Traveling Town Cozy Mystery Box Set

by Ami Diane

  Outside, the crisp air hit her lungs as she vaulted mounds of snow. She anxiously awaited for enough to melt so she could go running again without fear of falling.

  She burst through the kitchen door of the diner and glanced at the clock, having just made it on time. The warmth, sounds of grease popping, and aroma of waffles and bacon enveloped her. The scent would be forever linked with her grandparents. Her mother had never been much for cooking and baking. So, it was always a treat when Ella visited her grandparents in Central Oregon, and she would awaken to a hearty breakfast.

  She was far, far from home, her childhood years behind her—or ahead, depending on how she viewed it. Yet, it was here with her in the kitchen. No matter what danger she faced or whatever dead body she came across, breakfast was a constant, a fact she found rather comforting.

  After tying on her apron, she swung into the diner, spotting Wink and a smattering of customers who’d come in for their morning cup of mud and a wreck ‘em (scrambled eggs).

  Ella greeted her boss, who gave her a distracted wave. Wink seemed to be haggling the value of a painting with a Mr. Jensen who was settling his December tab.

  “It’s worth at least fifty dollars!”

  Wink’s lips were pressed into a thin line and barely moved as she spoke. “It’s a naked lady. Where am I supposed to hang that?”

  Mr. Jensen pointed a long, thin limb that reminded Ella of a winter tree spreading its bare branches. He pointed at the metal Coca-Cola sign on the wall next to the soda fountain.

  “You could replace that ugly thing.”

  The decoration was conveniently placed over a hole in the wall courtesy of one of Flo’s incendiary spectral devices. Ella looked from the tin sign to the painting then back again.

  “It’s too small,” she said.

  “What’s that mean?” Mr. Jenson asked.

  Wink shot Ella a pointed look.

  “Nothing.” She shrugged and left them to it, seeing to the other two customers and topping off their coffee before pouring a cup for herself.

  Eventually, Mr. Jensen stormed off, abandoning the painting on the counter. Wink sighed and slipped the ledger back under the register, the man’s tab still not settled.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Wink held the canvas at arm’s length. Subject aside, the execution alone was poor. Not that Ella was any kind of artist, but even she had a keen enough eye to wonder if it wasn’t painted by a third grader.

  “You could save it and give it to Flo for Christmas next year.”

  “You know, I think I just might. Thanks.”

  “Sure, but maybe don’t smile like that when you give it to her. You look like a shark about to attack a seal. Or me when I see a plate of cookies.”

  Wink didn’t respond. Turning, she disappeared into the kitchen then returned a moment later, sans painting. She joined Ella at the end of the counter, out of earshot of either of the two remaining diners. Ella tore into an apple fritter with gusto between sips of coffee while Wink hunkered beside her with a maple bar.

  The older woman swallowed her bite then pointed at Ella’s ear. “Is that pink paint? How the devil did you get it all the way back there?”

  “It’s powder. I was, uh, trying something new with my makeup.”

  “Behind your ear?” Wink wrenched Ella’s ear forward, getting a better look.

  “Ow, that’s attached to my head, you know.” Ella pulled away. “And yes. That’s how they do it in my time. Very fashionable.”

  “Really?” Wink’s hand moved to her own ear, brushing back hair.

  She was always hungry to adopt the latest fashion trend, especially from Ella’s era, whether it was socially acceptable for her age or not. Ella had a sneaking suspicion that if she told Wink about the emergence back home of teens sporting crop tops, the woman would hack off every blouse she owned.

  She decided to distract Wink before the woman dug out her lipstick and streaked it behind her ears.

  Through the night and part of the morning, Ella had had time to consider how much to tell Wink about the previous night. On one hand, her friend was a font of information, not only because she’d grown up in Keystone Village, but because she was the town’s historian. On the other hand, Flo had kept the location of her weapons cache secret all of these years—even from her best friend—for a reason. Ella had no right to disregard that decision.

