Smoky Mountain Murder

By Sharleen Johnson

Finding the body of a missing mountain hiker in the woods behind her small cafe launches Annie Murphy Malone into her third new career--sleuthing. She is ready to emerge from two years of widowhood with new love interest, Chief of Police Max Lamont and a stray dog and cat she recently adopted. After a near tragic attempted robbery, Annie learns that her new pets have amazing talents. When Max and his detectives zero in on the wrong suspect, Jack--the Doberman, and Jill--the Siamese, set him straight. Navigating the cross-specie barrier forces the canine and feline to get creative with their non-verbal communication skills. When the murderous widow and her “boy toy” feel the heat of suspicion, they make a run for it. Once she disposes of her boyfriend--the paid assassin--she thinks she’s free. But a killer always returns to the scene of the crime. Plastic surgery and a change of hair color are useless when she returns to find her beloved pet Yorkie. Jack nabs her. The case is over, but not the story of Annie and her murder-solving companions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sharleen Johnson
• Release date: Jul 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466160699

Sharleen Johnson

Sharleen Johnson has been writing for several years and has published novels in three different genres, including historical, cozy mystery and romantic suspense. Sharleen lives in Ooltewah, TN (a suburb of Chattanooga) with her husband Joseph Rhinock. After the death of their 14 year old Norwich Terrier, Sharleen and Joe have become cat people. They own two "tuxedo" rescues. Her interests are still gardening, genealogy, casino blackjack and every sort of craft known to humanity. She especially enjoys helping new writers navigate the bumpy road to publication. Please visit her Facebook page and website for the latest news.

Book preview

Smoky Mountain Mayhem

by

Sharleen Johnson

Copyright Sharleen Johnson Rhinock 2011

Smashwords Edition

Smoky Mountain Mayhem

is second in the continuing saga of:

Jack, Jill and Annie Malone

Please read the first novel in this series:

Smoky Mountain Murder

Gatlinburg is a picturesque little tourist town nestled in the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee

That’s the only part of this story that is factual

Everything else is purely fictional

cover art by Michael Wooten

www.memphiswootens.com

Jack and Jill went up the hill

To knock on the school house door

They found five little girls

With golden curls

Who’d been dead for a decade or more

Poem by

Sharleen Johnson

Source of Jack’s pontifications:

Extraordinary Origins of Everyday Things

written by Charles Panati in 1987

Harper & Row, Publishers

as well as

Timetable of History by Werner Stein

translated by Bernard Grun

Published 1975 by Simon & Schuster

SMOKY MOUNTAIN MAYHEM

Prologue

Friday morning, March 19

Gatlinburg, Tennessee

Jack kicked away the few remaining shards of glass clinging to the bottom of the window frame. It’s ridiculous for city officials to lock the door, he said to his female companion. Especially since all six windows are broken.

What was this building used for? Jill asked.

It’s an old school house. The cornerstone out front says it was built in 1880.

Ooh, that is ancient.

The brick and concrete will be here for another hundred years.

This place has a bad aura.

Jack glanced at her as he continued to knock out the last of the glass. What do you think an aura is?

Like a halo, only bad.

Webster says it’s a subtle, sensory sensation.

So, she responded. Same thing only with bigger words.

Did you know this building was named after a saint?

The pair entered what had been in bygone days the kitchen and lunch room and whose windows faced the back alley. All that remained were counters along two walls and a porcelain sink with a thick brown crust of filth. Through double swinging doors reluctant to move, there was a wide main hall with five classrooms on one side and three classrooms, an office and teachers’ lounge on the other. A dust-covered statue of a forgotten saint stood watch over the silence. Doors to the boys’ and girls’ bathrooms were off their hinges and leaning against the pealing plastered walls. Rank odors emanated from within. A broad staircase was near the entrance.

If this was a school, where are the desks?

Probably chopped up for firewood. Look at the blackboards. They were still intact, although spray-painted with obscenities. What mental attitudes make people commit such acts? Jack added aloud.

People with no hope. They want to lash out, but don’t know who to lash out against--so, they vent their frustrations on inanimate objects. There have been times in my life when I’ve felt the same helpless anger.

Jack paused a second time to stare at his companion. Sometimes the accuracy of your insights is downright scary.

They continued their investigations. The opening where the front door once stood as well as the windows overlooking Main Street, were covered with sheets of weathered plywood. Wind whipped through the cracks and knot-holes, but even the inrush of outside air couldn’t remove the stench left by the vagrants who, in previous winters, sought refuge from the weather.

Holy crap, this place stinks. It’s not fit for man nor beast. Jill blew out an unladylike snort.

Quit griping. Where’s your spirit of adventure, your curiosity? The stale and chilly atmosphere weren’t enough to dampen Jack’s enthusiasm.

