by N. C. Lewis
Creek crisis
An Ollie Stratford Mystery
N.C. Lewis
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by N.C. Lewis
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Acknowledgements
A special thank you to wonderful readers Jennie Ersari, Renne Collins, Diane Stover, Judy Kirkley, Denise Lee and Pam Hager.
Prologue
My name is Ollie Stratford, forty-six pushing forty-seven, widowed with four kids--all grown. A recent transplant from New York City--Brooklyn to be exact. Ealing Homestead, a ten-acre estate on the outskirts of a town called Medlin Creek, in the Hill Country of Texas, is my new home. The property came with an abandoned oil well, a stray dog called Bodie, and a homeless man known to everyone as Simpkins.
At college, I fought on the karate team. That was over twenty years ago. Started training again--I’m a little rusty--but you never know when the skill will come in handy. I don’t earn a lot of money but I make ends meet; part-time professor at the Medlin Creek community college, and that is fine by me.
Mr. Maxwell, my business coach, says, "To make progress, set goals". Mine are simple. Make new friends, get the oil well producing, and rent Ealing Homestead as an event center. The Hill Country is the wedding capital of Texas, and they say event rentals are a lucrative business.
Chapter 1
The teacher, Mr. Maxwell, didn’t say anything about this at the event center's training school, I thought, as the bride’s mother's lip curled into a snarl.
"Harriot," said the mother, her voice rising to a self-righteous quiver, "is to be elevated atop a chariot pulled by miniature donkeys down the wedding aisle."
"Miniature donkeys?" I inquired.
The woman glared. "Yes, like in the movies, kinda like Charlton Heston in Ben-Hur, but with miniature donkeys. You do have them, don’t you?"
It was almost noon, the cloudless sky filled with the summer sun. Under the shade of a tall oak tree I stood, foliage insufficient to prevent beads of sweat running down my forehead--and dripping like a damaged faucet--from my nose. The mother and daughter were the fifteenth potential customers to visit my newly established event center. Fourteen rejections so far. By the look on the mother’s face, rejection fifteen was moments away.
"Well, we have lots of animals here in Texas," I said, keeping a fixed smile on my face, "I’m sure we can round up miniature donkeys." I didn’t sound convincing. I wasn’t.
The mother’s eyes narrowed further. "I want that man she is marrying to understand Harriot is a princess and we expect him to work hard--three jobs if necessary--to keep her living in style. Do you think miniature donkeys convey such a message?"
The poster that advertised Mr. Maxwell’s Hill Country Event Training School came to mind. The handsome just-married couple were smiling, as well as all the in-laws, guests, and friends. Even the minister--arms outstretched--was laughing. Superimposed on the poster--Mr. Maxwell's computer generated image--manipulated to make him appear twenty years younger, had a broad white-toothed grin. A large speech bubble with the words, "Join our new course--Get Paid for Your Event Center by Next Week. For event center owners who want to make real money today!’"
No, there wasn’t a word in Mr. Maxwell’s training course about chariots and miniature donkeys, or fathers-in-law demanding a Hollywood production on a Walmart budget. Neither did Mr. Maxwell discuss the tire kickers who visit with their extended families as part of a day trip into the country, request a full tour, devour their picnic lunch on the property, and drive off refusing to even sign the guest book. There was no warning about the sense of futility--or the panic--as cash stashed away to run the business, dwindled. Not even a hint of this possibility. I made a mental note to let Mr. Maxwell know this in our next Maximum Dollars--Minimum Stress business-coaching call.
"No," said the mother, her voice almost a hiss, "this place simply won’t do."
◆◆◆
At the desk in the office I reviewed the financial accounts, again. Three potential sources of income, only one generating cash right now, part-time teaching at Medlin Creek Community College as a professor of statistics. I studied with care the other two potential sources of income: the event center, and an abandoned oil well that lay on the edge of the property by the creek.
The upkeep of Ealing Homestead was more expensive than initially expected. It had to start paying for itself soon or else I would be in deep trouble. Time to face up to reality, I told myself. This was the wrong side of June where the summer sun beats down hard on the Hill Country, driving the daytime temperature into the hundreds. "Not much demand for outdoor event centers this time of year," I said out loud, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
The move from corporate life in New York City to the entrepreneurial world of Texas felt like playing the tables in an upmarket casino. Horror stories kept forcing their way into my mind, real-life tales thrown up on my computer screen from social media news feeds. I clicked on an internet news link. The article relayed the story of a desperate event center owner at the mercy of the corporate planner who demanded a makeshift firing range for the executives. As the champagne flowed, so did the bullets--in the wrong direction--killing the chief executive officer and the chief financial officer. But it was the event center owner who ended up in jail.
I clicked on another link. A former event center owner with trembling hands, puffing hard on an electronic cigarette complained, "It’s a twenty-four-seven business, never a day off or an afternoon at the beach. A bride demanded a scale to weigh the women guests with instruction to ban entry to anyone skinnier than her. The mother-in-law asked me to inform her husband that she was leaving him for the best man. But when the groom attacked me for refusing to stand in for a missing rabbi, I quit".