  She picked over her next words carefully. “Hey, Wink? Who owned the inn before the Murrays?”

  “The Schultz family. Why do you ask?”

  Ella adopted what she hoped was a bored expression. “No reason. What can you tell me about them?”

  Wink grew interested in her maple bar as she rattled off what she knew about the previous owners.

  From what she told Ella, they had been a wealthy couple, made of oil money, who’d bought the mansion before Wink was born. They were respected pillars in the community, generous and involved.

  Later, they had a son named William, but as far back as Wink could remember, he’d been called Bugsy. He was a few grades ahead of her and had been one of those wild, untamable lads whose feet never stopped running. At school, girls were careful to never turn their backs on him after an incident involving a pair of scissors and Sandy Bowman’s braids.

  The wild streak in Bugsy ran deep. As the years passed, it twisted into something darker and capitalized on his lack of respect for authority. He was arrested countless times for a myriad of things.

  After his parents passed, Bugsy inherited the estate and let it fall into disrepair.

  Wink finished her history lesson by licking her fingers and brushing crumbs off the counter. Not once had she mentioned bootlegging or speakeasies.

  “Why did Bugsy not keep up the manor?”

  “No reason other than he was a lazy bum and a bad investor. When the crash in 1929 happened, debts were collected. All the money he’d made with his inheritance was already squandered. He wasn’t none too bright with it either, having invested much of it in fake stocks.

  “Anyway, the bank called the loan and repossessed the mansion. With dirt in his pockets and not a lick to his name, he blew away with the wind.”

  Ella churned over this information, eventually asking, “What sort of illicit activity was he busted for?”

  Wink ticked off on her fingers. “Arson, robbery, prostitution rackets, fishing while drunk…” she trailed off.

  “That last one’s illegal?”

  “It is if you’re using dynamite to fish.”

  The customer at the far end of the counter stood.

  “Ready for your check, Marty?” Wink called out, straightening her back. She hustled over to the register, leaving Ella to her thoughts.

  The reverie turned out to be short-lived, however, when a minute later, a slew of ladies came in. They had obviously just visited the salon across the street, with freshly coifed hair and excited exchanges of “did you see that color?” and “that cut was dreadful.”

  And the rush continued. Within the hour, every stool behind the counter was occupied, along with half of the booths.

  Ella flitted from table to stool, pouring coffee, writing orders, and carrying steaming plates from the pass through. When the chaos finally began die out, a mountain of a figure filled the doorway, paused, then lurched inside. The bell chimed over the door as the man’s head swiveled, taking in the oblong vintage railcar.

  Ella’s shoes squeaked over the checkered linoleum as she slid to a stop.

  “Leif?”

  The Viking nodded at her and moved his weight from one foot to the other in glaring awkwardness.

  It was easy for Ella to get carried away in her small bubble and forget once in a while how truly strange the town was. But in the gigantic Norseman standing before her was a stark reminder; he was a collision of incongruity and anachronisms.

  She hesitated for a moment, struggling to think of a seat that would accommodate him, in the end, deciding a stool would be best. She coul
dn’t quite remember the conjugation of the Old Norse verb for sit, so she spoke the infinitive form along with the Icelandic word for there.

  “Setja þarna.” Her hand indicated the stool in case her butchering of his language wasn’t clear enough.

  As he lowered himself, the cushion on the stool sighed loudly, and the metal frame creaked, causing her to wince. He looked like a giant seated at a kids’ table.

  Judging by the astonished expression on Wink’s face when she came in from the kitchen, the man had never set his pointed wool and leather footwear in the diner before.

  Ella placed a worn menu in front of him before she realized his literacy of the written English word was probably nonexistent. In her best, halting Old Norse, she described his menu options. After a long back and forth, he ended up with a black and blue and an all hot with cow paste (seared steak and baked potato with butter).

  The ticket fluttered as she placed it on the pass through window for Horatio and Wink. With fewer patrons up front, her boss had retreated back to the kitchen to lend a hand and begin mixing dough for molasses bread.