In the beginning, their friendship was forged by need and their bond had withstood the pressure of hard times when they both were homeless. In those days, finding food and shelter was a daily struggle. Jack was tall, dark and handsome, while Jill was short, blonde and blue-eyed with a hair-trigger temper. He was willing to overlook her foibles. Each had saved the other’s life on more than one occasion during their existence on the streets. She found it difficult to openly express affection, but basically she had a good heart. Best friends fell far short of describing their unusual relationship.

Come on, grumpy. The second floor window should give us the best view of the Main Street mayhem. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s loud.

Jack led the way as they climbed the foot-worn marble steps. Upstairs had a similar layout with five classrooms on either side of a broad main hall. Two more bathrooms. This area was in no better shape than the lower floor. The paint on the walls was nothing but a flaky memory on the cracked linoleum floor. Up here the windows weren’t boarded, allowing more daylight to shaft through the vacant spaces. Empty beer cans, broken wine bottles, cast off clothing and other debris were scattered everywhere.

Jill daintily sidestepped each of the decaying objects. Look at all these cans and bottles, Jack. The twentieth century hasn’t been kind to Mother Earth.

Beer and soda aren’t modern inventions--only the containers. Sparkling water was sold way back in the 1770’s. Then they added fruit flavors. Coca-Cola was first with the cola bean, then in 1898, Pepsi came along. For over a hundred years they’ve been arguing over which tastes the best.

I don’t have a taste for either one. Jack, take a look at this old newspaper. The date is nearly five years old, she commented.

The bums have moved on to cleaner quarters. They’re still living in the abandoned box cars over the mountain by the railroad tracks. I saw them last week when we were hiking.

I heard the City Police are going to crack down on the homeless and start arresting panhandlers who venture into town.

Our City Jail isn’t large enough. They need to get to the core of the problem.

Why not run for office? Jill suggested. Your political platform can be ‘homes for the homeless.’

Most of the bums we know from the Mercy Mission House are ex-felons and they can’t vote.

Some of the window glass was still unbroken, although opaque with dirt. Jack found one of the missing panes, poked his head through the opening and studied the scene below.

The skies were overcast. The few snowflakes swirling in the chilly air were winter's last gasp before spring muscled the old man aside. People were milling around, snuggled in coats, clutching styrofoam cups of steaming coffee against the surprising cold snap in late March. Police erected wooden barricades in an attempt to keep the two factions separated. Homemade banners were waved aloft and harsh words were hurled across the barriers with battery-operated megaphones.

Jack inhaled the sweet fresh fragrance from outdoors replacing the lingering stench of urine and unwashed bodies. He pulled his head inside and called to his friend. Come here, Jill. There are two picket lines. Wow. Our little city hasn’t seen this much excitement in years. Look! There’s even a helicopter overhead.

Must be Reese and Randy from the TV station. Jill hurriedly joined him at the window, read the scribbled signs, then pulled her head in. Apparently this building is the bone of contention. I saw the story on the news last night. You and Annie must have been napping. Did you notice the decorative doodad in the peak of the roof? It’s a stained glass window made of real lead crystal by some famous long-dead artist. That’s just one thing they’re arguing over. If you ask me, it belongs in a church or a museum.

Jill, did you know the Smithsonian Museums were started by an Englishman who’d never even visited our country?

She ignored him. There has to be another stairway leading to an attic. Jill squinted her round blue eyes and searched the dim interior for evidence of a hidden set of steps.

This was a Catholic School. Did you see the statue of the saint on the main floor?

Jill tipped her head to the left. Who’s the lady in the blue robe?

That’s the Virgin Mary, mother of Christ.

I swear, Jack. You’re a veritable fountain of nonessential information. Jill shrugged. Anyway--in case you missed the local news--there’s a push to save the entire structure as a museum and local history library and others want to tear it down to make room for a high rise condo.

Where would they put all the cars? Downtown doesn’t need any more traffic.

It’s called progress. This is the last vacant property on Main Street in the old section of town.

Jack nodded. Yeah, I know. A family of rats has set up permanent housekeeping in what used to be the playground next door.

This building is even too cruddy for the vermin to live in. Jill’s shoulders trembled. I don’t like the vibes. Something’s not right in here.

Behind them, the unexpected sound of children’s chatter echoed along the bare walls of the old school house and lured Jack’s attention away from the protesters.

You’re very pretty. A tiny high-pitched voice cut into the sudden silence--as if the outside disturbance was abruptly muted by a thumb toying with the buttons on a remote control.

Jill nearly jumped out of her skin and swung in the direction of the sound. What? she snapped. Her expression was a weird combination of surprise, fear and anger.

I said...you’re very pretty. Your hair and eyes are the same color as mine.

Jill cast a helpless glance at Jack, her blue eyes darkened. He stepped forward as if to protect her. An unusual level of primal panic raised the hair at his neck and kicked his heart rate into overdrive. Wh-who are you? he asked, trying to keep his tone calm.

Angela. Angela Varoni. I go to school here.

