Murder & Mayhem in Goose Pimple Junction

by Amy Metz

  “Oh, that’s very kind of you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “As the locals would say, I believe we’ve howdied, but we ain’t shook yet. My name’s Jackson Wright. Most folks just call me Jack.” He got up to offer his hand.

  Ha! He’s Mr. Right, she said to herself. Mr. Right the writer. She cleared her throat to stifle a giggle and said to him, “Hi, I’m Tess Tremaine. What kind of books do you write?” Her voice came out a little higher than she would have liked. She cleared her throat again.

  “Mystery novels. I have nine published, and I’m in the process of writin' my tenth,” he told her.

  “A nine-times published author, wow, I’m impressed.”

  “Oh, don’t be. I got lucky. There are plenty of writers out there who should be published and aren’t. ‘Course, there are also plenty who have been published and shouldn’t be. But I’d be glad to help you with your book any way I can.” He looked sincere.

  She smiled and looked down at the table, feeling awkward and not knowing what to say. She couldn’t say what she was thinking—that he could help her work on the love scenes for her book. Oh no he couldn’t, came a sharp reprimand from the common sense half of her brain.

  He broke the silence. “I’ll be doin' a reading at the bookstore down the street next Saturday, and I’d love it if you came.”

  “I'll try to stop by.”

  “Let me give you my e-mail address,” he said, writing on a scrap of paper.

  “Writers need the support of other writers. E-mail a chapter to me whenever you're ready.”

  Oh, I’m ready, she thought and then mentally slapped herself.

  “Do you come here often?” He laughed at himself, shaking his head. “That sounds like a lousy pick up line. I’m sorry. And considerin' my vocation you’d think I could come up with somethin' better.”

  “No, don’t be silly,” she said quickly. Especially if it truly is a pick up line. She took a sip to hide her smile. You have got to get a grip, girl.

  “I do like to come here to write. Which is kind of crazy, because I don’t drink coffee and it’s a . . . coffee shop . . . “ she felt like she was blabbering, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Thank goodness they make tea and hot chocolate too. But I like to come here to write. It helps me focus. If I stay at home for too long I end up surfing the net, and I don’t get any writing done at all.”

  “Oh, you live alone? I know what you mean, I live alone too, and sometimes the quiet is just too . . . well . . . too dern quiet.”

  And there’s one question answered—no wife. Yep, probably gay. Aren’t all the good ones gay?

  “So you come here to write, too?”

  “Yep. I guess you could call this my office. I write here by day, and at home by night.”

  She nodded, not knowing what else to say. There was no way she was going to be able to write anything halfway decent with him sitting just a few feet away, and she didn’t really want to continue the conversation. The look in his eye scared her. She was not going to get involved with another man. She needed to put a stop to this right away. So as she started packing up her things, she told him she was done for the day.

  He cocked his head to the side and smiled, showing that dimple, as he said, “It has been a pleasure talkin' to you, Tess Tremaine. I’ll be lookin' for your e-mail.”

  Leave now, Tess. Leave now. She smiled back at him and mumbled, “Nice meeting you. See ya.”

  She stood up and tried to grab her cup of lemonade, purse, and tote bag, too, but the strap of her purse slipped down her arm, causing her to spill lemonade all over the table. She felt like an idiot. She set her tote bag down, went for napkins, and frantically wiped up the spill. Waving weakly at Jack, she headed out. I need air, she thought as she quickly walked away, trying to get out of the shop as fast as possible.

  “Tess!”

  She heard him call after her. She turned around and saw him holding her tote bag, which held her laptop. He had a sparkle in his eye and was trying to suppress a smile. She had taken her purse but left the tote bag on the floor.

  Feeling humiliated, she walked back to him and took the bag. When their eyes met, and their fingers touched briefly as he handed her the bag, she repeated in her head, Martian Man, Martian Man.

  Trying to hide her embarrassment, she gave him a look that said, “Don’t say a word or you’re a dead man.”

  She turned, trying to make a graceful exit once again, but walked straight into a table. She cleared her throat, sidestepped the table, and without turning around, raised her hand up in the air as she walked out of the shop, indicating that she knew she was an idiot, and he really didn’t have to point it out.

