Mabel, Murder, & Muffins Read online

  “Oh, thank you, Mabel.” And, she wipes away the tears.

  I opened the fridge door to see if anything looked appealing and all the cats rushed over to join me.

  “All right, you heathens, you’ve eaten. Get out of here.” Three of them already had half their bodies inside. I yanked them out and shut the door, hoping no heads were still in the way. It was then that I noticed the answering machine light blinking.

  I obtained the touchtone phone and answering machine to appease Flori. It seems that’s one of my many purposes in life. If there were any way I could get away with it, I would get rid of that contraption. Unfortunately, it’s part of the phone and I don’t even know how to shut the stupid thing off. Besides, Flori would never speak to me again if I did. Since she now has a cell phone, all she does is dangle it in front of me but knows better than to ever suggest I invest in one too. It's enough that I have a touchtone phone, a digital camera, and a laptop.

  I figure if someone phones and there’s no answer, that person knows I’m not home or I’m in the bathroom or I don’t want to talk to anyone and she or he can try again. With this idiotic machine, they leave a message and then the onus is on me; now I’m under obligation to return the call. Something isn’t right with that. If I don’t call, everyone gets in an uproar: “Mabel, you didn’t return my call.” “Mabel, didn’t you get my message?” “Mabel, how come you didn’t call back?” “Don’t you ever check your messages, Mabel?”

  No matter how long I stood and glared, the light kept right on blinking - three messages and probably all from Flori. She’d be wondering why I wasn’t home yet. I told her I was getting my pictures printed right after work but she probably forgot. If I called her back now, she could easily take up an hour or more of my time. Not that I didn’t enjoy her calls, it’s just that I was so looking forward to savoring my pictures over a quiet cup of tea. I left the light blinking and sat down at the table. Before I could pull the pictures out of the first envelope, the kettle whistled. I grabbed the teapot, a cup, a spoon, and the little jug of honey and sat down again.

  I still couldn’t get over the fact that I, Mabel Wickles, from little Parson’s Cove had won a five day trip to Las Vegas. Sin city. Of course, what happens in Las Vegas, stays in Las Vegas, right? Since in my case absolutely nothing had happened there, I guess I could bring it all home with me. In fact, I would never think of telling anyone here (well, perhaps Flori someday) but after about three hours, I was homesick. I will admit, Hoover Dam lived up to its name - it was ‘dam’ interesting. Other than that, if you’ve see one slot machine, you’ve seen them all. Of course, there was the food. I suppose that in itself could be worth the trip. Overall, however, there was too much noise, too many people, and too many lights - too much hustle and bustle. Did I say too many lights? I still get flashes in my eyes occasionally.

  Four other people had also won the trip: three women and one man. I was the oldest, the shortest, and the lightest. The one and only man, Ralph Murphy, was probably in his fifties. He had a nasty habit of scratching his scalp every five minutes or so, thus leaving behind a layer of white flakes on all his shirts. Other than that, I liked him better than I liked any of the women.

  Sally Goodrich sat beside me on the plane. It was hard to guess her age because she’d had so many surgeries on her face and probably other areas of her body too. Her swollen lips formed a puffy straight line and she had to talk through her teeth. She reminded me of Flori’s kids when they were small and made scary faces. Her long blond hair was in desperate need of a retouch and she must have weighed close to two hundred pounds. All the fat was in the right places; it’s just that there was an over abundance of it. You always had the feeling that she might explode out of her clothes. Since she was so honest about all her face-lifts (at times, going into gory details), I thought I’d ask another obvious question and one that everyone was talking about behind her back:

  “Have you ever thought of liposuction for your derriere?” I asked, one morning as we were waiting in the hotel lobby to leave for a tour.

  Her eyes got big and she said, “Are you serious? It cost enough to get it looking like this.” With that, she tried to lift her chin but I think the skin was too tight. She did manage, however, to swing her hips as she walked to the bus. If a person watched them for too long, I imagine one could almost get seasick.

