Murder & Mayhem in Goose Pimple Junction (3 page)

Focus
, she told herself.
Good-looking man at eleven o'clock
,
herself replied, like a bratty toddler. She took another sip of her raspberry lemonade, and eyed him over the rim of the cup.

He
was tall and slim, with broad shoulders, and long legs. His wavy, sun-bleached blond hair grazed the back of his long neck. A dimple formed in his cheek when he smiled.
Of course he has a dimple
, she thought. He was hard to ignore. She looked up, and he was smiling at her again.
Dang that dimple
.

Tess
put her cup down on the table, and for the benefit of anyone who might be noticing, she typed random keys just so it looked like she was working. She picked up her phone on the table, and pretended to check for messages. His table was diagonal to hers, and he was sitting facing her, so she had an ample view of him without turning her head. She peered at him from over the top of the cup as she took another sip. He was finally looking at his laptop instead of her.
No wedding ring
, she thought.
Not that it matters
, that other voice said
.
After a few minutes of stealth ogling, she forced herself to resume working.

She
put her fingers on the keys again, but her mind remained blank. She couldn’t even remember what her train of thought had been when he first sat down. Her fingers drummed on the table impatiently goading her brain. How could she be thinking this way after what she'd just been through? The cheating, the betrayal, the divorce . . . but just look at the man in front of her.

Okay,
he’s good looking, but he’s probably a son of a gun who is indifferent, grumpy, and thoughtless. I mean, look at him. Something has to be wrong with him.

As
she had this inner conversation with herself, she began to feel conspicuous just sitting there, so she started typing again, just to look busy.

She
typed:
Yes, he’s adorable. But he probably kicks his dog, or he’s a slob, or collects his toenail clippings in a jar, or has a quick temper. Somebody who looks like that is probably very self-centered. He’s probably a terrible, terrible person.

As
she typed, she began to think of more things that could possibly be wrong with this man, so she compiled a list:

He’s a misogynist.

He’s
gay.

He’s
a cheapskate.

He’s
an axe murderer.

His
idea of a good date is having you cook dinner.

He’s
a burping, farting Neanderthal.

He
slurps his food.

He’s
duck footed, pigeon-toed, or flat-footed—pick one.

She giggled a little as her imaginary faults for him grew wilder and wilder. She glanced up, and found him looking at her again with that incessant grin on his face.

He
gave a mock show of looking all around himself and then asked, “Do I have toilet paper stuck to my shoe?” His fingers felt around his nose, “A booger on the end of my nose?”

“
What? Oh, sorry! No…I’m just…working on a book and . . .
”

“
Oh really? You’re a writer?” He sat forward and leaned his arms on the table.

“
Kind of . . . “

“
Hey! I’m an author, too. There aren't many of us around these parts.” He smiled that killer smile again.

She
stared at him, grasping for something intelligent to say. There was no way she would tell him she was writing a romance novel.

“
I’d love to read some of your work. If you’d be interested in some feedback, that is.”

“
Oh, that’s very kind of you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“
As the locals would say, I believe we’ve howdied, but we ain’t shook yet. My name’s Jackson Wright. Most folks just call me Jack.” He got up to offer his hand.

Ha!
He’s Mr. Right
, she said to herself.
Mr. Right the writer
. She cleared her throat to stifle a giggle and said to him, “Hi, I’m Tess Tremaine. What kind of books do you write?” Her voice came out a little higher than she would have liked. She cleared her throat again.

“
Mystery novels. I have nine published, and I’m in the process of writin' my tenth,” he told her.

“
A nine-times published author, wow, I’m impressed.”

“
Oh, don’t be. I got lucky. There are plenty of writers out there who should be published and aren’t. ‘Course, there are also plenty who have been published and shouldn’t be. But I’d be glad to help you with your book any way I can.” He looked sincere.

She
smiled and looked down at the table, feeling awkward and not knowing what to say. She couldn’t say what she was thinking—that he could help her work on the love scenes for her book.
Oh no he couldn’t
, came a sharp reprimand from the common sense half of her brain.

He
broke the silence. “I’ll be doin' a reading at the bookstore down the street next Saturday, and I’d love it if you came.”

“
I'll try to stop by.”

“
Let me give you my e-mail address,” he said, writing on a scrap of paper.

“
Writers need the support of other writers. E-mail a chapter to me whenever you're ready.”

Oh,
I’m ready
, she thought and then mentally slapped herself.

“
Do you come here often?” He laughed at himself, shaking his head. “That sounds like a lousy pick up line. I’m sorry. And considerin' my vocation you’d think I could come up with somethin' better.”

“
No, don’t be silly,” she said quickly.
Especially if it truly is a pick up line
. She took a sip to hide her smile.
You have got to get a grip, girl
.

“
I do like to come here to write. Which is kind of crazy, because
I don’t drink coffee and it’s a . . . coffee shop . . . “ she felt like she was blabbering, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Thank goodness they make tea and hot chocolate too. But I like to come here to write. It helps me focus. If I stay at home for too long I end up surfing the net, and I don’t get any writing done at all.”

