Murder & Mayhem in Goose Pimple Junction

by Amy Metz

  They were both quiet for a minute until Jack said, “How’d he know you’re workin’ on your house?”

  Tess blew out an exasperated sigh. “He said he overheard me talkin’ in the bookstore. He followed me out the door the other day and said he’s a handyman and wanted to offer his services.”

  Jack snorted. “He’s about as handy as a back pocket on a shirt.”

  Tess laughed, and Jack softened but not completely.

  “And I’ll tell you another thing, he’s all hat and no cattle.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Means he’s one who pretends to be what he’s not. He’s all talk and no substance. He’s a fake, a braggart. He talks big, but he can’t follow through.”

  “Do you think I just fell off the turnip truck?” She was a little offended. “I can spot a fake when I see one.”

  “Okay, Tess, I didn’t mean to insult your intelligence.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know why I’m all riled up tonight. Guess I just got my feelin’s hurt.”

  “Well, drink some of your sweet tea before I manage to spill it again. Maybe it will make you sweeter.”

  “What did you have to tell me?” Jack sat back, taking a long gulp of his tea.

  Tess filled him in on what Buck told her about Lou’s father and grandmother. She thought the filling station story was interesting, so she told him about that, too, in case he really might want to include it in one of his books.

  “Well, that’s interesting news. Why don’t ya ask Lou about it?”

  “Well . . . I can't get that look on her face out of my mind when I told her about finding the key. Not to mention Buck said she doesn’t like to talk about the murders. Jack, her face spoke volumes.”

  “Yeah, well that is unusual, she usually lets her mouth speak volumes.” Jack saw the look of reprimand on Tess’s face and got serious. “Could be it’s just too painful.” He looked at his watch. “Got any plans for the evening? I mean real plans?”

  “Not really, why?”

  “Just for fun, wanna do some research at the library?”

  “Sure . . . I guess so.”

  Tess and Jack paid their bills, said their goodbyes, and left the diner. As they passed the big picture window she saw Willy pick up his cell phone.

  Weird duck, she thought, and a shiver passed through her.

  Murder In Goose Pimple Junction

  scurtt: verb skurt scared

  You’re a skurtt a me!

  [ 1935 ]

  After the Sunday evening service, Maye took her place at the refreshment table in the basement of the church to serve her famous chocolate cake. Her four children were the last in line, and she joined them at another table where they ate cake, drank punch, and listened to the men swap tall tales. She looked at her watch. Seven-thirty. John should be back any time.

  Her sister-in-law, Denise, sat down next to her with a questioning look on her face.

  “You all right?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah honey, I’m fine, why?”

  “You look worried . . . preoccupied.”

  Maye had a niggling feeling that was making her uneasy. A sense of foreboding. She had thought she was successfully hiding her feelings.

  “Is it your daddy? This’ll be the first Christmas without him. And last Christmas couldn’t have been an easy one—he was so sick then. It’ll be hard for you this year.”

  “I do miss him,” Maye admitted. “Maybe that’s it. I don’t know. I just feel edgy.”

  Eight o’clock.

  They would be locking up the church before long. Her brother, P.D., joined them at the table.

  “John not back yet?”

  “Naw, he must’ve gotten held up. He’d best hurry though, or the kids and I’ll be sleepin’ in the church.” She manufactured a smile. The niggling grew.

  Eight-o-five.

  As people said their goodbyes and departed from the fellowship hall, Maye went to help clean up, while her brother entertained the kids with magic tricks. Time seemed to be crawling.

  Eight-twenty-two.

  Maye looked from the clock to her brother. He pulled a quarter from behind Louetta’s ear as she sat on his lap, wide-eyed. Maye wrapped up her cake. It was almost the children’s bedtime. The hall was just about empty. She wondered how much longer they should wait for John. Another glance at the clock.

  Eight-twenty-five.

  “How you do that, Uncle P.D.?” Johnny asked.

