Murder at the Mission

by Pamela Martin

  "Nooo!" I whined. "I want hot coffee and peace, not lukewarm sludge and conversation." I started to let the call go to voicemail, then I glanced at the caller id.

  "Hey, Elena," I said. "How's my bestie today?"

  "Hi, Norah," she replied. It sounded like she was sniffling. "I know you hate to have your first cup of coffee interrupted, but are you busy today?"

  "Well, I planned to spend the morning baking shortbread and scones, but I can do that some other time. What's up?" I asked.

  "It's probably nothing, but I heard something I think you need to know,” Elena said; she was definitely sniffling.

  "Why don't you come here? I'll get a batch of shortbread in the oven while you're on the way, and we can have tea and cookies while we talk." I was worried about what might have upset her.

  "Okay," she said, her voice wavering. "I'll be there in about 30 minutes.

  I quickly mixed together butter, flour, stevia, and some lemon extract. After I spread it on the baking sheet and scored it, I popped it into the oven and headed in to shower and get dressed, taking my now room-temperature coffee with me.

  Elena knocked on the front door just as I was sliding the baked shortbread onto a cooling rack. Seeing the tear tracks on her cheeks and her red eyes, I gathered her into a hug before even letting her into the house.

  "Elena, what's wrong?" I asked her, leaning back to look into her eyes. "What's happened?" I lead her into the kitchen and poured out two mugs of the lavender tea I'd been steeping.

  "I heard something this morning," she whispered. "I know you won't want to hear it, and I'm afraid you're going to be mad at me for telling you."

  "Elena Mariana Donovan, you know better," I said. "We've been best friends for our entire lives; we were born on the same day, in the same hospital, and our moms have been best friends all of their lives. There is nothing you could possibly tell me that would change that. Why would you even think it could?"

  "I know how you feel about her," Elena said. "Norah, I know how angry you are, how much you hate Mariette, but I have to tell you what I found out. Please don't be mad, but it's really important."

  "Hate...? No, no -- I don't hate her. I don't like her much, and yeah, I'm still angry about what happened, but I don't hate her. And, even if I did, that wouldn't be your fault," I said. "I wouldn't be mad at you because of her. But what could be so important about a spoiled drunk?"

  Elena shook her head and a small sob escaped. "But she isn't -- not this time." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Oh, Norah -- it's awful for everyone. Mariette wasn't drinking the day your grandfather tried to help her. The blood work came back this morning; there was no alcohol in her blood -- none at all."

  "What? That's impossible," I argued. "Markie said she was weaving all over the road before she swerved into the field. She had to have been drinking."

  "No, she wasn't," Elena insisted. "She hasn't had a drop of booze since she got out of rehab last month. She's been going to her meetings twice a day and seeing a therapist twice a week. She's really serious about staying sober this time, Norah; she's determined to make it work."

  "Then what happened? She just forgot how to drive normally after so long?" I regretted the sarcasm as soon as I heard it, but I wasn't ready to believe Mariette wasn't drinking that day.

  "Don't be mean," Elena snapped. "I know you're angry, but your poppaw would be ashamed to hear you talking about anyone that way. He raised you to treat others as well -- better, even -- than you'd want to be treated. If you can't be Christian enough for Mariette's sake, then you should at least honor your grandfather by living up to his standards."

  I nodded. "You're right, Elena, and I knew it the minute the words left my mouth. And I didn't really even feel that way before I said them. But the question part is still valid -- if she wasn't drunk, why was she swerving everywhere and driving like a crazy woman? I know that Lou, at the garage, already said that there was nothing wrong with her car. So, what happened -- no smart mouth, no judgment -- just that simple question."

  "Fr...um...someone...um, when I got to work at the sheriff's office this morning, the lab results from the wreck were in. The lab said that there was no alcohol in her blood, but there was a huge amount of some date rape drug. I don't know which one; I think it was Rohypnol, but I'm not sure. They said there was so much that she shouldn't have been conscious long enough to even start her car, let alone drive it 20 or more miles toward home."

