Rogues & Rascals in Goose Pimple Junction (Goose Pimple Junction Mysteries Book 4) (11 page)

“The PPP Award?” Martha Maye looked confused. “What’s that?”

“I just told you. The Probably Pretty Proficient Award.” Louetta waved off the groans and continued. “Okay, Tessie, here’s your first question. Ready?”

Tess nodded reluctantly. “As I’ll ever be.”

“All righty. I want you to translate: ‘Let’s skwinta the diner.’“

“Easy. Let’s go into the diner.”

“Yeah, let’s!” Slick called out from the back.

Louetta shot him a look. “How about this one, Tess: what would you do with bob war?”

“That’s simple. I’d make a barbwire fence.” Tess heard someone say, “Atta girl,” and applause broke out.

Louetta waved her hands in the air to quiet everyone down. “All right, y’all. Define this, Tess: ‘sump’n teet.’“

“Something to eat.”

“Suppose I said Pickle was the sinner of the basketball team. Am I implying he needs to go to church more often?”

“No, ma’am. You’re saying he’s the center on the team.”

“Lightning round.” Lou shuffled through some cards. “Translate sumose.”

“Some of those.”

“Utcha doon.”

“Whatcha doing?”

“What do you do with a flosswater?”

“Swat flies, of course.”

“Wongo.”

“Do you want to go.”

“Yonto.”

“Do you want to.”

“Impa tickler.”

“In particular.”

Jack cheered. “Woohoo, Tess!” Everyone broke out in cheers and applause, and Jack jumped up to give Tess a kiss.

Lou pulled out a handmade award from behind the counter. She had attached a small Ball canning jar to the rim of a glass candlestick and a label on the jar said,
“PROBABLY PRETTY PROFICIENT.”
She handed the “award” to Tess. “I hereby declare that you are probably pretty proficient in Goose Pimplese.”

Carolyn Jane called out, “People who think an accent makes you stupid are the ones who aren’t too bright.”

“Here, here, Carolyn Jane.” The crowd applauded.

Wearing a grim expression, Officer Velveeta Witherspoon, obviously on duty and looking stern, pushed through the bookstore door and scanned the crowd. When she spotted Johnny, she went straight to him and said, “Chief, I hate to disrupt the frivolity, but I think you should see this.”

Mama always said . . . You want clear water, go to the head of the stream.

J
ohnny made for the door while listening to Velveeta’s report.

“Chief, I’ve been out here taking statements and writing down names of victims, their make of car, all that stuff. I waited as long as I could to interrupt the party, but some of these folks wanna go home.”

Johnny stopped abruptly. “Victims? We got a fatality?”

“No, sir, nothing like that.” She held the door open for him.

Johnny was apprehensive as he followed Velveeta outside, wondering what in the world could be so bad that she’d pull him out of the party. He saw a group of people milling about on the sidewalk. She led him down the block, but he wasn’t seeing anything amiss.

“Officer Witherspoon, I’m having difficulty seeing what’s so gallderned important.”

The parking spaces were diagonal, so it wasn’t until she took him past the first car that he finally saw the problem. They walked down the sidewalk, inspecting all the cars parked at the curb, and he got a fuller picture.

“Well I’ll be John Brown.”

Velveeta’s head snapped around. “Who?”

Johnny ignored her question and paced the block surveying the damage. Everyone in the bookstore spilled out onto the sidewalk to see what had gotten Velveeta so riled up.

A black Chevy Suburban had a neon yellow smiley face; the whole side of a red VW Beetle was painted in black polka dots; a blue Ford Taurus had yellow stripes down the side; the mark of Zorro graced a maroon Honda Civic; a green Ford pickup truck had a peace sign on the door; an offensive word was scribbled on the side of a gold Buick . . . the damage went on and on. The vandal had spray-painted a total of twelve vehicles.

“How could someone have gotten away with this?” Velveeta wondered aloud, quickening her step to keep up with Johnny, who was surveying the damage at a brisk pace.

“Practically the whole town was in the bookstore for a few hours. Those who weren’t there were at home in front of their TV sets with the AC going.” He crouched down on his ankles and inspected one car up close. “It wouldn’t be hard for a person—or persons—to hide if he heard someone coming and then resume his work once they’d gone. Most folks would have come from the bookstore, and it would be easy to hide on the side of or behind one of these cars. He could have had a partner who was a lookout. As long as nobody got in the car he was working on or the one next to it, he kept hidden.”

