by N. C. Lewis
Then with a confident posture and a winning smile Dominick stepped away from the lectern. A swarm of eager businesswomen surrounded him, tugging at his arm and grasping at the leather binder. I suppose I would have joined them if I had any money but I didn't.
Somewhat frustrated at my lack of financial prosperity I made my way to the breakfast table and filled a large paper plate with two bacon, egg and tomato tacos, and a side of ranch beans.
"The pleasure is in the journey not the destination," I muttered. It was one of my motivational mantras, but this morning I'd rather like to have arrived at the destination called prosperity. I thought about the insurance premiums I could barely afford to pay and sighed, prosperity was a long way off. I added a large blob of sour cream to my plate and sat in a chair at the rear, near the door, and waited for the main presentation.
For almost ten minutes I watched sullen faced as an eager horde of women signed up for Dominick's investment fund. "Looks like business is booming for everyone but me," I mumbled bitterly under my breath.
A gentle tap on my shoulder caused me to spin around. Gratia Violeta munching on a taco, looked down. "What're you muttering about?"
I waved a dismissive hand. "Nothing worth discussing. What's going on?"
Gratia was the town gossip and so a vital source of information. She peered with curiosity at my final taco. "Is it true Roger Romantic's wife-to-be foretold the death of Teddy Tumpin?"
Before I could answer, Jenny Jones, the owner of Smiles and Dials Flower and Gift Shop, replied with wide eyes. "Sure is. Mystic Crystal said, 'there'd be mayhem and death' at the homecoming parade and boy was she right!"
"I figure Mystic Crystal is as smart as a hooty owl," said Mrs. Billie Bathstop, owner of the Medlin Creek Bakery. "I'm gonna visit with her later today."
Gratia was silent for a moment. "Visiting with Crystal, you say?"
"Yep, made an appointment," replied Mrs. Bathstop. She turned to look at each woman and raised her finger in the air like a history teacher about to make a key point. "Like I said, Crystal is as bright as a new penny. Anyone else predict what happened at the homecoming? Talent like Mystic Crystal is as scarce as hens' teeth round these parts. I hope she'll have something to say about my bakery business. Might give me an edge. You've got to take any advantage you can these days."
Gratia's eyes narrowed, as did the usually wide eyes of Jenny Jones. But neither spoke.
Mrs. Billie Bathstop half turned toward me. "You gonna solve this one too?"
"Solve what?" asked Dominick, joining the conversation and tucking the leather binder into his briefcase.
Again, before I replied, Jenny Jones jumped in." Mrs. Bathstop is referring to a local mystery that unfolded earlier during the summer. Ollie played a significant role in solving the case."
"The mystery of the magic mumbles," whispered Mrs. Billie Bathstop.
"The mystery of the magic mumbles," repeated Dominick with raised eyebrows.
"It thrust Medlin Creek into the Texas news spotlight," said Gratia. Then added, "We don't like to talk about it around here, but Ollie cracked the case wide open."
I was glad the magic mumbles mystery had finally blown over, replaced by the news of the high school homecoming parade, and now I guessed, the death of Teddy Tumpin.
"Interesting," Dominick said, swiveling his head to look at me. "An amateur sleuth? Maybe you can help the deputies with the death of Teddy Tumpin."
"Nope," I said, "I'm not an amateur sleuth. I run an event center and teach at Medlin Creek Community College. Sleuthing is not in my job description. The mystery of Teddy Tumpin is firmly in the hands of the Medlin Creek Sheriff's Department."
Dominick smiled. "Well ladies, it has been a blessed morning, got to run." And with that he was gone.
Chapter 20
Excited chatter continued for several more minutes. In little groups, the businesswomen ate breakfast and discussed local events. The scent of coffee, eggs, bacon, and fresh bread encouraged relaxed conversation. As the chatter waned, the president, Helen Felton, picked up the gavel and scurried to the front of the room. She tapped the gavel on the lectern three times.
"Order, order. Can the sergeant-at-arms confirm only members and female guests are present."