  “How do I do what?” P.D. smiled. “Hey, boy, is that a loose tooth?” He put his fingers up to Johnny’s mouth and pulled them back with a quarter between his two fingers. “Naw, it was just this quarter. Never know where it’s gonna pop up.” Johnny looked at him skeptically, with one eye squinted.

  P.D. glanced at Maye, and their eyes went from the clock back to each other.

  Eight-thirty.

  “One more time,” Louetta begged. “Doo’t again.”

  Maye said her goodbyes to the pastor and his wife, and then walked over to her family, glancing at the clock one more time.

  Eight thirty-five.

  She looked at her brother. He nodded in silent understanding.

  “C’mon kids. Uncle P.D.’s gonna take y’all home.”

  * * *

  Ten-thirty, the kitchen clock said. Maye poured some hot water from the teakettle into a mug and then impatiently poured it into the sink. Where could he be?

  The kids had gotten baths and were snug in bed. John still wasn’t home. She walked to the front window. The driveway was empty. Something was wrong. Maye could feel it. She’d sent her brother home and wouldn’t be able to reach him at this late hour. She couldn’t sit around any longer waiting and wondering. She put on her coat and went next door to the pastor’s house.

  Maye noticed the alarmed looks on the reverend and his wife’s face as she told them John hadn’t come home. Nearly beside herself with worry, she pleaded with them.

  “I know it’s late, and I hate to put you out, but can you drive me up toward Goose Creek Bridge to look for him?”

  “Of course we can, Maye. Helen’s mama’s visitin’, and she can stay with the kids while we’re gone.” The reverend, his wife, and mother-in-law quickly got coats on, all the while reassuring Maye everything would be all right.

  Once in the car they rode in strained silence, with Maye sitting straight-backed on the edge of her seat, straining her neck in every direction along the way, searching for John’s car.

  Ten minutes later, as they crossed Goose Creek Bridge, Maye saw a car parked just beyond the bridge. Exhaust billowed into the air, and snowflakes danced in the headlights of the black 1934 Ford Tudor as it sat idling off to the side of the road. “That’s him!” Maye cried, gripping the door handle tightly.

  “Now, Maye, you stay here, and let me go investigate,” Reverend Baker said, slowing the car to a stop.

  But Maye had already jerked the handle up and jumped from the car, stumbling as she landed.

  “John!” she yelled as she ran toward her husband’s black Ford.

  [ June 2010 ]

  “This is it!” Jack said. He and Tess were seated in the back of the library with stacks of six-inch thick, twelve-inch tall hardbound books on the table. They both had a book open in front of them.

  “Finally!”

  “This is a December 20, 1935 Goose Pimple Gazette article about Lou’s daddy.” Jack’s eyes went from the article to Tess. “Tess, Buck was right. He was murdered.”

  “Oh my gosh.”

  Jack scanned the article. “This one was written right after the murder, so it doesn’t sound like they had a clue of who did it, at that point, at least. It only says he died from a gunshot wound to the head, fired at close range.”

  “How horrible.”

  Jack continued scanning the old newspaper article, slowly shaking his head. “This is awful. It says, ‘ . . . on the night of the murder he took his family to church and said he’d be back to get them after he went to a meetin
g. When he didn’t return, his wife and the pastor went looking for him. Maye Hobb found him, dead behind the wheel, with his car still running and three bullet holes in the windows of the car. There was one bullet hole behind his right ear, and an exit wound in his left temple.’”

  Tess got up to read over Jack’s shoulder. “And they had no suspects. How strange.”

  “You know, this might be a good premise for a book. I’d like to find out more about this case. We need to do an Internet search,” Jack said.

  “For what?”

  “To see if there’s anything else through the years that was discovered. See if we can get more of the full picture.”

  Tess gathered her things. “The library’s about to close, though. Come on, we can do it at my house.”

  In a low voice, Jack said, “Honey, I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Do an Internet search, Jack.” She shot him a chastising look. As they walked out, she glanced at him, and he flashed her a big smile.

  “You’re impossible, you know that?” But she couldn’t help returning his smile.

