by N. C. Lewis
Teddy Tumpin
An Ollie Stratford Cozy MysteryN.C. Lewis
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.
Other Books in the Series
The Ollie Stratford Murder Mystery books can be enjoyed in any order. Here are the books in the series:
Texas Troubles
Creek Crisis
Bitter Bones
Magic Mumbles
Teddy Tumpin
Double Dimple(Coming Soon)
For more information please visit www.nclewis.com
Prologue
I'm Ollie Stratford, forty-six pushing forty-seven, 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 property came with an abandoned oil well, a stray dog called Bodie, and a homeless man known to everyone as Simpkins. They say the Hill Country is the wedding capital of Texas, that's why I've converted my property into an event center. Unfortunately, the brides aren’t biting, and the bills are mounting. My job, full-time professor at the Medlin Creek Community College, helps pay the bills.
Chapter 1
"Are you kidding me!" I yelled into my cell phone, a headache brewing behind my eyes. "That's ridiculous!"
Most days are forgotten shortly after they end, but I was to remember this one with clarity. The late summer morning was growing warm and muggy. I was sitting at my desk in the office, cell phone in one hand, business insurance paperwork in the other, speaking to my insurance agent, Mr. Oden, from the Havis County Insurance Company.
"No, Doctor Stratford, the required insurance premium is not a joke," he said in a somber tone.
"I see," I said, the realization my new event center business was about to suck up more cash I didn't have, sinking in. A sour feeling flooded my stomach.
Mr. Oden pressed on. "You are a businesswoman aren't you, Doctor Stratford?"
"Yes."
"You have a business that will eventually generate profits?"
"Yes."
"And I take it, you would like to have sound and peaceful sleep at night?"
"Yes, of course."
Then I realized what had happened. Mr. Oden had deployed the get them to say yes three times and close the deal salesman tactic. I could have kicked myself, and my heart pounded with annoyance.
"Now," he said triumphantly, "I know you are as busy as a hound in flea season, but this will only take a moment. What is your credit card number?"
"It's a lot of money," I said, my voice tinged with annoyance at almost falling for his trick. "Especially for a new business with very few clients. Don't you have some other package for newbies?"
He changed tactic.
"I take it, Doctor Stratford, your event center, Ealing Homestead, is a business rather than a hobby?"
"Yes," I said without thinking, then mentally kicked myself again for falling for the get them to say yes sales gambit.
"Well, Doctor Stratford," continued Mr. Oden, like a private school logic teacher, "since Ealing Homestead is a business, you must have adequate coverage and the best way to do that is to purchase the insurance package I'm offering."
"But, you're talking about thousands of dollars up front—cash," I said hesitatingly.
"There are no buts about it, Doctor Stratford; your premium is past due." And he counted off each type of coverage. "Property insurance, professional liability insurance, vehicle insurance, and business interruption insurance. All a necessary part of running a modern business in Texas."
"Thousands of dollars, up-front cash," I said again as I pulled up the latest financial spreadsheet on my laptop computer. It showed two sources of income, my full-time teaching position at the Havis County Community College, and the event center business for which bookings were trickling in. Combined, my life was running at a slight loss. If I could reduce the insurance premiums, things would be in the black—just about.
"I think you'll find, Doctor Stratford," he said in a wheezy salesman voice, "the premiums for this combined package are competitive."
"Competitive?" I echoed unable to hide my cynicism.
He changed tactic again.
"Think of it as an investment," he said in a soothing tone. "If your property caught fire, or you are sued for negligence, you will sleep more easily at night knowing you are covered by Havis County Insurance."
Mr. Oden paused, listening intently for any objections.
Silence.
"Doctor Stratford? Doctor Stratford are you still there?"
"Yes," I said. "Just thinking."
"If I may be so bold, now is not the time for thinking," said Mr. Oden in an authoritative voice. "Now, Doctor Stratford," he said then paused for dramatic effect, "is the time for action." His voice raised to a fever pitch as he said the word "action." "If you buy this package within the next seven days, I'll be happy to offer you a twenty-five percent discount on your premium."
"I'll have to raid my emergency fund to make the payment," I said.
"Now, come along, Doctor Stratford, let's seal the deal today so you can have peace of mind tonight."
Mr. Oden is good, I thought, very good.
"Seven days?" I said.
"You can hang your hat on it, but why wait? Let's protect you today, you'll feel so much better." He lowered his voice like a showtime hypnotist and in a slow, measured tone continued, "Now, Doctor Stratford, lean into the phone please and listen very carefully…"
There was a slight pause, then crackling over the phone wires, soft instrumental music played. It was immediately recognizable, the theme tune from the Havis County Insurance Company commercials. Mr. Oden lowered his voice, and the soft gentle strains of a familiar melody uttered the company's famous slogan. "With Havis County Insurance you are in safe company when disaster strikes. You'll be pleased we are local. Our employees are your neighbors."