“
Oh, you live alone? I know what you mean, I live alone too, and sometimes the quiet is just too . . . well . . . too dern
quiet.”

And
there’s one question answered—no wife. Yep, probably gay. Aren’t all the good ones gay?

“
So you come here to write, too?”

“
Yep. I guess you could call this my office. I write here by day, and at home by night.”

She
nodded, not knowing what else to say. There was no way she was going to be able to write anything halfway decent with him sitting just a few feet away, and she didn’t really want to continue the conversation. The look in his eye scared her. She was not going to get involved with another man. She needed to put a stop to this right away. So as she started packing up her things, she told him she was done for the day.

He
cocked his head to the side and smiled, showing that dimple, as he said, “It has been a pleasure talkin' to you, Tess Tremaine. I’ll be
lookin' for your e-mail.”

Leave
now, Tess. Leave now.
She smiled back at him and mumbled, “Nice meeting you. See ya.”

She
stood up and tried to grab her cup of lemonade, purse, and tote bag, too, but the strap of her purse slipped down her arm, causing her to spill lemonade all over the table. She felt like an idiot. She set her tote bag down, went for napkins, and frantically wiped up the spill. Waving weakly at Jack, she headed out.
I need air,
she thought as she quickly walked away, trying to get out of the shop as fast as possible.

“
Tess!”

She
heard him call after her. She turned around and saw him holding her tote
bag, which held her laptop. He had a sparkle in his eye and was trying to suppress a smile. She had taken her purse but left the tote bag on the floor.

Feeling
humiliated, she walked back to him and took the bag. When their eyes met, and their fingers touched briefly as he handed her the bag, she repeated in her head
, Martian Man, Martian Man.

Trying
to hide her embarrassment, she gave him a look that said, “Don’t say a word or you’re a dead man.”

She
turned, trying to make a graceful exit once again, but walked straight into a table. She cleared her throat, sidestepped the table, and without turning around, raised her hand up in the air as she walked out of the shop, indicating that she knew she was an idiot, and he really didn’t have to point it out.

On
her way out, she noticed a man in blue jeans and pointy-toe cowboy boots staring at her. She breezed past him, with the niggling feeling she’d seen him before.

How
rude of him to stare.

Despurt
: adjective \des-purt\  desperate

It was an act only a despurt man would commit.

[  1932  ]

March 9, 1932 was a beautiful day in the town of Goose Pimple
Junction. The sun was a welcome change from the blustery cold day
before, when it snowed three inches.

There
were no customers in the First National Bank shortly after two o'clock in the afternoon. The two tellers yawned and paced, waiting for the clock to chime four times, signaling they could lock up for the night. Cashier Nate Hunter walked to the front window to pull down the shade.

“
What’ja do that for?” Tallulah, the other teller, asked.

“
The glare of the sun was gettin’ to me,” he said. She shot him a confused look, and was about to say something else when her face froze and she gulped noticeably, as three men walked through the door with guns. Two of them walked to the counter, guns drawn, while a third stood watch at the bank door, a sub-machine gun propped on his hip.

“
This is a holdup. We want all the money,” a tall, skinny man wearing a cowboy hat boldly proclaimed to the tellers. “C'mon, c'mon, put it all in these here sacks,” the stocky man in overalls and a plaid shirt said. He and the other man held out pillowcases. Tallulah froze, her eyes wide and her mouth opening and closing without anything coming out.

“
What are you waitin’ on,” bellowed Overalls. “This ain’t Chinese math, for Pete’s sake. Put the money in the sack. Git movin’. And hurry it up.” Looking petrified, she went to the money drawer.

“
She looks as nervous as a cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs,” laughed Cowboy Hat.

“
You,” said Overalls to Nate, “git the money from the vault, too.”

In
a matter of minutes, the tellers, with shaking hands and rubbery legs, managed to stuff the pillowcases with forty-seven thousand dollars in cash.

“
C'mon, you,” the short, round man stationed at the door said,
motioning with his gun to Nate, “you're comin' with us as a little insurance policy.” They fled the bank, running lickety-split down the street as fast as they could while trying to lug the loaded sacks of money.

As
soon as the men left, bookkeeper and auditor John Hobb came out of his office. Unbeknownst to the bandits or the tellers, he had witnessed the entire robbery. He raced out of the building, hoping to see which direction the men had gone. He saw them go south on Third Street and quickly ran back inside.

“
Are you all right?” John asked, out of breath,
helping Tallulah into a chair.
“Did you recognize them?”

She
shook her head. “I thought you were gone.”

“
We should call the sheriff.” John quickly locked the front doors and picked up the phone.

“
Sheriff! The bank just got hit. There were three of them, and they’re armed. They went south on Third Street with the money and, they have teller Nate Hunter . . . “

[  1979  ]

The
young man sat at his grandfather’s bedside, his head resting on his hands, which were clasped over one of his grandfather's. The room was silent except for the sound of labored breathing and the ticking of the wall clock. He sat up straight when his grandfather began speaking.

“
I’ve done some things in my life that I ain’t a proud of, boy,” the old man said, lifting his head to look at the young man.