  Her smile fell, and she swallowed hard when they reached the door, and she thought back to their arrival at the library. Jack had driven them in the pouring rain, and Tess remembered having to squeeze in close to him under the umbrella, as they walked from the car to the library door. She remembered the rain pounding on the umbrella, his arm around her, their bodies touching, as they both crouched together trying to stay dry. The smell of his aftershave lotion, the feel of his hand on her waist, the heat of his body . . . Oh, crap. She shook her head, telling herself to stop thinking about it.

  She immediately started working multiplication tables in her head, her favorite form of distraction. She was working so hard on not thinking about Jack, she tripped on the sidewalk. He caught her, holding her close for a moment, and all she could think was, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap. Oh holy crap.

  “I believe you could trip over a cordless phone, Tess.”

  “Just call me Grace.”

  The rain had stopped, but it was pitch-black outside, hot and steamy. Jack steered Tess to his car, with his hand again at the small of her back. A scene from the television show Lost In Space flashed in her mind. Danger! Danger Will Robinson!

  He opened the car door for her, and as she got in, she glimpsed something in the back seat. While he went around to get in on the driver’s side, she reached back and picked it up. He got in and saw her holding his spare umbrella.

  “Oops?” he said, smiling guiltily. Her accusatory glare turned to laughter at his smile. She just shook her head, but as they drove to her house she once again turned to mathematics.

  Thirty-two times sixty-nine equals . . . two thousand, two hundred and eight. Seventy-five times twenty-six equals . . . one thousand, nine hundred and fifty . . .

  “What are you thinkin’ about so hard over there, Tess?” Jack asked after a few minutes.

  She stopped multiplying, and lied, “Just thinking about Lou’s father.”

  It didn’t take them long to get to her house. They went in the side door, which opened to a hallway that was narrow, made even narrower due to a table sitting against the wall just a few steps in. Tess walked into the house first and stopped to turn on the lamp sitting on the table. The darkness made the expectant air between them more electric. Jack’s nearness rattled her.

  She groped for the lamp, accidentally knocking over a picture frame. Jack squeezed past her to pick it up, putting his hands on her waist, his body brushing hers as he passed.

  Oh, for all that is good and holy.

  He stood to hand her the frame, as she turned on the light. He was so close. She began to babble. “Can I get you something to drink? Eat? Come on into the den, where my laptop is,” she said in rapid-fire succession, pushing past him.

  He followed her into the den, where she immediately turned on the lamps on each end table, the lamp on the desk, and the built-in lights over the bookcase. He chuckled, but didn’t say anything.

  “Would you like anything to drink? Sweet tea?” she asked again, realizing she hadn’t given him a chance to answer before.

  “I’m fine thanks, sweetie,” he said, suppressing a smile. She stood there staring at him, and he laughed and added, “Oh! You said sweet tea, not sweetie. My mistake.”

  “Mister, you are such trouble.”

  They sat on the couch, and Tess logged on to the Internet with her laptop. It only took about thirty minutes to find what they were looking for.

  “Click on this, Tess.” Jack pointed to a link on the screen. As the page came up, he moved closer to her. She moved the computer to his lap, and they read silently for several moments. “This says Louetta’s father was a witness to a bank robbery. He was the only witness who could identify a man named Lynch and place him at the scene of the crime. Looks like Lynch was convicted, then pardoned by the governor.”

  “Pardoned? Why?” Tess stared at the computer screen.

  “He and another man, Rod Pierce, both only served three months of a twenty-year sentence. The governor pardoned them on grounds of mistaken identity.”

  “Oh my heavens.”

  Jack read part of another article out loud:

  Eighteen months after the murder, a Mallard County Grand Jury indicted Brick Lynch, one of the two men convicted of the First National Bank robbery, and his former wife, Maisey Lynch, for the murder of John Hobb. Mollie Hall, a woman employed by Maisey’s family, testified she’d overheard the Lynch couple talking about the murder.

