Magic Mumbles

by N. C. Lewis

  True to form, she smiled as she spoke. "I've had a chance to review your application for a credit extension. Everything looks in order. Medlin Creek Community Bank would be delighted to offer you an additional credit facility."

  I smiled.

  "Of course, such a facility is dependent on your book of business for the event center. You mentioned you have an upcoming event planned with Theodora Simon?" She didn't wait for a response. The whole town knew about the mysterious wedding even if they didn't yet know who the happy couple were.

  Suddenly, there was a disturbance in the bank lobby.

  "Give me my money, you damn fool. Where is Mr. Monkswood? I want to speak with the manager."

  I looked out from behind the cubicle office to see Rita Lilly, hands on her hips, bawling out the teller. Donna stood up to get a better view.

  "What do you mean I've used up all my credit? You imbecile," screamed Rita as Mr. Monkswood, the bank manager, guided her into a private office.

  As we settled down, I noticed the smile on Donna's face was broader than usual. "Good," she said, the words coming out almost as a hearty laugh. "It seems everything is in order. Now, are you ready to sign the documentation?" Donna placed a large docket of papers on the table. "This will only take a few moments," she said with a professional smile.

  Forty-five minutes later, I left the bank, dancing on the tips of my toes like a feather floating on a summer breeze.

  Chapter 27

  Out on Creek Street I decided to walk to Moozoos Café to grab a coffee. The temperature was warming up, but there was little humidity, and the shade from the buildings kept the sidewalk cool. The occasional office worker scurried along the sidewalk. Tourists in bright, colorful shirts and summer dresses peered into shop-front windows and darted in and out of stores. It felt good to be alive, good to be part of a Hill Country town. My former life in New York City seemed like a very distant dream.

  Inside Moozoos Café, a mouthwatering combination of brewed coffee, cinnamon rolls and fresh-baked bread filled the air. The morning rush over and it being a little too early for the lunchtime crowd, the barista sat at a table near the bar peering into a copy of the Medlin Creek Times.

  He looked up at the ping of the doorbell; his lopsided eyes filled with curiosity. "Oh, Ollie, I'll be with you in a moment." His eyes drifted down toward the newspaper and he continued to read.

  The menu board hung above the bar and to one side. I scanned it looking for a drink outside of my normal cappuccino. "What will be your pleasure?" said the barista, folding the Medlin Creek Times and getting up. He dropped the newspaper on the table and strode toward the bar.

  "Medium café latte," I said with a smile.

  He tilted his head to one side and looked at me as though he were trying to read my mind. His carrot-shaped chin twitched several times before he spoke. "How did it go at the bank?"

  For an instant I thought I must've seen him earlier. As I opened my mouth to answer, I hesitated. The barista couldn't possibly have been in the bank. I was there at the café's busiest time, and in any case, I'd looked around for familiar faces, and he wasn't there.

  As if he was reading my mind, he continued, "Lenny Crispin came in earlier for a tall cappuccino and said he saw you going into the bank looking nervous. By the size of the smile on your face, I guess it went well with Donna?"

  I sidestepped the question and changed the subject. "Did Lenny mention anything about the death of Liza or the disappearance of Malcolm?"

  For several moments the barista stared at me, his chin vibrating like a science fiction scanning device that sucks out the thoughts of its victims. Finally, he gave a little nod of his head as if confirming information received. Then he answered my question. "No, but have you seen the article in today's Medlin Creek Times?"

  He hurried back toward the table, picked up the newspaper, and unfolded it. I read the headline in silence.

  No progress in mysterious murder of Malcolm Maskerlyne's assistant, Liza Gilbert.

  A sour feeling filled my stomach. The sheriff's department had not moved forward. I thought about John, and the investigation surrounding his death. All I knew was that he, along with all his coworkers, were killed by foreign bandits without a shot fired by their security guards. That was difficult to accept.

  With the mayor lying low, and Sheriff Hays out of town, the investigation into Liza's death would be kicked into the tall grass. I couldn't let that happen, for the memory of John, for Liza Gilbert, and for my conscience. There was little choice; I was involved whether or not I liked it. I had to uncover the truth.

