The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set

by Margaret Moseley

  “I’m sure I did. Well, if I didn’t, I should have. Remember I said the killer would be at the funeral. And, Honey, Ralph was at the funeral. And next time … next time I’ll get it all right.”

  Anyway, it was late Saturday evening when I was finally alone in my house again. I’d driven Joaquin—he’d always be Joaquin to me—to the airport. The Plymouth Voyager was really a dream to drive. I wondered what it would do on the open road.

  Work was my final option. I could keep on doing what I was doing. I enjoyed it, and Bondesky insisted he could still keep up with my records from jail. And he might not be there so very long, anyway.

  No, I suddenly thought, work wasn’t my final option after all. There was the money. And the house.

  I’d have to move the money. I knew that. But right now, I felt it was safe in the piano. After all, it lay in the passageway above the pantry for over seventeen years. Almost as long as the toys under the house. I wondered then if Father had known about the moldy box of contraband I’d left under the back porch. Wondered if that was where he’d gotten the idea to hide the money within the house?

  I really didn’t have to work again—ever.

  I could stay home and watch over the house. As it had always watched over me.

  No, I could put a name to my guardian angel now: Jimmy. The odious man whom I’d so visibly shunned. I was the one who knew that you didn’t judge a book by its cover, and I’d done just that with Jimmy, allowing my obvious revulsion of the derelict to cloud any positive premonitions that he might have emitted. I remembered his puppy-dog eagerness to assist me at Bondesky’s command, and I shrugged. How was I to know? But I knew now, and my house had lost the breathing, watchful presence, which had never really been the house at all.

  Maybe I couldn’t trust my feelings after all. Again, I wondered. What option would Aunt Eddie approve of?

  I carried my guilt upstairs with me as heavily as I did the large package that had arrived in the mail from one of the publishing houses I represented. It contained samples of a new line of computer manuals they were starting to carry. Dutifully, I lugged them up into the war room to record the shipment, then I decided idly to check what was supposed to be my itinerary for next week.

  Palo Pinto! Sweetwater! Odessa! How could I have forgotten that west Texas was next on my schedule? I had planned to try out a little ranch-looking motel outside Abilene this time. What was its name? I looked through the west Texas files. I hated not remembering. I didn’t find the motel name on my first immersion into the files, but I did pull out a large manila envelope, and I smiled when I remembered where I’d picked it up.

  There was this little bookseller in Breckenridge who had taken me to a barbecue joint for lunch. Over chopped beef sandwiches and tall glasses of iced tea, he’d shyly thrust the envelope into my hands.

  “It’s a book I’ve written,” he said. “I’d appreciate it … consider it an honor … if you’d take a look at it. Tell me what you think of it.”

  I had pulled the neatly stacked pages from their cover as he continued to talk about his work. “It’s not much, really. I mean, I think it’s a real book, but then again, I don’t know. Is it too much to ask, Honey? For you to read it? It’s only a little made-up story. You don’t have to ….”

  This had happened to me before. Booksellers were book-lovers—well, all except Harry—and most were frustrated writers. I had meant to take the manuscript to Boston with me. To read it at night so I would be prepared when I saw the little man again. I always hated having to tell them if I didn’t like the book. I sighed and looked at my watch. It wasn’t all that late, and if I did decide to go …

  Taking the book downstairs with me, I lighted what was probably going to be the last fire of the season. As the gas flames cast their dancing shadows on the hearth, their capricious frolic the only spirits left in the house, I curled up before the fire and turned to the first page.

  Before I began to read, I remembered what I had replied to the would-be author. “I’d be glad to read it. Who knows? It might be a best-seller. And besides, there’s always room in the world for another good story.”

  And part of what I told him was true.

  If you enjoyed The Fourth Steven, then read the

  following excerpt from

  Grinning in His Mashed Potatoes

  the next Honey Huckleberry mystery.

  Coming to your bookstore in 1999.

  The second bestselling author in the world ate his dessert first.

  I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but I was sitting next to him, and when he took that first bite of the Eagle Brand lemon pie with the mile-high meringue, I wished I had the nerve to do the same.

  My mother always said, “Eat your vegetables first.” So I did, even though she died more than ten years ago. She might have had a point. Twyman Towerie licked the meringue off his lips with a satisfied grin and fell over dead into his mashed potatoes.

  And I lived to tell the tale.

  Of course, there was a scream. And, of course, it came from my friend Janie who was also sitting at the squared head table at the Arlington Friends of the Library Annual luncheon. Although she is a devoted mystery fan and reads blood and gore without batting a lash, Janie always screams when she sees a dead body. She’s working on it, but Towerie’s death made her two for two.

