Murder for a Rainy Day (Pecan Bayou Book 6)
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Authors: Teresa Trent
MURDER FOR A RAINY DAY
Copyright 2014
Teresa Trent
All Rights Reserved
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank Pat Cegan for sharing her poem,
Dreams
. I would also like to thank MSgt Brian J. Lamar from the Air Force Reserve 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron or the "Hurricane Hunters" for his valuable information.
Finally, I would like to thank my editor, Diane Krause. Your attention to detail is amazing. Thanks for helping me to be a better writer.
Dedication
To my dad. I will always treasure our time together.
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#6 Murder for a Rainy Day
HELPFUL HINTS FROM THE HAPPY HINTER
Dreams
What are dreams?
Do they hold some mystical
message? Are they wrappings
for lessons we need to learn?
Prophesies? Warnings, promises?
How concealed is all, yet at
the same time, transparently
clear. The veil is lifting. We
are awakening again and again.
As layers are peeled away, how
wonder-filled life is.
~Pat Cegan
"Well it's official," my father said. "We now have the most lame-ass town entrance in the whole state of Texas."
Scowling, he dropped the freshly severed hand of cowboy star Charlie Loper to the ground. It landed with a thud.
"Offensive my ass. That was Charlie Loper’s signature pose. The man is nothing without his six shooter. Now he looks like the butterfly whisperer."
I have to admit my father was right.
Although Charlie Loper had been dead for more than fifty years, he was immortalized in bronze thirty years ago and has been ushering visitors into Pecan Bayou ever since. Pecan Bayou, Texas held bragging rights to only two things: growing the biggest and best pecans in the state of Texas, and being the boyhood home of matinee idol Charlie Loper. His daughter, Libby Loper, still lived in Pecan Bayou and kept Charlie’s memory alive through the Charlie Loper Deadeye Museum and a newly-opened dude ranch.
And now, bronze Charlie Loper had been neutralized. The hand holding his six shooter was gone, a new one being welded into place. The cowboy’s new pose did indeed look as if he as if he would never dream of using a gun.
My dad’s clenched fist rested on the revolver tucked comfortably on his hip—standard issue for the Pecan Bayou Police Department. I wondered if he was aware of the grip he held on his own gun while he watched Charlie Loper’s being sliced away.
Even if the non-violent Charlie were alive and standing here today, there would be no butterflies fluttering about. Mosquitoes were the only insects that could tolerate temperatures in the high 90s, with humidity that registered somewhere between a sauna and the steam from a pot of boiling water.
Today was a big day for my father, so it was important for me to be here, but this environment was brutal for a woman who’s nine months pregnant. I had just come from my weekly appointment with Dr. Randall, my obstetrician, who said she’d be surprised if this baby stays put longer than two weeks.
Sweat trickled down from my hairline and I felt like I was wrapped in a blanket. Normally, my caring and attentive father would have been fussing over me, but the disarming of Charlie Loper – the hero of my father’s youth – had him completely unsettled. I just hoped I wouldn’t pass out before this whole thing was over.
As a welder attached two thin metal strips to Charlie’s shiny new outstretched hand, a pickup truck approached, pulling the likeness of Charlie Loper’s famous horse, Ol’ Bess. She’d just made the two-mile journey from the Charlie Loper Deadeye Museum to join Charlie at the corner of Main and Pecan.
For the most part, Pecan Bayou is a quiet little town with just a few restaurants, a movie theater, churches, schools, a library, and a public pool. The streets are filled with families who have lived here all their lives. We’re a small spot on the map, but not really that different from any other city or town with gossip, marriages and divorces, new babies and sad goodbyes.
My father, Judd Kelsey, was a lieutenant on the Pecan Bayou Police Force, and although a heavy day of crime might involve a lost dog and a dispute over the bingo money over at the church, he still had strong opinions on the right to bear arms.
Now, a more peaceful Charlie Loper would greet all who entered our quaint little town.
As I watched two strapping guys unload Ol’ Bess, I was certain my father was right. The cowboy statue and his newly added horse were a strange couple. While Charlie was made of bronze, wearing a classic weathered patina, the horse looked like it was plucked directly from Ronald McDonald’s play yard. Leave it to Pecan Bayou to take its best cash cow and screw it up. Now this mismatched pair would stand at the main roadway into town, greeting our visitors and giving them a glimpse of how looney we all are.
I reached into my purse for the Gatorade that I had been carrying around. I swallowed, but choked as the green liquid hit the back of my throat. The drink had been cool just a few minutes before, but now it felt warm and sour. As I gasped for breath, my father finally turned around and looked at me.
"Oh darlin'. Do you really think you ought to be standing out here in the heat?"
"I’m fine," I lied.
