I was lucky; I hadn’t had a lot of grief. People like Barbie who had lost their daddy to an oil rig explosion or Madonna who lost their mates too early to cancer had more grief than me.
“Sissy’s good, by the way,” Wanda said, rocking. “She’s getting acclimated well.” I closed my eyes. Never ever would I believe an angel would tell me someone I knew was doing good in Heaven.
“Did she have any trouble getting through the gates?”
Wanda smiled. “Passed with trumpets blaring.”
I nodded; relieved things went well for Sissy. What was orientation in Heaven like? Do they have pet rules and demerits? I hope not. “Do all dogs go to heaven?”
Wanda cocked her. “Every one. Sometimes they come back as people.”
“Really?”
“Sometimes people come back as dogs.”
I smiled, and I didn’t think I’d ever smile again. “Who is Poochy?”
Poochy climbed the steps between us and put her head in Wanda’s lap. “I shouldn’t tell, but seeing how you’re down and out, I’ll make an exception.”
I chuckled and sniffed. “Oh, don’t tell me. She’s fine just like she is.”
Wanda scratched Poochy’s ears. “Okay. I can keep a secret. Might ruin it for you if you knew.”
“I wanna love her as she is, not as who she was before.”
People coming back as dogs? Sheesh. That’d be a hoot. I’d probably come back a skinny, hairless, snippy Chihuahua who would hate everyone and thing.
Poochy moved her head over to my lap and I rubbed her silky head. “You’re my special angel, aren’t you?”
A willie climbed my spine more like a deep gut feeling, like I need to eat prunes, but the only other person who’d named a dog Poochy was my daddy. When Madonna called the pup Poochy outside Maria’s my core wiggled, not warning me off the pup, but pulling me along. I wouldn’t have left her there, lapping air conditioner condensation, even if Madonna hadn’t fed her corn tortillas.
That’s why Huey said my angel sent her.
Mysterious mysteries were afoot, and I didn’t know how to handle having a guardian angel, or the dog named Poochy she sent me.
Why did they pick me? Whoever they were? Had the universe tilted on its axis, moving me toward the Oasis for a reason? Philly’s desire to play pickleball wasn’t a good enough reason to plop me into this asphalt jungle. Fate? Do I believe in fate? Fate wasn’t an object like a crystal ball you could or like a goatsucker you might see. You must faith to trust fate.
What now?
“So, they have given me a job? Take care of an animal and do what with my three gifts?”
Wanda went snowy like a flickering old-fashioned black and white television. “Whoops. I’m getting a call. Gotta run.”
“Wait! I’m not done.”
“Make amends like you planned, it’ll help your reputation.” Then she disappeared.
“Bunny? Are you, all right?” Madonna stood in front of me, hands on her hips.
“Yes. I mean no.” How long had she been standing there?
“I saw Wayne and Philly leave. Did somebody else die?” She sat where Wanda had been only seconds before.
“No one else died. I had to identify a kid. One of the guys Wayne hired to help with the demo robbed Huey’s.”
“Robbed Huey’s. What the devil?”
“I wasn’t told, but I’m speculating he decided to burglar the classrooms.”
Madonna gasped, “And Sissy caught him! You know there’s a backdoor to every classroom. Fire codes say every building has to have two exits or more.”
“No, I don’t.” The Oasis has many secrets and cubbyholes I haven’t discovered yet.
“If he went out the back exit... which no one ever uses, he’d be by the back wall. He’d be able to jump out of the Oasis there if he was scared enough.”
“If he jumped the wall, then he had my bag of alpaca wool with him. Was anything else stolen from the classroom?”
“No details have been released. Funny he’d take a bag of… of—”
My turkey neck waggled. “Uh-uh, don’t say it.” I showed Madonna my palm. She pinched her lips together, grinning, mumbling holding back.
“Guess you heard the rumor?”
“Yeah, it’s hilarious. Poor kid must’ve been smoking crack to think alpaca wool was—”
“Hush.” I cracked a smile even though the whole situation wasn’t funny.
