Magic Mumbles

by N. C. Lewis

  At the desk in the office, I reviewed my plans for the day. The bank was at the top of my list. I had asked George, my neighbor, and Emma Garcia's husband, to repair the two large outbuildings, and fix the sagging roof on the smallest shack. George preferred cash, so I'd have to make a trip to Medlin Creek Community Bank. I'd planned to pay back the money before it accumulated interest once I received payment from Theodora for the wedding.

  The bank opened at 9 a.m., so I had a few hours to work on my lecture notes. I reviewed various lesson plans, adjusted end-of-class quizzes, developed questions for the end-of-term exams, and scanned the internet for interesting stories I could incorporate into my lectures.

  The mechanical clock high on the mantelpiece struck the top of the hour. It was 9 a.m. already. Up I got and stretched, this time a shortened routine that ended with a downward-facing dog and several deep, relaxing, yoga breaths. The fog was clearing from my mind, I was almost ready for the day.

  With Bodie back inside, I set out along the narrow, dirt path through the little iron gate to the Tahoe. I turned the key in the ignition and was about to shift the gear lever into drive when the cell phone rang. I'll let it click on to voicemail, I thought. Then I looked down at the screen, it was Theodora. I picked up.

  "Hello, Ollie, where are you?"

  "At Ealing Homestead. On my way to the bank, what's up?"

  Theodora's voice went very quiet, almost a whisper. "Now listen, I don't want you to hollow or squawk or hop around like a chicken without its head. But the wedding is off."

  "What?" I could hear the blood pounding in my ears, the beginnings of a headache brewing behind the eyes.

  "I received a message this morning. I'm afraid the event is off... wait a minute, I'll play back the message for you."

  There were a few moments of silence, then a thin high-pitched voice crackled across the line.

  Theodora, in the light of recent developments it is impossible to go ahead with the wedding. So, I have called to cancel the event. Thank you for offering a hundred percent money back, no up-front deposit, guarantee. I will recommend you to others in need of your service.

  I thought I recognized the voice but was too agitated to focus. It would come to me though, I thought.

  "What?" I asked. "In the light of what developments?"

  Theodora responded in a somber voice. "The bride-to-be died."

  "Died?"

  "Yes, the bride was Liza Gilbert. The groom, Bryant Reynolds. That was his voice on the recording."

  I began to shake as the headache continued its merciless advance.

  Chapter 34

  Out of the glove compartment I grabbed a bottle of headache pills. I took three, washed down with a can of Diet Coke. The dashboard clock flashed 9:30 a.m. I'd have to change my plans. The best thing to do, I thought, was to grab as much cash as possible from my credit facility before word of the canceled wedding spread. I knew that with no events planned for Ealing Homestead, the bank might cancel the credit. I put my foot on the gas and headed at great speed toward Creek Street and the Medlin Creek Community Bank.

  I was about to turn into the lane when an oversized truck lumbered past. It crawled along, a little faster than a jog, coughing and sputtering black smoke out of the exhaust. At a steep incline, two hundred yards before the junction onto the main road, it shuddered letting out a screech like a downed buffalo. The truck's hazard-warning lights came on and it stopped, blocking the entire lane.

  Two burly men, both in jeans and both potbellied, climbed out of the cab. One lifted the hood and peered inside while the other stood talking into his cell phone, scratching his head. All the while I could feel my blood pressure rising, and the headache, originally cured by the pills, crept back.

  After fifteen minutes of prodding and poking under the hood, the men climbed back into the cabin. I held my breath as the high-pitched squeal of the ignition tried to kick the engine into life. On the third attempt, the truck shuddered and lurched forward, before settling into a crawl. It turned left at the junction. I turned right, taking the longer loop into town.

  There were no spaces in the bank parking lot, so I pulled into a space outside of Smiles and Dials Flower and Gift Shop. Jenny Jones, the owner, came rushing out into the street. She tapped on the windshield as I shifted the truck into park.

  "Oh, thank goodness it's you, Ollie," she said in an anxious voice. We were both members of the Sisters of the Creek Coffee Circle, and she supplied flowers at a great discount for fundraising events.

