Murder & Mayhem in Goose Pimple Junction (4 page)

“
Shhh, Papa, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he whispered, patting his grandfather's hand gently.

“
No! It ain’t okay. Murder and robbery ain’t okay, they’re horrible, rotten acts only a despurt man would commit. But that’s what I was—despurt. I want ya ta know that I only did what I had to do.” He was breathless and stopped a moment, coughing, his chest heaving, as his lungs struggled for air. His grandson held a cup to his lips so he could take a sip of water before continuing.

“
I wanna get this off my conscience before I die. The bank robbery of ’32. I’s
in on it.” He laid his head back on the pillows and squeezed his eyes shut. “It pains me to say that ain’t all, Squirt.” The young man smiled faintly at the sound of the pet name his grandfather had always used for him. Hearing it was bittersweet. He wondered if it would be the last time his grandfather said it.

“
I killed a man, too. I had ta do it to protect my reputation. I
had
ta do it,” the old man continued. A tear escaped his eye, falling softly down his weathered cheek; his hand gripped his grandson’s tighter. “I hate
havin’ to admit the horrible things I done, but I want to protect my kin.”

“
It’s all right, Papa—”

“
It ain’t all right, Squirt. The man had ev’dence. He told me so, right before I killed him. I laughed at him at the time. Laughed right in his face; thought he was bluffin’.” He stopped again, trying to breathe, as well as keep his emotions in check.

“
He said he took precautions, and one day the world was goin’ ta know what a yellow-bellied coward I was. It weren’t ‘til after I killed him that I found the note in his pocket. It said, ‘
Maye, if you’re reading this
I must be dead. Look in the chest, Maye. It’s all there.
’
‘Course I threw the note away, and his woman never knew about it.” He sighed and then looked directly at his grandson.

“
But I know he was tellin' the truth. He had somethin', some kind of proof. I’m afraid it’s gonna surface some day and ruin y’alls lives. Look in his house. Promise me, Squirt, that you'll find and destroy the ev'dence before it destroys our family. I don't want ya saddled with
my dirty deeds for the rest a your life. Promise me . . . “ he took a deep, raspy breath.

“
. . . find the ev'dence John Hobb hid, and promise me you'll
destroy it.”

“
I promise, Papa,” the young man said as a sob escaped from his throat.

fumeer:
  adverb \fum-eer\  from here

Where do we go fumeer?

[  March
9,
1932  ]

“Yeehaw boys! We done it,” Rod in the backseat hollered, waving his cowboy hat in the air.

“
Pipe down, will ya?” said the driver.

“
I’ll pipe down if you’ll slow down.”

“
Both a you knock it off, ya bunch a numbskulls. Yeah, we did it. We done pulled it off. Now we gotta git while the gittin’s good. We need to dump this old heap a junk and find us a new one to take us far and wide, boys.”

“
Where do we go fumeer?” asked Rod.

“
After we finds us a new ride, we need to split up fer a few days. Lay low. Don’t do nuthin’ s’picious. And YOU . . . “ the front passenger, Brick, turned to Rod behind him. “Don’t be drinkin’ none. You get
stupid when you’s drunk.”

“
Yeah, well, I’m dry as dirt,” said Rod. “’Sides, I still say we shoulda oughta taken care a the Hunter boy, ‘stead a turnin’ him a loose on Main.”

“
Yer such an ornery old cuss. Hunter won’t talk. We got him jest where we wont ‘im,” Junior said, keeping his eyes on the road.

“
Yeah, but we gotta give him some a the take,” whined Rod.

“
Not nessarily. Whas he gonna do—go to the PO-leece?” sneered the driver, Junior Wells. “He’s in deep as we are.”

“
We give him his cut. We don’t need no more trubba,” Brick said flatly.

The
other two men kept arguing, and it wasn’t long before Brick had had enough. He snapped, “What in tarnation are you knuckle-heads jibber jawin’
‘bout? You two nitwits shut yer pie holes. Y’all sound like a bunch of old biddies.” Brick stared out the window.

“
Hey. Genius, looka thar,” Brick said, pointing. “Look over yonder at that Oldsie. Pull over.”

“
Whatta you thinkin’ Brick?’

“
Whatta you think I’m thinkin’? Ah swear, if yer brains were dynamite, you couldn’t blow your nose.” He shook his head. “I don’t rightly know fer sure if our car was spotted, but I ain’t a gonna chance it.”

“
Have you lost all of your mind? We can’t just walk up and take that car,” cried Rod.

“
Why not?” Junior asked.

“
Somebody’s bound to see us, that’s why not.”

“
Then we wait,” said Brick. “We sit and watch the house, if’n nobody’s around after an hour or so, we hep ourselves to that there Oldsmobile.”

An
hour later, Brick pushed on Rod’s arm to wake him. “Hey
Roddy. Wake up, ya old slug.” Rod’s head bobbled, and his eyes opened halfway. Brick snapped his fingers two-inches in front of Rod’s face.

“
Gad night a livin'. Would you get offa my back.” Rod squinted as he woke up, and pushed Brick’s hand away from his face.

“
Roddy, listen up—you sidle up over thar and get that car. We’ll gwon up the road a fer piece and you come pick us up. We’ll leave this heap on the side a the road.”

“
How come I gotta do it?”

“
’Cause this is yer first rodeo.”

Stealing
the car wasn’t a problem since the keys were already in it. Nobody in the country bothered with taking the keys inside the house. Rod started it up and drove two miles and picked up the other two men. He dropped Brick off in Flat Rock and Junior in Greasy Creek. Then he drove on to get lost in the big city. He was going to have a vacation. He figured he’d earned it.