Madonna looped her hand in my elbow and drew me close until we stopped giggling. It was good to laugh instead of cry.
Poochy hopped down to the step below because we were squeezing her too tight. “Lordy, bad news,” Madonna murmured.
“Yep. Poor Wayne’s brokenhearted.”
“All our suspicions about Trudi killing Sissy. Her Etsy scam wasn’t worth going to jail over.”
I stroked Poochy’s silky body. “I want to go visit Trudi. The cops have more evidence than they’re letting on. Trudi probably still thinks we all think she killed Sissy.”
Madonna stood. “Your cart or mine?”
“Mine. It’s got a full charge.”
Chapter Thirty
Trudi
Madonna wanted to stop at Minette’s house to tell her the news. We sat on the street in the golf cart and Minette leaned on its roof, listening to my jailhouse drama spiel. I might’ve exaggerated the gruesomeness of Aaron Banks’ interrogation, but hey, it’s my story, I can embellish it for the sake of clearing my bad reputation.
While we whispered, Hugo swept the carport, eavesdropping and swearing under his breath, casting evil glances our way. Over the week since they returned to the Oasis, Hugo had proved himself reckless, hammering his thumb bad enough he needed stitches. The next day, he rolled off their park model’s roof while sweeping giant palm leaves, but he walked away unscathed.
“Hugo’s got a slew of French cuss words, don’t he?”
“Oui. He’s part sailor and part howling hound.” Minette hopped into the back seat of our golf cart.
I twinged my shoulder, glancing back. “Just warnin’ you, I still don’t have my license.”
“Oui, no worries. I feel safer than with Hugo. He’s a reckless driver. Where’s that cute dog I’ve heard about?”
“Locked inside. I can’t drive and hold her at the same time.” I battery powered away from Mississippi Street.
Minette leaned over the front seats tsking. “Poor Trudi, we all thought she did it. Have you seen her since the crawl?”
Madonna shook her head. “I haven’t.”
I stopped at the stop sign. “She wasn’t at the memorial, too embarrassed to come, I guess?”
After hearing what we told her, Minette insisted we all three visit Trudi. “She needs our support. She and Sissy were good friends.”
Trudi’s mini-blinds were shut tight, but her golf cart was in the carport. “You think she’s at home?”
“Probably. But she might’ve left the park.” Minette climbed from the cart, heading for Trudi’s veranda steps.
Madonna and I exchanged glances, but I couldn’t stop the butterflies fluttering in my belly. Making amends wasn’t easy, but I needed to learn how to be a better club member.
Trudi opened the inside door and spoke to Minette through the screen door. Minette pointed at us, and Trudi nodded. I waved, giving her a genuine grin, not my usual smirky flat I don’t give a hoot grimace.
“C’mon.” Madonna got out of the cart. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“Okay.” I followed Madonna up the steps.
Trudi looked terrible, stricken to be exact, and I didn’t have a single smart retort to make.
“Can we come in?” Madonna asked, extending an olive branch.
“Um.” Trudi gazed, slowly looked at each of us. “I’m sorry. Um... I guess so.”
“Only for a minute,” Minette said, pulling open the screen door.
Trudi backed up allowing us to crowd into her small home. Park models weren’t engineer
ed for entertaining.
“I’m a mess.” Trudi said running a hand through her hair, sniffling and sat in a single recliner in the window. A wonderful knitted afghan lay across the back of the chair. I wanted to be nosy and examine her knitting, but didn’t. Later after we’ve properly grieved for Sissy, I’ll make a proper social call and ask to see her knitted and crochet pieces, even if she bought them on Etsy.
I offered my first condolence, working hard not to twang. “I’m so sorry this happened.”
“Sit.” Trudi waved at her dinette chairs and we each sat.
Madonna sat near Trudi, and she reached out patting her hand.
“Sorry I didn’t make the memorial. I haven’t been well.” Dressed in a wrapped robe, she appeared ill.
“It was a beautiful service,” Minette said.