  "What? Where did it come from? Had she been at a bar that early in the day?" I shook my head again. "No, that doesn't make any sense. If she'd been in a bar, she'd have had at least one drink."

  "She'd been to her AA meeting and then to the diner with a couple of the people from the group," Elena said. "She swears she only had coffee, and the lab results back up her story. She doesn't know how she got the drug or why."

  "It had to be someone at the diner, then," I said. "Either someone from the group or someone who knew she would be there. Does she usually go to the diner after?"

  "No," Elena replied. "She said that a few of them have gone together before, but not on a regular basis, and not even the same people every time. There were no plans ahead of time to go."

  "Then it had to be someone from the AA group, someone at the table with her," I reasoned.

  "But why?" Elena asked. "I mean, I could see why someone from town, someone who has known her for a while, might think they had a reason -- not that I think it would be right, of course." I nodded that I understood, and she continued. "But the people in that group? They would know that she was trying to stay sober and to make up for what she's done, for how she's hurt people in the past. Why would they want to drug her?"

  "You're right," I acknowledged. "That doesn't make sense. So, what's happening with it all now?"

  Elena hesitated, then sat up straight, a determined look on her face. "Now we help her figure out who it was and why they did it."

  "Whoa, there! Hold your horses, cowgirl," I exclaimed. "What's this 'we' stuff? You got a mouse in your pocket or something? Even if we owed Mariette Jackson even one small thing, this would not be our problem. This is something for the sheriff and her deputies to handle. There's no way we can figure this out."

  "Of course we can," Elena snorted. "Between the two of us, we've either read just about every mystery book out there or watched every crime-solving show or movie available. We know lots about solving crimes." She paused, looking at me intently. "The sheriff's office isn't going to put much time into this. They're busy with all those burglaries in the county, and I don't think they are totally convinced that the blood tests are right."

  "Reading novels and watching TV shows does not make us expert detectives, Elena," I said. "We need to mind our own business and stay out of the sheriff's."

  "'When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'" Elena quoted from Matthew 25. She looked a little smug when she saw my face; I could feel the blush rising.

  "C'mon, Elena," I argued. "Those verses don't say anything about solving crimes. And, before you say it, this is not because it's Mariette Jackson; it's because I have no idea how to even start figuring it out."

  -1486140558 She smirked, knowing she had the answer I couldn't refute. "That part's simple. We start by talking to Mariette."

  10

  Murder in the Park

  by Norah Sewell

  Chapter Five

  “Hey, Willy, hold up!” Paul called out as he and Gracie saw the other man heading into the mess hall for lunch.

  “What's up, Paul?” Willy asked. “Oh, hello, Miss Wells; how are you today?”

  “I'm doing well, Mr. Weber,” she answered. “I wonder, though, if we might speak with you for a few moments? Perhaps the two of you could bring your lunch out here to that table under the trees? I had my lunch before I came to the camp, so it would be perfectly fine for the two of you to enjoy yours.”

 
The men agreed, and they joined her at the table shortly.

  "Paul, I just heard about Charlie. I'm so sorry for your loss. Do you know yet what happened?" Willy looked concerned.

  "No, not yet," Paul replied. "The sheriff didn't say for sure, but I got the feeling that he didn't think it was a natural death."

  "No?" Willy said. "I guess that makes sense. Charlie was pretty young for a heart attack or something like that, and he hadn't been sick, had he?"

  "He hadn't," Paul said. "I'm trying to piece together what happened. The sheriff said that it looked like Charlie had been in a fight just before he died."

  The trio was silent for a moment, as Willy processed the news. "But Charlie wasn't the fighting type," he finally said. "He was so even-tempered, and he was the peacemaker of the group."

  Paul nodded, but he didn't speak.

  "Mr. Weber," Grace began. "The other day, I overheard you and Mr. Graham arguing. I wasn't deliberately eavesdropping, but I couldn't help but hear him tell you that he would keep your secret, but that he was sure someone else would find out." She paused for Willy's reaction.

