Eight Mystery Writers You Should Be Reaing Nowwww

by Michael Guillebeau

My mouth gaped open. I had heard of homeless camps, but had never before seen one. A lot of trash was strewn about, mostly plastic shopping bags and crushed beer cans. A clothesline hung from two tall Sycamore trees on the left side of the camp, and two sleeping bags were draped to air out over the line.

  Three or four people in unkempt attire milled about. Two sat on rickety lawn chairs, and one tended a campfire. Homelessness is hard on a person’s body, so it was hard to tell the age of any of the people, but they certainly did not look young. I wondered if Bubba was hiding in one of the tents, or if any of the other people were crazy, like The General.

  The General saluted me again as I sat at a table near the campfire, then proceeded to take off all of his clothes, except his underwear. I had never been so grateful to see undergarments in all my life. As The General wiggled his dirty toes in front of the fire, I declined the bottle of water that an older woman offered.

  The photo of Bubba didn’t look familiar to anyone in the camp, even though I explained that he had been seen near here. I scanned each of the faces. I believed they all were telling me the truth. My heart both leapt and sank. While I didn’t want Bubba to have experienced life in this camp, I had also desperately hoped he’d be here, so I could take him home.

  “Where would someone like Bubba go?” I asked the group.

  “Lots of places,” the older woman, Mary, said. “There’s another camp on the hill behind the pizza store. Just look for the path and start climbing up. You’ll see it.”

  “Pete and Jay’s camp,” said The General.

  I was pretty sure those were the two men I had met behind the store.

  “We’d know if he was hanging with them, though,” said The General.

  I nodded and asked about the woman Frog had seen Bubba with.

  “Sounds like Maxi,” said Mary. “She’s been off her meds lately. Sweet kid. She’s not dangerous, just thinks she’s John Lennon.”

  I could relate. I had a growing feeling that I was Alice in Wonderland and had just dropped down the rabbit hole.

  “Then there’s the abandoned Howard Johnson’s across the freeway,” said The General. “That’s a bad, bad place.” He grabbed my arm, hard. “Do. Not. Go. There. If your boy is there, there is no saving him.”

  The General had a look in his eye that frightened me and my hand tightened on the can of pepper spray in my purse. Mary noticed my unease and shook her head. “Not a good thought, is it, to have a child out on the streets like we are?”

  “He’s been missing about a week now,” I said, “and I don’t think he had much money to start with. I just don’t know where to go next.”

  “Talk to the people in the stores,” Mary said. “Look at everyone who walks by, and look in every car. Someone has seen him.”

  I left The General singing marching songs at the camp and wound my way back to Lowe’s. At the back of the store an older teen swept the loading dock. There was something about the sullen way that he looked at me, so I walked up to the dock and sweetly handed the photo of Bubba up to him. Sullenness brings out the worst in me, and causes me to be intentionally irritating

  “Hi,” said with my perkiest smile. I couldn’t help myself. “Have you seen this boy?”

  “Nope.”

  He hadn’t even looked at the picture, so I put my hands on my hips and used the calm but commanding voice that made silly horses stop and take notice. “Stop sweeping,” I said. “A kid is missing.”

  He glanced at Bubba’s image and shook his head.

  My Irish intuition told me he was lying and suddenly I wished that Sally Blue were here. Agnes, her owner, swore up and down that Sally gave clues through her odd behavior and through the way she positioned her body.

  “You work here every day?” I asked.

  “Most days.” He paused to consider me. “Why do you want to find this guy?”

  “I’m a friend. A neighbor. I want to help him.”

  “You’re not the law? Not social services?”

  I shook my head, then he reached for Bubba’s picture. “Okay. He stayed here a few nights, on top of that pile of pallets.” He pointed behind him. “He was gone when I came in yesterday.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “He was tired and hungry. I slipped him a few candy bars.”

  “I’m sure Bubba appreciated that . . .”

  “Chip.”

  “Let me ask you, Chip. Where would he go?”

