Mace Of Spades

By J.A. Sprouls

Mace Of Spades - In the second installment of the Grandfather Mummy Series, Jo and Ava Skinner are now the owners of a Bed and Breakfast Inn, established in Jo's Grandmother's homestead. Things are running smoothly until a Consortium Man comes to town wanting to buy the Inn for a new health spa ranch. They hope to exploit the fact that Jo's granddad, Hank, was mummified and lives to tell about. With the notion that the arid climate helps life's longevity they hope to make a killing. Unfortunately for the consortium, Jo's not selling.

The Consortium Man then targets Jo's superstitious and cantankerous neighbor, Edna Clankerton's, land. Which suits Jo just fine. It may stop Edna from her bi-weekly tirades about the Inn's guest's invading her territory and opening up her borders to demons and hell hounds. When Edna is found dead, killed by an antique medieval mace, Jo is the first and apparently the only suspect, due to a rather loud and well witnessed argument with the victim that very day. It's up to Jo, Hank, and Ava to find the true culprit. But that's a lot easier said then done. Most particularly since Edna was not well liked in town. There may be too many possible murderers. This leads the three sleuths in a character filled humorous chase to catch the real killer and clear Jo's name.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.A. Sprouls
• Release date: Feb 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458060464

J.A. Sprouls

J.A. Sprouls lives in the beautiful and rather flat Plains of West Texas. As a former antique dealer whose business tanked along with the rest of the country's economy, she had to go out and get a real job. Writing, for her, has become a way to wind down after a long day and escape reality for just a short while. 'My Grandfather Is One Heck Of A Mummy' is the first in what will hopefully be a successful cozy mystery series. The second novel in the series, 'Mace Of Spades,' with 'Cowabunga Dead' as the third in the series. Another series that she has written is the Cryptozoology Series with two current books: 'Kamikaze Pigs' and 'Don Coyote.' She has even tried writing a youth novel series titled: 'Abigail Dumpling Adventures.' She has also written two non-series books: 'A Vision Touch' and 'Death Drives a Chevy.' She is currently working on her next novel and should soon be finished. She enjoys writing cozy mysteries with a humorous touch and hopes her readers enjoy reading them as much as she has enjoyed writing them.

Book preview

Chapter One:

It had taken quite a while, but the big too-do about my Grandfather, Hank Skinner, had finally died down. It’s not very unusual that he got a lot of attention. After all, he is a walking, talking, mummy. Granted, that may sound strange to you but there is an easy explanation for it. At least it seems easy to me, but then again, I’ve been dealing with the situation for some time now. My Grandmother, May Skinner, Hank’s wife, caught my Grandfather having a tryst in her own house and bedroom. May took exception to it, which I can’t blame her, and killed both of them and hid the bodies in the attic of her ancestral home. At least she thought she had killed them both. As it turned out, she only managed to kill the woman Granddad was fooling around with, Clash Boombah. It was only after May had died and my Mother and I were going through the house to prepare for an estate sale that I found my Granddad. He had been stuffed into a mailbag and then stuffed into a trunk. Amazingly, he had somehow survived. In a mummified state that is.

I guess that is what you could call it. ‘Survived.’ Since he can walk and talk (a bit too much to my mother’s and my liking) and generally get around without any problems. He is however in a mummified state. His internal organs are pickled but I think that is due to the fact that since being freed from his trunk he has consumed nothing but alcoholic beverages. He claims it’s to keep himself preserved, but I have my doubts. I think he just likes the stuff. His skin is unnaturally dry and a little brittle. Doctors have prescribed lotions and skin softeners but they don’t seem to do a whole lot. Therefore, that’s why he is considered ‘mummified.’

In general, he should have died when Grandmother whacked him one over the head. If not by that means, then the fact that he was locked up in a trunk for well over seventy years with no water and food. That really should have done him in, it would have most people. But, no, he survived all that, much to the befuddlement of the doctors who have studied him. When it came to light that he was alive, we got requests from all the major medical institutions to study him. We went with the closest medical school around, in Lubbock, Texas.

