Perplexity on P1/2 (Parson's Cove Mysteries)

PERPLEXITY ON P½

A Parson’s Cove Cozy Mystery

by

Sharon Rose

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 Rose

All rights reserved.  No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

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Cozy Cat Press
,

[email protected]
  or visit our website at:

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ISBN:  978-0-9848402-4-3

Printed in the United States of America

Cover design by Karri Klawiter

http://artbykarri.wordpress.com/e-book-print-cover-art-design/

Dedicated to
 the woman who instilled in me the desire to write, Ellen Rose Friesen

Chapter One

     “Who’s the creep in this picture, Mabel?”

     “Creep? What creep?”

     Flori handed the camera to me. “The guy who’s looking at you like he wants to kill you. You know – menacingly. Snake eyes. He looks like he has snake eyes.”

     “How can you see if someone’s looking at me - menacingly? With snake eyes?” I held the back of the camera up to my face and squinted.

     “No, Mabel, hold it out about a foot. You know your eyes don’t work close up.”

     She was right, as usual. All I could see was a blurry man wearing a black shirt and something like tattoos all over his arms. Or, it could’ve been a woman in a black evening gown with a lace jacket over top. I moved it gradually away until the picture came into focus.

     “What creep?” I repeated.

     She pointed to the corner of the screen. “
That
creep. The one with the snake eyes.”

     I looked at her. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You know that man is giving me a dirty look with his snake eyes and I can’t even tell if it’s a man or not?”

     She shrugged. “I don’t know how many times I’ve told you, you need glasses but do you ever listen to me?”

     Before I could, for the umpteenth time, explain how glasses bothered my ears and hurt my nose, and how I can’t think when I’m wearing them, she continued, “Doesn’t look to me like he’s too happy about getting his picture taken, that’s for sure.”

     “Well, if he’s the one who ruined my photo, I’m the one who should be upset. Why would a person walk right out in front of someone who’s obviously taking a picture?”

     Flori sighed. “I suppose you could cut his face out and fill it in with something when you put it in your scrapbook. It will take something away from it though.” She sighed again, this time with a bit more drama.

     “Of course, it will take something away from it. There will be a big hole in the corner filled with a silly sticker. And, how many times do I have to tell you that I’m not going to do scrap booking?”

     “Well, we’ll talk about it later. I would help you, you know. Besides, there is no wrong way to scrapbook. I’ve told you that before.” She gave me a sympathetic smile, which transformed instantly into a brilliant beam. “I still can’t believe you won a trip to Las Vegas. Imagine! You’re the first person in Parson’s Cove to win a trip. All because you sent in a top off a cereal box. I never thought that ever happened in real life. You know what I mean, Mabel? I thought those contests were all bogus.”

     “Well, you now have your trust in humanity redeemed. And, it wasn’t a cereal box. It was an ad in the paper from some cereal company I’d never heard of before. Besides, I don’t know why everyone keeps saying that I’m the first person from Parson’s Cove to win a trip. Surely, in the past hundred years or so, someone must have won one. People forget, that’s all. Of course, I did have to answer a skill-testing question. You tend to not mention that.”

     “Right, and the answer was ‘ten.’ You could’ve answered that just counting your fingers.”

     “How do you think I got it?” I crossed my eyes and held up both hands, pretending to count.

     Flori’s orange hair bounced and her body shook as she settled in for a good laugh. When she was finished and I’d given her the last of the tissues from the box, I said, “You might think that sounds like nothing but trust me, when you’re under the gun like that, I couldn’t have told you my mother’s name. It’s extremely stressful.”

      After wiping away a few overlooked tears, Flori held my camera up again and moved to another picture. I’d told her to wait and look at them when they were all printed but she didn’t have the patience for that.

     “These are amazing, Mabel. I can’t believe you took these beautiful pictures.” Flori’s eyes welled up with tears again as she clicked from one picture to the next.

     “Don’t get all sentimental on me. It’s no big deal. All you do is set it on ‘auto’ and shoot, you know. It doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientist to figure it out.”

     “But, a digital camera? Who would’ve thought you’d be so …” She searched for the right word. “Impulsive? Hmm, impetuous? … I mean, it took years for you to get rid of your dial-up phone. And, remember how you fought with me over getting the one with the answering machine?” She raised her eyebrows until they disappeared under her curly bangs.