  "I'm saving that parking spot for an important client; they will be here in five minutes. Would you mind parking somewhere else?"

  The parking spaces along Creek Street are not assigned to the businesses. For a moment, I considered reminding Jenny of that fact. Instead, I nodded. "Of course, there are plenty of spaces farther down, I'll use one of those."

  A few blocks down I found a space, parked, jumped out, and hurried along the sidewalk toward the bank. Today would be another hot one, made worse by a swirling cloud of humidity that had the Hill Country in its grasp. Rivers of sweat ran down my forehead, across my cheeks, and down my neck as I entered Medlin Creek Community Bank.

  Only one teller window was open, in front of which snaked a lengthy line of tourists. Unfamiliar with the procedures of the bank, they fumbled and argued their way through each transaction.

  Eventually, I was at the front of the line. The teller looked up and smiled.

  "How may I be of service to you today?"

  Just then, Donna Biggs, smiling, appeared from an office behind the teller. She scanned the bank, her brow creasing at the long line of customers. Then Donna saw me. She smiled and waved me over to a private booth.

  The friendly smile and wave may as well have been a karate chop to my neck, for my heart sank like a stone as she spoke. Donna finished the conversation with a smile. "There is some good news, Ollie. You've been preapproved to apply for another loan in three months, or whenever your business picks up. I'm sure things will have turned around by then."

  I left the bank without any cash, without any hope—empty-handed.

  Chapter 35

  Out on the sunlit street I felt a sense of desperation sweep over me. I'd planned to visit Moozoos for a celebratory café latte, then on to Gregg's Hardware Store to order some knickknacks for the house. And on the way home, I'd have swung past the Garcia's to deliver the cash to George. He'd start the work at once. The outbuildings would have been cleaned and fixed up before the end of next week. That's what I liked about George, he did an excellent job, fast, efficient, and kept his word. Now, without any cash, I wouldn't be able to keep mine.

  I walked, with no real enthusiasm, back to the Tahoe, climbed in and headed home. The roads were clear, and even keeping to the speed limit, I arrived at Ealing Homestead too soon.

  Walking across the dirt parking drive, I slouched, stopping at the mailbox by the little iron gate. It was stuffed full of flyers, and at the bottom under a pile of sales letters was a copy of the Medlin Creek Times. I stuffed the contents of the mailbox into my handbag, carrying the newspaper under my arm, and hurried along the dirt path to the front door.

  Inside, Bodie gave his usual welcome. The dog's tail wagged, and he danced and pranced unconcerned with my problems or that he and I might be out on the street if things didn't improve. I opened the door to let him out, and off he went bounding toward the outbuildings.

  The cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen and recognized the number. It was from Sandy Fields, a fellow event center owner. We’d met on Mr. Maxwell's Get Paid for Your Event Center by Next Week course and became friends, exchanging tips, ideas, and discussing our failures. My mood was too sour, and my energy too low to converse with her right now. I let it ring until it clicked to voicemail. "I'll listen later," I said aloud.

  I needed time to think, but the fog in my mind created by lack of sleep, and the sudden change in my financial outlook crowded out that choice for now. I searched through th
e cupboards in the kitchen. It was in here somewhere. On the tips of my toes I reached for an overhead cupboard and flung open the doors. There it was, a bottle of cheap, sipping whiskey, half empty.

  I poured out the amber liquid into a tumbler, drank it in one greedy gulp. It burned on the way down. Then I poured another, this time adding ice. I sipped the fiery brew as I wandered into the office with the newspaper under my arm.

  Perhaps, I thought, I should review my lecture notes or mark student assignments. But my mood was too sour to concentrate, and I sat for some time staring into space.

  The clock high on the mantelpiece in the living room chimed the half hour, rousing me out of my stupor. I looked down at the newspaper; the headline announced, 'Liza Gilbert's Death Unsolved.' My heart sank, and I closed my eyes.

  I dreamed as if it were night—about John, about Liza, as if they were both alive. And now? Liza's body lay at rest; the only mystery that remained was the name of her killer. There was mystery about John too, how he died, why he died, and at whose hands. His body was never recovered, but I received from official sources, a tin holding his ashes.

