Talking To The Dead Guys

By Gretchen Rix

A Texas mystery about a dog, strong women, and small-town living (or is it dying?). Shoot! I'll cut right to the chase. When me and my sister's mastiff Boo Radley drags me off my feet during the damned cemetery tour right onto a dead corpse, the dog poop hits the fan. And that's just chapter one. Welcome to Lockhart, the barbecue capital of Texas, where's there more than indigestion brewing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gretchen Rix
• Release date: Jan 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301708000

Gretchen Rix

Gretchen Rix--I write Texas cozy mysteries in the Boo Done It series set in Lockhart, the barbecue capital of Texas. Tag line: Where there's more than indigestion brewing.I've worked as a bookstore clerk, a newspaper writer, and a book reviewer. I've had jobs as a professional typist, a truck dispatcher and a health insurance claims processor. I learned a lot from these jobs. But my true inspiration for these mysteries was our family's stubborn, huge, skittish and always-hungry dog Boo Radley. This dog could drag anybody into an adventure.My sister and I created and ran an international ghost story writing contest. It lasted four years. Now I no longer ever desire to be a magazine editor. I go to science fiction conventions. I'm a member of RWA. Halloween is my favorite holiday and I take the motto "Keep Austin Weird" seriously even though I live 35 miles away."Talking to The Dead Guys" is the first in a series of murder mysteries about a dog, strong women, and small-town living (or is it dying?). Check out all my books at http://rixcafetexican.com and my blog at http://gretchenrix.com.

Book preview

DEDICATION

Talking to the Dead Guys is dedicated to my sister Roxanne Rix and our mother Maxine Rix, as well as our pets Boo Radley Rix, Pyanfar Rix and Toady-Yukon Rix. This book wouldn’t have existed without them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Roxanne Rix, Billie Rix, Carole McGregor, Mike McGregor and Dianne Stevenson for their services as beta readers and proofreaders.

Visit us at http://rixcafetexican.com/ and http://gretchenrix.com/

CHAPTER 1

October should have been interesting, and it wasn’t, although you had to give them credit—Talking to the Dead Guys (not their name for it, but mine) sounded good on paper. It was a guided tour through Lockhart’s old city cemetery in the dark with scheduled ghostly appearances supposed to raise enough money to keep the historical association in the black for the rest of the year.

In fact, though, when they wouldn’t let me and my huge American mastiff Boo Radley on the tractor-drawn wagon down to the graveyard, and it was warm enough the first Friday in October for sweat to be clumping my hair under my gimmee cap, the beginning of October looked decidedly sucky. The two of us had to walk down the dark, pothole-ridden oil road and trail the tour without getting spotted and thrown out.

And that’s how I tripped over my own two feet and fell right onto a corpse.

Which squished.

The month of October suddenly went right to the top as my worst month ever.

Our dog Boo liked riding in cars. It seemed Boo would have liked riding behind that tractor as well. She dragged me without mercy down the oil, dirt and gravel road after the wagon as if we had a chance in hell of catching up to them. You should have seen it. One hundred and ten pounds of American mastiff vs. one nearly middle-aged out-of-shape Texas woman. In the dark. It was no contest. I kept my feet under me for the first five minutes and then went flying face first out into the grass. Boo kept going without me and I went rolling down the hill toward the creek. I ended up with leash burns on my hands, but I still had the flashlight.

I knew my huge though timid dog wasn’t going to go too far. Not without me and the light. And she didn’t. I could see her just over the ridge, sitting there. But she wouldn’t come back to me.

Come here! Come on, girl. Be a good girl and come here!

Nothing close to a big slobbery dog bounding back to its owner happened. The Booster hunkered down just outside of the range of my super-duty pocket-sized flashlight with her tail between her legs. She trembled as if a thunderstorm approached. And it didn’t. The stars were bright. The full moon rising out above the overpass and near the water tower started illuminating the woods around the city park and the road.

Come on! I tried one last time.

She wasn’t going to move. Boo might not even move with me pulling at her with the leash, but lying in the middle of the park road in the dark wasn’t a viable option. Down in the ditch I pulled myself to all fours and began getting up from the damp and funky ground without looking where I was.

And that’s when it got much worse. I put my hands right onto the torso of a dead body. As I said before, it squished.

A wave of shivering rose from my belly all the way through the top of my head, ruining my blood pressure. I thought I was going to faint. I couldn’t think straight (nothing new there, alas). But in a minute it passed, only to be replaced by a hot flash.