     That was a rhetorical question because she knew I wouldn’t be answering it. Besides, she didn’t give me time to say anything anyway. She took one breath and continued, “Your next investment has to be a couple of good coffee makers.”

     “What’s wrong with the ones I have?”

     “They’re not coffee makers. You have old glass percolators. They’re antiques, if you must know. I don’t think they even make them anymore. One of these days, they’re going to get too hot on the stove and burst into a million pieces. That little wire thingy you put underneath doesn’t do a thing.” She shook her finger at me and once again, her eyebrows disappeared from view. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

     “Huh! I might be an antique and my percolators might be antiques but don’t say that together we don’t make the dang best coffee in the Northern Hemisphere.”

     Her eyes screwed shut, her lips quivered, and her upper body shook. “Now it’s only the Northern Hemisphere? You used to say the world,” she gasped in between shakes. “What are you saying? You’re losing your touch?”

     “Are you laughing or crying?”

     She grabbed a tissue from the second box on the counter and wiped her eyes. “Oh, you know I’m laughing, you silly old thing.” She groaned and sniffed. “I haven’t had a good laugh in days.” She looked at me through red-rimmed eyes. “Well, ever since you left, that is.”

     I couldn’t help grinning. Flori and I have been friends for sixty years. We know what each other is thinking before we even speak. Well, maybe not word for word but we usually know in which direction the other is going. This sometimes isn’t too good. I’m more than likely heading in the wrong direction and Flori is following me, trying to either catch up or head me off at the pass.

     Actually, if someone were to take a close look at us, he or she would be astonished that we’re friends at all. Two people couldn’t be more like chalk and cheese. Flori is this larger than life woman (I mean this in a literal sense but also in a loving way), married for forty-five years to the same infuriating man, Jake, with multiple kids and grandkids. I, on the other hand, weigh about as much as one of her legs, have never married, and have multiple cats, with no grand-cats. She lives in a two-story house with five bedrooms and a wrap-around veranda, three blocks from mine where Jake, who is now unfortunately retired, grows enough vegetables to feed the entire population of Parson’s Cove. In the winter, he ice fishes and keeps warm by secretly slipping Southern Comfort into his thermos of coffee. That’s Jake’s life all rolled up into a nutshell.

      (Speaking of Jake’s garden: if one more person comes into my shop, complaining about all the zucchini he’s given them, I’ll have to speak to Flori. I procrastinate because I know it will mean a big crying session and no one wants to be around for that. Flori gives everything she has when she laughs but she does likewise when she cries. Every body part gets involved. It’s not for the faint of heart.)

     She wiped the tears away again, put the camera about two inches from her eyes and squinted at my three-inch LCD screen. This time, she flicked through the last fifty-two pictures in silence. After all, even Flori can ‘oooo’ and ‘awww’ only so many times.

     She pulled herself up off the chair. “Everyone in town is so proud of you. It’s hard for me to believe you really went. And, all by yourself.” She reached over and proceeded to crush me to her chest.

     “Okay, let me up for air now.” I smiled at my dear friend. “I have to admit it was an adventure, even at my age. But if I’d known you couldn’t come, I never would’ve gone. You know that.”

     “Don’t even say that, Mabel. How could I help it? It’s not every day that I get a new granddaughter. You know I had no choice.”

     “I know, but to tell you the truth, it seems those girls of yours are popping out babies almost every month or so.”

     “You’re so silly, Mabel.” She moved towards the door. “Well, guess I’d better go and start supper. Jake will be starving. He went fishing with Scully and Jim this afternoon. All that sun and fresh air makes a man hungry, you know.”

     “All that sun and beer is what you mean, right? No wonder the lake water has a yellowy tinge with all those men out there drinking beer all day.”

     I could hear her still giggling half way down the block.

     It was hard to get back into the swing of things. Not that there’s much ‘swing’ to my life. I have a little shop called
Mabel’s Fables and Things.
Originally, my father sold groceries in it (and, of course, it had a different name). I live in the same house in which I was born. Since I was an only child, there was no battle over property with siblings when my father died at age ninety. He’d been a widower for over ten years. I often think he kept living after Mother died so he could finally enjoy unwholesome food and stay up late to watch old movies on television. He died in his sleep with a smile on his face. I’m hoping to be blessed with the same genes.

