The Cheesehead Shuffle (A Quirky Midwestern Mystery)

By T.S. Ellinghausen

When a young and energetic graduate student quits school to help her boyfriend save a small Wisconsin dairy farm, she finds herself drawn into a vortex of absurdity as she attempts to uncover his involvement in the murder of a local man. With the help of a reclusive Native American philosopher, an aging hippie environmentalist, and a mysterious and brokenhearted Chinese junk captain, she attempts to uncover the truth and becomes entangled in circumstances that pit the characters of a small Wisconsin town against each other.

Imagine a Cohen brothers’ production of a Carl Hiaasen novel narrated by Chris Farley after an all night bender at a BoDeans concert. Mmmm cheese! Anyone who can appreciate the unique quirky sensibilities of the sort of people who live in the upper Midwest will probably enjoy this playful and twisted romp through the idiosyncrasies of rural Wisconsin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.S. Ellinghausen
• Release date: Aug 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301344369

T.S. Ellinghausen

T.S. can trace his creative roots back to his quiet Amish upbringing in rural Indiana. Some of his earliest memories include whistling to the rhythm of the scythe whilst harvesting wheat. He was, in fact, among the first wave of Amish pioneers in rock and roll, now commonly known as the “Amish Invasion”. His first group, “Ezekiel and the All Stars”, was awarded the coveted Wood Record for their smash hit “Cast Off ye Dancing Boots”. T.S. was eventually cast out of the band himself when Ezekiel caught him using an electric blender to make Margaritas.T.S then formed the legendary Amish power trio “Horse ‘n Buggy Blues Band” and found success playing many venues including “Jebidiah’s Black Clothing Outlet” and “The Amish Furniture Gallery”. Once again T.S was ostracized from the group when he was found to be using a refrigerator to keep his beer cold.A boat wreck during an ill-fated trip to New York led to meeting some like-minded misfits with whom he eventually formed the band Plan B. These days T.S. can be found writing books and jamming with “Plan B” as well as using many different electrical appliances.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A veil of mist lingered over a clearing at the edge of a small stream like a spirit reluctant to let go of the night. An enormous buck and several does foraged on the dewy undergrowth amid vague shadows cast by the soft early morning light. The buck raised its head and stood alert listening to the clamor of men trampling through the woods. Its nostrils flared as it sniffed the cool morning air. Something didn’t smell quite right with the men so it uttered a quiet warning, flashed its white tail, and bounded off into the dense woods with the does following behind. The two hunters never saw the magnificent twenty-two-point buck as they plodded along, arguing with each other.

They put more of them fancy what-cha-call-em’s...pher-o-mones, in the fake stuff. Smells better than the real deal! They really go for it, said Walter.

That fake stuff is crap! Phil said, as he munched on an apple. If you really want to attract ‘em, you gotta use the real deal. Just a little dab’ll do and it drives ‘em wild.

Hey! Them apples aint fer us, you damn fool! spat Walter.

Aw, shut your pie hole! You’d probably rather eat one of them fake plastic apples, huh! Phil said, as he took another bite and threw the apple core into the woods.

Phil and Walter were lost deep in the woods of Wisconsin on the first day of deer season. It was just cool enough so that their words were accompanied by breathy blasts of condensation, although the damp air and overcast sky made the early November morning seem colder than it really was. They were following a little creek trying to find the meadow where Phil had bagged a huge ten-point buck last year. They planned to climb a tree at the edge of the meadow and shoot at deer that came to eat the apples scattered below. Walter was arguing with Phil about which scent worked best to attract deer. He couldn’t decide whether real deer urine, or the newfangled synthetic stuff, worked best. Phil was old school however, and firmly believed in real urine, in fact, he was covered in it. Walter had a bottle of each in the pocket of his blaze-orange Carhartt coveralls, and was still trying to decide which one to slather on.

Phil was just swallowing the last of his apple when he stopped dead in his tracks. Walter wasn’t paying attention and walked right into him.

Hey! What the hell, Phil! Walter snorted.

Phil made no reply. He wasn’t able to find his breath as he stood and stared ahead transfixed. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Just a few feet ahead of him lying in the weeds at the edge of the creek was the body of a man.

Aw fer cripes sake, will ya look at that! he said at last.

Any dead man would have been out of place deep in the north woods so far from civilization, but this body seemed particularly out of context: it was the body of a huge man dressed in a gray sharkskin suit. Phil noticed the little tassels on the shiny brown leather slip-on loafers and wondered how a guy wearing shoes like that could end up way out here in the woods. The double-breasted suit coat was immaculate except for an oblong bloodstain on the lapel that looked almost like a red boutonnière around the shaft of an arrow buried deep within the body.

Geeze, is he dead? asked Phil.

Ya, you betcha he’s dead, said Walter, as he knelt down and felt for any signs of life. As he looked closer, it appeared that some small animal had relieved itself on the dead man’s face. With deference, Walter tried to flick the little piece of turd off of the man’s cheek.

