Murder at the Mission

by Pamela Martin

  Murder at the Mission

  Texas-Sized Mysteries, Book 1

  Pamela Martin

  © 2018, Pamela Martin.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work 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 written permission of the publisher.

  Sweet Promise Press

  PO Box 72

  Brighton, MI 48116

  To my parents, who gave me the foundation and courage to try my wings

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  More from Sweet Promise

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More from Pamela Martin

  1

  I wanted to forgive her; I really did. In fact, I knew that my Poppaw would be disappointed to think I hadn't. I knew that forgiveness would come, but I wasn't there yet. His loss was too fresh, too raw, and seeing her parents at my grandfather's funeral was like salt in that wound, even though I knew that they had done everything in their power to change their daughter's attitude and behaviors.

  Poppaw Sewell was known to everyone else as Pete Sewell, and I do mean “everyone.” Goliad is a small town, but Poppaw was extremely well-known and well-loved beyond that. He never met a stranger, and he was always helping others and giving his time, his money, and his love. It was his concern for others that killed him, in fact.

  Mariette Jackson hasn't been sober for more than two or three hours a day in 10 years, at least. She bragged that the most work she ever does is to raise a bottle to her glass and her glass to her lips. She races around the county in a bright red sports car – the car changes frequently, since she wrecks them at a rate of about four months or so. Poppaw was behind her on the road that day, with my cousin, Markie, in the truck with him. Markie said Mariette's car was swerving all over the road, and Poppaw had just said that he hoped she made it to her destination in one piece when she veered off the road and crashed into an oak tree.

  Markie told us that Poppaw pulled over and jumped out of the truck before she even realized it had stopped. He shouted at her to call 9-1-1 while he tried to get Mariette out of the car; she said he was worried the car would catch fire. Before she finished telling the dispatcher where they were, Markie saw Poppaw straighten himself out of the car's driver door, clutch his chest, and fall to the ground. She ran over to him, but he was gone. She started CPR, but the doctor told us later that there was nothing that could have saved him – an artery into his big, generous, loving heart basically had a blow-out.

  Anyway, I was smiling as best I could, trying to maintain the fiction that I had it together and wasn't seething. Apparently, though, I wasn't doing it as well as I'd hoped. Mommaw Dot came over and sat beside me on the couch, giving me a hug and then placing her hand on my knee.

  “You know you have to let it go eventually, don't you?” she said softly.

  Tears filled my eyes. “He was a good man. He gave so much to this community, and he died because he was helping a selfish, middle-aged brat who has never contributed one thing to improve the town. Why was he taken from us, while she was left behind?”

  “Ssh, Norah,” she soothed me. “I don't know the why, but does it really matter? Understanding the reason wouldn't change anything, so dwelling on that part isn't going to make you feel better. And what would your grandfather tell you?”

  I tried to resist for a minute, but I finally sighed and slumped back in my seat. “He would say to forgive her, to love her. He would probably quote Colossians 3:13 again.”

  “'Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.” Mommaw winked at me as she quoted the verse.

  “Mommaw Dot,” I argued, “she doesn't deserve to be forgiven. She's hurt people again and again, although it's never been this bad, and she's never shown any sign of remorse. Why should we forgive her?”

  “Again, how would Pete answer you?” She smirked, knowing she had me this time.

  I sighed. “He would say that we don't forgive for the benefit of the person being forgiven. We forgive for selfish reasons – that it is a present we give to ourselves. He always said that forgiveness was a sign of strength, not weakness, and that we do it to set ourselves free from the anger and hurt and to find peace.” I paused for a second, and then continued. “I know all of that in my head, but my heart can't find its way there yet. I really am trying, though.”

  “I know, sweetie, I know,” she whispered. “You aren't struggling alone. In the middle of the night, I still feel angry at all of them – at Mariette for driving drunk and having the accident, at your Poppaw for dying, even at Markie for not being able to save him. Then I realize how silly the last two are, and how much the first can hold me captive if I allow it. Those angry moments aren't as frequent as they were, and they pass much more quickly now.”

  She reached over to the coffee table and picked up a small storage box she'd placed there when she joined me. She held it close to her chest for a moment before handing it to me.

  “Your grandfather was so proud of your writing,” she said. “He loved you with his whole heart from the moment we knew you were on the way, and that was never dependent on what you did or didn't do. But he loved getting to brag about his granddaughter, the author. We had a conversation about that the night before he died.”

  She pointed to the package. “For a long time, Pete told me that my parents' story needs to be told. That night, he found me looking through what's in that box. He held me close and said, 'It's time, darling. Everyone involved is gone, so telling the story can't hurt anyone. And, if you ask Norah to write it, you know it will be done well. Talk to her, Dot; the time has come, and she's the perfect person to write it.' I agree with him that the time has come, and I think that the distraction could help you move forward with your forgiving Mariette.”