  Ella poured the Viking a cup of mud from the carafe, despite him not asking for one. The smell alone was enough to get a good caffeine buzz.

  As he bent over it and sniffed, his grizzled beard took a plunge in the dark brew. Slowly, he sipped it. A second later, hot liquid spewed out of his mouth, spraying the counter and her face.

  “Bragðast eins og køuærne,” he growled.

  The coffee tasted like… something. She wasn’t sure what, but she could probably fill in the blank with a few choice words.

  She wiped her apron over her face. She wasn’t sure if he’d been expecting ale of some kind but judging by his reaction, he wasn’t impressed.

  “Not a fan of coffee, huh? Water it is, then.”

  Once his meal arrived, he ate like one would expect a Viking to eat. Juices oozed over his large hands as he tore at the meat with his canines. Several times, Ella placed utensils under his nose, and each time, he swiped them off the counter with his arm.

  When it came time to pay, he stared at the paper ticket she handed him, and it took a lot of haggling and a patchwork of language for her to get him to understand. Reaching under the folds of his tunic, his hand came out with a money pouch, and he dumped the contents onto the counter. Silver coins rolled around like tokens at a casino.

  “Holy donuts, are those real?” She scooped up a handful. Upon closer inspection, she found they were in fact authentic. The coinage differed in size and had either a raven stamped on it, signifying Oden (Óðinn), or Thor’s hammer Mjölnir.

  Reluctantly, she dropped the coins with a sigh, letting them clank and roll across the scarred counter.

  She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go. It’s free.” She repeated her words in her hybrid Old Norse and Icelandic. Eventually, he got the message, gathered up the coins, and left.

  Ella was just notating his meal on her tab when Wink strolled in from the kitchen. “Leif left?”

  “Yes, he Leifed. Get it? Sounds like left a little bit?”

  “No, not really.” Wink zipped up her jacket. “Stew called and asked if I wouldn’t mind heading over to the greenhouses for him. There’s been some kind of mix up with this week’s stock. And since he’s alone in the store today, I offered to go for him.”

  “You want company?” Ella scanned the empty diner. Once Leif had begun making smacking noises with his lips and started throwing silverware, the other diners had quickly paid up and fled.

  “I suppose Horatio can manage.”

  “It’s usually dead around this time, anyway,” Ella said in consolation.

  Wink stuck her pink head through the pass through and told the cook they’d be gone for a little while and that if it got too busy to either call Rose over or just kick everyone out and close up until she returned.

  Her instructions finished, they strode towards the door while Ella shrugged on her jacket. Wink paused and whistled. A blur of gray fur bound over and leaped onto her shoulder. Today, Chester wore an astronaut suit, sans helmet, his puffy tail curled up high overhead.

  Ella side-eyed the space squirrel as they strolled out the door and into the mist where Wink had parked her blue Oldsmobile.

  She glanced back at Grandma’s Kitchen. “Are you sure we can Leif Horatio in charge?”

  “Clever.” Wink’s tone denoted Ella’s joke was anything but.

  “Wait, I have another.” Ella tugged open the passenger door and slid inside. The cold seat nearly took her breath away. “Why don’t you make like a tree and split—wait, no. That’s not right. Make like a tree and Leif. I got it mixed up with that banana punchline.”

  Wink started the car. “What banana punchline?”

  As they chugged down Main Street, Ella spouted all the cheesy, grade school jokes she’d picked up over the years. Some of the more topical ones relied on knowledge relevant to Ella’s era and fell flat.

  She was just explaining how the punchline “Prime mates” for a joke involving Amazon the company was funny when they pulled into one of the half-dozen parking lots for the greenhouses at the north end of town.

  The gravel crunched underfoot as they strolled across the lot with hurried steps to flee the bitter cold. Beside Ella, Chester perched atop Wink’s shoulder like a parrot on top of a pirate.

  “Oh my gosh,” Ella said. “I just had the most amazing Halloween costume idea for you.”