  He thought. “There’s a little service station across Charlotte Avenue. Some homeless hang out there. Sometimes the owner lets them stay in a storage room.”

  As Chip talked, I noticed that my urge to be irritating decreased in direct proportion to his willingness to help. I thanked him, flashed him another smile (this time it was genuine), and headed to the service station. On the way I called Jon.

  “I’m making headway, but haven’t found him yet,” I explained. “Can you feed for me this afternoon?” Jon was feeding mornings and I in the afternoons this week. Jon agreed and I also asked if he could take a look at Sally Blue, to see what she was doing.

  “You’re not buying into the psychic thing are you?” he asked. I heard the smile in his voice.

  “No . . . well maybe.”

  I heard Jon walk to Sally’s stall at the end of the barn, then say, “She’s got her eyes closed and is swinging her head back and forth as she stumbles around her stall.”

  “Hmm. That’s going to require some thinking. Thanks, Jon.”

  “No trouble.” He paused. “Cat, I hope you find Bubba soon. If I can help, let me know.”

  “You just did, you and Sally.”

  The service station was a single-bay affair with a tiny waiting room. Faded yellow linoleum cling limply to the floor, and a dusty display case held half a dozen candy bars and what possibly could have once been a granola bar. A grimy, white door opened onto the filthiest bathroom in modern history. Again, I both wanted Bubba to have used it and hoped that he hadn’t been within half a mile of it.

  A heavy, lumpy man with a shiny, bald head sat behind the counter smoking a cigar. The name embroidered on his blue work shirt read sticks. A former drummer, maybe. I tried not to breathe in cigar fumes when I showed Bubba’s picture to him, but quickly realized the smoke was so think that I must be absorbing an alarming amount of toxins through my skin. Hopefully I would not be there long.

  Sticks thought a minute, then stood and yelled over his shoulder, “Maxi.”

  A wary girl of sixteen or so emerged from a back room that I had not noticed before. Stringy blond hair, waif thin, and a face accented by round John Lennon glasses.

  “Maxi don’t got nowhere else to go, so I let her stay here,” he said to me. Then to her, “Have I seen you with this kid?”

  She came to the counter to look. “Sure,” she said folding her arms over her thin frame. “That’s Bubba.”

  “Where’s he now?” Sticks asked. “This gal here,” he pointed at me, “is his friend. She wants to help him.”

  Maxi shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  There had to be more here, but I couldn’t stand another second in the smoky room. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked Maxi. “Something to eat?”

  “I could use a burger,” she said looking up the road at a Wendy’s.

  We said our goodbyes to Sticks and I bought us double burgers, large fries and Sprites. After we found a booth, she began to wolf her food down, only stopping for huge gulps of her Sprite. I waited for her to finish, then asked, “When did you meet Bubba?”

  “Four or five days ago. He was looking through the dumpster behind Walmart.” My heart ached for Bubba.

  “Then you and he hung out together?”

  “Yeah. We wandered around, mostly. Once, a lady came around and gave all the homeless bus passes, so we rode into Nashville and scored some food on Music Row, just sat down at an outdoor table and finished off some food that people had left behind. It’s amazing the amount of food people waste.�
�� This last was said with the first sense of animation that I had seen in her.

  “Did he say why he ran away?”

  “Because of the kids at school.” Maxi was eying the rest of my food so I pushed my tray toward her. She made short work of the remains of my hamburger. When she had finished she said, “Bubba told me he and his dad were poor, and there were times when he didn’t have decent clothes or any food.”

  “I’m sorry to say that he’s right.”

  “Kids today make it hard when you’re different,” Maxi said, dipping into my left over fries. “If you’re different they don’t want to have anything to do with you. Bubba was bullied at school, and bullied at home. Sounds like his dad is a real loser.”

  “So Bubba decided he’d had enough, and left,” I said.

  Maxi nodded glumly, the realities of the world etched into her young face.