"Aye," said Jenny Jones scanning the room. "There are five guests who signed the welcome book and forty-five members in attendance today. The meeting is in order."
Again, the president tapped the gavel three times on the lectern.
"Welcome to the Sisters of the Creek weekly presentation series." She glanced at her cell phone. "I motion we table any other business to leave time for our speaker and questions."
"Second," came a voice from the audience.
"Motion carried," said the president, then continued. "Our speaker today is Miss Alyssa Westwood." She motioned toward the back of the room." Please give a hand to welcome Miss Westwood with her presentation Superhuman Performance Coaching."
There was polite clapping and heads turned toward the rear. The sergeant-at-arms, Jenny Jones, opened the door at the back of the meeting room. I sat on the edge of my seat, tilted forward with my eyes wide and my mouth half open as a stick-thin woman with a prim, sour mouth strode through the doorway toward the lectern. She wore an expression of disapproval on her long, thin face.
It was the woman in the dowdy, gray dress! She was in her mid-forties, with a long, narrow, horse like face, and a gray mane for hair tied back so tight it made her look surprised.
"Hello, my name is Alyssa Westwood. I am a physical exercise performance coach," she said, placing oversized hands on the lectern. "My business, Transform your Body for Top Performance takes individuals, and over a period of sixteen weeks creates athletes who can compete at the highest levels."
Over the next forty-five minutes Alyssa gave an engaging and entertaining talk on the challenges of transforming ordinary people into competitive athletes.
At the end of the presentation, Helen Felton rose.
"Questions?"
Jenny Jones raised her arm and stood up. "Who are your primary clients?"
Alyssa's lips curved into a wolfish smile. "It's a fifty-fifty mix between adults and children. Our oldest client is sixty-five, and our youngest about to turn ten."
Helen Felton asked the next question. "Is it true that today it is harder for teenagers to compete?"
Alyssa tilted her head to one side and now her eyes were smiling. "Teenagers competing at the state level are fitter, stronger, and more focused than the kids of even a decade ago. Yes, it is much tougher at the top these days and injuries are prevalent."
The woman with the pasty, round, and friendly face with the 1960s beehive hairstyle, spoke next. "Alyssa, I'm a guest here, but are you taking on new clients?"
"Oh yes," said Alyssa, the wolfish smile growing wider. "As a matter fact, the more out of shape you are when you sign up, the greater the performance improvement. There are many amazing and immediate benefits." She raised her large hands and counted. "First, weight loss. Second, tone and shaping. Third, increased energy and vitality."
There was a pause.
Helen Felton stood up. "Any other questions?"
I wanted to connect with Alyssa so I could discover what she was doing following Teddy Tumpin on the trail and hiding in the alley on Marvin Close. My husband, John, always said the quickest way to connect is through questions. But nothing came to mind.
"Any other questions?" Helen Felton repeated.
Then I thought of Teddy Tumpin and the giant-sized needle protruding from his neck.
"Is doping equally common among teenagers and adults?" I asked, raising my arm, standing up, and speaking all at the same time.
Alyssa shifted from foot to foot, gave a startled glare and a frown formed on her taut forehead but her lips remained fixed in a wolfish smile.
"Oh no, no, no, it's not common at all, and certainly not among those who use my services."
I pressed on. "Not among your cli
ents of course, but what about the wider athletic community?"
Her face became tight with annoyance and she flashed a cold smile. "Performance-enhancing drugs are not a subject I can speak of."
But the topic had caught the interest of the ladies, and no matter Alyssa's protests, the women of the Sisters of the Creek Coffee Circle were intent on probing this issue.
"Out of curiosity," said Helen Felton, "where do people buy performance-enhancing drugs?"
Alyssa blinked her bland, dark eyes and shook her head. "I, er—"
"They're everywhere." interrupted Gratia. "My nephew works out at a gym in Austin. Tells me they sell 'em like candy in a sweet shop."
Everyone looked at Alyssa.
She was silent for so long that I thought she wouldn't say anything else, but she took a little step forward.
"The performance coaching industry is a small world. A reputation for doping would ruin a coach. I encourage my athletes to steer clear of illegal substances."