  The barista's head rotated around the café, and he leaned in close as if he was about to say something confidential. "Mysterious Malcolm is still missing," he said, shaking his head. "I hear he ran from the stage and disappeared into thin air, right under the noses of the deputies. We don't expect much from our sheriff's department, but for the main suspect to disappear under their noses..." He sighed, put down the newspaper and dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. "Augustine Granger said her cousin spotted Malcolm in Mexico, on the beach in Playa del Carmen. According to her cousin, he has rented a beach cabin, and is working on a new magic show using a native girl as his assistant."

  That couldn't possibly be true, I thought. The magic show was Monday evening. That was two days ago. How could Malcolm be working on a new show already? Unless, he had carefully planned everything. "So, you think he has fled overseas?" I asked.

  Again, the barista shook his head. "Wherever mysterious Malcolm has fled, he will be captured, and the mystery of the magic mumbles death solved."

  Chapter 28

  A Blake Shelton song crackled through the speaker system at the food truck park. The savory odor of fried food, onions and smoked meats drew hungry office workers, tourists, and school children to the trucks. They mingled on the lawn area and sat on wooden benches, munching their food. From Adam's donut truck to Zina's chicken fried venison, all the eateries were doing a brisk trade.

  I was waiting in line at Sluggies’ truck when Lenny joined me. "This is about as good as it gets when it comes to smoked meats in the Hill Country," he said, licking his lips.

  "Unless you want the cowboys with guns atmosphere, then head out to Salt Lick over in Driftwood."

  Lenny nodded. "Agreed, but even Salt Lick can't beat Sluggies’ deadly barbecue sauce, don't you think?"

  "Yep," I said, making a mental note to ask for an extra helping with my lunch platter. Mr. Sluggy was serving as usual. He was a short, thickset man and as round as one of Santa's elves. He had a gray beard and wore a green, pointy hat.

  "Sluggy Special or Medlin Creek Monster, which platter would you like?" asked Mr. Sluggy in a deep, baritone voice. Each platter came with a choice of smoked meats, bread and sweet corn. The only difference being the quantity, and the Medlin Creek Monster came with a pickle. I went for the Monster, Lenny for the Special.

  At a bench on the side of the food park, and away from the main activity, we sat down. "Tell me," Lenny said, biting into a slice of chicken, "what brings a beautiful gal like you from the Big Apple to the Hill Country?"

  As I looked into his deep, dark eyes my stomach did a little somersault. Then I took a deep breath and was about to explain when he interrupted. "Oh my," he said, munching on a slice of brisket dipped in Sluggies deadly barbecue sauce. "Yum, this is good—damn good."

  I knew then that Lenny was more interested in the food than my past. The first rush of anger pulsated through my veins as I breathed out a frustrated sigh. As I opened my mouth to say something I would later regret, Lenny half turned and smiled with soft eyes.

  I melted.

  "Listen," he said jabbing a finger toward the sky like a referee in a soccer match. "Malcolm owes me back pay. I've been to the sheriff's department and they don't seem interested. Those Cowboys couldn't catch a criminal if he stood in front of them and asked for directions to the county jail." He let out a self-satisfied laugh.

  An inst
ant later his face crumpled into a frown. "Ollie, I'm low on cash; the only regular income I've got now is from my Friday show in Austin. This morning, Gratia Violeta bought ten tickets for next week's show. I bumped into her at the bank quite by chance."

  "Oh," I said, a smile creeping across my face.

  Again, he looked at me with those soft eyes. "Say, I saw you going into the bank this morning, and thought you might be interested in helping out an artist. How many tickets do you want?"

  One hundred dollars poorer, with four tickets to his Friday show bought using my cell phone, the conversation turned toward Mysterious Malcolm.

  "I don't suppose I will ever get that back pay, but I'm working on resurrecting the magic show," he said, dabbing a final slice of bread into a pool of barbecue sauce.

  "Really."

  "Yes, I mentioned it to Rita Lilly. Did you know, she was in a relationship with Malcolm? I guess you do, everyone knows that."

  "Oh," was all I could muster as his words sunk in. I pressed a palm to my cheek. Hell, if that was true, sour-faced Rita Lilly had a very good reason to see Liza disappear.