The school has a very good reputation and we figured that way we wouldn’t have to travel a lot. Drought, Texas, where we live, is just a stone’s throw away from Lubbock. So it worked out just fine. I also felt it was best not to get Granddad into an environment that had too much humidity. I didn’t want him getting too much moisture for fear it might do him in. I mean Drought is lacking in so many things, humidity being one of them. I figured that was how he had become mummified in the first place. So to be on the safe side we’ve kept him close to home, much to his consternation.

Once the medical personal declared they hadn’t the faintest idea how a man could be ‘murdered, confined for over seventy years and then still be a walking, talking, thinking (though that part is a little warped, due to his personality and nothing else) mummy’ was beyond their comprehension. At last! Doctors who actually admit they don’t know something! What are the chances of that happening, ever, again? I think the main reason they admitted it was because, despite their dictionary of ‘big words,’ they failed to find any that could be applied to the situation.

That’s not to say that a good many people didn‘t try. Those were mostly TV and radio personalities who felt the need to pontificate on something they knew absolutely nothing about - in other words, business as usual. My personal favorite was the one who said that Granddad had survived and had been spared the torture of the netherworld (Though not the word he specifically used, I felt the need to clean it up, mainly so that I’m not on the same level as that particular radio personality.) He felt Granddad was being given a second chance to right the wrongs that he had committed while in a regular state of being. Meaning before he was mummified. So this guy thinks that’s gonna happen. Obviously, he doesn’t know my Granddad very well, if at all. Now, I seriously doubt that Granddad is going to turn over a new leaf. Unless, of course, that leaf is a fig leaf covering certain parts of a woman. Then he would definitely start turning. Otherwise, I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Granddad got a kick out of all the attention but he got really bored with it after a while, though he did make good money at it, not that we needed the money. The woman he had the affair with was a bank robber who absconded with all the bank’s money as well as bonds and stock certificates and then hid the stash in a statue of her sister in the town square. My Mother being the owner of the property that the statue stood on and one of the finders of the money was able to keep it, due mainly to the fact that May had paid all of the money back, due to guilt, I‘m guessing. So we are pretty well set for life, but Granddad being from the greatest generation felt it would be wrong not to pay his own way. Not to mention, not being the type of man who would live off a woman’s money. Yes, he’s a chauvinist but he’s our chauvinist so, God help us, we love him. That’s saying a lot since he’s living with us.

The ‘us’ mentioned being me, Josephine Skinner, and my Mother, Ava Skinner, the granddaughter and daughter-in-law of the said mummy, though I should make it clear that he prefers not to be called a ‘mummy.’ That’s a ‘female’ version of the word since ‘mother ‘starts with the letter ‘M’ and so does ‘mummy.’ It stood to reason that since ‘father’ starts with an ‘F’ he should be called a ‘fummy.’ Actually, he wanted to go with ‘D’ for ‘dad’ but that would have made him a ‘dummy’ and I refused to have a dummy for a Grandfather so I suggested the ‘F’ part of the word. It’s the only ‘F’ word mother allows in the house, if you get my drift.

Anyway, after he was ‘outted’ as a mumm… um fummy, he has been going nonstop. He’s been a grand marshal of parades, on talk shows, in tabloid stories, and the occasional photo shoot for manly magazines. He’s pretty much had his fifteen minutes of fame and I think he’s ready to slow it down a bit. I know Mother and I certainly are. The traffic at our house has increased two-fold. And that’s just from the ‘fummy groupies’ he’s attracted. And that doesn’t even cover the shysters who want to use his fumminess for their own sordid reasons. One wanted him to promote a new ‘fountain of youth’ miracle cream: to enhance and promote longevity. This would have made Granddad a liar simply because the cream isn’t the reason he’s still alive. He didn’t like the thought of being a liar so he said ‘no’ to that particular offer. Yep, he doesn’t mind being a chauvinist or an adulterer but can’t stand the thought of being a liar. Fummy logic, go figure.