  Willy's eyes widened, and then he dropped his head into his hands. His whole body seemed to droop in resignation.

  "Yes, Miss Wells," he said. "Charlie knew a secret about me, and he did promise that he would not tell the authorities. But I think he was right; I do need to tell it, and I will begin by telling you and Paul here."

  He drew in a deep breath. "As you may know, Miss Wells, the camp workers make about $30 a month, but we are required to have around $25 sent to our families. When I signed up for the CCC, I claimed that I had no family. That portion of my earnings is put into a savings account each month instead of being sent to anyone."

  "All right; why does that need to be kept secret?" Grace encouraged him to continue his story.

  "Oh, that's not the secret Charlie was keeping for me," Willy replied. "The secret is that I am married. I have a wife in Bavaria."

  "Are you estranged, Mr. Weber? Is that why you didn't want the money sent to her?" Grace asked gently.

  "No, no," Willy said. "We are very much in love. But the family members she lives with are greedy; if the U.S. government send part of my wages to her, they would take it from her and leave her nothing. We want to be together again. We are trying to save enough for her to travel here and for a place to live when she arrives. By saying I have no family, we were able to keep the money out of the hands of those who do not deserve it."

  He looked up at Grace and Paul. "I explained to Charlie, and he agreed to keep it to himself. He said he understood my reasons, but he also warned me that, if he could find out, others would be able to, as well, and some of them wouldn't be as willing to stay quiet."

  "He was probably right," Paul agreed. "I can think of a few men here who would either turn you in to curry favor with the powers that be or who would expect you to pay them to keep quiet."

  "It sounds like the two of you resolved your disagreement in a way that you could both be happy with," Grace said.

  "Yes, miss, we did," Willy said. "I see that you might wonder if I was angry or worried enough to hurt Charlie, but I wasn't. We argued, yes, but there was no violence between us. When we parted, Charlie told me that he would try to think of a way to work out my problem. We were still very much friends the last time I saw him."

  Paul and Grace exchanged a glance, and Grace nodded to let Paul know that she believed Willy's story.

  "I'm sorry that we questioned you, Willy," Paul said. "I know you are an honorable man, and I didn't really think you were a killer, but we had to be sure."

  "You did right, Paul," Willy said. "Charlie was your brother, and he deserves justice. I would want you to ask those hard questions, too."

  "Mr. Weber," Grace said. "Do you have any idea who might have fought with Mr. Graham, or who might have wanted to hurt him?"

  "Charlie was a popular man, Miss Wells," Willy replied, "but he was also a man of integrity. Those who would ignore the laws and the customs of polite society often resent a man like that. I think that Thom Wilson had reason to be angry with Charlie."

  "Because of the missing supplies?" Paul asked.

  "Ah, you know about that, then," Willy replied. "Yes, he was selling stolen supplies, and I believe that he has stolen artifacts from the excavation with the intent of selling those, as well. I have heard that he did the same during the war and that he only escaped charges because the war ended, and his company was sent home before the case was fully prepared."

  Paul shook his head. "I hadn't heard about all of that. Are you sure about the artifacts here?"

  "I have not seen them in his possession, other than when we were working," Willy said. "But I know that some have disappeared, and I know that it has always been when Thom was the last person in the storage area, times when he was responsible for locking up."

  Paul and Grace thanked Willy again for talking with them and for sharing his information. They all gathered their things and prepared to leave, Willy to return to work, and Paul and Grace to continue their investigation.

  As he started to walk away, Willy said, "Please, if there is anything I can do to help solve this riddle or if there is anything you or Charlie's family need, I would like to help."

  "Thank you, Willy," Paul said. "That means a lot to me."

  11

  I promised Elena that I'd think about what she'd told me and, after only a short argument, she left with my promise to call her that evening to talk about it some more. As soon as I heard her car start up, I texted Ben.

  A lot to talk about – dinner at mine tonight? In addition to Elena's story, I hadn't told Ben what I'd learned at a library lecture a couple of days earlier. I knew he was disappointed that he'd had to miss the event, so I was eager to share the info with him.