Talking to the Dead Guys was my amusing (to me) nickname for the annual night-time tour of the historic cemetery Lockhart had taken to giving each October. I’d seen the dead used in their program before, but they were dummies, not real folk. What I’d leaned into out here in the grass alongside the entrance road to the city park was too solid (if squishy) for a dummy. And it was nowhere near the tour area, at least by my estimation.

My first thought kept flying back at me, trying to take hold: that this was all part of the show. But after a minute, my second thought got me moving. I backpedaled from the corpse as frantically as a fish caught on a line, and soon I was sitting in the middle of the road with my frightened dog. In the dark. My trusty flashlight had evidently fallen out of my pocket somewhere near the dead man. Or woman. Or child.

Don’t go there, I told myself.

Boo Radley heard me, but her shakes continued. My sister Flannery would have been able to calm Boo, but good old Olive Sommers could only push and pull and coax before finally giving it up and going back for the flashlight before we could get run over.

Why didn’t you scream? Flannery asked me later in the night when the dog and I were home safe, having spent hours talking to the police, and spilling it all to the sheriff’s office to boot.

You know I can’t scream. It always comes out like a croak.

Told you to see the doctor about that, she chided. Then, I can’t believe you didn’t scream. I heard a chuckle concealed behind her manicured hands.

It wasn’t funny!

I didn’t say it was.

Boo Radley had followed me off the road and into the grass down to the creek when I inched back to retrieve the flashlight. Almost immediately a second tractor-drawn wagon came barreling down the road towards the cemetery tour taking place at the opposite end of the park from where I was. I ran back up the incline. I waved them down. And despite their disapproval upon seeing Boo at my side, they stopped.

Miss Sommers, Myrtle Greystone began in that tone of voice she was known for. You can’t come on the tour with your dog. If you’ll just take the dog home and return we’ll try to find a spot for you on one of the later routes. And then she raised her supercilious nose in the air as if she sniffed something bad. I really think she opened her mouth to say something cutting about my blameless (this time) dog. I guess shock had earlier dampened my sense of smell, but I could sure smell it now, and it wasn’t dog poop.

Before she could form the words I turned the flashlight onto the body behind us half-hidden by the creek. I didn’t scream, but Mrs. Myrtle Greystone shrieked loud enough that cars slammed on their brakes on the overpass above Kreuz’s Market, the famous Texas barbecue place. Boo Radley bolted. I was dragged back into the road and as my dog tried vainly to insert herself into the wagon full of tourists from San Marcos and some of Lockhart’s own city council members and their wives, everybody started yelling. And everybody kept yelling until the police arrived. When the sheriff came barreling in right afterwards, the yelling started again.

Since it had been me and Boo who’d found the body, we had to stay. The rest of the people were sent home, and without the tour they’d paid for. The police started by not telling me anything. But by and by the sheriff relayed more than I was prepared to digest.

You were lucky, sugar, Sheriff Diaz whispered into my ear while patting at my shoulder like I was one of his football players. That the sheriff doubled as the high school coach was a big bone of contention in the county commissioner’s court. It didn’t faze Juan-Chico Diaz, though, no sir-ree. Nothing seemed to. This here body you landed on is missing a head, he told me bluntly.

And then before I really understood what he’d said, he shocked me further with the beginning of his interrogation. You know where that head is, Olive?

You know I was in shock when I fastened on the fact he had called me sugar instead of there being a dead body down at the creek, and that I jabbed him in the chest with my index finger while complaining about it. You know my name, Juan-Chico. Start using it or I’ll file another complaint. We had a history.

His face turned bright red at my using his Christian name instead of his title. Everyone knew how much he hated it. My sister and I figured his mother had been addicted to The Waltons reruns on TV when she was a youngster, thus saddling our otherwise competent county officer with John Boy. He controlled himself with visible effort and got right back on task. With a big huff he continued to interrogate us.

What are you and your monster dog doing out here in the dark, Ms. Sommers?

Talking to the Dead Guys, I snapped, my voice going up the scale with the last word so that it sounded like a question. The graveyard tour, I explained. You know how everybody feels about Boo Radley. They wouldn’t let her on the wagon so we were walking down to join in the historic cemetery tour.

I believe it’s the five-year anniversary Caldwell County/Lockhart, Texas Historical Association guided tour of historical gravesites that you’re referring to. Since you started it, let’s call what’s what.

