Calamity by the Carwash Read online

  CALAMITY by THE CARWASH

  (Second Edition)

  A Mabel Wickles mystery

  By

  Sharon Mierke

  This book is fiction. All characters, events, and organizations portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Sharon Mierke

  This book is dedicated to every friend and family member who read my unpublished work and who was brutally honest with me. And, thank all of you for telling me it was perfect!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Flori and I were enjoying our second cup of coffee when we heard the sirens whizzing past. Well, it was only one patrol car but it sounded like five or six. That’s because our two deputies, Jim and Scully, decided to attach a few extra bells and whistles. At first, Sheriff Smee was upset but because everyone in town thought it was a real blast, he left them. I’m quite sure he not only secretly enjoys the loud noise, he relishes a bit of attention now and again too. Perhaps that’s because he will retire soon and wants to go out with some sort of bang. It had started out as another quiet Thursday afternoon; after all, whatever happens on a Thursday?

  It was hard to believe it was spring in Parson's Cove. The temperature had climbed to unfathomable heights the whole week so Flori and I sat in front of the small but reliable air conditioner that I have stuck in the corner of one of my windows with plywood surrounding it. It might not be pretty but the window is on the west wall and faces the east side of Mildred Norton’s Flower Shop. Gwen has no windows on that side of her building and the only thing between us is a narrow well-worn path with tall weeds growing along both sides. The small flower shop belonged to Gwen’s mom, Mildred Norton, but she never had the heart to put up a new sign. I’d suggested Gwen Friesen’s Fine Flora, which I thought had a bit of zip to it and would match nicely with my sign; however, for some reason she felt that she was being unfaithful to her birthright. I felt that I was still carrying on the Wickles’ legacy so it didn’t bother me at all to change my store’s name from Wickle’s Food Fair to Mable’s Fables and Things.

  I was definitely not going to continue selling groceries so before my father died, I gradually started installing my own merchandise. For example, I cleared out one section of canned goods and replaced them with new and used books. Father made one last visit to the store and when he saw the shelves, he shook his head. I’m sure I saw a tear or two trickle down his cheeks. He never came back the last month but gave me his blessing so I ripped out the ancient freezer and the bins where he kept the sugar and flour. I brought in racks of cards for all occasions, fancy boxes of notepaper and a wide variety of salt and peppershakers, souvenirs, collectable cups and saucers and enough knickknacks to make your head swirl.

  “Where do you think Reg is off to?” Flori asked as she drained her cup. Her bright red hair flopped up and down in time with each blast coming from the a/c. Every few minutes she faced the air conditioner head-on to free some hair from her mouth and eyes. The heat and humidity hadn’t been kind to Flori and her hairdo. Two days before she’d come into the store sporting her new ‘do’ and the sight of it left me speechless and believe me, not much does that anymore.

  I was used to the bright red color. She’d decided to do that when she turned fifty. Now that she was over sixty, it seemed she was getting even more adventuresome. The usual curly hair was now as straight as a board with the front sides coming down to her chin and the back cut up high in the nape of her neck. In my opinion, it did nothing for her but then again, who was I to judge? I’ve had my silver hair cut in the same short style since 1960. I doubt hairdressers even call it a ‘do’ anymore - more like a ‘past do.’

  “I don’t know but whatever it is, he seems to think it’s worth sounding off with the sirens. At least, it will wake the town up. This heat is making everyone miserable and cranky. Can you guess who came into the store yesterday and was really nice to me?”

  “I thought you said everyone was miserable and cranky?”

  “They are, that’s why this is so phenomenal – so, can you guess?”

  Flori picked a strand of hair out of her eye and tried hooking it behind her ear. “If everyone is cranky, how can I guess who’s nice?”

  “Esther Flynn.”

  Flori gasped. “Esther was nice to you? Why? She’s never nice to you.”