  On her way out, she noticed a man in blue jeans and pointy-toe cowboy boots staring at her. She breezed past him, with the niggling feeling she’d seen him before.

  How rude of him to stare.

  It Ain’t Chinese Math

  Despurt: adjective des-purt desperate

  It was an act only a despurt man would commit.

  [ 1932 ]

  March 9, 1932 was a beautiful day in the town of Goose Pimple Junction. The sun was a welcome change from the blustery cold day before, when it snowed three inches.

  There were no customers in the First National Bank shortly after two o'clock in the afternoon. The two tellers yawned and paced, waiting for the clock to chime four times, signaling they could lock up for the night. Cashier Nate Hunter walked to the front window to pull down the shade.

  “What’ja do that for?” Tallulah, the other teller, asked.

  “The glare of the sun was gettin’ to me,” he said. She shot him a confused look, and was about to say something else when her face froze and she gulped noticeably, as three men walked through the door with guns. Two of them walked to the counter, guns drawn, while a third stood watch at the bank door, a sub-machine gun propped on his hip.

  “This is a holdup. We want all the money,” a tall, skinny man wearing a cowboy hat boldly proclaimed to the tellers. “C'mon, c'mon, put it all in these here sacks,” the stocky man in overalls and a plaid shirt said. He and the other man held out pillowcases. Tallulah froze, her eyes wide and her mouth opening and closing without anything coming out.

  “What are you waitin’ on,” bellowed Overalls. “This ain’t Chinese math, for Pete’s sake. Put the money in the sack. Git movin’. And hurry it up.” Looking petrified, she went to the money drawer.

  “She looks as nervous as a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs,” laughed Cowboy Hat.

  “You,” said Overalls to Nate, “git the money from the vault, too.”

  In a matter of minutes, the tellers, with shaking hands and rubbery legs, managed to stuff the pillowcases with forty-seven thousand dollars in cash.

  “C'mon, you,” the short, round man stationed at the door said, motioning with his gun to Nate, “you're comin' with us as a little insurance policy.” They fled the bank, running lickety-split down the street as fast as they could while trying to lug the loaded sacks of money.

  As soon as the men left, bookkeeper and auditor John Hobb came out of his office. Unbeknownst to the bandits or the tellers, he had witnessed the entire robbery. He raced out of the building, hoping to see which direction the men had gone. He saw them go south on Third Street and quickly ran back inside.

  “Are you all right?” John asked, out of breath, helping Tallulah into a chair. “Did you recognize them?”

  She shook her head. “I thought you were gone.”

  “We should call the sheriff.” John quickly locked the front doors and picked up the phone.

  “Sheriff! The bank just got hit. There were three of them, and they’re armed. They went south on Third Street with the money and, they have teller Nate Hunter . . . “

  [ 1979 ]

  The young man sat at his grandfather’s bedside, his head resting on his hands, which were clasped over one of his grandfather's. The room was silent except for the sound of labored breathing and the ti
cking of the wall clock. He sat up straight when his grandfather began speaking.

  “I’ve done some things in my life that I ain’t a proud of, boy,” the old man said, lifting his head to look at the young man.

  “Shhh, Papa, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, patting his grandfather's hand gently.

  “No! It ain’t okay. Murder and robbery ain’t okay, they’re horrible, rotten acts only a despurt man would commit. But that’s what I was—despurt. I want ya ta know that I only did what I had to do.” He was breathless and stopped a moment, coughing, his chest heaving, as his lungs struggled for air. His grandson held a cup to his lips so he could take a sip of water before continuing.

  “I wanna get this off my conscience before I die. The bank robbery of ’32. I’s in on it.” He laid his head back on the pillows and squeezed his eyes shut. “It pains me to say that ain’t all, Squirt.” The young man smiled faintly at the sound of the pet name his grandfather had always used for him. Hearing it was bittersweet. He wondered if it would be the last time his grandfather said it.

