by Deb Baker
What The Critics Are Saying
"Laugh-out-loud funny." - Crimespree
"Gertie is a lot like Evanovich's Granny Mazur, but with more freedom to misbehave." - Deadly Pleasures
"Gertie Johnson...steals the show. She's one heroine you can really cheer for." - Steve Hamilton, Edgar Award winning author of A Cold Day in Paradise
"A delightful new series by Deb Baker...For fans of Janet Evanovich, imagine Granma Mazur with orange hair and a shotgun." - Green Bay Press Gazette
"A hoot with a heart." - Cozy Library
****
Murder Grins and Bears It
by
Deb Baker
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Deb Baker at Smashwords
Murder Grins and Bears It
Copyright © 2010 by Deb Baker
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
****
Murder Grins and Bears It
****
Chapter 1
I wasn’t surprised when they hauled the first human body out of the backwoods on Monday, day three of the season.
That’s bear hunting season, and although it starts in September in the Michigan Upper Peninsula, hunters were scampering around in the woods long before that, setting bait piles and hoping for one good illegal shot. Once they had the official go-ahead to start blasting, nothing could hold them back.
As usual I wasn’t around when the body was discovered in mid-morning. Remembering back, I think I heard the shot first thing this morning.
I missed the action because I was busy stealing my grandson’s car. His white Ford Escort had a stick shift and an extra pedal on the floor, which threw me for a loop since I’ve only been driving a few months and had been teaching myself on a vehicle with an automatic transmission. But my behind-the-wheel practice had been on hold ever since I totaled my truck.
My best friend, Cora Mae, was sitting in the passenger seat of the Escort while I tried to keep it running, but it hopped around the yard like a jackrabbit. That’s when I heard the shot. At the time, though, I thought it was the car backfiring or maybe the gears grinding.
My name is Gertie Johnson and I’m a recent widow. Cora Mae says I shouldn’t tell people that, because two years have passed since Barney died, but I say I’ll stop when I’m good and ready. Cora Mae says sixty-six years old is too young to lose interest in life. She’s the expert since she buried three husbands.
I have to admit, the police scanner she gave me last year sure helped put the pink back in my cheeks.
Listening to my scanner is better than watching soap operas because it’s real life and I know most of the names coming across the air waves. I’m right in the thick of things, where I like to be, and that’s why I was stealing the car.
It’s all part of my plans for my new detective business.
Little Donny, my Milwaukee grandson, arrived late last night clutching the bear hunting license he’d won in the Michigan bear lottery. He was driving his old Ford Escort with a bad muffler, so he woke up everybody in Stonely coming into town, including me.
Before Cora Mae came over Carl Anderson showed up at my house bright and early for a quick cup of coffee. He was headed into the woods to hunt.
I needed transportation today, so I formulated my travel plans right on the spot.
Though it would appear simple to have Little Donny drive me, I learned the hard way that life is easier when family members aren’t involved in every little thing I do. They tend to accidentally botch my plans or they misunderstand my intentions and get all bent out of shape trying to stop me.
Like the time Blaze thought I’d lost my savings and tried to prove in a court of law that I was incompetent to manage my own affairs. He came out of that one looking really bad. Or the time Little Donny blew my cover when I was on a surveillance mission. It just doesn’t pay to confide in family.
Things would have been simpler still if I hadn’t totaled the truck Barney left me or if Cora Mae would take up driving. I’m sick and tired of begging rides and explaining my business to everyone, especially Blaze, my interfering son, who also happens to be the local sheriff.
Blaze and I have always butted heads. I’m a go-getter and he’s a sit-downer, and that bothers him more than it does me. Plus, he still gets worked up about his name. His sisters, Heather and Star, don’t mind being named for the horses I never had. They think it’s cute and so do I.
For some reason Blaze doesn’t agree.
I started a fresh pot of coffee and had Carl help me haul Little Donny out of bed, which isn’t the easiest thing in the world, considering Little Donny must weigh a good two hundred and eighty pounds and hauling is really what we had to do. A beached whale would have been easier to tackle.
It’s a good think Carl is big and burly, but most of the Swedes around here are. On the other hand, I’m about five foot two, or used to be before I started getting old. But I’m stronger than I look.
Nineteen-year-olds are like growing babies, testing the world and making all kinds of mistakes. And Little Donny would sleep till noon if I let him. Last night he could hardly wait for morning to get into the woods and do some hunting. This morning, all he cared about was whatever dream put that silly smile on his face right before we woke him up.
After Carl and I prodded and poked him, he opened one eye, held his arm up to check the time on his watch, and groaned. “It’s only five-thirty, Granny. Leave me alone.”
“You’re in Michigan now, not Milwaukee,” I reminded him. “It’s six-thirty here and half the day’s gone.” I pulled the pillow out from under him. His head bounced a few times, then he flipped onto his right side and closed his eyes.