Boo got restless with that headless corpse down there. She pulled strongly on her leash and headed back up the park road as I tried answering the sheriff’s question the same time as I struggled to stay on my feet. Leaning my full weight back on my heels, I brought the Boo dog to a temporary halt. Then she relaxed her stance and I toppled backwards. The leash kept me upright, but I’d stepped into something nasty.

Serves you right, the sheriff said with a smirk on his handsome swarthy face.

This time it was dog doo and not the dead body that smelled things up. You had to give it to him. Sheriff Diaz had a wealth of experience with local crime, so we were still on the road and not down in the grass contaminating the crime scene. I hadn’t blundered back into the corpse, although that had been my first thought at the squish sound my shoe made.

As my shock began to fade I glanced at our youngish law officer and wondered for the first time why the sheriff’s department was out here along with the police. The city park and city cemetery were in the city limits; the policing of its crimes properly belonged to the police. However, it was none of my business, so I left my thoughts unspoken.

About this time the first group out on the five-year anniversary Caldwell County/Lockhart, Texas Historical Association guided tour of historical gravesites evidently finished. The tractor and wagon rig chugged up the hill towards us like it was running out of steam, and God damn it, they stopped when they saw the sheriff. Juan-Chico abandoned Boo and me, striding with authority up to the driver on the tractor, who happened to be the man who mowed our lawn. Marcus.

I want you to take all these folks up to the pavilion and have them wait on me, he told him. There’s been an accident here. We need to talk to them.

Marcus didn’t argue or ask any questions, other than with a nod of his head to my dog and me. Boo, who had been fighting the leash for the last quarter hour, took this moment to plop down onto her belly, the agreed-upon signal between us that she was tired of it all and wanted to go home. Hold up there, Marcus, the sheriff called out.

The driver hadn’t made any movement that indicated he was leaving, but he did turn his head and stare at us when the sheriff yelled. Make room for the dog from hell and Ms. Sommers, Juan-Chico ordered. And keep them up there at the pavilion with the rest of them. Can you do that for me?

A small smile formed at the corner of the driver’s lips and I wondered why, until after he got out and let down the railing to the back of the wagon and I saw just who was sitting in the bed. The small man had an all-out grin going by then. It was Matilda Driver and she was holding court with at least five of her women-friends and their husbands and taking up more than twice the room she should have. There’d be plenty of space for me and my dog if they’d just scrunch up their Victorian-era skirts and let us by.

Olive! she shouted. Has that dog done its business yet? She peered at me over the top of her anachronistic glasses as I clambered aboard. I don’t see a doggie poop bag in your hands, she shrilled.

Evidently no one had yet told them about the dead body on the side of the road. Surely she wouldn’t be expounding on dog poop if she knew about the death, I thought. Not even Matilda Driver would continue our feud in the face of the ultimate crime. But when Boo Radley jumped up into the truck bed right after me, Matilda tried to beat her back off with the business end of her specially-made Victorian umbrella.

One whack was all she got on my dog. Sheriff Diaz stopped her with a quick grab as Boo Radley went into her submissive pose, front feet in the air and curved into a praying stance, belly exposed and expressive brown eyes expressing for all they were worth. The sheriff stopped just short of throwing the umbrella over the side and into the trees. After glaring at Mrs. Driver, he took the time to bend over Boo and rub her stomach before leaving me and my dog and taking the umbrella with him. Boo stayed on her back as the tractor pulled away with a sharp jerk, but I toppled sideways and sat on somebody.

And as the wagon began its climb back to the pavilion and the judge I’d sat on pushed me off his lap and onto the bench, the type of bright lights you see at football games came on around the crime scene and everyone saw it clearly for the first time.

Sheriff Diaz had already made his first mistake. He must not have actually gone down to the site, but you could see it right clear from the elevation of the wagon bed. The dead body wasn’t headless. The head was just easy to miss in the dark or by the light of a pocket flashlight like I’d used. The John Doe body had its head all right; it was just beaten so severely that it existed in pieces ground into the dirt and above the collar of the white and flouncy-sleeved period shirt that the rest of its body wore.

CHAPTER 2

Boo Radley shared my distress. As the wagon jerked its way forward, she curled up into a very large, heavy, fawn-colored ball underneath the judge’s feet and pretended she was safe. Hadn’t everyone seen what I’d seen? The driver seemed intent on getting us back up the road as quickly as he could, and the sheriff was walking away.

Stop! I cried with all my lung capacity. It still wasn’t a scream, but it was the best I could do. That’s Grady William Pearce down there! Sheriff! It’s Grady Pearce. I’ve seen him in that shirt!