  Sounds good – how about I pick up tamales? He texted back quickly. I snickered; I knew he was in a project meeting; if he was watching his phone that closely, he was bored to tears.

  Perfect! I'll fix queso, salsa, and some bean-and-cheese nachos to go with. I had some gorgeous fresh tomatoes and jalapenos from my garden, and the mango chunks in the freezer would be yummy in the salsa, too.

  Meeting's over at 5 – see you about 5:15? Yep, he was definitely ready to get out of there. I sent a thumb-up emoji and went to pull the fruit out of the freezer.

  I spent the rest of the morning chopping salsa ingredients, cooking pinto beans to make refrieds for the nachos. On a whim, I mixed up some churro batter; I'd deep-fry them after Ben got here. The cinnamon-sugary treats would sweeten the Mariette discussion a little.

  That afternoon, I started organizing my notes from the lecture about Raiford Stripling. Before the talk, I'd known that he was the CCC superintendent at the park, because G-Grandpa Paul had mentioned his name, but I'd learned that he had a bigger role in Goliad and in Texas architecture than I'd heard before. I couldn't wait to talk to Ben about him, although the other conversation didn't excite me nearly as much.

  Later, I printed what I'd finished on the manuscript draft and drove over to Mommaw Dot's house. I'd promised to take her to Victoria for groceries, and I decided to ask her to read what I'd written so far. A part of me was nervous about what she would think, but I knew she'd be kind, even if she thought it was awful. Her criticism would definitely be constructive, which might or might not be true if I submitted it to a publisher or agent.

  “Hi, Mommaw!” I called as I opened the screen door at the back of the house. We'd finally convinced my grandparents to lock most of the doors and windows of their house – small towns may be safer than big cities, but they aren't as safe as they once were – but we'd given up on the back door. The consolation was that anyone coming in that way had to pass through the fence gate and face Samson, their French bulldog. That pooch was a softie, but a stranger wouldn't know that; he looked ferocious, and his bark, while definitely worse than his bite, was pretty scary. A housebreaker who would risk a Samson attack probably
wouldn't be deterred by locks, anyway.

  “Good afternoon, sweetie,” she replied. “I'll be ready in just a second. I need to put on my shoes and grab my purse.”

  “Well, I know where I get my love of bare feet, I guess,” I laughed. “Do you ever wear shoes in the house?”

  “Only for as long as it takes to get them off at the door or to walk to the closet, where I can put them away,” she said. “If God meant me to wear them all the time, I'd have been born with them on my feet. Besides, wearing regular shoes only brings the outside dirt into the house. And I will not be one of those silly old women who shuffle along in scruffy house slippers, just asking to slip and fall. I don't ever plan to get that old, no matter what my age!”

  She's feisty as ever, I thought. I know she'll miss Poppaw, but she'll be just fine. It was a relief to see that she was as strong a character as ever.

  “Let's go,” she said. “I need to get back early; the ladies are coming over to play cards, and I need to whip up a snack or two before they get here.”

  “I made enough salsa to share, and I'm planning to pick up some avocados for guacamole, if you want some of either one or both,” I shared.

  “That sounds delicious,” she replied. “What's the occasion?”

  “Ben's coming over so I can tell him about the Stripling lecture,” I said. I hesitated, trying to decide if I was ready to talk to her about Mariette's story.

  “And?” she looked at me, head cocked questioningly. “What are you worrying over?'

  I sighed. “You know me too well, Mommaw; it's not fair. I can't keep secrets around you, even after all these years.”

  “Sure you can, hon, if you don't want to talk about them,” she laughed. “You just can't hide that you have a secret!”

  I laughed, and then, once we were settled in the car, I told her what Elena shared with me that morning.

  “I don't know what to do with the information, Mommaw,” I said. “I mean, is it really any of my business? Is there anything I need to do with it? It's not like we're really friends – we know each other because everybody knows everyone else in town, but we aren't close.”