  Association with death—murder—to be exact is why Janie and I wound up at the head table usually reserved for authors and their friends. I was recently featured in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram as having had two—not one, but two—murders occur in my life. And since I am a book representative for a small, respectable number of publishers, the Friends of the Arlington Public Library naturally assumed that the combination of books, murder, and publicity would help entice more readers to their fund-raiser.

  Janie accepted the invitation for me and had announced to the chairman over the phone that she would be my lunch partner. She’s into books too, owns a coverted gas station in West Texas that sells all kinds of paperbacks, but specializes in mysteries.

  Although romances, not mysteries, were my thing, I was actually getting quite good at knowing what to do when one finds a corpse. Or in this case, sitting next to one.

  After my first embarrassed reaction—“Mr. Towerie … are you all right?”—I realized he was not and jumped to my feet. Not used to wearing high heels, I had slipped them off under the table. Now my left foot scrambled to find a toehold on the missing shoe while my right one slipped into a slot between the straps. I made an uneven lurch toward the downed author.

  I put my hand on his shoulder and the big gray head rolled off his plate onto the table. That was about as far as my expertise went and I looked out into the audience and said the numbers that had helped me before. “911! 911!”

  The faces that seemed frozen for the few seconds since the previous action had taken place suddenly went into overdrive, creating a blurred image of a previously still picture. A few darted off to the hallway, hopefully to call the magic number, and two purposeful bodies headed toward Twyman.

  “Doctor.”

  “Doctor.”

  I assumed that meant they were doctors, so I stepped aside to let them at him. Of course, that was another lurch, which threw me back into my chair so I got to see all the resuscitation stuff up close. The two—a man and a woman—gently laid Twyman on the floor, loosening his tie and belt while opening his shirt. I looked away then, but could hear the pounding swooshing sounds that obviously went with the correct professional behavior in such a situation. After several minutes, they both shouted, “911! 911!”

  Slowly slipping sideways, chair by chair, I managed to take myself out of the center of the action. By the time the emergency crew arrived I had nearly made it to the other side of the table. I couldn’t see what they were doing to Twyman, but their actions certainly seemed competent. The room, which had produced a varied cacophony of sounds following the initial realization of stunned silence, now was quiet as a tomb
again. Janie stood behind me, her strong fingers digging into my shoulder.

  Finally the EMTs looked at each other and the attending physicians and shook their heads. “Let’s get him to the hospital,” one said. Although it was evident even to me that the morgue was the obvious destination. None of the professionals would take the responsibility of declaring Twyman deceased, but I heard the woman doctor whisper “as a doornail” to the luncheon’s chairperson, Elaine Madison. And down Texas way, doornails are always dead.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Margaret Moseley has been making her living as a writer since she was eighteen, beginning on the original Fort Worth Press in Fort Worth, Texas and continuing with work for ad agencies, television, and major corporations. Her stunningly original first book, Bonita Faye, was a finalist in the Edgar Award for Best New Novel and earned her wide, and richly deserved, acclaim.

  Moseley was born in Durant, Oklahoma, raised in Fort Worth, Texas and for twenty years lived in Fort Smith, Arkansas. During her time in Arkansas, she was a personal friend of the Clintons and campaigned for them as an Arkansas Traveler at the time of the 1992 election.

  She is the author of four additional mystery novels: Milicent LeSueur, The Fourth Steven, Grinning in His Mashed Potatoes, and A Little Traveling Music Please, all of which are being republished by Brash Books.

  Moseley is married to computer guru and novelist Ron Burris. They live in Euless, Texas, rescued Beagle Miss Sadie and P.C. (for Prince Charming, the rescued cat from hell.)

  GRINNING IN HIS

  MASHED POTATOES

  MARGARET MOSELEY

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 1999 Margaret Moseley All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 1-7320656-2-4

  ISBN 13: 978-1-7320656-2-8

  Published by

  Brash Books, LLC

  12120 State Line #253,

  Leawood, Kansas 66209

  www.brash-books.com

  For Ronal*

  Also by Margaret Moseley from Brash Books

  The Honey Huckleberry Series

  The Fourth Steven

  Bonita Faye

  Milicent Le Sueur

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Once upon a long time ago a dear friend taught me about serendipity: that magic meeting of chance and good fortune. Now I find myself laughing with the muses as I thank those serendipitous friends who give me so sweetly of their time, talent, and friendship to help me with my writing.

  A few of the best: Margaret Ann and Keith Smith, Ginger and the late Max Courtney. Anne Miller Tinsley. Michelle Tezak. Darwin Payne. The best publishers (and authors) in the business Brash Books’ Lee Goldberg and Joel Goldman and their special person Denise Fields. I am so proud to be among their chosen mystery authors.