Trudi sniffed, reaching for a tissue from a box on the table beside her. From the amount of used tissues scattered by her chair, among open magazines and unfinished crochet, she had been sitting there for a long time, uninterested in cleaning house.
“What can we do to help?” Madonna asked.
“Nothing. I’ll get over it.” Trudi teared up, and my irregular regular heartbeat fluttered.
Please, heart, don’t give out on me now.
How can I tell Trudi a man, an idiot who we hired to help with our house killed her best friend?
I eased back, trying to relax, but my back muscles pinched into a knot.
“I have news about Sissy’s death.” If I make it through this without boohooing like a baby, it will be a miracle.
I told the story from the beginning. Madonna got Trudi a glass of water and sat beside her again.
Trudi listened crying. I didn’t hold up and succumbed to tears streaming and I snatched a handful of tissues from Trudi’s box. Minette teared up, but didn’t turn into a red-faced moron like me.
I asked, “Can you forgive me?”
Trudi rocked her chair. “There’s nothing to forgive. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Saying if I had only known would not heal our broken hearts, so I didn’t say it.
Neither of us said anything about the Etsy scam. Trudi’s little faux pas wasn’t even gossip worthy.
Madonna patted Trudi’s hand, consoling her.
“I’ll make soup and bring it over.” Minette said, standing, hitching her chin toward the door.
Trudi stood and walked us to the door. “It would be nice. I haven’t gotten out.”
The ride back was solemn, and we dropped Minette at her house. I drove the cart into our carport without dropping Madonna in front of her house.
Poochy barked hearing us arrive. “That pup! Too much trouble.” Hurrying, I opened the door, and she bounded toward the oleander bushes to piddle.
“She’s figuring things out,” Madonna said, stepping toward her house. “Listen, I want to apologize.”
We watched Poochy sniff around the bushes. “About what?”
She winced. “Our silly joke. The tarot cards.”
Remembering my new life, I took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking.”
Madonna twinged. “Oh? I hate it when you think too much.”
I chuckled, “Yeah, me too gets me into trouble. You don’t have to apologize, I love the cards. This week I’ve also been given a crystal ball and a palmistry hand.”
She squeaked. “What? Who did that?”
I told her the long Huey story and Connie’s excitement over having a fortune telling booth at the next dance.
“What do you think?”
“It’s no coincidence, is it?”
Should I mention Wanda’s visits? Maybe not. The Oasis wasn’t ready to know Wanda has returned as my guardian angel. Too much information at once, if you ask me. As long as the domino dominatrix stays away from my Sweetie Bastard, I’ll keep her a secret.
“Um, I don’t think so. Mama always said I had a touch of magic in me. I never thought much of it until now.”
“What about Philly? He wasn’t happy with the tarot cards.”
“He’ll get over it.” If I confess my sins and secrets over the crystal ball and the creepy carved hand, would he get over it?
“I don’t want to rock the boat anymore. My reputation was ruined enough as it is. I might not have the booth.” Having a booth tempted me but I would not tell Madonna.
“What ruined reputation?”
I shrugged. “You know, saying I am a psychic advisor.”
Madonna chuckled. “Are you kidding? Everyone loves you. People think you’re a breath of fresh air. Honest to the bone. Saying what’s on your mind. It’s better than being a backstabbing, gossipy old lady. We’ve got enough of them already.”
Everyone loves me? Highly unlikely.
“I don’t think so.”
“Why do you think everyone stops you to say hello? We’re all intrigued by this West Texas witch who moved into the boring ol’ Oasis.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Marfa
I left the front door open so when Philly stomped up the steps, heading for his scotch, I’d hear him come home. I took Poochy to the dog park, mainly to clear my cobwebs. She collapsed on the veranda, waiting for the old man.
After I came back from the dog park, I got my Trader Joe’s bag out from underneath the bed and took all three gifts from it and set them on the dinette. I would have a thorough catharsis by confessing my fortune telling sins to Philly. Should I try to explain Wanda? Three witchcraft gifts and a guardian angel would be unbelievable. When I see his face, measuring his mood, I’ll decide what to do about Wanda then.