Don’t touch it, ya fool! hollered Phil. This guy wasn’t just out a hunting. Looks like he’s from down south, M’walkey, maybe even Chicago, Ain-a-hey.

After a bit of stammering, Walter said, Ya, oh shoot, best we get the police.

****

Sheriff’s Deputy Oscar Martinez was not at all happy as he followed the hunters through the woods. He hated hunting season. He kept that opinion to himself however because in this part of Wisconsin, if you didn’t like hunting, you might as well tattoo I don’t belong here on your forehead. The rules were simple; you hunt in November, and you hope that the Green Bay Packers will someday return to the glory days of Vince Lombardi’s reign. Deputy Martinez violated both of these social mores since he didn’t care much for American football, and he couldn’t understand why everyone seemed to get such a thrill out of killing deer in November.

Martinez was the only Latino officer in the Waushum County Sheriff’s Department and he had never felt much like he belonged here in the middle of Wisconsin. Even though his parents had immigrated more than fifty years ago, and he’d been with the department for fifteen years, he was still considered an outsider. In this part of Wisconsin, a non-white man in uniform stood out like a sore thumb and was still something of a novelty to the locals who were almost all descendents of the early Scandinavian settlers. He’d been dreading this week for months now. He couldn’t stand the frenzied anticipation of the hunters as the season approached. Christ, the entire state practically closed down for the start of deer season. He would be working double shifts all week because all of the other officers were hunters, and they had all wanted the week off.

Martinez was also more than a bit skeptical of the story these two bozos had told him about some huge dead guy in a double-breasted suit deep in the woods. He figured the sighting was the result of too many Sopranos reruns coupled with perhaps a few too many Pabst Blue Ribbon beers. In these parts, hunters sometimes got so excited during the opening of the season that they would shoot cows, mistaking them for deer. Some of the more proactive dairy farmers would go so far as to paint the word COW in bright red letters on the sides of their animals to discourage this practice. Like the dairy farmers, Martinez didn’t have much faith in these hunters’ observational skills.

However, after about forty-five minutes crisscrossing through the woods, Phil and Walter were able to locate the body again. Deputy Martinez was surprised to confirm that, indeed, there was a large dead man in a double-breasted sharkskin suit in the woods. He radioed for the coroner and began his investigation.

Chapter 2

Rise and shine, angel, said Abel Walker as he set a cup of coffee on the bedside table and kissed Sunny on the forehead. Come on downstairs and I’ll fix you some breakfast.

Sunny opened her sleepy green eyes and propped herself up on her elbow squinting in the morning sunlight shining through the window. Hey, honey. You’re up early aren’t you? she said, glancing at the clock. Another late night at the Elk Lodge, huh? When did you get home last night?

Oh, it wasn’t too late, sweet-pea, but you were already asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.

Sunny stretched and yawned, Hmm, so how’s the big fundraiser going?

Abel sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through Sunny’s auburn hair letting it fall behind her shoulders. It’s going really well. We’re gonna raise a lot of money for those kids. It’s been a lot of work, but it’ll be worth it, he said, smiling at her. So what would you like, pancakes or eggs?

Sunny sat up against the headboard and hugged a pillow, savoring the moment. It was such a perfect moment. This was what she imagined life on the farm was supposed to be like.

Mmmm, how about eggs? I just got some fresh ones yesterday.

Abel kissed her again and flashed his beguiling smile as he stood up. His blond hair was always rumpled in a way that gave the appearance that he had just woken up from a cozy nap. Sunny found it irresistible. He was wearing well-fitting blue jeans and a red flannel shirt, and he looked like he could have stepped right off the pages of a Lands’ End catalog. If not for his somewhat bloodshot blue eyes and bandaged finger, he could have been in a photo shoot for Hot Dairy Farmers magazine, if in fact there were such a publication.

I’ll go start breakfast. Come on down when you’re ready, he said as he winked and left the room.

****

Ten minutes later Sunny was sitting at a drop-leaf table in the kitchen reading the newspaper while Abel served up sausage and eggs. The old farmhouse kitchen was anything but modern. The most recent appliance must have been at least fifty years old, but the kitchen was clean and quaint with exposed pine flooring and freshly painted bead-board wainscoting.

Abel had inherited the small dairy farm last year. His Great Uncle Delmer had died a bachelor at one hundred and four years of age, and had left Abel the farm and a few thousand dollars. Old Delmer Walker had scratched out his last will and testament on the side of a crusty old feedbag as he gasped his last breaths, leaving everything to his nephew. Abel Walker had no experience farming and, in fact, had only met his Great Uncle Delmer once when he was a little boy. But old Delmer must have remembered the visit of the charismatic little boy and apparently couldn’t think of another living relative to leave the farm to. Abel had been overwhelmed by the amount of work the old place needed. But Sunny had encouraged him to keep with it, and had pitched in to help transform the dilapidated old farm into a quaint and viable little dairy farm.

Sitting at the table, Sunny’s attention was drawn to a newspaper headline and she read the story underneath. It says here that they found a dead guy in the woods up by the Hiowoupa reservation, she said. His name was Tony Castillano and it says that he was killed by an arrow in the chest. Can you believe that?