  I shook my head. “I know. Go figure. Everyone else is ready to commit murder in this heat and Esther is not only as cool as a cucumber, she was actually civilized.”

  We both muttered to ourselves for a few seconds. Flori said something about the Devil liking it hot too but because we were too exhausted from the heat, we didn’t try to pursue it. Besides, the wind from the air conditioner kept blowing our words away.

  Esther Flynn, by the way, is my nemesis. This is not something new; this is something that has been in the making for the past fifty or so years. In other words, my life would be as close to perfect as you can come if it weren’t for Esther. Why everyone else in Parson’s Cove was crabby and Esther, for the first time in her life, was almost pleasant was a mystery I wasn’t about to try to solve. As they say, let sleeping dogs lie – especially when it’s over a hundred degrees in the shade and it's still six weeks until summer.

  It wasn’t until several hours later that I found out the reason for the sirens: Melanie Bernstein found Bernie, her husband, dead on the beach. His head and shoulders were the only part not submerged in the water. Perhaps it could’ve passed as a drowning except for the large bashing he’d received on the back of his head. It happened right behind the Parson’s Cove Car Wash. Melanie, it seems, was waiting in the car while he went to make change. She waited for two hours with the car running and the air conditioner on before deciding there must have been some reason for his not returning.

  Chapter Two

  It was after five when I heard the news. I’d left the store about four because I knew there wouldn’t be any customers. I couldn’t imagine a last minute rush for any of my nonessentials. It’s not as if I had any air conditioners or electric fans in stock. I don’t even have ice cubes. Not a soul had entered through those doors all day except for Flori. Who, because she is my best friend, comes in every day – rain, snow, sleet or heat – and then there was Merlin Cowel, who walked across the street from the pharmacy to deliver my prescription. I don’t know why Merlin thought he had to deliver the little tube of salve that Doc Fritz insisted I needed for a rash on my arm. I think Merlin was curious and thought I’d tell him where my itch was. He left, disappointed.

  It was nothing short of a miracle that I even heard about Bernie as quickly as I did because the last thing I felt like doing when I got home was answering the phone. I only did because I knew it was Flori and if I didn’t answer, she’d leave four or five messages on my machine. If I didn’t call back immediately, she’d be running over to see what had happened to me. Or, worse yet, she would send Jake over. I can live without Jake. Flori, who’s been married to him for over forty years, cannot. That woman has more love in her heart than Mother Theresa. She loves me unconditionally and at the same time puts up with Jake and all of her kids and her grandkids. I don’t know how she does it. I have seven cats and they drive me nearly insane. I’m not even sure of any of their names most of the time.

  Not that I planned to have seven cats. Someone (Flori) coaxed me into taking one kitten because she had it in her head that I was lonely. I was hoping that this one kitten (named Phil after Prince Philip in England) would keep mice out of my house. Not that it’s a problem but sometimes in the fall, the field mice seem to think it would be rather pleasant to winter in my ho
use. I suppose it’s to them like a Mexican vacation is to we humans. Anyway, to make a long story short, Phil turned out to be Phyllis and she had five kittens. That, I know, makes only six cats. The old tomcat, however, which was to blame for the sordid affair started creeping around so I seized him and did the unthinkable - ‘he’ is now an ‘it’- as are the other six.

  (I’m sorry but I have to clear this up at the beginning because I don’t want you thinking that I’m a crazy cat woman. When they were small, they were too cute to give away and when they got older, no one wanted them. After that, I couldn’t bear to, you know … put them to ‘sleep.’)

  “Mabel,” Flori screamed in my ear. I hadn’t even had time to say hello. “Bernie Bernstein is dead. Melanie found him in the lake. Somebody murdered him.”

  There was silence because my brain couldn’t kick into gear.

  “Mabel,” she screamed again. “Are you there? Didn’t you hear me? Bernie Bernstein is dead. Melanie found him in the lake. Somebody murdered him.” The last three sentences, she spoke slowly and deliberately - and at full volume.