Again, there was a pause as the music faded away. Then he spoke up, the voice, baritone deep, authoritative. "Now, Doctor Stratford, what is your credit card number?"
It was as if a wizard had cast a spell, for I lurched out of the chair in a daze-like trance into the kitchen to fetch my purse. Back at the desk as I pulled out my credit card, my eyes glanced at the computer screen. I peered again at the spreadsheet financials.
"No," I said with a dry, raspy voice, "I need more time to think about this. But, thank you for your kind offer."
Chapter 2
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and swallowed hard. Mr. Oden had thrown every possible persuasive selling tactic into his sales pitch and walked away empty-handed. My throat was dry. Into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. Suddenly, a deep sense of guilt washed over me. Did Mr. Oden have children? An image of a wide-eyed, sad-looking toddler, terribly thin, sitting at a wooden table in a tiny room with a bare dirt floor came into my mind. And in through the door lumbered Mr. Oden, his shoulders stooped, his eyes glassy, fixed on the floor.
I'm sorry child, he said, in my mind's eye and with a tearful voice, it's cabbage soup again tonight. Doctor Stratford
didn't buy.
Heavy panting shook me out of the daydream. Bodie, the stray dog I had taken in on my first day in Texas, was nudging me for a belly rub. His tail wagged jauntily as I patted his tummy. Cabbage soup and hungry children were far from the hound's mind. One final belly rub then he rolled over and headed toward the door. I let him out. Off the dog bounded, toward the outbuildings, his tail wagging merrily as he went.
Back in the kitchen I poured another glass of water and turned on the radio. MCR 101.1 FM, the local station boomed out an old Bill Monroe song. As the rhythm faded into the background, the host, Johnny Spinner, biding time before the next song, spoke. "A big Hill Country welcome to those coming into town for the Medlin Creek High School homecoming reunion. Shout boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya, if you were at school with this year's homecoming queen, Crystal Healy. Ms. Healy graduated forty-five years ago and to this day holds the high school record for the most wins in Hill Country beauty pageants. Shout boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya when you see her on the parade this Tuesday evening. The fun begins at six p.m. Now, a quick message from our sponsor, the Havis County Insurance Company."
A familiar tune played in the background as Johnny Spinner read their slogan, famous throughout the Hill Country. "With Havis County Insurance you are in safe company when disaster strikes. You'll be pleased we are local. Our employees are your neighbors."
My hand shot out to flick the off switch on the radio. But it was too late. The image of a wafer-thin child eating cabbage soup had popped into my mind, and a sudden wave of guilt rushed over me. "Oh crap," I said aloud, "this will never do. I'll call Mr. Oden after I have had another look at my financial accounts. Tomorrow, or the day after that, or when he calls back."
I felt better.
After refilling Bodie's food and water bowls, I returned to the desk in my small office, shaking my head. I sucked in several deep breaths, letting the air out slowly to clear my mind. There were lecture notes to prepare and student assignments to grade. I tried to do most of this work on campus. But since becoming a full-time employee, the workload had more than doubled. It was impossible to get through it all without bringing some home with me.
I pulled up my chair and began preparations. First, I began by making a list of activities I wanted to complete related to my teaching position. Then I made a list of activities related to the event center. It's one of the things I'm good at, making lists. Shopping lists, lists of people I must speak to, lists of repairs needed for Ealing Homestead, and lists of community events I'm committed too. I've even made lists of lists I must make.
As I reviewed my teaching list for the day, the cell phone buzzed. It was from Millie Watkins, a friend and reporter at the Medlin Creek Times, the local newspaper.
Ollie, I've got a big problem to discuss. Are you free to grab a quick coffee this morning, say nine thirty a.m.?
I looked down at my list. The first item was to review grades on Business Statistics 101, second class. I reached for a pen and added "coffee with Millie" to the top of the list. Then I took out my cell phone, checked the time, and sent a text message.
Yes, see you in forty-five minutes at Moozoos Café.
Chapter 3
After fifteen more minutes of making lists of things I wanted to do this week, I got up and stretched, grabbed my handbag from the kitchen, and called Bodie. The hound trotted inside, panting hard, his tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. After a quick belly rub he trotted over to his dog bed, curled up, and went to sleep.
Outside, I strolled along the dirt path through the little iron gate toward the lot where I parked my Tahoe. The tang of cedar trees filled the late summer air, and high in the branches of a live oak tree, a golden-cheeked warbler chirped a merry morning song. It wasn't hot yet, but the high humidity caused a sheen of perspiration to form on my forehead. I paused for a moment to listen to the final notes of the warbler, then climbed into the Tahoe, turned over the engine, and waited several minutes for the air-conditioning to spew out cool air.
