the same time, transparently

  clear. The veil is lifting. We

  are awakening again and again.

  As layers are peeled away, how

  wonder-filled life is.

  ~Pat Cegan

  "Well it's official," my father said. "We now have the most lame-ass town entrance in the whole state of Texas."

  Scowling, he dropped the freshly severed hand of cowboy star Charlie Loper to the ground. It landed with a thud.

  "Offensive my ass. That was Charlie Loper’s signature pose. The man is nothing without his six shooter. Now he looks like the butterfly whisperer."

  I have to admit my father was right.

  Although Charlie Loper had been dead for more than fifty years, he was immortalized in bronze thirty years ago and has been ushering visitors into Pecan Bayou ever since. Pecan Bayou, Texas held bragging rights to only two things: growing the biggest and best pecans in the state of Texas, and being the boyhood home of matinee idol Charlie Loper. His daughter, Libby Loper, still lived in Pecan Bayou and kept Charlie’s memory alive through the Charlie Loper Deadeye Museum and a newly-opened dude ranch.

  And now, bronze Charlie Loper had been neutralized. The hand holding his six shooter was gone, a new one being welded into place. The cowboy’s new pose did indeed look as if he as if he would never dream of using a gun.

  My dad’s clenched fist rested on the revolver tucked comfortably on his hip—standard issue for the Pecan Bayou Police Department. I wondered if he was aware of the grip he held on his own gun while he watched Charlie Loper’s being sliced away.

  Even if the non-violent Charlie were alive and standing here today, there would be no butterflies fluttering about. Mosquitoes were the only insects that could tolerate temperatures in the high 90s, with humidity that registered somewhere between a sauna and the steam from a pot of boiling water.

  Today was a big day for my father, so it was important for me to be here, but this environment was brutal for a woman who’s nine months pregnant. I had just come from my weekly appointment with Dr. Randall, my obstetrician, who said she’d be surprised if this baby stays put longer than two weeks.

  Sweat trickled down from my hairline and I felt like I was wrapped in a blanket. Normally, my caring and attentive father would have been fussing over me, but the disarming of Charlie Loper – the hero of my father’s youth – had him completely unsettled. I just hoped I wouldn’t pass out before this whole thing was over.

  As a welder attached two thin metal strips to Charlie’s shiny new outstretched hand, a pickup truck approached, pulling the likeness of Charlie Loper’s famous horse, Ol’ Bess. She’d just made the two-mile journey from the Charlie Loper Deadeye Museum to join Charlie at the corner of Main and Pecan.

  For the most part, Pecan Bayou is a quiet little town with just a few restaurants, a movie theater, churches, schools, a library, and a public pool. The streets are filled with families who have lived here all their lives. We’re a small spot on the map, but not really that different from any other city or town with gossip, marriages and divorces, new babies and sad goodbyes.

  My father, Judd Kelsey, was a lieutenant on the Pecan Bayou Police Force, and although a heavy day of crime might involve a lost dog and a dispute over the bingo money over at the church, he still had strong opinions on the right to bear arms.

  Now, a more peaceful Charlie Loper would greet all who entered our quaint little town.

  As I watched two strapping guys unload Ol’ Bess, I was certain my father was right. The cowboy statue and his newly added horse were a strange couple. While Charlie was made of bronze, wearing a classic weathered patina, the horse looked like it was plucked directly from Ronald McDonald’s play yard. Leave it to Pecan Bayou to take its best cash cow and screw it up. Now this mismatched pair would stand at the main roadway into town, greeting our visitors and giving them a glimpse of how looney we all are.

  I reached into my purse for the Gatorade that I had been carrying around. I swallowed, but choked as the green liquid hit the back of my throat. The drink had been cool just a few minutes before, but now it felt warm and sour. As I gasped for breath, my father finally turned around and looked at me.

  "Oh darlin'. Do you really think you ought to be standing out here in the heat?"

  "I’m fine," I lied.

  During my first pregnancy, I had been an attractive pregnant woman. Well, as attractive as one can be with an extra thirty-five pounds. But the extra weight had been in the front, where it should be. This time around, I put on weight in the front, the back, on the top and on the bottom. And the pounds kept piling on. I was only a few weeks from delivery, and at this point, I was counting down the hours.

  To make matters worse, my husband Leo, a meteorologist, was kicking into high gear as hurricane season got into full swing. This summer had been abnormally hot, and the waters in the Gulf were starting to heat up.

  The recipe for a hurricane is simple. Take a storm off the coast of Africa and let it drift across to the United States. Trap the storm the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico and let it churn. The more it churns, the bigger it gets.