     The transition after his death was, I suppose, as painless as one could expect. My routine never changed much; it’s just that the old house became a bit quieter. My father’s downstairs bedroom became my pantry (the biggest in Parson’s Cove) and when my cats arrived, they claimed his old recliner as their own. That was fine with me as I’d always found it to be lumpy. My mother’s chair was too straight and hard so I moved that upstairs into the sewing room and I bought myself one that was ‘just right.’ I would’ve taken my mother’s chair out of the living room sooner but for some reason, my father enjoyed sitting across from it.

     It was almost five and I was quite certain no more customers would be coming in, so I decided to close up shop. Although my arches ached from standing all day and I’d gone through a can of coffee, I don’t think anyone actually bought anything. Folks started dropping in at nine to see if I’d survived my trip, if I had any exciting stories to tell, and to have a free cup of coffee. At one point, about noon, there was a line-up waiting to get in and I had to yell, “Okay, everybody, I know you’re happy to see me but if you aren’t planning on buying anything, could you come back tomorrow?” I turned to pour someone a cup of coffee and when I looked up, everyone else was gone.

     Our drugstore stays open until eight (although they will fill prescription drugs at any time of day or night. All you have to do is ring the buzzer and someone emerges from the upstairs apartment.) I locked the front door and headed across the street. Like my father, I lock the front door and leave the back one unlocked. For the first time, I was going to print pictures from a kiosk. At last, no more waiting for my film to be developed, printed, and mailed back from the city. Well, I had to see it to believe it!

     “Hey, Mabel,” Merlin Cowel boomed from behind the counter before I’d even shut the door. “Welcome home. Saw that big crowd over at your store today. Guess everybody thought you might not want to come back to Parson’s Cove. Thought we’d be too boring for you now.” He held back his head and roared. If there’s one thing Merlin can do, it’s roar. I try to be as nice as I can to the man because he sometimes sends customers my way but if he pops over for a cup of coffee (and he does quite often), I give it to him in a paper cup and try to convince him that he’s needed in his own establishment. My place is too small for his big voice.

     “No, Merlin, I decided I’d come back. Not enough excitement in Las Vegas. Too quiet for my taste.”

     “Ha! That’s a good one, Mabel,” he bellowed and slapped his hand on the counter so hard that two pens flew to the floor. He didn’t notice. “Now, what can I do for you?”

     “First of all, you don’t have to yell, Merlin. I’m not deaf, okay?”

     He grinned and yelled, “Sure thing, little lady.”

     “Secondly, you can stop calling me ‘little lady.’”

     “Sure thing, little lady.”

     Does he do this to irritate me or does he have cotton balls for brains? I’m just grateful his wife fills out the prescriptions.

     I held up my tiny memory card. “I’d like to get my pictures from the trip printed.” I looked over at the intimidating kiosk. “I’m not sure I know how to work this contraption. Could you help?” I held up my hand. “And if you say ‘sure thing, little lady,’ I’ll never give you another cup of coffee again. Got that?”

     Before he could answer, I said, “Just nod.”

     He nodded.

     It was after seven by the time I got out of there and my eardrums were still buzzing when I walked into my house. In my hand, however, I had my precious pictures and memories of my great adventure. Now Flori could hold each photo in her hand and admire them all over again.

     The cats swarmed me as soon as I stuck my foot in the door. I don’t know if they were concerned that I might disappear for five days again or if they were just plain hungry. It’s hard to tell with cats. I never planned to have seven cats. In fact, I’m not what you would call a cat person. There are such people, you know, but I’m not one of them. I don’t go gaga over kittens or have pictures and ornaments of cats all over the house. My original desire was to have one cat to keep me company during the lonely winter evenings and to catch the occasional field mouse that sneaks into my house each fall. Actually, it wasn’t my idea at all; it was Flori’s inspiration and she spread the word.

     About a week later, a customer brought a small male kitten into the store. I named him Phil. Him turned out to be Her and Her had five kittens. The father of this brood, a mangy stray that hung around Main Street Café, joined his family. That made seven and I’ve made darn sure that none of them can ever procreate again. As with all families, they have their well-mannered days (unfortunately, rare) and their unruly days.