by N. C. Lewis
Double Dimple
An Ollie Stratford Cozy Mystery
N.C. Lewis
Copyright © 2018 by N.C. Lewis
This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are 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 with brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Prologue
I'm Ollie Stratford, late forties, 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 Texas Hill Country town called Medlin Creek, is my new home. The estate came with an abandoned oil well and a stray dog called Bodie.
They say the Hill Country is the wedding capital of Texas, that's why I've converted my property into an event center. Unfortunately, owning an event center provides at most a modest, and sometimes microscopic income that's why I also teach full-time at the local community college. Fortunately, this week I have a break from that!
Chapter 1
"It's perfect!"
I leaned forward to stare into the leathery face of the man who stood by the little iron gate on the dirt driveway, at Ealing Homestead.
"Doctor Stratford, it's absolutely perfect!" he said again, turning his head slowly to survey the landscape. The late-summer sun was low in the morning sky, and bird tweets competed with the gentle rustle of cedar and oak tree branches swaying in a light breeze.
"Pleased you think so, Mr. Langer," I replied, an excited smile creeping across my face.
"Call me Igor," he said, extending his hand. It was firm, cold and dry.
Business had been slow. The unexpected arrival of Mr. Igor Langer, and his enthusiasm to use Ealing Homestead as his wedding venue offered a glow of warmth against the chilly financial winds that swirled around ever since I moved to Texas.
"Igor, did you find us on our website?" I asked.
"Yep," he drawled, inhaling the sharp tang of cedar and grasses. "Now that I have a venue, I can sleep peacefully." Igor's eyes bulged slightly out from his leathery face as he spoke, which gave him the appearance of mild surprise.
"I don't like it."
My head swiveled toward the voice. A thin, pale-faced woman with large, deep-blue eyes stared back—Igor's fiancée, Kitty Marley. She wore a light-blue, knee-length dress patterned with giant sunflowers and happy, smiling honeybees.
"Sweetie, what's not to like?" Igor huffed.
Kitty pressed her lips together, glanced around, her wide eyes settling on the abandoned shacks at the edge of the dirt driveway, but she did not speak.
The buildings desperately needed repair. The smallest shack, refurbished after a fire, needed more work. I didn't have the cash to repair or knock down the other two buildings.
Stalling, I said, "Miss Marley, it can be hard to imagine how beautiful the event center looks at night under a late summer moon, with the wedding party tent lit up, beautifully arranged flowers, soft music, and, of course, the happy bride and groom." I gave her my glittering smile.
"I don't like it," she said again, her voice downy and sweet.
I saw an expression pass over Igor's face. "Now, now, Kitty darling, it's perfect. I tell you—perfect." There was an edge to his voice.
"This place won't do," Kitty said, her face as stern as a school teacher.
Igor half turned, peered at his fiancée through piercing eyes. "Kitty, you do love me, don't you?"
"Oh yes!" she replied, her voice soft and syrupy.
Igor rubbed his chin. "I hoped you would say that. But do you want to be my wife?"
"You know I do!" she replied.
"Then get used to me making the decisions. I don't want your pretty little mind burdened with such things."
"I don't like it," her voice trembled as she spoke.
Igor's eyes bulged. "Kitty! This is the place I have chosen. Now, shut up, I'm in charge here." A vein pulsated in Igor's neck, and his face flushed purple.
I glanced at the couple, sudden suspicion sharpening my senses. Despite turning the ten-acre property into an event center, I still wasn't financially independent, and I had turned to the only other way of making a living in small-town Texas I knew: teaching full-time at the local community college. But it wasn't enough. An event center comes with operating costs larger than an average teaching salary.
"Top dollar, that's what I'll pay," said Igor.
This didn't feel right, not right at all. "You have visited other venues, haven't you, Igor?" I said, trying not to betray my feelings.
He shifted from one foot to the other. "Doctor Stratford, this is the first place we've seen, and it's perfect."
My mind raced. "While I'd love you to hire Ealing Homestead, it's important you look at other event centers. There are many scattered across the Hill Country."
Igor's leathery face stiffened. "I have made up my mind. Doctor Stratford, I want to hire Ealing Homestead for our wedding."
"Very well," I said, a sense of unease rising from my gut. "But let me give you a list of alternative venues."
"Oh, would you?" said Kitty quickly. "That would be wonderful."
"No!" Igor shouted. "The marriage will take place here. Now, it's settled. Doctor Stratford, let's talk about dates and price."
For a moment, Kitty looked murderous, but shrugged and ran a petite hand through her hair. "Igor darling…"
"Don't 'Igor darling' me," he said, folding his arms across his chest.
After my husband John's death, I realized what a wonderful marriage we had. We shared in the important decisions and grew closer. I thought about the distressing number of women shuffling through unhappy marriages with a husband who made all the decisions. Was Kitty entering a similar fate?
Kitty scowled. "Igor darling," she said again, this time taking a little step and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Please don't get so excited. Doctor Tobias has ordered you to take it easy." Her voice was sweet, but her eyes were as flat as a shark.