Vicar Jane Braithwaite who had arrived late asked the next question. "Are all illicit drugs detectable?"
Alyssa responded with lightning speed. "No, not if taken early and in the right doses." Then realizing her response showed she knew more than she had let on, she backpedaled. "At least, that's what I've read on the internet. I've no direct experience to speak of, none at all." Her eyes darted around the room as her face flushed.
The ding-dong of a hand bell rang out. It signified the presentation phase of the meeting was over.
Helen Felton rose and approached the lectern. "Please give our guest of the day another round of applause."
Alyssa made her way to a chair at the back of the room.
"That was an amazing presentation," said Jenny, taking Alyssa by the arm. "I'll have to introduce you to my cousin, Jill. She is training in cross-country running. I'm sure she would benefit from your services."
"Thank you," said Alyssa, handing out a business card.
Jenny peered at the card. As she tucked it into her handbag said, "Alyssa, it must've been a shock for you too. I can't imagine how I would feel if it happened to one of my colleagues."
"And in such a public way to a local hero," added Gratia joining the conversation.
Alyssa smiled rather sourly. "You're talking about Teddy Tumpin?"
"Yes," said Jenny and Gratia at the same time.
Alyssa's eyes frosted over and she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I don't wish to speak ill of the dead or a local hero, but Teddy Tumpin got what he deserved."
At that moment Helen Felton joined the conversation. "Are you talking about Teddy Tumpin?" Helen's faced flushed with annoyance and she didn't wait for a response from any of the ladies. "Everyone wants to know what happened. Had Millie Watkins from the Medlin Creek Times, snooped around earlier this morning? I've asked the sheriff's department to send me the report on the cause of his death as soon as possible. I'll make the information available to the public via the town hall website. I must ask you ladies and members of the public to exercise a little patience."
Gratia ignored the request and fired off a question. "Did Teddy die of natural causes?"
Helen raised her hand like a traffic cop halting a car but she did not speak. Instead, she half turned, fixed me in her authoritative glare, and changed subject.
"Ollie is it true Roger Romantic and Crystal Healy will get married at Ealing Homestead?" Her voice was silky smooth like a television politician, but I could see annoyance in her eyes.
I wanted to know more about the cause of Teddy's death, but answered, "Yes, it is true."
Gratia's eyes slid from the mayor to me and with a devilish smile added, "Crystal is moving the wedding up from next Friday to Monday. In five days' time it will be Mr. and Mrs. Romantic."
"Oh crap!" I said aloud as the ragged pounding of a headache began behind my eyes. Then I added, "It'll take a lot of preparation to get Ealing Homestead ready for the big day."
Chapter 21
It was almost noon when I stepped out of the cool interior of the library into the bright sunlight of the parking lot. Instantly, a sheen of perspiration formed on my forehead. The pounding behind my eyes deepened. A low mechanical rumble caused me to stop. The red, gold, and green Riverwalk Homeschoolers Association bus pulled up to the sidewalk and a gaggle of children tumbled out. I turned to watch them disappear into the library.
Alyssa stood like a stone statue at the entrance. In the bright sunlight her dowdy, gray dress appeared dreary, and the sour expression etched into her face was positively rancid. For several moments I watched as she handed out a business card to each child. "The woman's either a rampant opportunist or else desperate," I mumbled under my breath.
A trickle of perspiration dripped into my eye, its salty sting an unpleasant reminder of the heat and humidity of the noon hour. I walked across the parking lot and clicked open the door of my vehicle. In I climbed, started the engine and allowed it to idle softly to build cool against the sweltering summer air. Instinctively I switched on the radio just as MCR FM 101.1 aired the news.
This is Johnny Spinner, it's a little after the noonday hour and here are the top stories. Clear skies are expected for the supermoon this Thursday, the same night as the Hill Country possum count. If you spot one of these beautiful critters report it via the Havis County website. Local high school football legend…
Johnny Spinner's words entered my ears but I was not listening, my thoughts pulling me away from the broadcast. An image flashed into my mind—Teddy Tumpin running up and down a hill on the trail. Questions floated over the image like fluffy, white clouds in the sky. What was the relationship between Alyssa and Teddy Tumpin? I ran it through various possibilities but drew a blank. "Not my problem," I muttered under my breath, "not my problem."