  “Flori, I heard you the first time. What do you mean - Bernie is dead? Who would want to kill Bernie? There must be some mistake. If Melanie found him in the lake, he probably drowned. Who told you this anyway? Was it Jake?”

  I asked this because Jake can get stories mixed up. If I had more time, I could give many examples.

  “Mabel.” Flori only uses this voice on certain occasions. It means, shut up, Mabel. “Yes, Jake did tell me but he got it from a very reliable source.”

  “Who? Amos?” (Amos Grimm is a lovely man except that he’s usually three sheets to the wind by nine in the morning.)

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, it wasn’t Amos. I’ll have you know, Miss Smarty Pants, it was from Reg Smee himself.”

  Since Reg Smee happens to be a dedicated Sheriff who never lies about a crime, I guess I could accept it as truth.

  “Okay, what else do you know, Flori? Why does Reg think it’s murder?”

  “Because apparently someone hit Bernie on the head and then tried dumping him in the lake. Poor Melanie, she’s in the hospital now in shock. I’m thinking I should take her some chicken soup or something.”

  “Flori, I don’t think you take chicken soup to someone in shock. The thought is very … well, thoughtful, but Melanie would probably be better off with a strong prescription drug.”

  She sighed. “You’re probably right. I don’t know. It’s so hard to believe, isn’t it? I mean, why would anyone want to hit Bernie on the head?”

  “Maybe nobody did. What if he fell and hit his head and then slid down into the lake? I’m sure that could easily happen.”

  “Except,” Flori said, speaking as if to a ten year old. “That is not what happened. Someone definitely hit Bernie on the back of the head.”

  “On the back of the head? With what?”

  “I don’t know, Mabel. I don’t think Reg told Jake everything.” She sighed. “I hate violence. You know how I hate it.”

  She gasped and I knew she was off on a crying binge. I waited patiently. After several minutes of loud weeping, she stopped, blew her nose, hiccoughed three times, and then resumed talking. “Now who would want to murder Bernie Bernstein? I can’t think of a single soul who would want to hurt such a sweet man.”

  “What about Melanie? The first suspect is usually the person’s mate. Maybe she didn’t think he was such a sweet man. You never know, Flori. You never know what goes on behind closed doors. Where was she when all this murdering was going on?”

  I heard Flori gasping. It’s very hard for her to get her head around anything that’s evil or sometimes even slightly evil. If there is a murder, in Flori’s mind it has to be an accident or a demented stranger who did the deed – someone who escaped from the depths of Hades. It makes her cringe to think she might have walked on the same sidewalk as a killer - even a shoplifter for that matter.

  “That’s the most terrible thing to say, Mabel. Obviously, it was a stranger who was waiting by the carwash to hit him on the head and steal his money. No one in Parson’s Cove would do such a thing. It was someone from the city. It had to be. Maybe an escaped convict.”

  “The carwash? What was Bernie doing at the carwash?”

  “They were obviously there to get their car washed.”

  “By ‘they,’ do you mean Bernie and someone else?”

  “Of course, Melanie was with him. Reg said that Bernie went out get change from that coin machine on the side of the building and he never came back. Melanie waited and waited. In fact, she waited for two hours and he never returned so she went to look for him. And, there he was, Mabel - dead.” With that, she burst into tears again.

  I waited for what seemed like two hours too. Finally, the wailing ceased, along with all the other noises that accompany her cries. “Doesn’t it seem strange that Melanie sat in the car for two hours and never bothered to get out and look for her husband?” I continued.

  “Mabel, we don’t have all the details. If you are in your ‘detective’ mood, I’m not talking to you. I thought I was being a good friend by filling you in on what I do know. I did not phone to ask you to solve a murder case. And trust me, Reg is not asking for your help either.”

  “How do you know that, Flori?”