  “What story, Mommaw?” I asked. I'd never heard much about her parents, beyond the normal family stuff. “What happened to them?”

  “My father, Paul Barger, came to Goliad in late 1935, as a member of the Civilian Conservation Corps camp, to do archaeological excavation and to build the state park. He met my mother there, and, together, they solved a murder that happened at the camp.”

  “What?!” I exclaimed. “Wow – there's so much there, I don't even know where to start with asking questions! The CCC? A murder? Was he a police officer – is that why he solved the case?”

  “No,” she smiled at my enthusiasm. “No, he was just a camp worker when one of his cottage mates was killed. Most of the suspects were also his roommates, and there was some question about whether others, including my mother, were in danger. He and Miss Dot talked it over and ended up finding out what happened and why. I think the story would make a great cozy mystery no
vel, and I'd love it if you are the one to write it.”

  She tapped the storage box again. “My parents both kept journals all their lives. This box has the ones from the time surrounding the investigation, along with a notebook Grampa used to record notes about what they learned. I think most of what you'd need to tell the story is in there. The rest – the historical part – I'm sure you can find online. Or maybe there's information in the state park archives.”

  “And what does all of this have to do with forgiving Mariette?” I asked, suspicious of her timing and motivation in passing on the project.

  “Mostly, I think it will keep you busy, so you aren't spending too much time thinking about what happened to your grandfather,” she answered. “But, I'll admit that I think you'll find some new ideas about forgiveness in their story, as well.”

  Once again, I sighed. “Okay, Mommaw, I'll check it out. I can't promise that I'll let Mariette off the hook or that I can do a good enough job on the story, but I'm willing to take it on. I'll start reading the journals tonight, and I'll get to the writing as soon as I know enough.”

  “I'm not looking for promises, mija,” she smiled. “And I have no doubt that you'll do a great job. Now, I need to mingle with our guests for awhile.” She stood up and started to walk away. Turning back, though, she pointed her finger at me and said, “And forgiveness isn't about letting someone off the hook. It's about letting go of the anger and the resentment – not about removing responsibility.”

  Later, I didn't even make it across the threshold of my front door before kicking off my shoes. After locking the door behind me, I headed for the bedroom, unzipping my skirt on the way. For this jeans-and-tee girl, six hours in a dress was more than five hours too many.

  “Sorry, Poppaw,” I called out. “I know the little blue-haired ladies were giving me the death glare for daring to come into the church with bare legs. I didn't mean any disrespect but wearing pantyhose when the heat index is over 110 degrees, I'm not wearing pantyhose for anyone!”

  I pulled on an extra-long T-shirt and headed to the kitchen, where I poured a big glass of green tea. I peeked into the refrigerator for something for supper, and I was almost overwhelmed by the wealth of choices. In true Southern style, nearly everyone in town had delivered casseroles, salads, and desserts to my grandmother's and my house. Mommaw's refrigerator, big deep-freeze, and the extra freezer in her washroom were packed full, and my refrigerator looked like a 3D Tetris game in progress. I also had at least six dishes in my indoor freezer, and there were four cakes and two batches of brownies in the garage freezer.

  I pulled out Miz Devereaux’s mac-and-cheese and dished some up for the microwave. That woman turned plain cheese and pasta into the food of the angels. To go along with it, I found the tossed salad made veggies fresh-picked from Jerome Fisher's garden.

  Just as the microwave dinged, my phone rang. “Shoot!” I said. “Who is calling now? I've talked to everyone in town today; there couldn't be anything else to talk about, and I'm hungry!” I checked the caller ID and couldn't help but smile.

  “Hey,” I answered the call. “What's up?”

  “I just wanted to see how you're doing,” Ben replied. Ben has been my very best friend since our church cradle roll days. In the last month or so, we've edged toward taking our relationship in the romance direction. “I hate that I couldn't be there with you for the funeral.”

  “C'mon, we talked about this!” I said. “When you are the keynote speaker for a state conference, you don't cancel out for anything but your own hospitalization or death. Mommaw and I totally understand why you weren't here, and we're fine with it.”

  “I know, but I still wish I could have been there to support you,” he said. “How did things go?”

  “Honestly, it wasn't as hard as I expected,” I answered. “I feel like a part of me is missing, but there were so many people sharing wonderful, funny stories about Poppaw that it was easier to get through. I'm tired, though; talking to more people in one afternoon than I usually see in a whole month is exhausting!”