When I realized he wasn’t going to cooperate, I dug under the covers at the foot of the bed and hauled one beefy leg over the side. Carl helped me finish rolling him out. We dragged him to the kitchen table in his boxer underwear with the pictures of footballs on them and started pumping coffee into him.
Little Donny and Carl had done some deer hunting together last fall, and even though Carl’s closer to my age than my grandson’s, they became fast friends. They stayed friends even after Little Donny loaded a buck into Carl’s brand new station wagon and then discovered it wasn’t dead. The inside of Carl’s wagon was shredded like coleslaw by the time he got the buck out, and Little Donny didn’t look so good either.
But Carl didn’t hold it against Little Donny. It takes a lot to ruffle Carl’s feathers. Which reminded me of chicken fat.
I took a two-pound coffee can from the refrigerator and placed it on the table. “Here’s the can of chicken grease you wanted,” I said.
Carl opened the lid and poked the congealed chicken fat with one finger. “It’s hard as a rock,” he said. “Why’d you store it in the fridge?” He handed it back. “Put it on the stove burner for a few minutes to soften it up, but don’t let it get too hot. Don’t want to burn myself.”
I fired up the gas and moved the can to the burner.
“I’m finally gonna get my bear this year, Gertie.” Carl poured more coffee and leaned back so the front legs of the chair were off the floor, which drives me crazy. Teetering like that was nothing but a fall waiting to happen, and it had happened plenty over the years. You think they�
�d learn.
“Bears love chickens,” he continued. “I know that because every time they’ve raided my garbage, it’s right after we had chicken for supper and had throwed away the bones.”
“They sure do love chicken,” I agreed. “They love pigs, too. Remember the time Old Ben tried to raise pigs?”
Carl laughed so hard he began to snort.
Old Ben had bought six little piglets in Escanaba, and before the end of the month none were left. Pigs and chickens are considered bear snacks and don’t last long in the Upper Peninsula, or the U.P. as we call it.
Little Donny had one eye open after his first cup of coffee. I poured him another.
“There’s an orange shirt in the closet for you,” I said. “Go put it on.”
Little Donny grumbled off to the bedroom, clutching his coffee cup, his hair standing up straight on one side of his head like he’d ironed it that way.
“Lick your hair down while you’re at it,” I called after him. “And hurry.” I had to get him out of my way before I could put my plan in motion.
“Gonna smear that chicken grease all over myself.” Carl had a smug look on his face like he was Einstein discussing an important new relativity theory. “That way when I move around from bait pile to bait pile they’ll pick up my scent and follow me right over. Don’t tell nobody. It’s my secret ingredient.”
That’s got to be the dumbest idea Carl’s had in a long time, but I didn’t say so. The Finns and Swedes are dominant in this part of the U.P., and after you live with them for a while you notice they’re a proud bunch. You don’t call them dumb right to their faces. You wait until they actually do the dumb thing, then you tell everybody in town and they help you rub it in forever.
Carl’s as Swedish as it gets, so he’s done his own share of teasing.
Instead I tried to direct him away from his dumb strategy. “I think there’s some bear magnet spray that Barney used to use. You can spray some of that on the ground. Barney swore by it.”
Carl shook his head. “I tried that spray and it didn’t work. This is my own special formula, and once I prove how good it works, I’m gonna sell it out of the trunk of my car next year and get rich. Just you wait and see.”
“Hope you’ve got your rifle scope sighted in,” I said. “You don’t want to miss when that bear hurtles at you, because you get only one shot. Miss and you’re bear lunch.”
Carl rose from the table, stirred the chicken grease with a spoon, and turned off the burner. “I’m bow and arrow hunting. Got myself some new arrows, ends are sharp like razor blades.”
I gaped in astonishment. Anyone who smears chicken grease all over himself and goes bear hunting with a bow and arrow is plain stupid or has a death wish.
During gun season for bears there’s no law against bow and arrow hunting like there is during deer hunting season, but there should be. Whoever made up the bear rules must have been pounding back shots of brandy while he wrote them. Besides, bow and arrow hunters are exempt from the hunter orange rule, and they run around out in the brush in camouflage. Even though there isn’t as much traffic in the woods as during deer season, I think it’s always risky to be out in camo with rifles going off.
Carl had a lot going against him. If he survived the bear mistaking him for lunch, someone with a firearm would finish him off. The best thing that could have happened to Carl would have been losing the bear lottery in June.
“Why don’t you wait till archery season to play with your bow and arrow?”
“That’s three weeks away. All the bears will be shot up by then.”
“Better take Little Donny along with his rifle for backup,” I suggested, implementing my plan to get Little Donny out of the way.
“Sure. He already knows that I get first shot with my arrow. If I miss, then he gets a go-around.”
Little Donny shuffled out of the bedroom wearing the orange shirt I’d bought for him on sale in Escanaba. I’d bought the same for myself plus a pair of orange suspender pants and a new pair of running shoes. Not that I run anywhere these days. They’re just comfortable, and they put a little forward spring in my step.
Although a lot of women in this part of. the country hunt, I don’t, but I still need orange clothes for traipsing around in the woods. Those hunters shoot at anything that moves.