The cell phone buzzed, a message from Millie.
The owner of the newspaper wants me to write an article about Teddy Tumpin. This is it, the big one! Oh my gosh, I can see a full-time job over the horizon. Wish me luck!
I tipped my head back and laughed, slipped the gear lever into drive, then pushed it back into park.
"Millie is a good friend, so is Roger," I whispered under my breath.
When John and I lived in our Brooklyn apartment, we had lots of neighbors but few friends. I worked in a corporate office surrounded by hundreds of coworkers, served on the parent-teacher association events, attended church, and worked out at the local gym. But my husband, John, was my only real friend. I'd made more friends in a handful of months in the Hill Country of Texas than in a couple of decades in New York City.
"Roger's relationship with Crystal is not my problem," I said, then half closed my eyes. John's smiling face appeared. He didn't speak, but his eyes rolled up toward the heavens where a single turkey vulture hovered, its beady eyes looking for a fresh meal. "But Roger is a friend, and that makes it my problem," I murmured.
For several more minutes I sat, not thinking, I'd done enough thinking—but gathering my resolve. I needed the cash from the hire of Ealing Homestead, but I didn't want my friend trapped in a relationship with a woman who tested her powers of mesmerism and psychokinesis on animals and people. I sucked in air deep into my lungs, held it for a while and expelled a sharp breath. I'd have to warn Roger. If he wanted to go ahead with the wedding, that was his choice, but it wouldn't happen at Ealing Homestead. The pounding behind my eyes eased.
Chapter 22
I put the Tahoe into drive and headed toward Moozoos Café. I needed a strong drink.
Inside the dimly lit coffee house a lengthy line of customers snaked ahead. The first surge of the afternoon rush where office workers, teachers, and tourists converged in large numbers for their afternoon caffeine shot. The barista and his assistant busied themselves preparing drinks with hardly a glance toward the door as its gentle chime sounded out almost continuously.
I tapped my finger on my arm, annoyed at myself for spending too long at the library. Now, trapped in the r
ush hour where everything takes twice as long, the pounding behind my eyes strengthened.
I ran my eyes over the menu board. "A Creek Jolt will do the trick," I muttered. It is Moozoos signature beverage—an indulgent combination of Kenyan coffee loaded with fresh cream alongside a heavy dash of brandy.
With a slow orderly rhythm, the line inched forward. Regulars tossed out their order without thought and the barista and his assistant worked with speed, the occasional grunt their only form of communication.
When a large group of tourists approached the bar, the orderly rhythm halted.
"What will be your pleasure?" asked the barista with an eager smile.
"Jacob, look at all the choices," said a twig-thin woman pointing up at the menu board. "What you gonna get?"
"Dunno," said a short, fat man rubbing his gray beard. "Marcus, what's it to be for you?"
A tall, lanky man with a pointy chin replied, "That's a great question, Jacob." He turned to glance down at a petite woman in a floral print dress. "Janet, what drink do you like the sound of?"
The woman shook her head slowly, "Marcus I can't make up my mind. Andrew's been here before. Andrew what did you get last time?"
Andrew, a round man with a round face stood staring in a daze at the menu board. "Oh," he said, "there are so many choices. What does the barista recommend?"
I sucked in a frustrated breath, fished around in my handbag and took two pills to ease the ragged pounding behind my eyes.
The barista made recommendations and took their order.
The line inched forward.
An urgent ringing cut into my exasperation. Roger's number flashed across the cell phone screen. A deep sense of unease washed over me as I picked up.
Silence.
"Roger," I said, "is that you?"
Low mumbled voices crackled followed by shrieking.
"Roger, Roger, can you hear me?"
"Yes." His voice was thin and defeated sounding.
"What's up?" I said, knowing that something was definitely up.