The town founders have also used him by creating a Fummy Day Festival. It’s going to be a yearly event and the town hopes to draw a good number of people into town. I hate to admit it, but I hope it does too. Since Mother inherited May’s house we decided to make it a ‘Bed and Breakfast’ so we need the business that the festival will bring in. We also attract a lot of weirdoes who like the thought of spending the night in a house where an almost double homicide occurred. And to get to actually meet and converse with one of the victims just tickles them pink. Ghost hunters have also flocked to our bed and breakfast in order to get some readings. So far, two have certified that the ghost of Clash, in fact, haunts us. Those certifications have gotten us a lot of bookings and a mention on a couple of television shows. So we’re doing a pretty brisk business so far. I just don’t want it to drop off. Mainly because Granddad likes talking to people and it keeps him busy and out of trouble. Which, believe me, is VERY important!

~~~~~

Chapter Two:

As I was thinking about all the new experiences that we have dealt with in the past year Granddad shuffled up to the desk.

Hey, there, Jo. Where’s Ava? I need to get her opinion on something important.

So? What? Can’t I make important decisions? I believe I have proven myself capable of doing that, I said a bit put out by the slight.

Naw, it ain’t that, he explained. It’s just that you can’t help on this particular bit of business.

Fine, if you think I’m just too inept to help you then by all means go and talk to Mother. Though I would like to point out that, I do share her gene pool and therefore I have a lot in common with her. Don’t believe me; just take a good look at our hands some time. You’ll notice that the veins are exactly in the same place on both of our hands. So that would mean that we pretty much are similar, physically and I might add mentally. So whatever her answer is going to be, it’ll probably be the same as mine, I huffed. So by all means waste the effort it takes to go and find her and get her sacred opinion.

Now, Jo, it ain’t that at all. I do respect your opinion in a whole lot of areas. Course that’s not saying there aren’t some areas that I would concern you with but that’s simply because you’re a gal and some things aren’t meant for delicate female ears. It just so happens that I was wanting to get Ava’s take on just what to get you for your birthday. After all, I’ve missed forty of them and I don’t want to miss this forty-first one. And I feel I should be getting you an extra special gift. But no, you have to go and spoil the surprise all due to your sensitive female feelings. I hope you’re happy, he said with a big old grin on his face.

Dadgummit, you’ve been hanging around Mother WAY too much. She’s taught you the ‘guilt factor.’ I suppose you are going to be pulling that on me all the time now. You’ve seen how successful Mother is at using it. Piddle. Oh, well, you win; Mother is in the dining room area talking with the chef about what needs to be ordered for the dentist convention that’s coming next week.

He gave a slight wave and started shuffling toward the dining room. He had a kinda cocky swagger to his shuffle. I guess because he got me with the guilt factor. Well, two can play at that game. I do hope Mother’s suggestion has something to do with a neat new cell phone that takes pictures, video and is Bluetooth capable. Because if she doesn’t suggest that, then I really need to have a DNA test because she just might not really be my Mother after all.

Now, Jo, what about your veins? Same veins, same blood flowing through them, I figure. Besides, you have to be related. You’re both too stubborn to be otherwise.

Too stubborn! Well! Of all the nerve! This from a man who refused to clean his room because ‘Life’s too short and you never know when someone might be trying to brain you over the head with a frying pan.’ I do have to admit that he does use the poor pitiful me, my wife tried to do me in, attitude. But then again it is not surprising. If I had been close to being murdered by a spouse then I would use it for all it’s worth. Really, who wouldn’t?

As he shuffled off to talk to Mother, I got to work on the reservation list. It was nice to have it full. Although a few people have thrown a wrench in the works by staying a day or two longer than they had reserved. But I always managed to figure out something to keep them happy. Mother and I had planned on moving to the inn and living there permanently, but I’ve had to use the rooms we wanted for ourselves to cover those who happen to ‘drop in’ and need lodging for a night or two. Mother, I think, has given up on moving and it’s probably for the best. Granddad wasn’t all that hep on the idea of moving back into May’s old house. It is the site of his almost undoing, after all. Therefore, we just travel to and from our house to the inn. We do have a security guard on the premises who looks out for things when we go home. And since his room is in the barn, we don’t have to worry about too much at night.

I was about to call Garth, the security guard, when in stomps Miz. Edna Clankerton. I really dislike this woman. She’s as strange as you can get here in Drought and that’s saying a lot. Her father, Abner, found out that he was a descendant of a Knight and so he went around town in a suit of armor trying to rescue anyone he felt needed rescuing. Of course, the Knight in question wasn’t an actual knight, like in King Arthur tales. But his surname was Knight. Old Abner figured that meant he was related to a real knight somewhere in the lineage. He collected all sorts of strange weapons supposedly used by real knights during the crusades. He even had some suits of armor. His house is shaped like a castle and there is even a moat around it. The moat is usually dry, simply because this is Drought and there isn’t a whole lot of water to waste on filling it. When he died, his daughter inherited everything because her father disowned the other siblings due to their intolerance of his knight fetish. Edna hasn’t seen the need to change anything in the house. That means all the displays, including the tiny toy soldiers are still in the place her father had put them.