  Wink squinted at the entrance of the nearest greenhouse. “Tell me later.”

  “Right. Focus. We’re here to… something about Stew’s produce order?”

  “Yes.” Wink lowered her voice as they stepped through the door. “The shipments he’s receiving don’t match his order forms. Huge discrepancies, either in volume or item. For example, he got half the bushels of apples he requested and hardly any carrots.”

  “Maybe it’s the crop yield. Or the season.”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

  “I have a question. Why are you whispering?”

  They stood alone in the giant greenhouse, surrounded by the heady aroma of earth and plants. Two large, industrial sized fans hummed at the far end, nearly swallowing their conversation.

  “Oh,” Wink said, “I guess we don’t need to. I don’t know. Something about this feels off.”

  “About a messed up order?”

  Wink brushed her hands over invisible wrinkles in her hoodie. She turned to lead Ella down the main aisle, giving Ella a perfect view of the slogan Wink at Wink for a Free Drink sprawled on the back in what she hoped was washable paint.

  “Can we make an executive decision that Flo can no longer be in charge of campaign slogans? Please, for the benefit of the town?”

  Inside the greenhouse, the air was as dense and humid as it was outside, only markedly warmer. They left through a door on the opposite side, stepped out into the chill for two steps, then entered another similar structure.

  Rows of potted fruit trees reached towards the ceiling, and the opaque fiberglass seemed aglow with gray light.

  While Ella was filling her lungs with the taste of oranges, the door at the far end swung in, and Mrs. Faraday, the supervisor and lead horticulturist for the greenhouses, stepped inside.

  “Gladys,” Wink hollered across the expanse by way of greeting. “Good to see you.” They quickly closed the distance.

  The horticulturist smiled, showing off pearly white teeth and warm brown eyes. “Wink, Ella. How lovely of you to come by. Are you here to sample our green beans? This recent harvest turned out great.” She pulled off a pair of dirt-stained gardening gloves and wiped her forehead.

  “No, thank you.” Wink’s fuchsia hair fell into her face as she twisted her head up to the canopy of leaves overhead. “I forget how beautiful it is in here.” She let the moment linger then added, “Stew asked me to come to verify this week’s requisition form with you. It seems there are a few discrepancies.”

  �
��Oh, dear. Do you have the slip?”

  The diner owner pulled out a folded carbon copy while Gladys slipped on a pair of bifocals. They perched on the end of her nose, and her sideways glance at Chester was not lost on Ella. For his part, the squirrel behaved remarkably, twitching his nose and tail behind his space suit, but otherwise remaining on his perch.

  “And here,” Wink said, pulling out another piece of paper, “is an itemized list of what he received.”

  Someone, probably Stew, had underlined several items, the pen gouging through the paper in rough lines. Whoever had made the marks had not been pleased.

  “Hmm, strange.” A deep crevice formed between Gladys’s brows. “All I can tell you—or him—is that the council must not have approved his inventory request.”

  “Wait,” Ella said, cutting in, “what’s the town council have to do with this?”

  Wink’s hair bobbed as she turned and explained. “The council oversees the greenhouses. All produce orders and other greenhouse goods get processed through them.”

  Gladys nodded. “Once a month, I send them a report of crop yield projections, and they tell me what I need to plant based on demand.” Her voice rose, tinged with annoyance. “Despite my telling them I need to rotate the crop or if something isn’t in season.”

  “Why the convoluted process?” Ella said. “Why can’t you just process the requisition forms directly, or, better yet, serve directly to the public?” She realized as she said this that that might put Stew out of business. Although, he did sell other goods, such as meat, poultry, and various staple items.

  “After the distributors have their say, I can sell directly to the public with what’s left. There’s a small produce store in the northwest section of our lot. What doesn’t get bought, goes to the food bank. As for the convoluted process…” Gladys shrugged. “It is what it is. The decision was enacted years back after a rather lean year that the council has control over food distribution.”