  Hall testified that Maisey Lynch had led a colorful life starting at the age of sixteen, when she married C. C. Testerman, the Mayor of Helechewa. After Testerman died, Maisey married Helechewa Police Chief, Sid Hatfield, who also died mysteriously, as Testerman had. Lynch was Maisey’s sixth husband.

  The trial of Brick and Maisey Lynch was postponed twice, but eventually held, and a jury found them not guilty in less than five minutes after Judge J. F. Bailey ruled that Mollie Hall's testimony was incompetent. Both Brick and Maisey Lynch were set free. Rumors and stories abounded concerning the murder of John Hobb, but no one was ever convicted of the crime.

  “What rumors?” Tess wondered aloud.

  Jack tapped a few keys. Opening another online page, he read it silently and then pointed to the screen.”This was written in 1979, as part of an effort to document the history of the city. It looks like some people insinuated he killed himself.

  “It says here:

  Some people saw a connection between the killing and identifying the bank robber, but some also thought there might have been a connection with money that was still missing from the bank, and a mysterious meeting he went to that night, that could never be corroborated.

  It hints that he might have taken some of the bank’s money. It also says his murder was never solved.”

  “How horrible. To know that some people thought your father died because he was involved in something shady, others believing it was murder to avenge his testimony against a bank robber, and still others thinking it was suicide. But that’s absurd. If it were suicide, why would there be bullet holes in the car windows?” She scooted away from him slightly.

  “And why would the car still be running?”

  “I don’t know . . . I just don’t know, Jack. I’ll look online some more tomorrow. See what else I can find.”

  “Without me? Your partner in true crime?” he said sarcastically, putting the laptop on the coffee table and sitting back against the couch.

  “It’s been a long day, and I have to work tomorrow,” she explained, her fingers playing with her necklace.

  “Mmm hmmm . . . “

  “What do you mean, ‘mmm hmmm’?”

  “I think you’re a scurtt ‘a me!” His exaggerated southern drawl was back.

  “Don’t be silly.” Tess said to his chest, avoiding his eyes. “I am not scared of you, it’s just getting late, that’s all.”

  He leaned towards her, and she leaned b
ack.

  “See! You flinched! You are a scurtt of me!”

  “Don't bother using that Southern speak on me.” Don’t rise to his bait, Tess.

  Jack slowly moved closer to her, reaching his hand out to play with her hair. “One question. Do you really think I’m a ladies’ man?”

  She took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to be one of a string of many, Jack.”

  “What makes you think you would be?”

  Tess looked away, trying to think how to answer him.

  Looking back at him, she felt an invisible pull. Oh, Lord, help me, she thought, right before he kissed her. His hands gently cupped her face, and she sank into him and kissed him back in a long, hard kiss before pulling away.

  “What is it, Tess? What are you afraid of?” he asked softly, their faces still close. “Is it me, or were you just burned that badly in your divorce?”

  She moved out of his arms, looking away from him. “In the marriage . . . in the divorce . . . “ she trailed off.

  “How can I convince you to give me a try?” he asked, standing to go.

  “Jack, just about the time you ‘convince me,’ you’ll be ready to move on.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “It’s called experience.” She followed him to the door.

  He turned to look at her. “One of these days, Tess Tremaine, you are gonna like me! Mark my words!”

  Watching him walk down the walkway, she whispered, “That’s the problem, Jack. I already like you.”

  Who Licked The Red Off Your Candy Cane?

  forty-eleven: adjective fawr-tee ih-lev-uhn a long time

  I’ve known him for forty-eleven years.

  [ December 15, 1935 ]

  The lights of John Hobb’s car were still on, and the engine was running when the reverend, his wife, and Maye Hobb found it. Maye ran, stumbling several times along the way, to her husband’s car, her whole body sick with dread and panic. She jerked open the door to find him slumped against the wheel, lifeless eyes staring at her, with dark, sticky blood coming from his left temple and nose. Maye couldn’t process what she was seeing. Her hand went up to her mouth as a cry escaped. The blood in her body plummeted to the ground. Her knees buckled; the reverend got there just in time to catch her before her legs collapsed.