I guess, and it’s only a guess on my part, that living with a father that is a might bonkers isn’t easy. I mean, I am living with a mummified granddad myself. And I have, on occasion, felt a few screws loosen a bit. At least they haven’t fallen out totally. Yep, it’s the small things in life we should be grateful for. Edna isn’t a small thing in my life. As a matter of fact, she isn‘t a small thing in anyone‘s life. She lives next door to the inn. Or more specifically her property is right next to ours. Luckily, we each have a number of acres separating us. However, that doesn’t stop her from complaining about noise and traffic. Forget the fact that she’s opened a fruit and vegetable stand and gets a lot of our guests coming over to buy things from her.

Her main problem is that she is quite possibly the most superstitious person in the world. If a black cat crosses her path she will go out of her way to go back home even if that means going a mile of two out of her way just to avoid the path of the cat. She constantly rings a bell to drive away the demons that are trying to invade her castle. She also takes pride in the fact that when a bell rings an angel gets its wings so she figures she is doing double duty. She drives away the demons and gets more angelic warriors to fight them all at the same time. I might add that she is very smug and sanctimonious about it. In fact, she is so superstitious that she feels it was her sister’s fault she never married. You see her sister was sweeping the floor and apparently swept the broom over Edna’s feet, and in superstitions that means you won’t get married.

Okay, never mind the fact that Edna is an ugly old crone who goes around town with large turquoise hair curlers and wearing big pink fuzzy slippers and a flower print muumuu, like that probably never had anything to do with her never marrying. Yeah, right. I also have to admit that her glass eyes creeps me out. There are times when she gets so mad that it looks as if it might pop out. The thought of that scares me. Mother actually saw it happen once. She, Edna, and some of the other ladies of the church went to see Tom Jones in Lubbock one time. Edna was so thrilled and excited and afraid to miss anything that she kept her eyes wide open. Of course, that’s not a good thing to do when you have a glass eye. It popped out and started rolling around on the coliseum floor. Mother and the other women were down on their knees looking for it. It made Mother mad that Edna just stood there watching Tom Jones in his tight pants while they crawled around looking for an eye. She didn’t even offer to help look. Luckily, the whole thing ended up backfiring on poor old Edna. Mr. Jones thought the churchwomen were bowing to him and so he brought them up on stage and gave each of them a big ole kiss. Mother, I’m told, started giggling like a little school girl. Which I think is funny. I personally can’t picture my Mother giggling, period. Let alone doing it in front of a big audience. But Edna has held it against my Mother and the other church ladies ever since. This is one of the reasons why I think she complains to us at least three times a week about the inn and our guests.

Jo, I’m hotter than horse spit on a July day! I am sick and tired of your people not respecting my borders. My Daddy made sure that the borders of our Provence (most people around here just say land) was duly noticed and fortified from invasion. Do your people respect that? That’s a big whopping NO! They don’t. They climb up on the turrets, have their pictures taken, and they make siege upon the great wall. I won’t have it, you hear me! I won’t. I’m this close to boiling! Oil, that is, to pour on the enemy! She was screaming this at the top of her lungs and her eyes were bulging. (Please don’t let it pop out! Please! Dear God! I’ll eat my Brussels sprouts from now on, I swear!)

Well, now Ms. Clankerton, I can’t control the guests. By the way, they are guests and not ‘my people.’ I can only tell them not to bother you or go near your property. If they choose to ignore my request then that is their problem, not mine, I said as calmly as I could.

It isn’t their problem, it’s mine and they are trespassing on the grounds. You know darn well if an enemy crosses a border, they open the border at that spot for demons, hell hounds, and madmen to cross over into that territory. You’re just invading my Provence with hell hounds and demons. I won’t have it you, you Jezebel! Do you hear me? I won’t have it! Our Provence has stood for over 75 years and I won’t have it conquered by the likes of you Missy! Her eye was wobbling a bit in its socket. I guess the ideal thing to do was to be calm and try to calm her down. But let’s face it, this is me and after calling me a Jezebel, which ticks me off no end, then start ducking, because if I take a swing at her I might send her glass eye a flying.

Jezebel! How dare you! I happen to be the new town spinster in case you hadn’t noticed. Oh, yeah and you wanted the title. Unfortunately, that little tryst of yours with that outhouse salesman blew it, didn’t it? And you’re calling me a Jezebel! You’re the one who had a fling without the benefit of marriage, not me! Personally, I think instead of complaining about the people trespassing, I would think that you would use your head and realize that there is a buck or two to make here. Open your land to the people and then charge them through the nose for the pictures you take of them. But NO! That would require a brain in that thick mesh of curlers and that obviously isn’t the case or you wouldn’t have come in here complaining about something so trivial, not to mention, calling someone inappropriate names. Now get off my property or I’ll slap you into next week. And stop complaining about my guests! I’m tired of it! I’m pretty sure my nostrils were flaring by now and I was red in the face. I guess it scared Edna because she backed away and turned to leave.

Just so you know, I’m gonna go see my lawyer. I’ll put a stop to this if it’s the last thing I do, Missy! she huffed out the door and slammed it shut.