  A figure appeared in my dream, a silhouette, wearing a flowing robe. Then the figure spoke, "The mystery surrounding John may never be solved, but for Liza the solution is at hand." Then John appeared in the distance waving me toward him. And he was saying something, "Keep going Ollie. For my sake, keep going.'

  The cell phone rang, jolting me out of my dream.

  "Hey girl," Millie said in a bright, cheery voice. "What's going on?"

  I told her.

  "Let's meet at Moozoos in thirty minutes," she said.

  Chapter 36

  The moment I walked through the narrow entrance into Moozoos Café I felt my spirits rise. There is something about the smell of hot coffee mingled with fresh-baked bread and sweet pastries. It was a little after 11 a.m., and the barista was busy preparing for the lunchtime rush.

  He looked up at the gentle ping of the doorbell, a dishrag in his hand. "Hi, Ollie, Millie is already here." He pointed to a table by the window. As I walked past the counter he put down the dishrag and peered intently into my face.

  "Millie's ordered your drink." He lowered his voice. " I've added a little something extra—given the news."

  I nodded in appreciation but didn't speak for fear I might cry.

  Millie looked up as I approached, a huge smile on her face which looked silly because she's not one for huge smiles. She gave me a long hug then sat down reaching into her handbag. Madame Bleu appeared. The puppets eyes filled with worry, and she regarded me for several moments before speaking.

  "Oh la la," she said with a smile. "You still have it. Thank goodness, you still have it."

  "Have what?" I asked already enjoying myself speaking to the sock puppet.

  "Your joie de vivre, how you say in English, joy of life. For you, Ollie, it is ageless."

  I tipped my head back and let out a loud laugh. "Oh Madame Bleu, you are so silly." Then I took a sip of my drink. It had a kick—a pleasant one. Whatever the barista added, it sure had an alcoholic bite.

  Just then, the doorbell pinged announcing a new guest. The start of the lunch rush, I thought. But it wasn't—it was Gratia Violeta. She bustled over to the barista who stopped what he was doing. His lopsided eyes opened wide as his carrot—shaped chin twitched in anticipation of a nugget of news. He wasn't disappointed.

  "I got the full story on the Bryant Reynolds saga if you're interested," Gratia said. She lowered her voice to an inaudible whisper. The barista raised his eyebrows and nodded as she spoke. Millie, myself, and the puppets strained our ears to overhear the conversation, but the mumbled voices were too low and drowned out by the hiss of the espresso machine or the clatter of traffic along Creek Street. Only toward the end of the conversation were the voices once again audible.

  The barista asked, "Where is Bryant now?"

  "Probably conning a widow out of her savings, or looting an orphans' home," replied Gratia. Then she left, and the barista resumed preparations for the lunchtime rush.

  Millie waited until Gratia was out of the café before speaking. "Listen, I've been doing a little digging at the sheriff's department. Liza died from aconite."

  "Aconite, what's that?"

  Professor Purple appeared, his face all scrunched up like Einstein. "Aconite is a vegetable alkaloid obtained from the root and purple leaves of the aconitum plant."

  I stared back with a blank expression. Millie reached into her handbag for her cell phone. She pulled up a picture of a green-stemmed plant with little bell-shaped purple flowers.

  "Oh, I've seen those before. Marilyn Cameron, a neighbor from Brooklyn, used to have one as a houseplant."

  Millie nodded. "And in those old black and white movies the sorceress would gather the plant in a wicker basket, then brew it into a potion. The victim would drink it and die."

  Professor Purple, his chest puffed out with pride, added. "In the Hill Country, herbalists and the like call it monkshood, devil's helmet, or queen of poisons, but its official name is Aconitum."

  For a while I just sat, letting the information soak in and settle. Then I pressed my palm to my cheek and explained all that I had seen at the Hill Country Hotel.

  "Bryant gave Liza a potion?" Millie said when I'd finished.

  "A drink," I corrected.

  "In a glass bottle?"

  "Yes, mauve with a cork stopper."