  “I can help him,” I said to Maxi. “I can talk to his dad, call the school to let them know what is going on. It won’t be great, but I will make sure life is better for Bubba when he gets home.” I was a little surprised at the intensity of the words that poured out of my mouth, but I realized that I meant them. “When did you last see Bubba?”

  “This morning. We both spent the night in the shop. Then he left. He’s out looking for a more permanent place to stay.”

  What she said brought me to tears. Darcy, Jon, and I had always referred to Bubba as dumb and annoying. My tears were of shame, because I’d not done more to help a young boy get through a difficult childhood.

  I thanked Maxi, wished her luck, and went out to search the now darkening streets. I abandoned the Walmart area and headed up Charlotte Avenue toward Nashville, looking in every nook, cranny, dumpster, and wooded area that I could find. As night fell I used the flashlight app on my phone. Every time I got out of the truck, I also held on tightly to my can of pepper spray, but by the time I got back in to drive to the next building I was filled with disappointment.

  The search around the Nashville West shopping center took a long time. There were a number of stores, but other than dumpsters, the area behind them was clean of pallets and debris. The stores had closed for the evening, but restaurants in the area were still busy so I looked carefully in and around each car. There was absolutely no sign of Bubba.

  I read newspapers and watched the news. I knew if Bubba stayed on the street too much longer, someone would get to him, someone with bad things on his or her mind. I could not, would not, let that happen.

  I drove back out onto Charlotte and turned into a clearing where the West Precinct police station used to be. That building had been torn down and a paved road circled a small log building, a replica of an early settler’s home. The home had recently been moved, and was set up on a tall pile of cement blocks. The stairs had not yet been attached back to the porch.

  “Bubba?” I called as I had at every other location. “Bubba, it’s Cat. I’ve come to take you back to my house. Please come. I’ll do my best to make life better.”

  Without any thought of finding him, I hoisted myself onto the porch of the two-room cabin. Bubba was in the room on the left, sitting against the far wall. Even in the dim light of my flashlight, I could see his tear-streaked face.

  I slid down next to him. “Will you come home with me?”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then said, “Maybe.” We sat in the chilly night in silence for some time before he spoke again. “Why did you come looking for me?” he asked.

  Then it was my turn to sit quietly while I thought of the right answer. “Because you once saved my life. Because I care about you. Because Darcy cares about you, too, and demanded that I find you. Because Jon wanted to help, but had to take care of the horses. Because I had a dad who couldn’t be responsible enough to be a dad and I know what it’s like. And because Sally Blue was worried about you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I called Jon to ask him to check on her, to see if she could tell us where you were. She was walking around her stall with her eyes closed, weaving her head back and forth like a blind person moves a walking stick,” I said.

  Bubba almost laughed, but caught himself just in time.

  “I didn’t understand it then, but I now think it means one of two things,” I said. “Sally either had dust in her eyes and was looking for her water bucket . . .”

  “Or?” Bubba asked.

  “Or she knew you were in a dark place and were having trouble seeing.”

  “And here I am in the dark and it’s hard to see!” said Bubba, who had always been on the side of “Sally is psychic.”

  I paused. “Maxi told me kids are making it hard for you at school.”

  Tears leaked from Bubba’s eyes, then he turned to me and sobbed as I wrapped my arms around him.

  “Did you mean it,” he finally asked, “About going home with you?”

  “I did. For tonight, and maybe tomorrow anyway,” I said. “Your dad is going to want you to come home.” I felt Bubba stiffen. “But here’s what I can do. I’ll call Deputy Giles. He will tell your dad that you are safe with me and will bring you back to your house tomorrow. He will also give your dad a good talking to about treating you properly. Then I’ll call your school and explain about the other kids. Your job will then be to tell your teachers and me if the kids are still bothering you. Okay?”

  I felt Bubba nod in the darkness. Then we both rose, and headed for the dry warmth of the truck.

  EXCERPT

  The Fame Equation: A Cat Enright Equestrian Mystery

  The Fame Equation is the third in the Cat Enright series, which has won Mom’s Choice, IBPA Ben Franklin, National Indie Excellence, and American Horse Publications awards, and has been optioned for film and television.