You mind your own business, Matilda ordered me, reaching for the confiscated umbrella and surprised at not finding it.

I couldn’t get off the wagon while it was moving, so I stood and waved like a maniac for Juan-Chico’s attention. Grady Pearce! I called down to him. He’s supposed to be one of the ghosts!

What I’d just said didn’t register on me for a moment, and then it did. I knew Grady was to have been one of the historical reenactors because he’d told me earlier in the week. It was in the newspaper, too. Anyway, he was always one of them. Even wore the same costume year in and year out. In fact, he was the only one of the men who didn’t try to dress up as a cowboy. It was his only chance to wear the frilly and long-sleeved white shirt his drama-starved soul required. He’d told me that once as we were fighting over checking out the same book in the library.

It was no use. I sat down and let the driver take me up the hill and away with the rest of them. Poor Grady. What had he gotten himself into? Although I couldn’t scream, I could certainly cry. I cried so hard all the way back that Boo joined in with her funny, demanding woofs which soon became ear-splitting howls. Matilda made a scene by holding her hands over her ears and glaring. Everyone else was quiet.

Our arrival at the pavilion didn’t get any attention until Boo jumped out of the truck bed. She made a beeline for the food, almost knocking over a couple of children blocking her way. Her tail wagged furiously, almost rotating in a complete circle, so quickly had she forgotten the trauma down the road in her eagerness to get to the cheese.

I had the time to say, Don’t feed her any cheese, before the police car with the blue lights on top pulled alongside. Greg Martinez scooted out of the driver’s seat and pointed his finger right at the Boo dog before giving it a dramatic shake. Didn’t we have this talk this morning, Ms. Sommers?

I pretended I didn’t know he was talking about the poop bags (or lack of them) and about taking Boo around town where she wasn’t particularly popular. I jumped right into the fray. Is it Grady Pearce? Please tell me it isn’t Grady.

Officer Martinez didn’t answer me. Instead he pointed at my mastiff. Take the dog in hand, ma’am, he ordered. Then go with all the others out to the picnic tables. We’ve got questions for all of you, and then you can go home.

And then as everyone turned to follow his instructions he caught my eye and gestured for me to come closer. We don’t know who it is, Ms. Olive, he whispered. We’ll have to get test results back. But I’ve sent someone out to Grady’s place to scout it out.

Well, I knew who it was. No one else would have worn that shirt. This was Chisholm Trail territory, the home of cowboy boots, cowboy hats, and cowboy shirts. Boo and I paced ourselves and followed the others to the pavilion after thanking Officer Martinez for his confidence. The twenty or so people who’d been in that first wagon of the tour looked dazed as they crowded into the picnic area and began searching for comfortable seats. As expected, Matilda Driver took over and began ordering everyone about.

Were you all raised in a damned barn? she yelled. The young man she pounced on got his butt off the bench before she could grab his collar, but then he stood over her, glowering. No need for that, Mr. Reyes, Matilda scolded. A gentleman lets a lady have the vacant seating. Here, she called, elbowing him out of the way. Plenty of room for you three.

Some of the men present took the hint and got up to let the middle-aged women in the group take their seats. When Matilda then went back to her own bench, that left Boo and me the only females standing and Boo promptly plopped down on the concrete. I didn’t have time to complain. Officer Martinez marched into our group with two other policemen and waved his hands for silence.

Some of you already know, but some of you don’t, he began, looking us in the eye as he moved his head around to take everyone in. Ms. Sommers found a dead body on the side of the park road right after your wagon got to the cemetery. Right now we don’t know who it is, he continued, giving me a steely stare. We need to ask you a few questions is all. I want you to break up into four groups, please. Doesn’t matter who you’re with. Four groups, please.

There was a scraping of picnic benches on the concrete as everyone stood up and tried to align themselves with their friends. Matilda Driver successfully gathered her girlfriends to her side, but had to give one up to another group due to numbers. I aimed myself and Boo Radley towards the chiropractor, but when I got there he’d already achieved his quota. Mr. Reyes and I stood apart from the rest until we gravitated to each other and resigned ourselves to being the last chosen. Boo slobbered over the young man’s hands as he tried to pet her.

It didn’t take long. We were left until last, but it seemed all they did was take down names, addresses, and phone numbers. When they got to Matilda Driver they didn’t even ask her a thing but just waved her on. Seems that everyone knows Matilda Driver in this town.

But with me they wanted to know the proverbial information: Where were you over the last three days?