[ 
June
2010  ]

The man had cold eyes. He looked out of his office window at the hustle and bustle of downtown Goose Pimple Junction, lost in thought. He wasn’t sure if he had a problem brewing or not, but he was intent on finding out. The evidence was in that house. He was sure of it. This was the second time the sale of that house had caused him angst; the second time he had to be sure the new owner was settled in and done nosing around their new digs. Not that this new owner would find anything. He’d already turned the house upside down and came up empty, and she seemed too ditzy, anyway. There was even a chance it was gone by now, if it had ever really been there. Whatever ‘it’ was. He just had a bad feeling. He promised to find whatever it was and destroy it, and by golly, he was going to keep that promise to his dying day. He picked up the phone.

“
Willy?” he said. “Yeah, it’s me. Ya got anything new for me on that project we discussed?”

“
Naw, not yet.” Willy yawned into the phone. “I’ve been followin’ her around just like you said, but I ain’t seen or heard nothin’ to be concerned about. I think you’re overreactin'. Fact is, I think this'll be an easy,
and
fun, little project.” He snickered into the phone.

“
Well, as long as I’m payin’ you, do what I tell ya. Keep an eye and ear on that ditz, ya hear?”

* * *

Tess had been married for twenty-six years and divorced for ten months. She’d only been living in Goose Pimple Junction for a month, but was feeling very content for the first time in ages. She’d been put through the wringer in the last few years; first, suspecting, and then finding out for sure that her husband was not only having an affair, but had several over the course of their marriage. She was glad for this fresh start.

Tess
walked into Stafford’s, the town’s bookstore, and immediately felt a sense of tranquility. She looked around at the exposed brick walls and bookshelves packed to the rafters with books, excited to find it wasn’t one of those cookie-cutter mega-bookstores. This bookstore had character. It made her want to grab a book, sit down in one of the store’s big, cushy chairs and settle down for an afternoon of reading. All was quiet in the bookstore except for the hum of traffic from the street. The sights, sounds, and smells of the bookstore wrapped their collective arms around her, giving her a peaceful feeling. The aroma of the coffee shop next door made her inhale with pleasure. Tess didn’t care for coffee, but she loved the smell of it. She could picture herself seeking the cozy confines of the store often.

So
many books, so little time,
she thought.

She
walked past cute knick-knacks for sale in the cooking section. She stopped briefly in the section that held upscale journals and greeting cards, before noticing a huge black and white plaster
of
Paris cow jumping over a moon, hanging from the ceiling in the children’s section.

I
wonder if they have my book
.

She
found it quickly: “Brown Dog,” by Tess Tremaine. It always gave her a thrill to find
her book
in a bookstore. She picked it up, running her hand lovingly over the cover. She wondered if she was doing the right thing in switching genres. She’d never written romance before.

“
You can’t do it,” her ex-husband had said. “It was a fluke you’ve even had a children's book published.
You
write a novel? Ha. That’s laughable.”

She
so wanted to prove him wrong.

Tess
finally ended up in the huge section designated for fiction.
It wouldn’t hurt to take a look
. She walked down the row until she was in the W’s, brushing her finger over the book spines, stopping when she found the name “Jackson Wright.”

She
pulled the book out and turned it to the back cover.
Gosh, that man’s got looks to spare
.

She
gave a self-conscious glance around to see if anybody was watching and then took five of the books to the cashier, exchanging smiles with the man wearing cowboy boots sitting in a chair by the fireplace.

The
clerk was an older woman, looked to be in her mid-to-late-seventies, with big hair and bright makeup. She greeted her with a
“Hidee,” and looked down at Tess’s purchases. “Did you know the
author is a res'dent of this town?”

Tess
played it cool. “I think I did hear something about that.”

“
Oooohh, I hafta say, that Jackson is a dream.” She patted her
brassy-red teased and sprayed-stiff helmet-hair. “Wish we had more like ‘im. I'z born ‘n raised here, matter fact, my kin have always lived here, goin' back to my great great-granddaddy. Yes ma’am, I'z born here, and I’ll die here. And I make it my bidness ta know everbody in town. Most everbody’s a right neighborly sort, but we get all kinds ya know; and some are about as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party.”

“
Is he a native of Goose Pimple Junction?” Tess broke in.

“
Who?” The woman looked puzzled. She glanced down at the books she was holding and slapped her head.

“
Well lands sakes, you mean Jackson Wright, don’t you? Nemmine me, I shouldenoughta get off on tangents. Nope, I reckon he’s been here for . . . law . . . ‘bout five years now. Jack lives in one a the big ole Victorian houses on Maple Street all by his lonesome, right next door to me actually.” Tess nodded politely, trying to keep up with the accent.

“
A course the house where I'z raised is over on Walnut. It was up for sale not too far back. I thought a buyin’ it, but that house holds too many mem’ries for me. I haven’t met the new buyer yet—I hear she’s a divorcee from up north—but I ‘spect I’ll stop by sometime soon to say howdy-do and welcome her to town. Just as soon as I get some of this dad-gum work outta the way. I swan, I’ve been busier ‘n a stump full of ants. Are you new in town or just passin’ through, honey?” The woman behind the counter finally took a breath.

What
a talker.
“I only moved in a few weeks ago. Actually, the house I bought is on Walnut. I live at 117 Walnut—that wouldn’t be your old house would it?”

“
For law’s sake child, it sure is.” She clapped her hands together. “Well I’m just pleased as punch to find out that it has such a nice new owner. Frankly,” she lowered her voice and leaned in toward Tess,
“I don’t think the people you bought it from had a lick a sense. They were about half a bubble off plumb, if ya know what I mean. And
Lordy, they up and sold the house and moved outta town faster ‘n green grass through a goose. Great day in the mornin’. Where are my manners? I’m Louetta Stafford, but folks call me Lou.” She reached out to shake Tess’s hand. “So tell me—how you likin’ the house, honey?”