  Lenny was still speaking, the words tumbling out of his mouth, although I barely heard them. "Rita wants to break the lease, it has five more years to run. I figure she wants to sell the building to raise a little cash. I guess she is having financial troubles, but who isn't?"

  He paused to chew on a final bit of bread. "I'm going to revamp the show. I'll need an assistant, can't pay much, but when things pick up again... Ollie, would you be interested?"

  "Are you kidding me? I've no—"

  "Don't answer now," he interrupted. "I'll be at the Lilly Building, Thursday, 6:30 p.m. Peter Travis is still perfecting his fire-ant act, and I'll be coaching him. Show up if you are interested. Oh, by the way, don't let Rita Lilly see you either—the woman's crazy. The best way to avoid her is to use the entrance at the side of the building. Peter will leave it open for you."

  I sat at the table gazing at Lenny admiringly and swinging my feet.

  Chapter 29

  Deep into the leather seat, I sunk, with the gentle rumble of the engine pushing cooled air into the cab as I snoozed. I had intended to leave the food truck park and drive home, but a heavy stomach, and aching body, and tired mind overruled that decision.

  The sharp clang of trashcan lids shook my pleasant dreams like a New Year's Eve fireworks show. I opened my eyes and blinked as consciousness reasserted itself. Vendors were busy closing their trucks after the lunchtime bonanza. The only sound was the occasional clatter of a garbage can lid, rasp of a broom against a paving slab, and the friendly chatter between truck owners. Even the speaker system, which played popular country songs during opening hours, fell silent.

  As I rubbed my eyes, my mind began to clear. I thought about Lenny, and what it would be like working as his assistant in a magic show! What a strange thing to do for a living. I hadn't given him an answer, but with his Friday show in Austin and the new magic show in Medlin Creek, it was doable. I was curious, very curious.

  I drifted back to my days in the corporate world. In a corner office, I sat, looking out upon hundreds of cubicles filled with gray-faced workers. With eyes closed, I imagined the shocked expression on their nameless, gray faces, and the gasp of horror from the executive I reported to. Then I remembered John—he smiled.

  "Yes," I said aloud. "I will definitely consider Lenny's suggestion."

  Another consideration crept into my mind. If I worked as Lenny's assistant, I would meet Rita Lilly. Was she the murderer of Liza Gilbert? My mind drifted back to an episode of Colombo in which the detective said, a murderer, no matter how clever, is driven by a motive.

  From the glove compartment I pulled out a small notebook. With a black pen I scratched out a list of suspects.

  First, Bryant Reynolds. I had seen him arguing with Liza. She said it was over, and from the look in her eyes I knew she meant it. Bryant is a man who will not be denied. If he couldn't have Liza, then no one could. If he proposed to her, here lay a strong motive. But I had doubts. Would a man as calculating as Bryant stoop to killing? Surely, he would hire someone else to do his dirty work.

  Next, I considered Rita Lilly. I'd only met the woman once, she was in a sour mood. Was her sullen sulk brought on by an argument with Malcolm? Perhaps she discovered his relationship with Liza and decided to put an end to it. If that were true, I doubted if there was a police officer in Havis County who would want to take her on. A call to one of her political friends and the officer would be out of a job.

  That left Malcolm. I had seen him arguing with Bryant at the Hill Country Hotel. In a fit of jealousy had he killed Liza to spite Bryant? That would explain why he ran from the stage, and if the rumor was true, disappeared across the border to make a new life in Mexico.

  Then it hit me; perhaps Malcolm poisoned Liza, and in a fit of rage Bryant killed Malcolm. That would explain Malcolm’s sudden disappearance. But how did Bryant know where to find Malcolm? And where was the body?

  The pieces didn't fit together. Confused, I half closed my eyes, and for an instant saw the face of the figure in my dream. It stared at me and blinked, but I didn't recognize the face. "Yes, there was definitely something missing," I said as I sat half asleep, half awake, trying to make sense of what I knew.

  The buzz of the cell phone disrupted my thoughts. I picked it up, a text message from Millie.