“But surely someone would have seen him. I’ve been all over the town square though, and I can’t find a soul who did.”

“I was serious when I said practically the whole town was in the bookstore. Who called this in?”

“Nobody. I was cruising by and saw it. I was on the scene when the first victim returned to his car. I’ve been spouting the same spiel to each one. As soon as I’d get done telling one person, another would come along, and then another, and another—” puffed Velveeta.

“I get it, Officer.”

“That’s another reason I waited to come get you. I was too busy telling folks to stay put on the sidewalk, and no, they couldn’t take their cars, and blah blah blah.”

With hands on his hips, Johnny shook his head and pursed his lips, a sour expression on his face. “Officer, who’s on duty tonight? Northington? Woodson?”

“Yessir.”

“Get them over here and y’all take pictures and get fingerprints from every inch of every car.” He began walking again, headed for the crowd of people on the sidewalk. Velveeta scurried after him.

“Uh, sir, excuse me, but those cars are bound to have a lot of fingerprints. Doesn’t mean they belong to the miscreant.”

Johnny stopped walking and whirled around, addressing Velveeta. “No, but if the same set of prints are on each car, we’ll have a pretty durn good lead, don’tcha think?”

She scratched her head and looked sheepish. “I guess so.”

“Count me in, too, Chief.” Hank walked up behind Johnny.

“I ‘preshade that, Officer. I really do. You’re a good man.”

“I got an idea who did this.”

“You and me both. But let’s don’t go pointing fingers until we have a whole hand.”

The next morning Hank knocked on Johnny’s door as he entered his office. “Nothing on the prints, Chief. So we’re dealing with someone savvy enough to know to wear gloves.”

Johnny raised his head from the papers he was reading. “Looks like it. But I don’t reckon you’d have to touch a car to spray-paint it.”

Hank stopped in front of the desk and nodded at the papers Johnny was holding. “Whatcha got there?”

Johnny held up the papers and then released them, letting them fall on his desk. “The report on that vic over in Atlanta.” He shook his head. “Don’t read that after you’ve had a meal. Some gruesome stuff was done to that poor man.”

“Who was he?”

“Some publisher, although it looks like just a small fry. Man alive, he got carved up into several fries.” Johnny laughed and slapped his thigh then sobered. “Sheriff over there said he’d gone by several different names; seems like he was a small-time con artist preying on innocent people.”

“Maybe one of his vics did him in then.”

“Doubtful anyone who isn’t a pro actually did the deed, but they coulda hired someone to do it.”

“Any leads on the perpetrator?” Hank glanced down at the papers and quickly looked away.

“Negative. Like I said, they think it was a professional job, although the part that was done with the knives was pretty messy. Seems like a pro would have been more precise. Either way, I doubt they’ll ever find him.”

“What did they send it here for? Someone like a professional hit man come into town, he’d stick out like a sore thumb. We’d nab him right away.”

“True enough. I guess they sent it to all police departments within a certain radius of Atlanta.” Johnny picked up the papers again. “I didn’t know the vic, but I sure feel sorry for what he went through. By the time death came, I’ll bet he was begging for the end.” He chuckled. “Get it? The end?”

Hank groaned. “Yeah, I get it. A publisher who wanted
the end
. Clever.”

“I’ll have to remember to tell that one to Jack.”

“Some folks just aren’t hooked up right, you know?”

“You see that every now and then in this kind of work,” Johnny said in mock seriousness.

“I know one man who’s pretty happy this morning.” Hank hitched up his pants.

“Who’s that?” It came out like, “Whoozat?”

“Clem Fowler, over at the car shop. He’s had a sudden spike in business.”

“I’ll say. Those twelve vehicles will keep him out of trouble for a while.”

Johnny leaned back in his chair and propped his hands behind his head. “So what’s the story with your date last night?”

Hank could feel his face heat up and was embarrassed by it. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. “Oh, her. She’s just here for a few days. Disappeared last night during all the commotion. I just wanted to show her some Goose Pimple hospitality and whatnot.”