  “Because he warned me not to call you but I knew he couldn’t arrest me for doing it so I disobeyed the Law. I hope you’re pleased with that. Now you can just leave it alone and let the police do their job. I’ll come by the shop with some cinnamon buns tomorrow. I’ll see you then and I don’t want to talk about Bernie Bernstein anymore. Good night, Mabel.” With that, my best friend hung up.

  And with that, I ran upstairs, dug out my hidden bottle of gin from my spare bedroom, poured a generous portion, and hightailed it to bed … to make a list of suspects.

  Chapter Three

  I woke up early the next morning for several reasons. Firstly, although the air conditioner in my bedroom window was purring away like a kitten and sounding as if it was working its little heart out, it was all a farce. The only thing that it was pouring into my bedroom was hot air from outside. Secondly, smelly sweat covered my entire body. There was not a pleasant way to describe it. Thirdly, there were seven cats sitting on my bed. None of them looked very happy. I could almost put up with the first two but having seven over heated cats in the house is too much for any human body to endure. The moment I opened my eyes, they all started complaining.

  “What are you nattering about?” I said, without lifting my head off the pillow. “Bernie Bernstein got clipped on the head and is dead. So, don’t start telling me what a hard life you have.” I’m not sure if they understood or not but as soon as I said the word ‘dead’ they all jumped off the bed and headed for downstairs and their food dishes.

  I glanced over at the clock and sighed. It wasn’t even six yet. I lifted the wet sheet off and lay spread-eagle. The hot air from the air conditioner didn’t even ruffle my cotton nightgown; it clung to me like paste. If I went out to pick up the newspaper wearing this garment, Reg would arrest me for indecent exposure.

  I had no energy to move but from the bowels of my kitchen came the cries of my ravenous felines so I knew I’d have to get up. There would be no peace until I did. I rolled out of bed, almost taking the wet sheets with me, and went over to shut off the air conditioner. There was no way this old thing would be fixable so I knew what that meant - I’d have to either put out for a new unit or start sleeping in my cellar.

  My cellar was a hole in the ground until I had some cement walls and a floor poured about thirty years ago. Everyone in the neighborhood did the same thing. We had old houses but we wanted to have nice dry sweet smelling basements with laundry rooms and recreation rooms. Perhaps, even a spare bedroom for guests. Well, now we have cellars with cement walls and floors but that’s all. They are still dark, damp, and moldy. I had Jake and one of his boys lug my washer and dryer down there as soon as the cement dr
ied. Now, I use the Laundromat because, even though I haven’t checked in several years, I’m sure my appliances have literally disintegrated into a pile of rust bunnies.

  Even in the heat, my cats still kept up their appetites. Me? I could barely wash down an apple muffin with my cup of coffee. After gorging themselves for several minutes, they rushed to the backdoor in one accord and stood there with their tails in the air, waiting for me to let them out. As soon as I walked toward them, there was a chorus of cheers. I opened the door, they felt the blast of hot air, looked at me as if I were to blame for the heat and then they scattered through the house in all directions.

  “Okay,” I yelled at them. “You want to stay in and use your litter box all day, that’s up to you, but one of these days I’m going to train you to clean it out yourselves and then you’ll be sorry.”

  You would think that after all this time, I’d learn but I never do. Cats don’t care how much you threaten, they’re going to do whatever they want anyway. Sometimes it just feels good to get if off your chest.

  I managed to peel my nightclothes off, have a cool shower, and get to the shop before seven thirty. My store doesn’t open until 9:00 but the air conditioner works. It was exactly 9:02 when Flori rushed in telling me that Melanie Bernstein was in jail, arrested for murdering her husband.

  Chapter Four

  “But I don’t understand,” I said for about the fourth time. “What proof do they have that Melanie killed Bernie?”

  Flori, with her tear-stained face and swollen red eyes, said, “Well, you’re the one who thought she was guilty in the beginning so why are you surprised?”

  “I know I said that, Flori, but I don’t think I really believed it to be true. They have to have a motive and proof.”