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 blaring country music, popular at lunchtime with office workers, school children, and the occasional Hill Country tourist. At the other end, on a gentle slope which takes you down to the Medlin Creek River is a flea market with little wooden stalls filled with knickknacks and curiosities.
The drive to Moozoos Café took less than fifteen minutes. It was around nine ten a.m. when I pulled the Tahoe into the car lot behind the café. I climbed out of the vehicle, hurrying across the black tarmac surface toward my first caffeinated beverage of the day. The narrow entrance, easily missed from the street, was simple to spot today because a sign on the door flashed OPEN in bright electronic letters.
As I entered, the doorbell pinged with a gentle note announcing my arrival. The air filled with the earthy scent of fresh, hot coffee and the sweet, yeasty smell of baked bread and cinnamon rolls. It was the tail end of the morning rush hour. The barista busied himself refilling the coffee grinder and topping up jugs with half and half, regular and low-fat milks. He gave a friendly wave, finished filling the half and half carafe, then looked up, his lopsided eyes gleaming.
"Ollie, nice to see you. What will be your pleasure today?"
I studied the menu board for a few moments, but I already knew what I wanted. "Large cappuccino," I said.
The barista nodded and busied himself preparing the drink.
Usually, at this time of the morning, the café would be empty except for a few office workers waiting for their morning brew. But this morning, groups of tourists sat at the tables peering into tablet computers, making their plans for the day.
"We've been pretty busy with the homecoming crowd," said the barista nodding in the general direction of the tables. "It's been great for business! Long may it continue."
He handed over my drink and I chose a table by the window. I pulled out my cell phone and checked the time, nine twenty a.m. Millie would be here in ten minutes. Then I scrolled through my messages stopping at a text from Roger Romantic, a retired friend.
Ollie, just a reminder that the Speaker Circle is having a special meeting tonight at six p.m. in the meeting room in the library. I'll be practicing my presentation for the high school homecoming. Let me know if you can attend.
The sound of giggles interrupted my reading. At a table in the far corner of the café I noticed a hunk of a man, all sharp angles with huge muscles visible through his torso-hugging T-shirt. His gray hair, cropped close to his head amplified the angular nature of his facial features with a certain baby-like quality, although he was in his early sixties. Three middle-aged women surrounded him laughing and giggling like teenagers, into their beverages.
"Must be part of the homecoming crowd," I muttered under my breath as I typed into my cell phone.
Yes, Roger, I will attend the Speaker Circle meeting. Looking forward to your talk.
I took a sip from the cup and looked out onto the street. The sidewalk was bustling with activity as tourists and office workers moved at differing speeds. The office workers hurried along anxiously with quick steps and expressionless faces. The tourists, with relaxed curious smiles, sauntered along lazily. Empty school buses snaked their way along and an occasional car pulled into an on-street parking space.
The café doorbell pinged, I looked up expecting Millie. Instead, a stick-thin woman with a prim, sour mouth and an expression of disapproval etched into her long, thin face walked into the café. She wore a long, dowdy, gray dress that somehow matched her discontented aura.
"A small black coffee and a slice of lemon cake," she said in a voice even sourer than the expression etched on her face.
"Yes ma'am," replied the barista as his chin, which was pointy like the end of a carrot, twitched.
"You'll be so kind as to take all
that foul icing off the top of the cake too," she requested woodenly. "I don't like sweet, can't do sweet."
"Cats don't have a sweet tooth either," muttered the barista discontentedly.
The woman sniffed and took the de-iced lemon cake and coffee to a table. As I glanced over toward the bar, I saw the barista, hands on his hips, staring at the woman as his carrot-shaped chin twitched slowly.
With growing fascination, I watched as the woman in the dowdy, gray dress took little sips of the coffee like a bird at a water fountain. With each thimbleful, she tipped her head back, pointing her flabby chin toward the ceiling and forced, by the law of gravity, the bitter, black liquid down her throat. After each sip she took tiny bites out of the cake, working around the edges like a caterpillar nibbling a distasteful leaf.
Suddenly, she sat bolt upright and turned to look in my direction. "What are you staring at?" she snapped, her lips clattering together like the beak of an angry bird, and the beady eyes small and cold.
"Nothing," I said in an apologetic tone, "just waiting for a friend to arrive. Not watching you eat or drink at all, nope, nothing to see there, only waiting for a friend." I turned away suddenly fascinated by a yellow school bus crawling slowly along Creek Street.
After several minutes the school bus passed out of sight. I turned around to discreetly look in the general direction of the woman in the dowdy, gray dress, out of the corner of my eye. She had abandoned the small coffee and was nibbling at her cake, one caterpillar-sized chunk at a time. After each bite, she peered toward the man-hunk and the giggling, middle-aged women. Then, after the final bite, her beady, dark eyes narrowed to slits and she let out a squawk, low pitched, barely audible, but it was definitely a squawk like that of a golden-cheeked warbler, only shriller.