The Little Tombstone Cozies Box Set
Page 16
Nothing could induce him to move any closer, so we left Earp where he’d planted himself in the dusty path, charging Maxwell to keep a firm grip on his leash while Georgia and I went closer to pay our respects.
Whoever said that dogs are a better judge of character than humans are spoke a wealth of wisdom.
THE END
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More by Celia
The Little Tombstone Cozy Mysteries
The Good, the Bad, and the Pugly
Lonesome Glove
Felicia’s Food Truck One Hour Mysteries
Fit to Be French Fried
Hamburger Heist
Pizza Pie Puzzler
Hot Dog Horrors
Lonesome Glove
A Little Tombstone Cozy Mystery (Book Two)
By Celia Kinsey
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Lonesome Glove: A Little Tombstone Cozy Mystery ©2019 Celia Kinsey. Briefly sold under the title Death Wears Denim: A Little Tombstone Cozy Mystery ©2020 Celia Kinsey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover images ©Freepik.com
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Also by Celia
The Little Tombstone Cozy Mysteries
The Good, the Bad, and the Pugly
Lonesome Glove
Felicia’s Food Truck One Hour Mysteries
Fit to Be French Fried
Hamburger Heist
Pizza Pie Puzzler
Hot Dog Horrors
Also by Celia
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
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter One of Fit to be French Fried
Chapter One
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to make tamales, but it’s not as easy as it looks; at least it’s not as easy as Juanita, my late grandmother’s closest friend, and proprietress of the Bird Cage Café, makes it look. When Juanita makes tamales, she assembles eight at once.
I stood in the kitchen of the Bird Cage and watched as Juanita slopped hot cooked masa on the middle of each boiled corn husk, smoothing it with the back of the spoon as she went. Then she added dollops of filling to the middles. Finally, in what took about 60 seconds, for her, she rolled all the tamales into neat little corn husk bundles, ready to go into the steamer.
I’d been working on rolling and rerolling a single miserable overstuffed tamale in the same time Juanita had made sixteen.
In my pitiable version of the classic Mexican dish, the masa mixed with the filling and spilled out of the split husk to decorate the outside of the misshapen bundle.
I’ve never been good in the kitchen, and I had already repeatedly congratulated myself that I’d not dropped anything on the floor or down the front of the sturdy apron Juanita had insisted on tying me into.
I had a feeling that Juanita was regretting that she’d offered to teach me to make tamales. She’d tried to teach me to cook when I was a teenager. It had not been an outstanding success. I think Juanita assumed I’d make a better student now that I was past thirty. Sadly, untrue.
While I disassembled my misshapen abomination against Mexican cuisine in general and corn-based products in particular, Chamomile, Juanita’s head waitress at the Bird Cage, mentioned that there’d been a recent spate of mail thefts in the village of Amatista.
“Stealing the mail?” I asked as I took a spoon and tried to scrape my masa/green chili/chicken mixture back into the center of the husk. “Is somebody stealing mail in general or one person’s mail in particular?”
“Roberta Haskell says the money her son’s been sending her is getting stolen, but my mother has been keeping a lookout for the envelopes in her mailbag and hasn’t seen anything from Roberta’s son come through for months.”
Chamomile’s mother, Katie, is one of my tenants in the trailer court out behind the Bird Cage Café. She’s also the village of Amatista’s sole mail carrier. Katie delivers to the rural postal customers, which, if you subtract the 30-odd people who live in the village proper, is pretty much all of them.
I tried to place Roberta Haskell and failed, which didn’t surprise me, seeing as I’d only been back in Amatista since early November, and it was only the second week in January.
Out in the dining room of the Bird Cage, I heard a small boy yell “Tiiimber,” followed by a crash and the high-pitched barking of our pug-in-residence, Earp.
My cousin Georgia—second cousin, if I’m going to split hairs—had insisted that it was high time to take the Christmas decorations down from the dining room, much to her young son Maxwell’s sorrow.
I suspected the crash had been the aluminum Christmas tree falling over, and doubtless, Maxwell and Earp had had something to do with the toppling of the tree.
“Does Mrs. Haskell get her mail delivered?” I asked Chamomile.
Everyone living in the village proper has to go pick up their mail from the bank of boxes in the tiny adobe post office on the edge of town. I couldn’t imagine how anyone but a postal employee would manage to steal mail from the bank of little boxes inside the post office proper.
“Mrs. Haskell is on the rural route,” said Chamomile. “Mom tells me she’s still getting bills and an avalanche of junk mail. Just the money from her son is going missing.”
“How long has this been going on?” I asked.
Chamomile didn’t know.
“You go to church with Roberta, don’t you?” I asked Juanita, who had been uncharacteristically quiet that morning.
“Last Sunday, at church, Roberta was telling me all about it,” Juanita said. ”I got the impression it has been a problem for several months.”
