Murder & Mayhem in Goose Pimple Junction Read online

  Murder & Mayhem in Goose Pimple Junction

  by Amy Metz

  Iconic Publishing, LLC

  1050 E Piedmont Rd

  Suite E-119

  Marietta, GA 30062

  Copyright © 2012 by Amy Metz

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address inquiries to:

  Iconic Publishing Subsidiary Rights Department

  1050 E Piedmont Rd, Suite E-119, Marietta, GA 30062

  First Iconic U. S. trade paperback edition - 2012

  Iconic Publishing and colophon are registered trademarks of:

  Iconic Publishing, LLC.

  Cover design by Karen Schmidt

  Edited by Jano Donnachaidh

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my father for giving me the love of a good southern phrase. And to my great aunt and grandfather, whose pain and loss chronicled in this book I do not take lightly.

  Acknowledgments

  In acknowledging the people who contributed to this book, I must first honor the memory of the people who actually lived the tragedies of the 1930s portion of this book. While my novel is intended to be humorous, I in no way mean to diminish the tragedy of their lives. I grew up hearing the stories of the murders, and I remember thinking long ago that someone should write a book about them. It should be noted that while the story is based on real events, the characters in this book are figments of my imagination, the real murder was never solved, and the outcome depicted in this book is purely fictional.

  I am forever grateful to my friends and fellow writers who offered critique, advice, and encouragement, and who supported me on the road to publishing. Thank you, Robert Hoffman, Dennis Hart, Jeni Decker, Tim Mallory, J. D. Ferrara, R. M. Keegan, Cathy Jones, Jennifer Comeaux, Nicholas Anderson, Ann Everett, Ashley Wilde, Joss Landry, Cate Carpenter, John DeBoer, Cristina Jean, and Dags, for helping me iron out the bugs and for telling me what worked . . . and what didn’t. Each of these people improved my writing and kept me going. I wouldn't trade them for a farm in Georgia.

  Thanks to my family—David, Jake, and Michael for letting me spend so much time in Goose Pimple Junction.

  Thank you also to Karen Mathison Schmidt, for her fantastic work on the cover art. I am in awe of her talent.

  Last but not least, thank you to my publisher and editor, Jano Donnachaidh, to whom I am truly grateful for his expertise and for believing in this book.

  An Old Mystery

  In 1932, John Hobb, father of four, is a witness to a bank robbery. He identifies the robbers and testifies against them. They are later pardoned by the governor.

  In 1935, Hobb is found in his idling car by the side of the road, dead from a gunshot wound to the head. The circumstances surrounding his death are a mystery, and the killer is unknown.

  In 2010, John Hobb’s murder is still unsolved when Tess Tremaine moves into his former house. She finds a job at the local bookstore, which is owned by Louetta Stafford, the youngest daughter of John Hobb. During renovations to the old house, Tess finds a mysterious old key, labeled “trunk.” Mayhem ensues when she attempts to find the owner of the key: Her house is broken into twice, but nothing is taken; she finds cigarette butts and footprints outside a bedroom window; she gets threatening phone calls and ominous messages in the mail; she and a friend are attacked on the street. All of this has the opposite reaction than was intended—it doesn’t scare her away, it strengthens her resolve to find John Hobb’s murderer.

  Prologue

  [ 1935 ]

  Exhaust billowed into the air as the black 1934 Ford Tudor idled by the side of the road on a bitterly cold December evening. Snowflakes danced in the car’s headlights as it sat just past Goose Creek Bridge, four miles south of Goose Pimple Junction, Tennessee.

  Preoccupied with the cold night air, passersby were intent on getting to their destinations. While everyone who passed the Ford that night would later remember seeing it sitting on the side of the road with its headlights burning aimlessly into the cold night, none noticed the three bullet holes in the windows or the dead man slumped over the steering wheel, a bullet through his head, and a pistol in his hand.

  We've Howdied But We Ain't Shook Yet

  swan: verb swon to swear, deritive of swannee

  I swan—raisin’ kids is like bein' pecked to death by a chicken.

  [ May 2010 ]

  “You are dumber ‘n a soup sandwich, Earl.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, you’re a hole in search of a doughnut, Clive.”