  “I killed a man, too. I had ta do it to protect my reputation. I had ta do it,” the old man continued. A tear escaped his eye, falling softly down his weathered cheek; his hand gripped his grandson’s tighter. “I hate havin’ to admit the horrible things I done, but I want to protect my kin.”

  “It’s all right, Papa—”

  “It ain’t all right, Squirt. The man had ev’dence. He told me so, right before I killed him. I laughed at him at the time. Laughed right in his face; thought he was bluffin’.” He stopped again, trying to breathe, as well as keep his emotions in check.

  “He said he took precautions, and one day the world was goin’ ta know what a yellow-bellied coward I was. It weren’t ‘til after I killed him that I found the note in his pocket. It said, ‘Maye, if you’re reading this I must be dead. Look in the chest, Maye. It’s all there.’ ‘Course I threw the note away, and his woman never knew about it.” He sighed and then looked directly at his grandson.

  “But I know he was tellin' the truth. He had somethin', some kind of proof. I’m afraid it’s gonna surface some day and ruin y’alls lives. Look in his house. Promise me, Squirt, that you'll find and destroy the ev'dence before it destroys our family. I don't want ya saddled with my dirty deeds for the rest a your life. Promise me . . . “ he took a deep, raspy breath.

  “ . . . find the ev'dence John Hobb hid, and promise me you'll destroy it.”

  “I promise, Papa,” the young man said as a sob escaped from his throat.

  The Jig Is Up

  fumeer: adverb fum-eer from here

  Where do we go fumeer?

  [ March 9, 1932 ]

  “Yeehaw boys! We done it,” Rod in the backseat hollered, waving his cowboy hat in the air.

  “Pipe down, will ya?” said the driver.

  “I’ll pipe down if you’ll slow down.”

  “Both a you knock it off, ya bunch a numbskulls. Yeah, we did it. We done pulled it off. Now we gotta git while the gittin’s good. We need to dump this old heap a junk and find us a new one to take us far and wide, boys.”

  “Where do we go fumeer?” asked Rod.

  “After we finds us a new ride, we need to split up fer a few days. Lay low. Don’t do nuthin’ s’picious. And YOU . . . “ the front passenger, Brick, turned to Rod behind him. “Don’t be drinkin’ none. You get stupid when you’s drunk.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m dry as dirt,” said Rod. “’Sides, I still say we shoulda oughta taken care a the Hunter boy, ‘stead a turnin’ him a loose on Main.”

  “Yer such an ornery old cuss. Hunter won’t talk. We got him jest where we wont ‘im,” Junior said, keeping his eyes on the road.

  “Yeah, but we gotta give him some a the take,” whined Rod.

  “Not nessarily. Whas he gonna do—go to the PO-leece?” sneered the driver, Junior Wells. “He’s in deep as we are.”

  “We give him his cut. We don’t need no more trubba,” Brick said flatly.

  The other two men kept arguing, and it wasn’t long before Brick had had enough. He snapped, “What in tarnation are you knuckle-heads jibber jawin’ ‘bout? You two nitwits shut yer pie holes. Y’all sound like a bunch of old biddies.” Brick stared out the window.

  “Hey. Genius, looka thar,” Brick said, pointing. “Look over yonder at that Oldsie. Pull over.”

  “Whatta you thinkin’ Brick?’

  “Whatta you think I’m thinkin’? Ah swear, if yer brains were dynamite, you couldn’t blow your nose.” He shook his head. “I don’t rightly know fer sure if our car was spotted, but I ain’t a gonna chance it.”

  “Have you lost all of your mind? We can’t just walk up and take that car,” cried Rod.

  “Why not?” Junior asked.

  “Somebody’s bound to see us, that’s why not.”

  “Then we wait,” said Brick. “We sit and watch the house, if’n nobody’s around after an hour or so, we hep ourselves to that there Oldsmobile.”

  An hour later, Brick pushed on Rod’s arm to wake him. “Hey Roddy. Wake up, ya old slug.” Rod’s head bobbled, and his eyes opened halfway. Brick snapped his fingers two-inches in front of Rod’s face.