My mouth was dry, lips sticking together as I clicked compulsively on yet another internet link. A video played of a gaunt-faced man, former event center owner, who complained, "went out of business after my very first event. The bridal party didn’t want any food for themselves or the guests, just barrels of whiskey, vodka, and bathtubs of beer, carried on the backs of miniature donkeys and served by Willy Wonka’s Oompa Loompas. I should’ve refused. At the sendoff, a drunken brawl among the in-laws and Oompa Loompas sent a lighted sparkler skittering into a half-empty barrel of alcohol. A roaring sheet of flame spewed forth burning the entire event center to the ground. The bride and groom sued me for ruining their big day".
"Oh crap!" I said aloud. "That one couldn’t possibly be true." Then I chastised myself for wasting time surfing the internet. No, running an event center cannot be that bad. I mopped my sweaty brow with a handkerchief; in any case I’d already placed my bet, now fate would determine the outcome.
Chapter 2
The wooden windup clock on the mantelpiece struck the top of the hour, the signal to get up and stretch. Desk work plays havoc on the body, you must move to keep the circulation going. Several downward dogs followed by hamstring stretches did little to alter my sour mood. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water and to let Bodie out; off the dog ran toward the outbuildings. "Don’t suppose I’ll see you for the rest of the day," I said.
>
The rumble of tires against the dirt road alerted me to a visitor. A black Lexus SUV pulled into the parking area with a plump-faced woman peering out of the window. Probably another ‘tire kicker’ I thought as I plastered a welcome to Ealing Homestead smile on my face. "Beggars can’t be choosers," I muttered under my breath.
With a welcoming wave of the hand she jumped out of the car, scurried across the little dirt path through the iron gate toward the front door where I stood with a plastic grin affixed to my face. She was a tall, heavyset woman in her late thirties, wearing a plain brown cotton skirt, cream-colored blouse and comfortable-looking Sofft Belicia slip-on tan shoes. In her hand, a pen and clipboard.
"Hello, I’m Karina Pope," she said with a friendly smile, "executive assistant to Carlos Castillo, the Portuguese film director. Am I speaking with Dr. Ollie Stratford, owner of Ealing Homestead event center?"
"Yes, how can I help you?"
"Carlos Castillo and team are to film a segment of the movie Cavalos Selvagens in Medlin Creek. The crew will spend several days shooting at the library and along the Riverwalk trail. One of Hollywood’s leading ladies is among the cast. The grandmother will be played by Dorothy Sadler…"
Karina paused, her eyes scanned my face for signs of excitement. She found them. Dorothy Sadler was a family favorite for the wholesome role she played in the long-running serial Big Homestead on the Little Prairie.
"Oh," I said with excitement, "she was wonderful as the head of the Weavers clan... Mama Weaver, that’s what they called her! Now, what was the name of her dog? You remember, the little black and white hound, she wouldn’t leave the house without him."
Karina rolled her eyes, her hands tightening on the clipboard. "Gypsum, his name was Gypsum." Her voice resonated with the faintest trace of annoyance which contrasted sharply against her professional business attire.
"That’s it! Mama Weaver loved that dog." I said, ignoring Karina’s frustrated stare. "The opening scene," I continued, "always had the two of them playing together." I smiled, memories of happy days in front of the television watching that show lifted my earlier acidic mood.
Karina’s voice broke into my happy reminiscence. "This," she began in a sharp tone, " is not a full-on Hollywood production, more a kind of--how can I put it--short feature. Yes, that’s what it is, a short feature. Dorothy Sadler’s the biggest star but we have a few minor celebrities as well. Mary Birdsong, the former singer from Austin, will play the errant daughter."
I gasped. Mary Birdsong gained fame fifteen years earlier when she released the wholesome song, "Lovely Children, Lovely Family" on YouTube. The video was an overnight sensation, and in a matter of months Mary became the biggest tweenie pop star in the country. The fall from grace was even quicker than her rise. An unfortunate combination of youth, drugs, alcohol, incompatible partners and crooked managers, stifled creativity. She never had another hit, and her social life spiraled out of control. A five-year stint in federal prison tarnished her image beyond repair, and she entered into the vast wasteland of 'former celebrities you wouldn’t want your kids to hang with’.
As if reading my thoughts, Karina continued. "It is only a small role, more of an extra really, part of Mary’s attempt to rehabilitate her public image."
I murmured an encouraging sound that eventually formed into words. "I’m a big believer in second chances."
Karina took a small step forward, a worried expression creased her forehead. "Unfortunately, Renee's Soap Opera Ranch, the event center we hired for our prerehearsal celebration, was flooded during the summer storm which struck the region last week. I’ve just come back from the place, it is simply unusable right now. The owner, Renee Collins was so sweet; she said, 'No place to go from here, but up,' and mentioned your name. She said she met you at an event center training course and that your property might be a suitable alternative."
Karina stopped speaking. Her head swiveled around as she took a long hard look along the dusty trail to the little iron gate and out into the yard where the Lexus waited. Then she nodded. "Yes, this will be perfect. Carlos Castillo would like to hire Ealing Homestead for the prerehearsal celebration. Is it available this coming Wednesday evening?"