During my first pregnancy, I had been an attractive pregnant woman. Well, as attractive as one can be with an extra thirty-five pounds. But the extra weight had been in the front, where it should be. This time around, I put on weight in the front, the back, on the top and on the bottom. And the pounds kept piling on. I was only a few weeks from delivery, and at this point, I was counting down the hours.
To make matters worse, my husband Leo, a meteorologist, was kicking into high gear as hurricane season got into full swing. This summer had been abnormally hot, and the waters in the Gulf were starting to heat up.
The recipe for a hurricane is simple. Take a storm off the coast of Africa and let it drift across to the United States. Trap the storm the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico and let it churn. The more it churns, the bigger it gets.
For as long as I can remember, Pecan Bayou and other towns north of Houston have played happy hosts to evacuees wielding credit cards, looking for places to escape the wind and rain. The only problem though, was that often these hurricanes made landfall and triggered other storm events like tornadoes.
I occasionally wondered if people up north scratch their heads and ask themselves why anyone would live in a hurricane zone. All I can say is sometimes you're born in a place and that is where you stay. It takes more than swirling clouds and record-breaking heat to run us out.
Even if we do have the most lame-ass entrance of any town in Texas.
Welcome to Pecan Bayou.
Once the new Charlie Loper and his trusty horse were settled in, the crowd dispersed and went home. When I walked in the house, I was welcomed by a cool blast of air conditioning and Butch, our over-exuberant Weimeraner. Butch followed faithfully as I headed to the kitchen for a large glass of cold water.
"Hey boy." I patted the eighty-pound monstrosity we called a dog on the head and received a slobbery lick in return.
As I set down my glass and reached for a towel, I once again failed to account for my protruding belly and knocked a cherub-faced pink piggy bank right off the counter. The little pig hit the ground, breaking into four parts. Not only was I startled by the crash, but a pang of guilt hit me, as this had been a gift for the baby from my husband’s mother, Gwyn.
After recovering from a momentary fright, Butch began prancing around, contaminating the crime scene. I grabbed his collar and gently tugged him toward the back door.
"Come on boy. Let’s put you in the yard for a few minutes." He happily bounded out into the yard and set about looking for something to pee on.
Closing the door, I returned to the broken pig and squatted down to pick up the remains. As I picked up the largest intact chunk, a shiny silver dollar went rolling under the refrigerator. Another pang of guilt.
The pig’s head was still attached to its body, and wrapped around its neck was a yellow ribbon holding a small card that read "Sus domesticus for our newest homo sapien." Yes, it was a strange sentiment, but not out of character for my new mother-in-law, Gwyn Fitzpatrick, who was a biology teacher. It was sweet sentiment, in an obsessively scientific labeling sort of way.
I needed to rescue the pig if at all possible. Gwyn lived in Galveston, so she visited often and would be certain to notice if the piggy bank were missing from the baby’s nursery.
Maybe I could glue it back together again and no one would even notice. I spread the shattered pieces of porcelain out on the counter. There was one break around the back and one on the leg. One ear was broken and the curly tail had popped off. The body itself was still intact.
I stepped into my office to find my notebooks, alphabetized by topic. These books were my primary resource for writing my helpful hints column. I quickly located a section on gluing and learned I needed some sort of epoxy adhesive to mend the broken pig properly.
Returning to the kitchen, I began digging through the glue stash in the utility cabinet. All I could find was an old bottle of school glue leftover from one of the boy’s discarded school supplies. Not epoxy, but worth a shot.
I grabbed yesterday's paper from the recycling bin and spread it out on the counter. I had already made one mess; I certainly didn’t want to be scraping glue off my marble countertops later.
Arranging the pig remnants, I looked down to see the face of Tom Schuller smiling up at me from the newspaper. The headline announced Tom was leaving his long-term post on the Pecan Bayou City Council.
Tom served on city council alongside his brother Don, and the two of them had ruled these positions for many years. Tom owned Schuller Auto and Don ran the Pecan Bayou Chamber of Commerce. You could hardly walk a block in this town without running into a smiling Schuller ready to make a deal.
Schuller Auto was one of the most successful businesses in town, so it came as a shock to many in Pecan Bayou when Tom and his wife announced they were giving the dealership to their son, and planned to travel across America in a thirty-nine foot RV. Not that there were that many controversial decisions to make in city council, but most residents agreed Don Schuller would miss his brother’s duplicate vote.
As I put away the glue, I felt the baby inside me stretch. It wouldn't be long now, and this little one was becoming extremely active. I rested my hand on the baby wondering if I was touching his head or the other end. Sometimes it felt like my unborn child was doing jumping jacks inside. I couldn't wait to meet this new person who would be such a wonderful part of our world. The phone was ringing as I stepped back into the kitchen.