~~~~~

Chapter Three:

I guess I shouldn’t have gotten so mad but I really hate people who try to intimidate others. And Edna was the queen of intimidation. She learned it at her mother’s knee, I’m sure. Her mother, Ukulele, was named after the musical instrument. This was mainly because Ukulele’s Ma wanted to be sure she was the only one in school that had that name. Well, that was a sure bet and as far as I can see, it still is. It might also explain why Edna’s Mother always went around humming Tiny Bubbles. With a name like that, you can pretty much guarantee that she was teased ruthlessly. So she developed an ornery disposition. Who could blame her? Not me. I’d have gone by my middle name if my Mother had done something like that to me. But poor old Ukulele was doubly cursed. Her middle name was Oboe. I think her Mother had an unhealthy obsession with musical instruments. Anyway, Edna wasn’t raised by the most sensitive of people. So she picked up her Mother’s habits of being mean and spiteful. This is why she bugs us so often. I guess I should put up a suggestion box and then when she comes marching in all I have to do is point her to the box and tell her to stuff it. With complaints, that is. Really, that was what I meant.

Granddad came shuffling in rather quickly. Did I hear Edna again?

Yep. The old crone griped me out up one side and down the other. She made a quick retreat. She was complaining (what else does she do?) about the guests going on her property and crossing a border thus opening it up to invasion from demons, hellhounds, and madmen. I wish she would get a garden gnome to scare away all the demons and be done with it. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about demons coming after her all day long. Though when you think about it, I’m guessing she’s really worried about some misdeed from her younger years and that she will have to pay a hefty demon price for whatever it was she did, I speculated.

Garden dome? What the heck is that? Something like the Astrodome? Granddad is a former baseball player and even made it to the majors for two whole games so anything related to baseball intrigues him.

"No. I said a GARDEN GNOME. It’s those little statues of Santa Claus that people put in their yard to protect their homes and garden. They were very popular in the eighties and I think they are supposed to be