  Grace Hobbs and Andrea Williams were the other two women. We used to have a Mr. Hobbs living in Parson’s Cove but Grace said she was sure he wasn’t a relative. Of course, after I learned she was married, I realized he wouldn’t have been her relative anyways - he would’ve been her husband's relative.

  I didn’t see too much of Grace and Andrea after the second day because, I discovered, they would rather gamble than tour. Gamble and eat. Preferably at the same time. I didn’t see much of Sally or Ralph anymore either because they, I discovered, liked each other. I was happy to have my camera and a good pair of walking shoes.

  Of course, there was Mr. Hatcher. He was the cereal company’s representative. He sort of drifted in and out of our lives while we were there. He was always in the background, making sure we were looked after, making sure we didn’t get lost, making sure we didn’t get too bored or get into trouble, I guess. At least, that's what we were told. It was hard to form an opinion about him because it seemed to me that he wasn’t very interested in his job. I asked him how many times he’d been to Vegas with a group of winners but his answer was very vague.

  On the last day, all of us grand prizewinners met in the lobby of our hotel. It’s hard to believe but I think I was the only one who looked like I’d had a fairly enjoyable time; therefore, that wasn’t saying much for the others. I assumed Grace and Andrea were going home much poorer because they were very sullen. It appeared that Sally and Ralph must have had a tiff because they weren’t talking to each other. Or, perhaps it was just Sally not communicating with Ralph. He still seemed to be walking around, looking like a sick dog. It made me feel much better; at least, I would have pictures of Hoover Dam and the desert to take home. In my opinion, all of them had wasted what could’ve been a perfectly good free vacation.

  Moreover, I did have some excellent pictures. I slowly examined each of the one hundred and twenty three pictures that I’d taken. How could so many photos fit on that small memory card? Of course, I now realized that no matter how many you took of the dam, you could never really get the depth of it all. Forty-four pictures taken at different angles and each one looked the same. I might have been carried away with the shots of my bedroom too. Five pictures of my whirlpool tub were a bit much. I thought Flori might find those interesting though. Also, my bed with the canopy. I took four different angles of that.

  Flori had been right about that one picture. I had snapped it outside one of those hotels where a twenty-foot tall mechanical cowboy kept lifting his hat off and then putting it back on. I took that one for Jake. I, obviously, hadn’t noticed the man walking right in front of me. All my attention was on the cowboy and his hat. It took some concentration to catch it at the right moment with the hat in midair. Now I not only had the cowboy holding his hat up in the air, I had a gangster staring at me from the corner of the picture. At least, that was my first impression. Well, no need for me to worry. After all, this was Vegas. He was probably someone’s doting father or husband.

  I realized after examining it more carefully, he wasn’t looking at me at all; he was looking at someone or something either behind me or beside me. For some reason, that seemed to ease the tension in my shoulders.

  The phone rang. I jumped and the pictures flew to the floor. The cats raced over, thinking it was a treat for them, sniffed, gave me a disdainful look, and walked away in all different directions. Meanwhile, the phone continued to ring. I left the pictures where they lay and stood up. I got up slowly because both knees were bothering me. I figured it was from walking on cement all day, every day, during my vacation.

  “Where, on earth, have you been? I�
��ve been calling and calling,” Flori yelled in my ear.

  “Well, you haven’t been calling and calling, Flori. I’m sure I told you that after work, I was getting my pictures printed. You can get instant pictures now, you know. My goodness, how did you manage when I was gone? You must’ve been up half the night worrying about me.”

  “If you must know, I was. All I could do was imagine you alone in that huge city with all those gamblers. You have no idea how relieved I am that you’re home, safe and sound.”

  “I phoned you every night. You knew very well that I was safe.”

  “If you’re home now, why haven’t you returned my call? It’s after eight. I left two messages for you.”

  “Or did you leave three? My machine is saying there are three messages.”

  “I phoned twice. Good Heavens! You have messages and you haven’t checked them? You’d better listen to the other one, Mabel. Who knows? Maybe you won another trip!”

  “One is enough for me, thanks very much. By the way, why don’t you come to the shop in the morning to look at the pictures? It’s much nicer than trying to see them on my camera. And,” I added, “why don’t you bring over breakfast?”