When Juanita says “church” she’s referring to the weekly Sunday meetings Freddy Fernandez, the devout barber, holds in the back of his barbershop next door to the Bird Cage Café.
“Is her son sending cash?” I asked. “Because if he’s sending checks, wouldn’t anybody else have trouble cashing them?”
Juanita said she didn’t know and moved the conversation on to my own personal troubles. “Has Frank signed your divorce papers yet?”
I told Juanita that Frank had not.
Shortly before Christmas, my soon-to-be-ex-husband Frank had inexplicably and
abruptly decided that he could not live without me—this despite having allowed his mistress/office manager Shirley to take the money I’d earned from finally selling a screenplay and blow it on the roulette tables in Vegas.
Frank remained entirely unrepentant about the whole sordid affair, yet vowed he was going to “win me back.” I’d suggested that winning back lost property was more a matter he should be addressing with his ladylove Shirley.
“I was mistaken about Shirley,” Frank had said. “She’s nothing compared to you.”
It was at that moment that I realized that Shirley, too, had left him. Frank never has been a man who copes well on his own. He can’t even iron his own shirts.
“Frank will sign the papers eventually,” I told Juanita. “He’ll have to.”
I had no intention of getting back together with Frank, an intention that my divorce lawyer, Mr. Wendell, had quietly affirmed. It was typical, Mr. Wendell told me, for the offending party in a divorce to have last-minute remorse over the consequences of their actions.
This discussion of my messy personal life was cut short by the entrance of Ledbetter.
Marcus Ledbetter parks his trailer on the second of the three occupied spots in the trailer court out back of the Bird Cage.
He’s a bit of a recluse, which my Great Aunt Geraldine always insisted was due to coming back with PTSD after his tour of duty in Afghanistan.
My Aunt Geraldine and Ledbetter had been close in the years leading up to her death, so close that he’d taken my aunt Geraldine’s nest egg and turned it into a small fortune. Ledbetter is something of a stock-picking genius, and nobody knows it but me.
Ledbetter certainly doesn’t look like he’s involved in high finance. He looks more like a member of one of your less-reputable fraternities of motorcycle enthusiasts, but he’s a gentle and generous soul under all that black leather, scowl, and muscle.
Ledbetter shifted from one enormous booted foot to the other and turned his intense blue eyes on me. “I’d like to add an item to the agenda.”
Ledbetter was referring to the agenda for the meeting of the newly formed Little Tombstone Preservation board. Not long after I’d inherited Little Tombstone from my Great Aunt Geraldine, I’d decided to take the bulk of the considerable sum I’d inherited along with the ramshackle roadside tourist attraction and place it in trust to be used for the preservation of the crumbling monstrosity.
The newly formed Little Tombstone Preservation board consisted of the current tenants of Little Tombstone, Nancy Flynn, our neighbor and the mayor of Amatista, my cousin Georgia, and me. For various reasons, the first two meetings of the board had been far less productive than I’d hoped.
“What do you want us to discuss?” I asked Ledbetter.
“Parliamentary procedure.”
I’d rather lost control of the last meeting. When I’d brought up the subject of repainting the row of buildings that fronted Main Street, two distinct camps had emerged. One was strongly in favor of brownish-yellow, and the opposing camp was equally set on a brownish-gray. A minority of one (Hank Edwards, proprietor of Little Tombstone’s Curio Shop and the Museum of the Unexplained) made an impassioned case for grayish-green.
It had been a trying experience, with no conclusive outcome. I was toying with the idea of resigning my position as chairperson and letting someone with a great deal more natural authority take over the role, someone like Ledbetter.
“You won’t reconsider taking over the role of chair?” I asked Ledbetter.
He gave me a barely perceptible nod and an unblinking stare.
“I will not,” he said, “but I do have a few suggestions.”
Chapter Two
After Ledbetter had advised me on how to take a firmer hand on the proceedings of the Little Tombstone Preservation Board meetings, he left, and I gave up on making tamales and wandered out to the dining room of the Bird Cage where my cousin Georgia and Maxwell were still at work taking down the Christmas decorations.
“I always feel a little depressed when Christmas is over,” I told Georgia as we disassembled the massive pink and green aluminum tree (circa 1968 and courtesy of my late Uncle Ricky).
The tree had been Maxwell’s idea. Maxwell is six and perhaps not the best arbiter of good taste. While cleaning out the least rundown of Little Tombstone’s derelict guest cottages in preparation for renovating it into a habitable abode for her and little Maxwell, my cousin had come upon the aluminum Christmas tree, and it had captured Maxwell’s imagination.
Maxwell was bemoaning the putting away of the Christmas tree, but the retirement of Earp’s Christmas costumes was what really had him deep in mourning.