  For as long as I can remember, Pecan Bayou and other towns north of Houston have played happy hosts to evacuees wielding credit cards, looking for places to escape the wind and rain. The only problem though, was that often these hurricanes made landfall and triggered other storm events like tornadoes.

  I occasionally wondered if people up north scratch their heads and ask themselves why anyone would live in a hurricane zone. All I can say is sometimes you're born in a place and that is where you stay. I
t takes more than swirling clouds and record-breaking heat to run us out.

  Even if we do have the most lame-ass entrance of any town in Texas.

  Welcome to Pecan Bayou.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Once the new Charlie Loper and his trusty horse were settled in, the crowd dispersed and went home. When I walked in the house, I was welcomed by a cool blast of air conditioning and Butch, our over-exuberant Weimeraner. Butch followed faithfully as I headed to the kitchen for a large glass of cold water.

  "Hey boy." I patted the eighty-pound monstrosity we called a dog on the head and received a slobbery lick in return.

  As I set down my glass and reached for a towel, I once again failed to account for my protruding belly and knocked a cherub-faced pink piggy bank right off the counter. The little pig hit the ground, breaking into four parts. Not only was I startled by the crash, but a pang of guilt hit me, as this had been a gift for the baby from my husband’s mother, Gwyn.

  After recovering from a momentary fright, Butch began prancing around, contaminating the crime scene. I grabbed his collar and gently tugged him toward the back door.

  "Come on boy. Let’s put you in the yard for a few minutes." He happily bounded out into the yard and set about looking for something to pee on.

  Closing the door, I returned to the broken pig and squatted down to pick up the remains. As I picked up the largest intact chunk, a shiny silver dollar went rolling under the refrigerator. Another pang of guilt.

  The pig’s head was still attached to its body, and wrapped around its neck was a yellow ribbon holding a small card that read "Sus domesticus for our newest homo sapien." Yes, it was a strange sentiment, but not out of character for my new mother-in-law, Gwyn Fitzpatrick, who was a biology teacher. It was sweet sentiment, in an obsessively scientific labeling sort of way.

  I needed to rescue the pig if at all possible. Gwyn lived in Galveston, so she visited often and would be certain to notice if the piggy bank were missing from the baby’s nursery.

  Maybe I could glue it back together again and no one would even notice. I spread the shattered pieces of porcelain out on the counter. There was one break around the back and one on the leg. One ear was broken and the curly tail had popped off. The body itself was still intact.

  I stepped into my office to find my notebooks, alphabetized by topic. These books were my primary resource for writing my helpful hints column. I quickly located a section on gluing and learned I needed some sort of epoxy adhesive to mend the broken pig properly.

  Returning to the kitchen, I began digging through the glue stash in the utility cabinet. All I could find was an old bottle of school glue leftover from one of the boy’s discarded school supplies. Not epoxy, but worth a shot.

  I grabbed yesterday's paper from the recycling bin and spread it out on the counter. I had already made one mess; I certainly didn’t want to be scraping glue off my marble countertops later.

  Arranging the pig remnants, I looked down to see the face of Tom Schuller smiling up at me from the newspaper. The headline announced Tom was leaving his long-term post on the Pecan Bayou City Council.

  Tom served on city council alongside his brother Don, and the two of them had ruled these positions for many years. Tom owned Schuller Auto and Don ran the Pecan Bayou Chamber of Commerce. You could hardly walk a block in this town without running into a smiling Schuller ready to make a deal.

  Schuller Auto was one of the most successful businesses in town, so it came as a shock to many in Pecan Bayou when Tom and his wife announced they were giving the dealership to their son, and planned to travel across America in a thirty-nine foot RV. Not that there were that many controversial decisions to make in city council, but most residents agreed Don Schuller would miss his brother’s duplicate vote.

  I opened the bottle and ran a line of glue on the tail, then carefully positioned it on the pig's backside. After a minute, I loosened my grip on the tail. It fell off. This wasn’t going to work. I would have to buy a tube of epoxy and try again later. I just had to hope I could get the little pig put back together before Leo's mother visited. She would be driving up from Galveston for the birth of the baby and I needed to be sure the pig had plenty of time to dry before then.

  As I put away the glue, I felt the baby inside me stretch. It wouldn't be long now, and this little one was becoming extremely active. I rested my hand on the baby wondering if I was touching his head or the other end. Sometimes it felt like my unborn child was doing jumping jacks inside. I couldn't wait to meet this new person who would be such a wonderful part of our world. The phone was ringing as I stepped back into the kitchen.

  "Mom?" My son Zach was on the other end of the line.

  " Hi Zach. I was wondering when you would call."