  Personally I must throw a kiss to my beloved sisters, Donna Seydler and Mary Lou Brookman Bryant, and my darling daughters Charlotte Moseley and Dixie Connor (with a high five to Max Connor.)

  Among the finest are my constant readers, bless you all. And the friends who share my life through books, exercise and the eternal prowl for the best restaurants!

  And, once again, did I mention Ronal? Yeah, of course I did, thanks, babe.*

  NURSERY RHYME

  Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie,

  Kissed the girls and made them cry.

  When the boys came out to play

  Georgie Porgie ran away.

  Author Unknown

  CONTENTS

  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 THIRTY–EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY–NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY–ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY–TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY–THREE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  The second–best-selling author in the world ate his dessert first.

  I probably wouldn’t have noticed, but I was sitting next to him, and when he took that first bite of the Eagle Brand lemon pie with the mile-high meringue, I wished I had the nerve to do the same.

  My mother always said, “Eat your vegetables first,” so I did, even though she died more than ten years ago. She might have had a point. Twyman Towerie licked the meringue off his lips with a satisfied grin and fell over dead into his mashed potatoes.

  And I lived to tell the tale.

  Of course, there was a scream. And, of course, it came from my friend Janie, who was also sitting at the squared head table at the Friends of the Arlington Public Library annual luncheon. Although she is a devoted mystery fan and reads blood and gore without batting a lash, Janie always screams when she sees a dead body. She’s working on it, but Towerie’s death made her two for two.

  Association with death—murder, to be exact—is why Janie and I wound up at the head table usually reserved for authors and their friends. I was recently featured in the Fort Worth Star-Telegram as having had two—not one, but two—murders occur in my life. And since I am a book representative for a small, respectable number of publishers, the Friends of the Arlington Public Library naturally assumed that the combination of books, murder, and publicity would help entice more readers to their fund-raiser.

  Janie accepted the invitation for me and announced to the chairman over the phone that she would be my lunch partner. She’s into books, too. She owns a bookstore, Pages, a converted gas station in West, Texas, which sells all kinds of paperbacks but specializes in mysteries.

  Although romances, not mysteries, were my thing, I was actually getting quite good at knowing what to do when one finds a corpse. Or in this case, when sitting next to one.

  After my first embarrassed reaction—“Mr. Towerie … are you all right?”—I realized he was not and jumped to my feet. Not used to wearing high heels, I had slipped them off under the table. Now my left foot scrambled to find a toehold on the missing shoe while my right one slipped into a slot between the straps. I made an uneven lurch toward the downed author.

  I put my hand on his shoulder, and the big gray head rolled off his plate onto the table. That was about as far as my expertise went, and I looked out into the audience and said the numbers that had helped me before: “Nine-one-one. Nine-one-one.”

  The faces that seemed frozen for the few seconds following Janie’s scream suddenly went into overdrive, creating a blurred image of a previously still picture. A few darted off to the hallway, hopefully to call the magic number, and two purposeful bodies strode toward Twyman.

  “Do
ctor.”

  “Doctor.”

  I assumed that meant they were doctors, so I stepped aside to let them at him. Of course, that was another lurch, which threw me back into my chair, so I got to see all the resuscitation stuff up close. The two—a man and a woman—gently laid Twyman on the floor, loosening his tie and belt while opening his shirt. I looked away then, but could hear the pounding swooshing sounds that obviously went with the correct professional behavior in such a situation. After several minutes of repeated counting from one to five, they both shouted, “Nine-one-one. Nine-one-one.”

  Slowly slipping sideways, chair by chair, I managed to take myself out of the center of the action. By the time the emergency crew arrived, I had nearly made it to the other side of the table. I couldn’t see what they were doing to Twyman, but their actions certainly seemed competent. The room, which had produced a varied cacophony of sounds following the initial realization of stunned silence, now was quiet as a tomb again. Janie stood behind me, her strong fingers digging into my shoulder.

  Finally, the EMTs looked at each other and the attending physicians and shook their heads. “Let’s get him to the hospital,” one said, although it was evident even to me that the morgue was the obvious destination. None of the professionals would take the responsibility of declaring Twyman deceased, but I heard the woman doctor whisper to the luncheon’s chairperson, Elaine Madison, “… as a doornail.” And down Texas way, doornails are always dead.

  TWO

  The fellowship hall of the Arlington church where the library luncheon took place was ultimately cleared. All the patrons and friends of the library had slowly ebbed out. Of course, they bought all the books that Twyman’s publisher had sent for the post luncheon author signing. Although these books would never be signed, I guess the purchasers thought they would have some value. “This is Twyman Towerie’s first best-seller. I bought it at the luncheon where he died.” Things like that amaze me. Sorta like Elvis Slept Here signs on the roadside.