  Ben laughed. “And I'm sure some of those conversations were – shall we say – 'challenging'? How many times were you asked when you planned to get a 'real' job, to get married, or to give your grandmother some great-grands?”

  “Only once,” I snorted. “Minnie Beckrill asked about a job, and Mommaw Dot overheard her. She told Minnie that I had a job that she and Poppaw were very proud of, that what I did or didn't do with my life was no one's business but my own, and that a post-funeral reception wasn't the appropriate place to comment on someone else's life choices. She spoke loudly enough for pretty much everyone in the house to hear her. No one asked anything remotely similar after that.”

  “Oh, wow!” he snickered. “I wish I'd seen Mrs. Beckrill's face. She must have been shocked to have anyone challenge her right to run everyone's life.”

  “She looked like a fish,” I laughed, “with her mouth opening and closing and her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. When a few people applauded Mommaw's speech, Minnie's face turned red enough to glow in the dark, her eyes narrowed to slits, and she stomped into the kitchen in a huff.”

  “Well, that took care of the entertainment for the day,” Ben said. “Anything else interesting happen?”

  I grabbed my supper and settled onto the deep, comfy couch in my living room before answering.

  “Well,” I hedged. “I don't know if anyone else would find it interesting, but my grandmother did bring something up today. She's not happy that I'm still so angry at Mariette and all that happened, so she offered me a writing project as a distraction.”

  “Norah, you know she's right about letting go, don't you? I'm not going to lecture you, but I'm a bit worried about it, too. It would be so easy to become bitter over this, and I don't want to see that in you.” He paused before saying, “It's the job of a best friend to tell you when you're doing something bad for yourself, right? So, now I've done my job. Tell me about this project.”

  “She told me that her father and mother met when he was assigned to Goliad with the Civilian Conservation Corps company that built the state park. According to Mommaw Dot, the two of them solved a murder during that time. I'm supposed to write a novel using their story as my inspiration.”

  “That does sound interesting,” Ben said. “Of course, as a historian, the CCC connection interests me by itself, but solving a murder? Was your great-grandfather a law officer or something?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Apparently, he was working on the construction and on the archaeological excavation. He and my great-grandmother were just amateur sleuths who managed to figure it all out. Mommaw has their journals, and she sent the ones from that time home with me. After I finish my mac-and-cheese, I'm going to start reading them to see if there's enough there. I'm not sure I'm up to writing a full-length book, though. I mean, I've written a couple of nonfiction books, but a novel? I'm not convinced I have a strong enough imagination to handle that much fiction!”

  “I have no doubt that you can write it, if you decide you want to,” he assured me. “And I might be able to help you with the history part, if you need a little research.”

  “Well, I'll decide after I read the journals,” I said. “Like I said, I don't know if there's enough of the story there to even get me started, but I promised her I'd consider it.”

  We talked a few more minutes about inconsequential things, then Ben told me that he would be home the next day. We made plans to have dinner together, and I promised that I would have a decision about the book project by then.

  By the time I finished my pasta dinner and a generous serving of peach cobbler, it was early evening. I refilled my tea glass and, carrying it back into the living room with me, I turned on the lamp next to the couch and settled in for a reading session.

  “Mrr-eow,” came from the other end of the room. I looked up to see Tabitha, my Ragamuffin cat, prancing across the floor. She hopped up onto the couch and into my lap, licking
my chin before settling in. When I didn't immediately begin cuddling her, she batted my arm and fussed loudly.

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “Hold on a minute.” I stretched my legs and put my feet up on the footstool in front of me, arranged the first journal for reading, and scratched between Tabitha's ears. “You have to be still, though, because I have some serious reading to do.”

  “Mrrrr,” she purred softly, as if to say, “don't ignore me, and we'll be fine.”

  A couple of hours later, Tabitha stood up in my lap, stretched, and patted my face.

  “Not enough attention, sweetie?” I murmured. I looked around the room and realized that the sun had gone down a long time before. I closed the journal I'd just finished reading and carried it to my desk. “Okay, let's get you a snack; it's time for bed.”

  After devouring her homemade treat, Tabitha sauntered into the bedroom and curled up in the fancy bed my grandmother had bought for her. She mewed a goodnight to me and was asleep almost immediately.

  Unfortunately, I wasn't so lucky. I dozed briefly, but then my brain started processing what I'd read that evening. After an hour of tossing and turning and thinking, I gave up. I headed back to my desk, grabbed my laptop, and went back to my bed, where I settled in and starting writing. For the first time in a while, the words came faster than my fingers could type.

  2

  Murder in the Park

  by Norah Sewell

  Chapter One

  “It all started with that tree,” Paul Barger told the men gathered around the table. They all nodded; they'd heard the story before, and they knew what was coming.