  Author’s note: This scene takes place a day or so after a funeral for Cat Enright’s friend, country music star Melody Cross. Melody came from what we in the South politely call trailer trash. Here, Cat goes to the run-down hotel where Melody’s sister and mother, Brandyne and Claudine, are staying until Melody’s will is read. At the funeral, Brandyne had attacked Cat, hitting her with her purse and pulling her hair. Later, Cat has a conversation with her trusted barn manager, Jon Gardner, about the (possibly) psychic mare, Sally Blue.

  AT THE HOTEL, I PARKED my truck among a series of rusted out sedans with cracked windshields and duct tape that held heavy plastic in place instead of glass windows. I looked for a car without a dent and did not find one. I should have brought Hank the Beagle to act as a security guard, I thought.

  My truck had some tears in and stains on the upholstery, and it hiccupped going up the occasional hill, but it had over two hundred thousand miles on it, so it was entitled. Okay, it sometimes didn’t want to start unless I held the driver’s side door open, and it had rust, but you almost couldn’t see it unless you knew where to look. I really wanted to keep it dent-free.

  I gave my truck a final glance, found room 217, held my breath, and knocked on the door. After a moment Brandyne opened it.

  “You,” she said.

  “May I come in?”

  The expression on her face said she’d rather walk barefoot through a field of doggie doo, but she widened the opening in the door. Inside, the room was much as I had expected: stained carpet, dingy bedspread, a wall with streaks running down it from a past leak, and a smell that made me want to clamp a clothespin over my nose. There was a dorm sized fridge, and a microwave on top of a shelf that also held a coffeemaker, which I guessed allowed hotel management to advertise that their rooms came complete with a kitchenette. I didn’t look into the bathroom. Some things are best left to the imagination.

  Claudine was sitting at a crooked little table near the window smoking a cigarette. She’d been at it a while, because the room was blue with stale smoke. Well that simplified things. My visit would definitely be short.

  “Mrs. Potts, Brandyne,” I nodded to each of them and decided to ignore the fiasco that had happened at the reception
. “I’m Cat Enright. We didn’t get to speak properly at the funeral, but I wanted to say how sorry I am about Melody. She was wellliked here in Nashville and had many friends. I was proud to call myself one of them.”

  A “humpf,” was all I got from Claudine. Brandyne stood in the center of the room with her arms folded. I stared at her and finally her posture relaxed.

  “Can’t say as I agree with you ’bout Raylene havin’ all those friends you’re talkin’ about, as you’re the only one’s come to call,” said Brandyne.

  At first I didn’t know who she was talking about, then it dawned on me that Melody’s family must still have called her by her birth name. Raylene.

  “We been sittin’ here for two days, waitin’ on the will, an’ not one person come to say boo to us,” she continued.

  “Except me,” I reminded her. I was trying to hold my breath while I spoke. The smoke in the room was so thick I was certain that I could feel cancer cells multiplying in my lungs.

  “’Cept you,” she conceded. “Look, I’m sorry about the other day. I was outta my mind with grief. If I ever get my hands on the slimeball who kilt Raylene I’ll kick his ass right on into next Tuesday.”

  “Humpf,” commented Claudine.

  At least it was better than her wailing.

  “Apology accepted,” I said. It was another little white lie. By golly I was racking them up. I’m not sure I ever would forgive Brandyne, though. My head still hurt where she had pulled my hair. “Melody was special and I will really miss her.”

  “I never could cotton to people callin’ my baby Melody,” Claudine said. “Her name was Raylene Claudette Potts.”

  “Don’t matter what people called her, Momma,” said Brandyne. “She’s dead.”

  At that, Claudine started to wail.

  “Now look what you gone and done,” she said to me.

  Me? Brandyne was the passive aggressive one here.

  “Thank God this will all be over and done tomorrow and we can get outta Dodge,” Brandyne said, offering no comfort whatsoever to her mother. “Soon as we collect our money, we’re gone.”