I bit my lip to disguise the smile.
◆◆◆
Back at the desk I reviewed the agreement I had just signed. The deal paid fifty percent upfront, and Carlos Castillo’s event coordinator, Theodora Simon, would take care of catering, staffing, and any other details. As I pulled up my bank balance the electronic transfer was already listed–pending. I let out a sigh of relief as I muttered aloud, "The funds should clear within twenty-four hours. Woo-hoo!"
Then I pulled up a web browser to do a little research. "Car-los Cas-til-lo," I said to myself rolling each syllable slowly across my tongue. "A guy with a name like that must be a Hollywood hotshot director." Excited, I searched the internet for information but drew a blank. There were no photos or Facebook pages, and Carlos was absent from the other social media sites. The man had produced seven films in Portuguese--nothing yet in English according to Wikipedia--that was about all I turned up. "Carlos is an introvert or recluse or both," I said to the empty room.
Left to my imagination, I conjured up an image of a stout, tanned, crinkled-skinned, sixty-something man with bulbous dark eyes, hooked nose and a dour expression permanently fixed upon his face. Yes, he was beginning to take shape in my mind. The fellow spent his day yelling at the poor production crew and cussing out the actors. Whiskey was his only love in life and the uppermost thought in his mind as he relaxed at the end of a grueling day of shouting. I doubted I would like Carlos Castillo, although if he drank Aberfeldy single malt whiskey and liked animals, I might change my mind.
I called Millie Watkins, a friend, and part-time local newspaper reporter for the Medlin Creek Times. Millie picked up on the first ring and began to speak. "Ollie, just finished another article about teenagers setting fire to shop store mannequins on the trail. The sheriff’s department hasn’t done anything yet. Lots of letters about the damage from locals. I guess Mayor Felton will have to get involved at some point. Anyway, I’m on my way out to interview Markus Swain, he coordinates the annual senior square dance. The owner of the newspaper has asked me to put together a fresh angle on the event. Not sure what to do, been covering it for the last ten years--and apart from the 'fur ball' incident which happened six years ago--there are few avenues to take. Suppose I could interview Martha, the oldest resident in Medlin Creek, but did that two years ago. Anyway, enough of my problems, what’s going on Ollie?"
"I can see," I said, " your listening skills have reached amazing new heights, please tell me how you do it?"
Millie laughed.
I continued, "How would you like hobnobbing with Hollywood stars?" Then as the words sunk in, I explained, "Just hired Ealing Homestead to Carlos Castillo, the Portuguese film director, they’re shooting some scenes right here in Medlin Creek."
"Yes, I heard they were filming at the library and along the Riverwalk. I’m not familiar with the works of Carlos Castillo, but would love to get an interview for the newspaper, the owner might offer me a full-time position if I could do that. By the way, who’s the Hollywood star?"
"Dorothy Sadler, she played Mama Weaver in Big Homestead on the Little Prairie."
"Count me in."
"Okay, make sure you’re at my place four p.m. Wednesday, that’s when the activities begin. Oh, and by the way, don’t tell anyone, I don’t want a massive crowd turning up uninvited."
◆◆◆
The next morning…
The headline in bold black letters on the front page of the Medlin Creek Times screamed, "Hollywood Star to Film Movie in Medlin Creek. Opening party four p.m. Wednesday afternoon at the Ealing Homestead event center".
Chapter 3
Wednesday afternoon…
At the entrance to Ealing Homestead, under the late afternoon sun, hundreds of people packed together, held back by Medlin C
reek deputies. The sheriff department's recent recruit, Deputy Patty Freeman, stood at the front with her hands outstretched; glared fiercely and her thin lips curved in an uneasy smile.
The spirit of the crowd was good-humored, for the most part, but occasionally one could perceive a note of Hollywood hysteria especially from the visiting tourists who outnumbered the locals. Just inside the entrance to Ealing Homestead the local radio station MCR 101.1 FM blasted out a mix of popular rock, pop and country music.
The host, Johnny Spinner--on a raised stage--added to the atmosphere by excitedly talking over the music. "Ladies and gentlemen welcome to the new Hollywood of Texas right here in Medlin Creek, shout 'Boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya,' if you loved Dorothy Sadler in Big Homestead on the Little Prairie." A huge roar went up from the gathering as Johnny played the theme song from that once popular show.
The crowd kept its distance from the entrance to the property as word spread from the front that Sheriff Hays had issued a no-tolerance arrest order to his deputies. As if to test the validity of these words, an individual slipped away from the crowd, crawled under the cedar fence which lined the perimeter of the property, then quickly dashed toward one of the reception tents. A fleet-footed deputy, by the name of Jennie Ersari, caught up with the miscreant, handcuffed the poor fellow and tossed him into a waiting law enforcement vehicle.
In large black Cadillacs with dark tinted windows, the cast arrived. The character of the voices in the crowd began to change--up an octave, higher pitched--as Queen’s "We Will Rock You" pounded over MCR 101.1 FM speakers. "Boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya," screamed Johnny Spinner spiraling in circles, arms flailing like a demented crab. The crowd became hysterical.