  Feeding people is one of Flori’s favorite things.

  I hung up the phone and pressed the blinking red light. The first two were from Flori. In the first message, she sounded a bit tentative (as if she hadn’t left a message in five days and had forgotten how to bawl me out); in the second, almost hysterical (more normal).

  The third one made shivers run down my spine. Perhaps, ‘what happens in Las Vegas, stays in Las Vegas’ is only a myth.

  Chapter Two

  “I think you’re getting yourself in a flap over nothing.”

  Reg Smee, our local retired sheriff, sat across the table from me with a half-filled cup of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten banana muffin in the other. Several crumbs clung to his shirt and there was a neat pile of them on my tablecloth. Not that my muffins are dry and crumbly but when you eat three without hardly taking a breath, there will be crumbs.

  I called Reg because I wasn't totally comfortable with Sheriff Jim yet. I'm not saying that he wasn't a good sheriff. I think it's mostly because I knew him and his deputy, Scully, when they were children. It's still difficult for me to look at them and see two mature adults. I am working on that.

  “I think you’re just trying to placate me because it’s late and you want to go home, Reg. Now, put your ear closer and listen carefully. This person is threatening my life.”

  “Mabel, Mabel, Mabel.” He shook his head. “No one is threatening your life. Besides, the recording is garbled and there’s too much static and background noise to make out what the person is saying.”

  “Please, Reg, humor me. Listen again.”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh and said, “Okay. Hit the darn button again.”

  “… … Wickles, listen …. … … get away … …. … … Las Vegas … … everyone in Parson’s Cove … …. wicked. … … … jail … … dying. … … … your life. Watch out … … … leave.”

  “See, Reg, that is definitely a threatening call. Don’t you get it? Whoever this is, is telling me that I got away with something in Las Vegas; something very wicked. Now, they’re out to get me, and everyone in Parson’s Cove. And, I’m not sure, but I think they’re telling me that I’m going to spend the rest of my life in the pen, until I die.” A shiver passed through my body. “They’re warning me to watch out and telling me to leave.”

  “Say you’re right, Mabel.” The Sheriff looked up at me over his reading glasses. (I have no idea why he had to put on his glasses to listen to the tape recording.) “Now, ‘fess up, who did you exasperate when you were in Las Vegas?”

  “Exasperate? That's a harsh word. I know you think I must have done something but I really didn’t. This is what makes it so frustrating. What did I do? I did nothing. I was on my best behavior. I was a normal tourist. Well, not normal normal, if you know what I mean. I didn’t gamble and everyone who goes to Vegas gambles, right?” My heart started pounding. “Do you think there are people in Las Vegas who come after you if you don’t gamble?”

  “No, Mabel. No one threatens your life if you don’t gamble. It would be more likely someone would come after you if you did.”

  “I wonder if someone thought I gambled and now they’re here to take my money?”

  Reg drained his cup and stood up.

  “I doubt it. Most thieves don’t leave a message; they just arrive in the middle of the night." He slapped on his old hunting cap and headed for the door. "Thanks for the coffee. If I were you, I’d go to bed and stop fretting about this. It’s almost ten and you’ll probably have lots of customers in tomorrow again. Get a good night’s sleep. Maybe whoever phoned will call back or pop into the store tomorrow and the mystery will be solved.”

  I shook my head. “I wish I could make out if it’s a man or a woman on that thing.”

  “If you can’t tell that, how can you tell that it’s threatening?”

  “I don’t know, Reg. Maybe it’s just the person’s tone of voice.”

  He reached over and patted my arm.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. Someone from here might be playing a crank call. Let’s face it, there could be a bit of jealousy. After all, not many from here have ever been to Las Vegas.”

  “Do you think so? I never even thought of that.” My heart pounded faster again but this time it was more excitement than fear. “I bet it’s Esther Flynn come back to Parson's Cove to haunt me. Who else would do such a thing?”

  “Now, Mabel, don’t go making accusations like that. You can’t blame Esther for everything in life that happens to you, you know. Besides, she doesn't even live in Parson's Cove anymore and I hear she's happily married.”