“You don’t have time for breakfast,” I said to Little Donny when he opened the refrigerator door and bent down to peer inside.
“I have about thirty pounds of day-old bakery in the car,” Carl told him. “Bear bait. You can eat some of that.”
Little Donny perked right up, plopped Barney’s old orange baseball cap with Budweiser printed across the front on his head, and followed Carl and his coffee can of chicken grease out the door.
“Stay away from Carl’s can of chicken grease,” I called out to Little Donny. I didn’t want my favorite grandson smelling like a chicken and getting mauled by a ravenous bear that weighed three times what he did.
About time, I thought when they pulled out of the driveway in Carl’s station wagon. I rushed through the house, grabbing my Blublocker sunglasses and oversized purse from the dresser. After rummaging through Little Donny’s suitcase and clothes, I pulled his car keys out of his jacket, which lay in a heap the floor next to his bed. I let out a loud sigh of relief. If the keys had been in the pants he was wearing, I’d have been dead in the water.
At seven-thirty I tried to start Little Donny’s car. I worked on it for fifteen minutes before phoning Cora Mae, who lives down the road.
“If I remember right,” I said to her, “one of your husbands used to drive a stick shift car.”
“That was Earl,” Cora Mae said, eating something crunchy into the phone.
“By any chance, did you pay attention to how he did it?”
“Did what?” Cora Mae is a mite slow in the morning but by noon she’s be sharp as a cracked bullwhip.
“Did you pay attention to how he made the car go?”
“Oh sure. He tried to teach me, but I couldn’t get the hang of it. Your feet and hands have to work at the same time. It’s complicated.”
“But do you remember how he did it?”
“Sort of.”
“I need your help,” I said. “Come right over.”
I waited outside impatiently until she eventually strolled up the driveway in her black, sleeveless knit top, black stretch pants, and high-heeled black sandals. Cora Mae just turned sixty-three but she doesn’t look or act her age. The knit top was low cut and as tight as a sausage casing. Cora Mae discovered Wonderbras last year and hasn’t been out of them since. Her boobs stand right up and lead the way.
“Cora Mae, can you speed it up a little?” I said. “I’m going to miss the auction.”
She sashayed into the passenger seat and studied the stick shift. “That’s a clutch,” she said, pointing at the extra foot pedal. “You have to synchronize it with the gas.” She used her hands to demonstrate. “Give it a try.”
She remembered most of it. The only part she got wrong was the shifting order. After I tried to start out in fourth gear a few times and did the jackrabbit hop, she remembered it right, and we took off down the drive.
We blasted out onto the road in the stolen Ford Escort at the same time as we heard the bang.
“What was that?” Cora Mae wanted to know.
“This piece of junk is backfiring,” I said, grinding through the gears. “And Little Donny needs a new muffler.”
****
The County auction is held annually at the Escanaba fairgrounds, forty miles down the road from Stonely. All the surrounding municipalities get together and sell stuff they don’t need anymore. Last year when I still had Barney’s truck, I drove over and paid only thirty dollars for a perfectly good power saw the forestry department was auctioning off.
“Where are you getting the money from to bid on a truck?” Cora Mae asked on the way over. “I thought you were trying to live on your Social Security.�
�
“I’ve got resources,” I hedged.
“You dug up your money box, didn’t you?”
“It’s for a good cause.”
After Barney died, I went to the bank and withdrew every last penny of our money and buried it in a waterproof steel box under the apple tree. It’s my insurance against failing banks and an untrustworthy government.
I had to put it all back in the bank to beat Blaze in court, but that was only a temporary arrangement.
My purse was stuffed with wadded greenbacks, but I intended to hang on to as many as possible.
I dropped Cora Mae and her high heels at the main gate and parked Little Donny’s Escort on the side of the road about three blocks from the fairgrounds, hoping nobody would park close by. If I had to use reverse, I was in real trouble.
We were just in time for the automotive part of the auction, and Blaze’s old sheriff’s truck was the first vehicle on the block.
“Now, I know this truck don’t look like much,” the auctioneer hollered while the crowd hooted and roared with laughter, “but it sure can run. Only a hundred thousand miles on it, and a hundred left to go.”
You could hardly hear him over the howling going on.
“What happened to it?” yelled a fat heckler with a skull and crossbones tattooed on his arm. “Looks like some clown spray-painted it yellow. Look, they even spray-painted the door handle and all the trim.”
The crowd roared. I was beginning to get annoyed, especially after the clown remark. I took it personally since I was the one who’d tried to snazzy up Blaze’s rust bucket with a little new paint. I did it to help him out and never got a thank you for it.
In hindsight, I do have to admit spray paint isn’t the best way to touch up a paint job. The paint ran in streaks in some spots and it was real hard to keep off the windows. That’s why I went ahead and sprayed the trim. Paint was on the chrome already anyway.
“Better haul this one off to the junk yard,” some other wit in the crowd shouted.