As expected, he stomped up the steps and sat in his throne. I stood in the door, watching him pour a scotch, sip it and lean his head against the wall. I knew better than to confront him with a thousand questions; he needed to chill for a few minutes.
Early in our marriage, I wanted to see the Marfa mysterious lights twinkling in the West Texas desert. Mama said the lights were the devil’s work. In high school, groups of kids would drive out to the desert to watch the lights, but she never let me go—not once. Naturally, since I had Philly wrapped around my little finger, I begged my new groom to take me to a forbidden place.
Then Philly would still do anything to please me.
He wouldn’t admit it, but he got his first big-time case of the willies. The unexplainable lights blinking and moving in the secluded mountains disturbed him, and he shivered and hunkered behind the steering wheel until I agreed to go home.
He hated the lights and never mentioned them again and what he couldn’t explain, the lights, he denied. Illusive and unexplainable, Wanda was the Oasis’ Marfa lights. Hopefully, he’ll believe the cards, orb and yellowed hand to be silly trinkets, which they most likely are, and dismiss them. He denied things he couldn’t explain, and Wanda was more unexplainable than blinking lights in the West Texas desert.
Keep quiet Hunny Bunny. Save your man the angst.
A minute passed before Philly snored. I let him be and rustled grub in the kitchen. The smell of food cooking would wake him from his nap, and he’d be starving.
Ten minutes later, I set a plate of grilled cheese and potato chips on the veranda table.
“Huh?” He sniffed, his belly smelled food. “Grilled cheese?” He shuffled, adjusting his crotch, clearing the cobwebs from his head.
I nibbled on half of a grilled cheese, giving him one and a half sandwiches. He ate, and I waited. Later after the shock wore off about Sissy’s senseless death, we’d talk, now wasn’t the time. I didn’t have a single admonishment for him. He was hurting, but he’d never admit to the pain of contributing to another Oasis death.
Poochy toddled down the veranda steps, piddling in the same spots.
“We need a water hose to wash the rocks.”
He nodded. “Yep, sure do.”
“We need a car. A truck maybe.”
“Yep, sure do. You still want to move to Scottsdale? I’m thinking…”
“Oh, we c
an’t move now!” I couldn’t image leaving Madonna, Ann and Minette behind. I was just getting to know more Others. I hadn’t given the Oasis a fair chance, leaving now would be like giving the Alamo to the Spaniards, I still had fight and gumption left in me.
“I know you don’t like it here. What with the rumors going around. We could sell.”
“Not on your life, buster. We gotta go alpaca hiking on Mount Diablo. I don’t want to miss that, do you?”
He sipped scotch. “Not really. I mean after we finish the Arizona room, then sell.”
“Yeah, but in January, I wanted to bake a lemon pound cake. You’re favorite.”
Our gazes met over the plate of grilled cheese. “I only want to make you happy. Moving here was a big mistake.”
Blow me over! Philly admitted he was wrong? Highly unusual. He’s slipping all right; this Philly isn’t my normal cankerous ol’ Sweetie Bastard. I covered his hand with mine, patting him gently.
“He-man. We’re not going anywhere. What about pickleball and water aerobics? We’ve only just begun.”
He nodded, gripping my hand and holding it. “As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”
I pressed our hands to my cheek, mushiness bubbled from my core. I couldn’t speak, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d attack him and make passionate love to him in front of all the Others.
That’s the way it always been, I’d get into trouble and he’d rescue me.
Where would I be without my Sweetie Bastard?
The Gilda Gardener Cozy Mystery Series
Coming Soon
Afterword
I hope you enjoyed the first book in the Desert Oasis Cozy Mystery series.
Just a note: Wanda's murder is an unsolved mystery which carries through to the other books. As a reader, I can understand your frustration with not learning who killed a character, but as an author, I haven't been told who or why she was murdered. None of us may not ever know who killed Wanda. She was sent to carry out a mission, to help Bunny adjust to her new life, and I hope Wanda accomplishes her goal and settles happily-ever-after behind the pearly gates.
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