Igor faced her angrily, his fists clenched. "I don't care what—"
A fit of wild coughing drowned out his words.
I watched helplessly as he struggled to gain his breath. Kitty removed her hand from his shoulder and regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Have you taken your meds?"
Igor spluttered his answer. "Dammit yes, dammit." Another wild fit of coughing.
What am I doing? I thought. I left the corporate world to get away from bottom-line decision making. Yes, I need the money, but… Poor woman. I am not a marriage counselor, and I'm no psychologist, but if ever a marriage was in need of one… I shifted nervously.
After Igor had gotten his breathing under control, he straightened up. "I'm telling you, woman," he said turning to Kitty, "it's Ealing Homestead or nothing. Take it or leave it."
This is ridiculous, I thought. How long will their marriage last? One, two, three years at most. With searing clarity, I knew I could never rent the event center to this couple. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. "Igor, I can't sign you up until you've looked at two other properties." Then added for good measure, "It's company policy." And it was, now.
"Policy? Okay, we'll look, but we'll be back." Igor huffed and turned to walk across the driveway toward his vehicle.
Kitty followed close behind. "I don't like this place," she said, her voice as quiet as t
he flutter of butterfly wings.
Chapter 2
Inside, the gentle hum of the air-conditioning system puffing out chilled air gave welcome relief from the rising morning heat. Bodie, the stray dog I took in when I first moved to Texas, pranced and danced around my feet. I stooped down, rubbed his belly, and we played for several minutes.
I hadn't yet completed my list of activities for the day, but I knew there were teaching notes to prepare and student assignments to grade. These would be my top priority. I let out a sigh and muttered, "at least I don't have any classes to teach until next week."
In the kitchen, I refilled Bodie's water and food bowls. The hound yapped, wagged his tail, and devoured the food. Then, after a long, deep slurp from his water bowl he headed to his dog bed, curled up and went to sleep.
I slipped off my shoes; the cool of the concrete floor felt good against the sizzling heat of a Hill Country summer morning. Igor Langer's visit had disturbed my morning ritual. The local newspaper, the Medlin Creek Times, lay half open on the kitchen table. Sitting down I picked it up, my bare feet on a stool and my chair tilted back against the wall.
There was an article from my friend, Millie Watkins, about the redevelopment of an area on the east side of Medlin Creek. Locals called it the warehouse district. According to the article, artisan workshops and small factories were once common in that part of town. The warehouse district fell into dereliction as competition from large-scale industrial factories forced many of the small workshops out of business.
I glanced at an announcement of a new singles group for the over forties at Saint Francis Anglican Church, run by Vicar Jane Braithwaite and her husband. There was a call for new members at the fishing club, and a short piece about the new extension to the Medlin Creek Community Center.
I let out a tired sigh and rolled my rump out of the chair. "Lounging around reading the local paper is not productive," I said aloud as I headed toward my small office.
At the desk, I sat down and rummaged around inside the drawer.
"Got it!"
A one-hundred-dollar bill. I placed it flat on my desk as a reminder I needed to make more money. Half closing my eyes, the events of the morning flashed through my mind. I breathed out slowly. Just another couple—Igor Langer and Kitty Marley. There would be many others soon, all this financial anxiety would be over, and I would get the event center running profitably.
Somewhere I read about the power of visualization. If you close your eyes and visualize the thing you want, somehow it helps make it reality. It sounded a little woo-woo, but I closed my eyes and imagined that I had so many bookings I'd have to turn people away or place them on a long waiting list.
My eyes opened.
The glum face of Ben Franklin stared up at me.
I sighed again.
The cell phone rang. I peered and squinted at the screen but didn't recognize the number.
"This is Ruth Minary from the Bee Mound Drilling Company. Am I speaking with Ollie Stratford?"
The Bee Mound Drilling Company, a family-run business in a town called Wimberly, specialized in reopening abandoned oil wells. Several months ago, I had contacted them, but had no reply, until now.
"I'm Ollie Stratford, how can I help you?"
"One of our engineers will be in the area this afternoon and would like to visit with you..." She paused, then continued, "...and inspect the oil well on your property. Are you still interested in reopening it?"
"Oh yes, but…" I held my breath, worried about upfront costs.
As if reading my mind, Ruth continued. "Bee Mound Drilling works on a royalty share. We absorb the up-front costs of reopening and keep twenty-five percent of the ongoing revenue, after costs."
I let out my breath. "What time?"
"Around two p.m.?"
I squinted at my planner, list of activities, and mentally shuffled around a few items.
"Okay, that will work. I'll be home at two p.m."
Excited, I woke up the desktop computer and reviewed my financial spreadsheets. I had tried to reopen the oil well before but with disastrous consequences. The upshot was that I still owed five thousand four hundred and forty-three dollars and fifty-two cents to Havis County Engineering Company. The invoice was on my desk, somewhere. I'd get around to paying it, eventually. But I needed to concentrate on marking student assignments.