  "Yeah, Mom. Listen…"

  I wasn't sure if I liked the way this conversation was starting. I could tell he probably had friends standing behind him at the summer camp he was attending. It had been a tough decision for us to send my twelve-year-old son Zach, and Leo’s thirteen-year-old son Tyler, to summer camp. With the baby coming, we decided the boys going to camp would simplify our lives and give us the opportunity to focus on the delivery. The boys wanted to go with their friends anyway, so the two of them were in North Texas enjoying a month-long scout camp. I expected daily calls complaining of homesickness, but instead they called weekly because the counselor made them. So much for missing us.

  "Mom, are you still there?"

  "Yes I'm here. How are you doing?"

  "Oh, I'm fine. I just wanted to ask you… because I know you’d be concerned for our well-being… it seems we may have run a little short on funds up here."

  Wasn't he a little young to be already calling his mother for money?

  "How can you be running short? Your dad and I sent plenty of money to last you the entire month."

  "I know. But here's the thing…" I closed my eyes as Zach launched into his explanation, while his sibling was starting to do somersaults in the womb.

  "…so you see we had no idea that they meant real money in the card game?"

  I sighed.

  "Funny, huh?" Zach laughed, trying to get me to see the humor in the situation.

  "Let me speak to your camp counselor."

  "Now, Mom. You don't have to go all nuclear on me. It was a simple mistake. The only problem is Tyler and I don't have any money now. We really do need those sports drinks after a long day on the trail."

  "Let me talk to your counselor."

  "What's that?" Zach said, his voice focused away from the phone. "Gee, Mom I have to go now. Don't forget to send the money." There was a click on the other end. Unbelievable.

  I speed-dialed Leo. If I had to guess who got Zach in a poker game, my money would be on Leo's son. Not to say that my son was more innocent than Tyler, but Tyler was much more of a risk taker.

  "Hey, Betsy. I'm so glad you called," Leo said. Even though he said he was glad to hear from me, he sounded distracted. Nothing like working in the weather bureau in August.

  "Actually, I hadn’t planned on calling you but…"

  "Still, I needed to talk to you. We’re beginning to get some movement in the Gulf. You know we've been watching these storms coming across the Atlantic. They’re really starting to build. Models are indicating the next few weeks could be pretty interesting."

  I wondered if Leo was aware he was using his network weatherman voice. After his experience nine months ago filling in for our local weather guru Hurricane Hal, parts of his on-air voice never left him. In reality he hated being a television weatherman, but the experience left some lasting impressions on him.

  "That's great to know, Leo, but pretty predictable for Texas in summer time."

  "Yes, yes I know. You're right, but this is very exciting."

  "Did you know your sons are gambling at scout camp?" I hated to be rude, but I knew we were about to move to cloud patterns and swirling winds. Leo’s weather predictions stalled on the other end. I
had achieved the effect that I was going for.

  "They're what?"

  "Gambling. Zach just called and asked for us to float some money his way. He said he didn’t know they were playing for real money."

  "Oh, this will never do. This is one of those times when I really wish the camp would let the boys carry their own cell phones. I can't believe that they would allow him to play for money."

  I hadn't missed Leo was speaking only of Zach. How did he know that Tyler hadn’t been involved in the game, too?

  "I tried to get him to put the scout leader on the line and Zach hung up on me."

  "He hung up? You mean he hung up on his own mother after asking for money? "

  "Pretty much."

  "Do you think we should bring the boys home? Maybe this scout camp wasn't such a good idea. I don’t remember seeing any poker tables in the brochure."

  "I don't know, Leo."

  "We could have my mom come up early. She could watch Zach and Tyler while we are busy at the hospital."

  I stopped for a moment to consider this idea. The boys were old enough, they wouldn’t be too much work. It would work, but somehow I just felt better with our original plan. I hated to ask Gwyn to change her plans.

  "No, I don't want to put your mom to all that trouble."

  "No trouble at all. She'll be here for the baby anyway."

  "I know. Let me think about this for a little bit." I heard someone call to Leo in the background.

  "Betsy? I have to go now."

  "Sure."

  After making sure the pig was stable, I headed over to the town’s only newspaper, the Pecan Bayou Gazette. I needed to talk to Rocky, the editor and my boss. I write a weekly helpful hints column for the Gazette titled The Happy Hinter. Rocky had emailed earlier telling me to come by to discuss a special assignment. Heaven knows what that would be.

  When I trudged out of the heat into the Gazette office, Rocky was leaned back in his desk chair relishing in its annoying squeak.

  "Well now, if it isn’t little Miss Ready to Pop." Rocky’s hair had been salt-and-pepper ever since I’d known him, and now it was turning to a silky shade of white. Still though, he had a full head of it which made him an object of desire among the town’s population of single women over fifty. He never got serious with any of the well-wishing casserole carriers—probably the result of three failed marriages—but he did appreciate the free food.