  “Gad night a livin'. Would you get offa my back.” Rod squinted as he woke up, and pushed Brick’s hand away from his face.

  “Roddy, listen up—you sidle up over thar and get that car. We’ll gwon up the road a fer piece and you come pick us up. We’ll leave this heap on the side a the road.”

  “How come I gotta do it?”

  “’Cause this is yer first rodeo.”

  Stealing the car wasn’t a problem since the keys were already in it. Nobody in the country bothered with taking the keys inside the house. Rod started it up and drove two miles and picked up the other two men. He dropped Brick off in Flat Rock and Junior in Greasy Creek. Then he drove on to get lost in the big city. He was going to have a vacation. He figured he’d earned it.

  [ June 2010 ]

  The man had cold eyes. He looked out of his office window at the hustle and bustle of downtown Goose Pimple Junction, lost in thought. He wasn’t sure if he had a problem brewing or not, but he was intent on finding out. The evidence was in that house. He was sure of it. This was the second time the sale of that house had caused him angst; the second time he had to be sure the new owner was settled in and done nosing around their new digs. Not that this new owner would find anything. He’d already turned the house upside down and came up empty, and she seemed too ditzy, anyway. There was even a chance it was gone by now, if it had ever really been there. Whatever ‘it’ was. He just had a bad feeling. He promised to find whatever it was and destroy it, and by golly, he was going to keep that promise to his dying day. He picked up the phone.

  “Willy?” he said. “Yeah, it’s me. Ya got anything new for me on that project we discussed?”

  “Naw, not yet.” Willy yawned into the phone. “I’ve been followin’ her around just like you said, but I ain’t seen or heard nothin’ to be concerned about. I think you’re overreactin'. Fact is, I think this'll be an easy, and fun, little project.” He snickered into the phone.

  “Well, as long as I’m payin’ you, do what I tell ya. Keep an eye and ear on that ditz, ya hear?”

  * * *

  Tess had been married for twenty-six years and divorced for ten months. She’d only been living in Goose Pimple Junction for a month, but was feeling very content for the first time in ages. She’d been put through the wringer in the last few years; first, suspecting, and then finding out for sure that her husband was not only having an affair, but had several over the course of their marriage. She was glad for this fresh start.

  Tess walked into Stafford’s, the town’s bookstore, and immediately felt a sense of tranquility. She looked around at the exposed brick walls and bookshelves packed to the rafters with books, excited to find it wasn’t one of those cookie-cutter mega-bookstores. This bookstore had character. It made her want to
grab a book, sit down in one of the store’s big, cushy chairs and settle down for an afternoon of reading. All was quiet in the bookstore except for the hum of traffic from the street. The sights, sounds, and smells of the bookstore wrapped their collective arms around her, giving her a peaceful feeling. The aroma of the coffee shop next door made her inhale with pleasure. Tess didn’t care for coffee, but she loved the smell of it. She could picture herself seeking the cozy confines of the store often.

  So many books, so little time, she thought.

  She walked past cute knick-knacks for sale in the cooking section. She stopped briefly in the section that held upscale journals and greeting cards, before noticing a huge black and white plaster of Paris cow jumping over a moon, hanging from the ceiling in the children’s section.

  I wonder if they have my book.

  She found it quickly: “Brown Dog,” by Tess Tremaine. It always gave her a thrill to find her book in a bookstore. She picked it up, running her hand lovingly over the cover. She wondered if she was doing the right thing in switching genres. She’d never written romance before.

  “You can’t do it,” her ex-husband had said. “It was a fluke you’ve even had a children's book published. You write a novel? Ha. That’s laughable.”

  She so wanted to prove him wrong.

  Tess finally ended up in the huge section designated for fiction. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. She walked down the row until she was in the W’s, brushing her finger over the book spines, stopping when she found the name “Jackson Wright.”

  She pulled the book out and turned it to the back cover. Gosh, that man’s got looks to spare.

  She gave a self-conscious glance around to see if anybody was watching and then took five of the books to the cashier, exchanging smiles with the man wearing cowboy boots sitting in a chair by the fireplace.