  “I know that, but I think you’re right - it has to be a crank call. I’ll bet you anything Esther did this to upset me because she’s jealous.”

  “Mabel, you’re not listening; I didn’t say it was Esther who made the crank call. I didn’t even insinuate it was Esther. And don’t you tell anyone I did.”

  He might have said more but I shut the door.

  That had to be it. I played the tape again. And, again. If I could only make out the voice. Reg was right, of course, I couldn’t come right out and blame Esther Flynn or whatever her married name was now. She'd been gone from Parson's Cove for a few years but that wouldn't stop her from phoning. It certainly didn't stop her from coming into my shop every time she did come to town. I knew how to handle her though. At least, I should be able to after all the years of experience I’ve had.

  Esther was a thorn in my side since the day we met. That was over sixty years ago. Flori, Esther, and I started school together. She was the most evil child I ever knew. Satan’s spawn if there ever was one. I’ve forgotten most of the tricks that she played on me. I’m not the sort to keep track but getting me kicked out of school because she claimed I was cheating was unforgivable. Flori tells me that was in the past and I have to let go; however, some things cling to you for life. Flori, as you have probably surmised by now, has a much sweeter disposition than I have. Every once in awhile she still brings up the subject of ‘intervention’ even though Esther doesn't even live here.

  “I think we should do this before old Mr. Braithwate dies,” she says. (He was our principal, has dementia, and is almost a hundred years old.) “You should have closure on this, Mabel.”

  “Flori,” I always tell her. “I do have closure. Don’t forget, I took almost all my last year at home and I got higher marks than Esther did. That’s enough closure for me.”

  “But that was so many years ago and you still haven’t forgiven her.”

  “No, and I never will.”

  “That’s not closure, Mabel.”

  “It’s good enough for me.”

  After I say that, Flori sheds a tear or two and says she'll continue to pray for me.

  Reg could possibly be right; someo
ne was playing a trick on me. Parson’s Cove is a lovely place to live. Although, to be honest, I’ve never lived anywhere else so I can’t really speak from experience. No matter how lovely it is, however, a few living here have somewhat criminal minds. Not to mention names but even Sheriff Jim and Deputy Scully had a few run-ins with the law before they became the Law. That's in the past, of course. However, if someone finds himself or herself locked out of the house, Scully is quite handy at unlocking a door with a piece of wire or a credit card and Jim can hotwire a car in ten seconds flat.

  I must say, I went to bed with total piece of mind. Well, perhaps, sort of a fake total. I did make a brief stop at the sewing room. This is the room where I was born so many years ago. My mother never let me forget the pain she had to endure giving birth to me so after she died I turned it into a sewing room. Even though it’s much bigger than my bedroom, I’m sure I could never sleep in it. All night I’d be hearing my mother’s screams. I never sew but I do hide my bottle of gin behind the old sewing machine. Flori has no idea. If she did, she’d pour every bottle down the drain. Flori thoroughly enjoys a glass or two of wine but gin is a sin.

  So, I drained my glass of sin and fell asleep almost instantly. I dreamt about slot machines cha-chinging, the old singer with the young man’s voice singing Auf Wiedersehen, but over it all I kept hearing someone screaming, “Wicked … everyone in Parson’s Cove. Jail won’t be enough. Watch your….” And when the old guy transformed into the Canadian singer, belting out Love Can Move Mountains, her face suddenly changed right before my eyes and I was staring at Esther Flynn’s ugly mug. I sat up in bed drenched in sweat, my heart pounding.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, I was still a little shaky from my nightmare and headachy from the gin but managed to feed my cats and make it to the shop in time to put the coffee on before Flori came with breakfast. At eight forty-five, she rushed through the door. Her hands were empty. Not only that, she wasn’t even dressed. She was wearing her pink cotton housecoat over her matching floor length nightgown. Her orange-red hair stood out in every direction and there were black smudges of mascara under her eyes. She stood staring at me with her mouth open and a hand placed over her pounding heart. I knew it was pounding because I could see her hand going up and down.