  Ollie, Bob is out-of-town tonight. Feel like grabbing a slice or two of pizza at Don Andrews? 7 p.m. is good.

  Today had been a bad hair day for my diet. I pinched the rolls of flab hanging off my stomach. A couple of slices of pizza washed down by a soda wouldn't make any difference, would it? I typed in my response.

  Okay, see you at 7 p.m.

  It was a little after 2 p.m., and I still had lecture notes to prepare for a new course I was developing. The cell phone was placed in the cup holder, and I put the gear stick into drive. "Time to go home and start work."

  As I pulled out, I glanced down at the passenger seat. The notebook lay open, my spidery writing scrawled across the page. I pressed the brake pedal hard, the Tahoe shuddered to a stop. Then, I reread the names out loud. "Bryant Reynolds, Rita Lilly, Malcolm."

  I couldn't meet with Malcolm, but what about Rita Lilly and Bryant Reynolds? At best, I might find some useful information, at worst I'd be right where I am now. "Rita Lilly first," I said aloud, "then Bryant Reynolds." I pointed the Tahoe toward the Lilly building.

  Chapter 30

  As I pulled into the parking lot, the summer sun was on a descent toward the treetops, having unleashed its fiery fury on the Texas Hill Country. Across the empty lot toward the Lilly Building, I hurried. The heat and Sluggies Medlin Creek Monster adding resistance like weights on a barbell.

  The entrance at the rear was my destination. It had a hallway that led to the backstage area and Rita Lilly's office. I pushed hard against the clay-colored doors.

  Locked!

  Around to the disabled entrance, and now at a slower pace, I pushed myself onwards.

  Locked!

  Now, I was at a crawl to the front of the building—a sheen of perspiration covering my face. The main entrance was also closed, but off to the side a little distance away was a revolving door. I pushed through, and my footsteps on the marble floor clattered and clacked like a drummer of a heavy metal band. The receptionist, seated at a small table in the lobby, looked up from her magazine as I approached.

  "Can I help you?" She spoke with one of those quick clipped accents found in the northeast of England. Her eyes were set too far apart, and the nose had an unfortunate crook. On the lapel, a name badge, Miss Dawn Bradman.

  "Yes, Lenny Crispin has invited me to work with him on his new magic show. I thought I'd stop by to look around."

  "Lenny," she said smiling. "Now, that's a real gentleman. He always smiles when he comes into the building, and he knows my name. Isn't that something?"

  "Yes, it is," I agreed and
gave her a quick smile.

  Miss Bradman half turned and looked out into the street. "His assistant, you say?"

  "Well, actually, not yet. But I'm considering the position."

  She picked up a pencil and chewed the end. "The building is not open to members of the public. If you come back with Lenny, I'll give you a day pass."

  In ordinary circumstances I would've thanked Miss Bradman and left. But the mystery over Liza Gilbert's death pushed me forward. I felt certain Rita Lilly had answers.

  "Oh," I said, thinking quickly and putting on my corporate boss voice. "Do you want me to call Lenny now? He'll be as mad as a bull, but I can call and let him know Miss Dawn Bradman would like to speak with him." A weak bluff, but it was all I had.

  "Oh yes," she said in an excited voice, "why don't you give him a call." She hesitated. Her tongue, deep pink and knobbed, darted out of her mouth and slid slowly across her thin lips. "Please understand that I would have to speak to him myself. Hear his voice with my own ears." Again, she hesitated, her eyes glazed as if in a dream. "Why don't you give me his number right now, and I'll punch it into my cell phone. Just for business of course, only business."

  I needed a different tactic.

  "You know what Lenny is like," I said with a deadpan voice. "He'll complain to Rita Lilly every day for a month… but if you insist, I'll call him."

  Into my handbag, I reached for the cell phone, all the while watching Miss Bradman. Then I saw it, a slight curl of her lip, a sudden twitch of her left eyelid.

  "Complain to Mrs. Lilly," she said, drawing out each word as if swallowing a distasteful medicine. "Oh no, no, no, we don't want that."

  Miss Bradman pointed a slender finger to a sign-in sheet attached to a clipboard. "Go right ahead," she said, and I bent to sign myself in as her attention returned to her magazine.