Abel’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He felt like he had just been sucker punched in the gut. As he struggled to breathe, his hand began shaking so hard his Jimmy Dean sausage fell off his fork. Sunny was engrossed in the newspaper and didn’t seem to notice his reaction to the news.

They say that he had ties to the mob, and his nickname was Tony the Turd. That’s a funny nickname, isn’t it? Can they even print that in the newspaper? said Sunny, wrinkling her nose. What do you suppose a mob guy was doing way up here?

I have no idea, Abel replied, trying very hard to keep his voice from wavering. He slurped the last of his coffee hoping that the jolt of caffeine would bring some clarity and maybe somehow help make this news go away. He poured another cup and tried to compose himself for Sunny.

You want some more coffee, angel? he said as sweetly as he could manage.

Sure, that’d be nice, she replied, not looking up from the paper.

Abel’s frazzled nerves and bandaged finger made it difficult for him as he fumbled to top off her cup. Two days ago, while Sunny was putting a splint on his finger, Abel hadn’t had the nerve to tell her what had really happened, so he conjured up a story of how one of the cows had stepped on his finger and broken it. The truth was that Tony the Turd had broken Abel’s left pinky finger after Abel explained that he did not, in fact, have the money that Tony had come to collect. Abel squirmed at the table as he reflected on the incident. Tony the Turd was a former mob henchman who left Chicago after getting into trouble with a Chicago crime family. He had come to Wisconsin where he figured he wouldn’t run into any of his old mob buddies. He was a gruesome, hulking character with an enormous mole that looked very much like a miniature pile of poop on the side of his massive, misshapen face. The Tony the Turd moniker may have been because of the mole, or it might have had something to do with his somewhat less than charming disposition.

I’ll be back in one week, pretty boy, Tony had said as he effortlessly snapped Abel’s finger. I’ll need twenty grand by then or I’ll break da other nine! Maybe mess up that pretty face of yours. He reached into Abel’s pocket and pulled out his cell phone and held it in front of Abel’s face crushing it in his bare hand. Capisce? he said as bits of the phone rained onto the barn floor.

Even though Abel did capisce, he still didn’t have the money. Nor did he have any way to come up with that amount any time soon.

Abel pushed his plate away. He had lost his appetite for scrambled eggs. His stomach felt like it was tying itself in knots as he fought to keep his composure. He tried to imagine how Tony the Turd could have wound up in the woods with an arrow in him. It dawned on him that the finger of suspicion might point his way and that he could be in some real danger. He decided it might be a good idea to get out of town for a little while.

I been thinking that it’d be nice to take a little trip, Abel blurted out. Haven’t you been wanting to go over to Door County to see the fall colors?

Well, yes, said Sunny.

Let’s go today!

Today? But what about the girls?

The girls were the six dairy cows. Betsy, Esmerelda and Harmilda were the last of Uncle Delmer’s faithful old dairy cows. Sunny had purchased How Now Brown, Black, and Holy at auction. The six of them weren’t enough to even call a herd. Sunny had to pull some strings with the dairy wholesaler just to get the milk truck to stop to collect the tiny amount of milk they produced. Sunny had been advocating for more cows, but Abel was dragging his feet on the issue because of his general dislike of cattle. Sunny referred to his condition as fine bovine phobia.

Oh, no problem! I’ll get The Bobs to watch ‘em fer a few days, stammered Abel.

You wouldn’t really trust those fools with the girls, would you? asked Sunny.

Leave it to me, angel. They can handle it. We’ll leave after lunch.

Chapter 3

After breakfast, Abel went to see The Bobs. The Bobs lived in an old ramshackle trailer at the edge of the woods about half a mile down the road from the dairy farm. They were the nearest neighbors and had become late-night drinking buddies with Abel. They occasionally helped out with odd jobs around the farm in exchange for beer.

As Abel approached the trailer through knee-high weeds, he began to smell a curious mix of wood smoke, stale cigarettes, and some kind of animal excrement. The trailer was listing precariously to one side and dirty-yellow insulation was hanging out in several spots where rust had eaten away at the metal siding. Wood smoke wafted out of a rusty stovepipe that stuck through the side of the trailer at a jaunty angle. The density of refuse and empty beer cans scattered on the ground increased as he approached the trailer until he was walking on a veritable patio of crushed aluminum cans and miscellaneous detritus.

Abel let himself in and found himself in a suffocating darkness. The only light was the blue glow of Judge Judy on the TV. The smell inside the trailer was horrendous, as if old sneakers were being boiled in a mixture of beer and urine. Abel was thankful that it was too dark to see the sources of the stink.

Hey Abel, how you doing? said Big Bob from a recliner somewhere in a dark corner of the trailer.

Oh, fair-to-middlin, said Abel, Did you hear about the Turd?

No, what’s up with the Turd? asked Big Bob.

He’s dead, for Christ sake! They found him in the woods with an arrow in his chest!

Well, if that don’t beat all! said Big Bob.

"Cry-yiy-yiy! Ain’t this your lucky day you