Well, I said. Today. This morning I took the dog for a walk. At 3:30 A.M., but just around the block. Then I worked on the short story contest until about noon. You can check the sent mail file if you want, I offered. Then I had a nasty thought. But I guess Flannery could have done the work and no one would be the wiser, I told them. But it was me. After lunch we went to the movies in San Marcos. Then Boo and I drove over here.

As I was wracking my brain trying to think back into Thursday’s activities, Mr. Reyes butted in. I’ve had a cold. I’ve been in bed for the last three days at least.

I opened my mouth to continue answering their questions, but Officer Martinez held up his hand to stop me. Expecting him to say Just the facts, ma’am, I laughed.

Excuse me! he exclaimed. You find a dead man and you think it’s funny?

My face flamed as red as the sheriff’s had when I called him Juan-Chico. I didn’t think anything about this evening had been funny, but it had elements of the bizarre about it and the bizarre always brought out the irreverent in me.

No, sir, I answered, putting as much contrition in my voice as I could. And Greg wasn’t often so strict, either. I guess he’d never seen a dead body, either.

Mr. Reyes was glaring at me as well. Boo saw it and growled at him. All three of us wanted nothing more than to get home. I guess Officer Martinez also wanted to wrap it up, because he threw up his hands at us. All right, he said. We know where you live. Think about where you were and write it down. We’ll call you into the station to take statements.

And then he turned to me and added, Stay away from the crime scene. Then to make it seem like he wasn’t picking me out of the group he raised his voice and repeated it for all to hear. Stay out of the crime scene area. We’d also appreciate it if you’d stay out of the park as well.

I wondered if Saturday and Sunday’s cemetery tours would be canceled. The crime scene wasn’t too close to where the event was staged, and they’d evidently already had a substitute for Grady, so I wondered what they’d do. The Caldwell County/Lockhart, Texas Historical Association needed the money pretty badly. I’d bet that the show would go on. I didn’t ask.

They released us to go home, omitting that other ubiquitous order not to leave town, so I kept Boo Radley out of the way as everyone scrambled to get from the pavilion before the police or the sheriff changed their minds. While I sat there waiting for them, I thought about the crime. Why would anyone want to kill Grady William Pearce? And how did he get his head bashed in the way it was? And who among our friends and neighbors had murdered him?

What makes you think the murderer has to be a local? Flannery asked me when I got home and told her all about the incident. Lockhart’s got two widely traveled highways crossing almost at the entrance to the cemetery. Within blocks. This could be a stranger-on-stranger death.

I almost laughed again at her phrasing. Again with the irreverence. And Greg was right; this wasn’t the situation for it.

Flannery saw my expression and stopped talking. I’d evidently offended her sensibilities as well. We were at the kitchen table and Boo was under it. Flannery gave me a look and then picked up the novel she’d laid aside when we’d come in. She returned to reading it. Once she got in that mood there was no getting her out of it, so I found the dog a before-bedtime snack and retired to my room to write up my notes.

My older sister and I live together in a house too big for the two of us and we usually leave our doors open. Not the doors to the outside, obviously, but our bedroom doors, the bathroom doors. Except when Flannery’s writing. This way any pets we have can come and go as they please, although we only have one pet. There had been some discussion about getting cats, but I’d put my foot down. And this way we can hear an accident when it happens, not that we’d had much more than the occasional broken plate so far. My sister’s fiftieth birthday was coming up this year; that makes me forty-seven.

This evening she shut her door. And I left it that way. If I’d give her enough time, when she calmed down Flannery would be the Mycroft to my Sherlock Holmes. Together we’d solve the murder of Grady William Pearce. Right now, my first step would be to write up my mental notes before I forgot anything.

I eschewed the computer for the writing pad and pen. Number one was that Grady’s body was dressed for the cemetery tour performance. He hadn’t told me which ghost he’d be representing this year. I didn’t remember it saying in the newspaper, either. It probably wasn’t pertinent to the murder, but it was something I could investigate. Number two on my list had to be where his body was discovered. You’d have thought that the people driving up and down the city park road would have noticed a dead body over there on the grass. Even if it was down by the creek in a shallow depression. The city park and playground had to be part of a regular patrol route for the police. Why hadn’t they seen it?

Number three was the motive for the murder. What did Grady have that someone wanted? Or what had he done that angered someone to the point of mayhem? Or who had he scorned or jilted who was so hot-blooded they’d kill him over it? Or what had he seen that someone didn’t