  "Sounds like a potion to me," Millie said.

  "Whatever."

  Millie's eyes seemed to glaze, and she seemed in deep thought. "The thing is," she eventually said, her eyes narrowing and her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "Gratia Violeta, the hairdresser, told me Bryant visited the Driftwood Herbal Store several times over the past few days." She drew out the sentence, emphasizing Driftwood Herbal Store. I nodded, having received the same information from Gratia.

  Madame Bleu, who was now peering out from Millie's handbag, spoke up, her eyes wide as dinner plates. "Ooh la la, that's the witches' coven—"

  "Where they brew devilish potions, and cast wicked spells for money," interrupted Professor Purple. Madame Bleu, a fiery expression now in her button eyes cried out, "Find the poison-potion person and you have le killer!"

  After several moments of silence, Professor Purple looked from Madame Bleu, to me, then to Millie. "It's all coming together now," he said, shaking his head.

  Chapter 37

  The barista appeared from the storage room behind the counter. His lopsided eyes surveyed the café. Several tourists sat sipping their steaming, hot beverages while making plans for the day. But there were no signs yet of the lunchtime rush. He took a tea towel from around his waist and wiped his hands.

  "Yes," said Millie. "It is all coming together now, but we need hard evidence."

  "Agreed," said Professor Purple. "All we have right now is hearsay and rumor. Deputy Dingsplat might listen, but a judge…"

  I took a sip of my coffee in glum silence after that, knowing that Professor Purple was right. For some unknown reason, as we all sat in silence, I glanced toward the bar.

  The barista's eyes were half closed, and his head was slightly tilted with his ears pointing in our direction like an electronic receiving set. His chin twitched several times and he nodded to himself, opened his eyes and scurried over to our table.

  "Friends," he said, wiping down the table. "I couldn't help but hear the tail end of your conversation. Not that I like to eavesdrop, but it is a natural hazard of the job. I gather you have some evidence that might be pertinent to the solving of the mystery of the magic mumbles?"

  I scowled. "Not exactly—"

  He raised his hand. "No matter, no matter. I want Liza's killer behind bars as much as anyone."

  The barista's mango-shaped head swiveled to peer at Millie. "I didn't catch who your number one suspect is, but I have my suspicions. Why don't you run your evidence past your boyfriend, Bob Lukey, and get his input? Bob's
a defense attorney, isn't he?"

  We looked at Millie. She nodded and smiled a why didn't I think of that, smile.

  "Now," said the barista. His eyes twinkled with curiosity, "Who is it? Who's your prime suspect? The shady figure behind the mystery of the magic mumbles?" His lopsided eyes slid slowly from Millie to Professor Purple then Madame Bleu, and finally me.

  Madame Bleu, filled with emotion and passion, couldn't help herself. "Bryant Reynolds," she cried, "Monsieur Reynolds is le principal suspect."

  The barista staggered backwards. "Oh no, no, no. That can't be right. Bryant Reynolds is a difficult customer, but he is not a killer."

  "What makes you so sure?" I asked.

  The barista regained his composure, took two steps toward the table, peered around the restaurant, leaned forward and whispered. "If Bryant was behind it, he didn't pull the trigger."

  "Then he hired someone to do his sale boulot. How you say in English—his dirty work," spat Madame Bleu.

  The barista swiveled his head around once more, an extra precaution to ensure he wasn't overheard. Then he touched his fingers together forming a steeple. "Word on the Creek..." He puffed out his chest like a fighting cock. "Is that Liza died at the hands of a debt-ridden relative. The same fate, I'm afraid, that befell Malcolm. All that remains is for his body to be found, and the arrest to be made."

  He gave a little satisfied nod of the head and with slow steady strides, disappeared into the storage room behind the counter.

  Millie glanced up, a questioning look in her eyes. "What do you think?"

  "He has a point," I admitted.

  Millie nodded. "I'll speak with Bob and do a little digging. Let's meet back here tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. and I'll share what I find."

  "Okay," I agreed. "But hard evidence or not, after our meeting I'm going to go speak with Deputy Dingsplat."