I looked around the office for the folder that held the student papers. Where had I seen them last? The living room!
In the living room, the tick-tock of the clock high on the mantel was the only sound. On a coffee table next to the couch I spotted the folder. It was under a James Patterson novel.
I slumped onto the couch, readjusted a pillow, and picked up the novel. I was halfway through the second to last chapter and could hardly take my eyes off the page when the clock chimed the top of the hour for the third time.
Grudgingly, I got up. I used the clock chimes as a reminder to get up, and move around, and stretch. It worked—most of the time.
After one final downward-facing dog, I stood up and looked around the room. There was a whole list of things I had to do: marking student assignments was at the top, but it had flown out of the window after James Patterson's latest bestseller. Now, much later, the student assignments were still sitting on the coffee table, and the novel was almost at its end.
Reluctantly, I marked my place and put the book down. James Patterson's words weren't going anywhere, they would just have to wait until I had more free time.
I walked back to the office and sat down at the desk. The folder open, I began to read the first assignment.
Bodie scratched at the door, he wanted to go out.
I put the assignment down, let out a sigh and hurried to the kitchen.
Bodie danced and pranced until I let him outside. Off the dog bounded along the dirt track through the little iron gate to the outbuildings by the driveway. "That's not a bad idea," I said, watching him disappear off into the distance. "A little fresh air and a change of scenery, and I'll have the student assignments graded in no time."
I rushed back to the office, grabbed my keys and the folder of student assignments and headed along the narrow path through the gate to the driveway. As I opened the car door, I remembered I had a small animal crate, dog food bowls, and several sacks of cat, kitten, and dog foods to deliver to the Medlin Creek Animal Shelter. I'm a volunteer, mainly collecting donated goods from local stores. I sighed, placed the folder on the passenger seat, then turned, and with quick strides, returned to the house.
I picked up the items, carrying the crate under my arm, and headed back to the Tahoe, started the engine, and turned out of the driveway toward Moozoos Café.
Chapter 3
Moozoos Café, Medlin Creek’s independent coffee shop, is found on Creek Street, a flat stretch of land bordered by the Riverwalk. A sea of little shops sells handcrafted goods and farm-fresh foods. At one end, a scruffy patch of lawn is crammed with food trucks, a popular spot where tourists mingle with locals during the early evening hours. At the other end, on a gentle slope that takes one down to the Medlin Creek River, is a flea market with little wooden stalls filled with knickknacks and curiosities.
The sign to Moozoos flashed in bright electronic letters OPEN. The narrow entrance, easily missed from the street, leads to a little café, not well lit, with huge plate-glass windows that look out onto Creek Street.
The doorbell pinged with a gentle note as the door closed behind me, and the air filled with the smell of fresh, hot coffee and baked cinnamon rolls. It was the tail end of the lunch rush hour. The assistant barista served the dwindling line of customers, although Martin López, the barista owner, was not in the café.
For several moments I studied the bulletin board behind the counter. The rotary club was having a fish fry on Wednesday at noon. There was a leaflet for the Boy Scout fundraiser. Another for an electronics discount sale at the community center, and yet another flyer advertising household repai
rs by Igor's "no fuss, no cuss" Handyman Service.
"That's got to be Igor Langer," I muttered as I studied the flyer.
"What are you having today?" asked the assistant, interrupting my thoughts.
I ordered a medium cappuccino and settled into a seat by the window which overlooked Creek Street. The mild rumble of traffic along with the gentle chimes of the doorbell gave a soothing backdrop for grading student assignments. After a few minutes, I was lost in my work.
Another soothing tinkle of the doorbell, then for some unknown reason I looked up. In strolled Bryant Reynolds, a partner at the Havis County Engineering Company. A tiny man, less than five feet in height; he wore tan boots with four-inch heels, Dolce & Gabbana faded blue jeans held up by a rattlesnake skin belt with a huge silver buckle. The Brunello Cucinelli button-down, white shirt did little to soften the stark, angular nasal features that dominated the man's face.
We had history. Bryant was once the chairman of the board of Medlin Creek Community College. He had tried to fire me from my only source of regular income. Fortunately, the college ignored his requests, removing him from the board. No point stirring up a hornet's nest, I thought, sinking deep into my chair.
I raised the coffee cup to cover my face and watched Bryant out of the corner of my eye. He was with a woman, about five-five in business heels and navy suit. She had salt-and-pepper hair, tied back into a tight bun, with two small earrings dangling from each lobe. The woman had the appearance of someone with money, a leisurely life, and monthly trips to an Austin beauty salon. She might have been thirty or fifty, but if pushed I'd bet on the latter.
Bryant's colorless eyes peered keenly upward into the woman's face. The conversation appeared animated. On the tips of his toes he waved and gesticulated. I was too far away to hear the conversation, but his body language signposted he was out to impress.
As the assistant prepared their orders, the woman nodded and smiled, placing a gentle hand on Bryant's shoulder. This appeared to energize the little man who hopped from leg to leg like a child about to open a present on Christmas Day.