Earp, my late Aunt Geraldine’s ancient and irritable pug, had been bequeathed to me when I inherited Little Tombstone in early November. Eight large boxes overflowing with tiny canine costumes and hideous doggy sweaters had been bequeathed to me along with the pug.
Up until Aunt Geraldine’s death, I don’t think Earp had ever experienced the luxury of being a nudist, but I’d let him go around stark naked practically every day until Georgia moved in with me, and little Maxwell developed a minor obsession with Earp and his accoutrements.
Earp tolerates Maxwell’s enthusiastic attentions remarkably well. I think that is largely because my cousin Georgia is not of the no-food-between-meals school of thought, and Maxwell seems to spend most of his waking hours with a snack in his hand. He drops a lot— sometimes by accident and sometimes on purpose—and Earp is happy to be on hand to snaffle down any little bits and pieces as soon as they hit the floor.
Earp is Little Tombstone’s mascot, and if ever a rundown roadside tourist attraction has needed a lucky charm, it’s Little Tombstone.
Back in the 1960s, my Great Uncle Ricky had constructed the whole now-crumbling wooden monstrosity—a truncated version of the real town of Tombstone, Arizona. The place had outlived him by almost half a century, and it was showing its age.
“What did the estimates on the new roof come in at?” Georgia asked me as we shoved the lower half of the Christmas tree back into its box.
“The lowest bid was $40,576.52,” I told her, but Georgia wasn’t listening.
“Maxwell! I thought I told you to put Earp’s reindeer costume back in that bin.”
Maxwell had wrestled Earp into a tiny sweater that said, “PUGDOLF.” He was having a lot more trouble getting Earp to surrender to the antlers. Maxwell had managed to get the floppy fabric antler apparatus tied under Earp’s chin, but getting them properly positioned on top of Earp’s head was proving to be more of a challenge.
Somewhere back in the kitchen of the Bird Cage, somebody dropped a pan on the floor. Earp is half deaf in one ear and completely deaf in the other, but between the bang and a desire to get away from miniature humans trying to compromise his dogly dignity, Earp decided to make a run for it.
As he bolted from the dining room, Oliver, our handyman about the place, came in through the back door. Oliver tried to cut him off at the pass, but Earp managed to dart between Oliver’s legs and out into the great blue yonder.
I abandoned the bottom half of the Christmas tree and took off in hot pursuit. It’s not that there’s anything in the trailer court out back of the Bird Cage that’s particularly dangerous for dogs, it’s just that the last time Earp had gone on the lam, he’d not confined himself to sniffing around the trailer court; he’d headed for the wide-open spaces, gotten himself covered in cactus spines, and then somehow managed to get himself wedged down a hole in the ground. It had been a trying experience for everyone involved, including Dr. Bagley, the vet who’d had to extract all the cactus spines.
There were only three slots in the trailer court with tenants, and Earp bypassed them all. As I rounded the corner of Morticia-the-psychic’s colorfully painted Winnebago, the door swung open, and Hank stepped out.
Hank Edwards rents the storefronts containing the Curio Shop and the Museum of the Unexplained for the princely sum of $10 a month in per
petuity—a condition that was written into my Great Aunt Geraldine’s will.
Hank’s lived in a cramped apartment in the back of the Museum of the Unexplained for almost fifty years. In other words, Hank is a fixture at Little Tombstone and likely to remain so until either Little Tombstone bites the dust, or Hank does
It surprised me to see Hank coming out of Morticia’s Winnebago. I’d never known Hank to consult the cards about his future. Hank is more receptive to conspiracy theories concerning the fate of humanity at large, rather than the type to try and get a sneak peek into his own personal destiny. I made a mental note to look into Hank’s sudden interest in fortune-telling after I’d recovered the runaway Earp.
Earp is an elderly dog with incredibly short legs, but, for the moment, at least, the pug was outpacing me. I decided to slacken my speed, in the hopes that he would. I didn’t want the poor old thing to suffer from a heart attack.
My plan worked, sort of. Earp kept one eye on me and the other on the horizon. I’d dart forward at intervals hoping to grab him by the collar, but he maintained a six-foot buffer between us at all times.
When we reached the barbed-wire fence that separated Little Tombstone land from Nancy Flynn’s ranch, I gave up the chase. Earp kept going, heading toward the cluster of outbuildings up by Nancy’s house. It was a hard quarter mile uphill to Nancy’s place, under barbed wire, and through the cactus. I saw a plume of dust out on the road, so I scrambled out to the roadside and flagged down Nancy.
“Earp’s done a runner again,” I told her.
“Get in.”
We tore up the road, and as soon as Nancy skidded to a stop in front of her rambling farmhouse, I tumbled out. Earp was just emerging out of the sagebrush. The antlers had shifted around and were now hanging down under his neck. His “Pugdolf” sweater had sustained a rip, but he appeared free of cactus spines, so I considered that a major victory.