  Tess Tremaine walked into Slick & Junebug’s Diner, past the two gentlemen arguing at the counter, and slid into one of the red vinyl booths. The old men were arguing good-naturedly, and she imagined they were probably lifelong friends, passing the time of day.

  Tess smiled as she looked around the diner. She was happy with her decision to move to this friendly town. Everyone greeted her cheerfully and went out of their way to be nice. It was a pretty place to live, too. Every street in the small town was lined with decades-old trees in front of old, well-kept homes full of character, just like the citizens. She was confident she’d made the right choice. This was a good place to heal from her divorce and start a new life.

  A raised voice at the counter brought Tess out of her thoughts. One of the old men spoke loud enough for the whole diner to hear.

  “If I had a dog as ugly as you, I’d shave his butt and make him walk backwards,” he said, jabbing his index finger at the other man.

  A waitress appeared at the table. Tess hadn’t seen a beehive hairdo in person until she saw this waitress. With her pink uniform dress and white apron, she looked like she jumped out of a page from the sixties. Her name tag said, “Willa Jean.”

  “Don’t mind those two old coots.” Willa Jean hitched her head in their direction. “They’re about as dumb as a box a hair, but they’re gentle souls underneath. Their problem is one of ‘em’s always tryin’ to one-up the other.”

  She got her pad and pencil out of her front apron pocket, ready to take Tess's order, but she stopped and cocked her head, staring hard at Tess, and smacking her gum.

  “Anybody ever tell you, you look like Princess Di? I just loved her, didn’t you?” She bent her head slightly to the side to look at Tess’s legs under the table. “'Cept you look a might shorter 'n Di was. How tall are you?”

  “Five-five.” Tess couldn’t help smiling at the compliment.

  “Yep. What we have here is a mini Diana. And your hair color is a reddish-blond instead of a blonde-blonde like my girl Di. Other 'n that, honey, you could be her clone.”

  “Thank you. You just earned a big tip.” Tess’s smile lit up her face.

  The waitress winked at Tess. “What can I gitcha?”

  “I think I’ll just have a Coke and a ham sandwich, please.”

  “Anything on that? Wanna run it through the garden?”

  “Run it through the . . . “ Tess’s brow furrowed.

  “Yeah, you know . . . lettuce, tomato, and onion. The works.”

  “Oh! Just mustard, please.”

  Willa Jean nodded and hollered the order to the cook as she went towards the kitchen. “Walkin’ in! A Co’Cola and Noah’s boy on bread with Mississippi mud.”

  Tess smiled and looked around the diner. The front counter was lined with cake plates full of pies covered in meringue piled six-inches high, cakes three and four layers tall, and two-inch thick brownies. Six chrome stools with red leather seats sat under the counter. The walls were packed with framed snapshots from as far back as the fifties. From the looks of it, they started taking pictures when poodle ski
rts were popular and never stopped. They were running out of wall space. The top half of the big picture window was covered with a “Henry Clay Price For Governor” banner. Tess spotted similar signs throughout the restaurant, and she’d noticed the waitress was wearing a campaign button.

  The diner was only half full with about twenty people at various tables and booths. A few tables away, a mother was having trouble with her child. Tess heard the mother say, “I’m fixin’ to show you what a whoopin’ is all about!” When the little boy whined some more the mother added, “I mean it son, right now, I’d just as soon whoop ya as hug ya.” She looked up to see Tess watching them and said, “I’ll swan—raisin’ kids is like bein' pecked to death by a chicken.”

  Tess laughed. “I know what you mean. But you just wait. In ten years time, you’ll be wishing he were five again. The time goes by so fast.”

  “How many you got?”

  “Just one. My son's twenty-five now, but it doesn't seem possible.”

  “You married?” the woman asked boldly.

  “Divorced,” Tess answered.

  “Here’s yer Co’cola, hon,” Willa Jean said. “It’ll be just a minute more on the sandwich. You visitin’ or are ya new in town?” She propped a hand on her waist.

  “Brand new as of a week ago. I've been unpacking boxes for days. I guess you could say this is my debut in Goose Pimple Junction.”

  “Well, all Southern Belles have to have a debut. And we're mighty glad to have ya, sugar. Lessee . . . did you buy the old Hobb house on Walnut?”

  “My house is on Walnut, but I believe the previous owner’s name was York.”

  “Yep, that’s the one I’m thinkin’ of. Houses ‘roundcheer are known for the families that lived in ‘em the longest. Them Hobbs had the house for over seventy years, up until old Maye Hobb Carter died a few years back. It was her late huband's family home and then hers, even when she remarried. She was a sweet old soul, bless her heart. We all hated to lose her, but it was her time. She had a hard life, and I reckon she was ready to meet her maker. Her daughter still lives in town, but she and an older sister are all that’s left of the Hobbs ‘round here. Mmm-mmm—the things that family went through.”

  “Willa!” the cook behind the counter yelled. “Order up!”

  “Hold yer pants on, Slick,” she yelled and then turned to Tess. “Be right back.” Willa hurried off to get the order and came bustling back with Tess’s sandwich. “It was nice talkin’ with ya, hon. I’ll leave ya to eat in peace. Holler if ya need anything else.”

  A few minutes later the door to the diner opened, and almost every head turned to see who came in. Tess noticed everybody, except for her, raised a hand up in greeting, and a few said, “Hidee, Jackson.” The man’s eyes caught Tess’s and held them a little longer than normal. He sat down at the counter with his back to her and ordered iced tea. Willa waited on him, and Tess heard her say, “You don’t need ta be any sweeter than ya already are, Jackson. I’ma give you unsweetened tea.” She leaned across the counter looking up at him adoringly.

  “Don’t you dare Willa Jean or I will take my bidness elsewhere!” he said with a big smile.

  Big flirt, Tess thought.

  He was a good-looking man who looked to be in his early to mid-fifties, Tess guessed, but she wasn’t in the market. Being newly divorced, the last thing she needed was to get involved with another man.

  As far as I'm concerned, they're all Martians and are to be avoided at all cost. “Men Are From Mars, And Women Are From Venus” wasn’t a best seller for nothing, she thought.

  The door to the diner opened and a middle-aged man of medium height, dressed in a conservative suit and tie stuck his head in. “Vote for Henry Clay Price for governor, folks,” he said, with a wide politician’s smile.

  “You know it, Henry Clay. You’re our man. We’re proud as punch to have you runnin’,” Willa Jean said.

  Other than the smile, Henry Clay didn’t look like a politician. He had thinning auburn hair that was almost brown, and he wore round wire-rimmed eyeglasses on a round face. He reminded Tess a little of an absentminded professor.

  “You gonna let out all the bought air?” Slick grumped, and Henry Clay waved and closed the door, then ambled on down the sidewalk.

  Tess finished eating and walked to the counter to pay her bill. Willa gave her change and said, “Nice meetin’ ya, hon. Don’t be a stranger, now!”

  As she closed the door she heard one of the men at the counter tell the other, “Yer so slow, it would take you two hours to watch 60 Minutes!”

  “I love this town,” she whispered to herself.

  * * *

  A few weeks later, Tess was sitting in The Muffin Man coffee shop, laptop open, fingers flying over the keys, when she sensed someone sitting down at the table across from her. She glanced up. It was him. The Martian she’d been exchanging glances with for over two weeks. With her concentration broken, her fingers came to a rest. They made eye contact, and she looked away, following their pattern of the last few weeks.

  Oh yeah, it was him alright. Talk about Mr. Muffin—stud muffin. She'd seen him at the post office, the grocery store, the hardware store . . . everywhere she went, it seemed Mr. Martian-Muffin was there. They’d only spoken to each other with their eyes, and she was always the one to look away first. Their silent flirting game was fun, and always did funny things to the pit of her stomach, but flirting was as far as she wanted it to go. Whenever she ran into him, she made sure to leave quickly in order to squelch any chance of conversation.

  She looked back down at her computer but could still feel his eyes on her. Putting her fingers back in place on the keyboard, she couldn’t think of a thing to write. Her mind was blank. She couldn’t concentrate. His stare was unnerving.

  Tess felt very self-conscious and couldn’t help but look back at him a few minutes later. He, too, had opened a laptop, but just as she chanced another glance, he looked up and caught her eye again. He smiled.

  She took a sip from her drink and tried to look nonchalantly around the store, but her eyes wandered back to Mr. Muffin. Mr. Martian, the scorned woman's voice in her head corrected. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a crisp light pink button-down shirt with a hint of white t-shirt underneath. He had on topsiders, no socks. She looked at her computer screen and tried to think about her book.

  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.”