Whoa. In-in here? In-inside this building? Jack scanned the area with a nervous jerk of his head. In the dim light, he saw movement and a flash of color in the background. Are, are you by yourself?

No, I’ve got four girlfriends. The young girl pointed down the empty hallway.

Jack looked, but saw nothing.

We’re all lonesome. Will you play with us?

Already racing for the stairs, Jill called over her shoulder. Come on, Jack, let’s get out of here. This is creeping me out.

No, no, wait a minute. She’s just a kid.

I’m eleven years old, the child stated with a hint of pride.

Uh, Angela, where do you live?

Live? A head-toss caused her luminescent curls to bounce. I don’t.

Jack noted a touch of sarcasm in her voice that belied her youth. I mean, where are your parents?

I don’t know where they are. I’ve looked and looked. I’ve tried and tried to talk to them, but they’re all on different levels.

Well, the parent-child relationship can be diffi--

A loud clamor from the street below distracted Jack. He stepped to the window and peered at the angry crowd. George Reynolds, one of the City cops who came into Annie Malone’s cafe every morning and ordered a large, dark roast coffee to go, was blowing his whistle. The effort turned his face beet red. When Jack looked back inside, the little girl had vanished. The stench was gone as well. All that remained was the strange, out-of-place aroma of Elmer’s Glue and Crayola Crayons.

Jill? Jill? Where are you? There was no response. Apparently, she pulled the Elvis trick and had already left the building. He hurried outside the same way he came in through the window and joined her in the back alley. She was hiding behind a dumpster. What’s wrong? You flew out in an awful big rush.

I told you I felt bad vibes. Did you see what I saw?

The fact that his best friend was visibly shivering disturbed him. I’m not certain. Describe the scene.

No, no, I can’t. She pinched her eyes closed against the onslaught of disturbing images. Moisture in the shape of tears was squeezed from the corners.

Yes you can. We need to compare notes. Take a deep breath. Good. Now, take your time and tell me exactly what you saw.

The girl. She was...she was like a black and white photo. Gray complexion with sad, hollowed eyes. Like a scary movie when the monster materializes out of a fog.

Jack shook his head in silent disagreement while his thoughts free-ranged. To be honest. I saw color--blonde hair, blue eyes. Yes, a great deal like you in her coloring. She was wearing a plaid skirt, knee socks and this little sash--

Jack, stop. I’m asking if you’re superstitious.

Hmm, superstitious. Did you know that superstitions date back fifty-thousand years ago to the Neanderthals? They buried tools with their dead for use in the afterlife. On TV, they’re always portrayed as bumbling and stupid and I don’t understand why. There’s no evidence to support--

There you go spouting more History Channel nonsense. Jill cut him off. I mean, do you believe in ghosts?

Maybe, maybe not. He waffled with uncertainty. I haven’t given much thought to the subject of ghosts and the paranormal.

Start believing. What we just saw was a ghost.

Jill, you’re acting like a drama queen.

We must tell Annie.

Don’t you think we’ve caused enough havoc in her life already? We’ve stretched her kindness to the limit--taking us in, giving us a permanent home, food and shelter.

You’re sleeping in her bed.

Jack was taken aback by her accusatory tone. Are you jealous?

Don’t be ridiculous. She turned her back on him and headed down the alley.

Annie and I are best friends, just like you and me. Besides, it was a mutual agreement. Jack elevated his nose and pulled in a deep breath of clean oxygen. I smell meat grilling.

Jill tested the air. It’s coming from the Farmers’ Flea Market a few blocks over. They’re getting ready to open next weekend for the upcoming tourist season.

I wish Annie knew how to cook good old Southern-style barbecue. Smoky and delicious. Pulled pork is the tastiest--no bones to fool with.

She runs a New York Style Deli. New Yorkers don’t eat barbecue. Jill huffed, then called over her shoulder. Come on, let’s go.

Chapter One

Friday morning, March 19

Gatlinburg, Tennessee

Annie Murphy Malone was making more money than she ever dreamed possible two years earlier when she moved to Tennessee and bought the small Tin Roof Cafe on Main Street in a trendy tourist town nestled in the Smoky Mountains. Quaint little shops and restaurants lined both sides of the busy, two-lane avenue. Known as Olde Towne, this downtown section of Gatlinburg was like a city within a city. All the shop-owners and restaurateurs maintained a close alliance. The exteriors and facades were in harmony with little German chalets. The ice cream parlor always shut down for the winter, but was scheduled to reopen the first of April. On her side of the street, there was a Pizza Place, Chinese take-out, tattoo parlor, candle-maker, custom tee shirt shop, a realty business for condo rentals and a walk-in medical center was on the corner. The scene was ever changing. With each new season, someone moved out and a new business venture would take over their spot. They all shared the same employee parking lot out back. A tree-covered hill rose up behind the row of stores creating its own colorful backdrop as the seasons changed.

She attributed her newfound success to hiring Grace Lamont, a white-haired dynamo, to help with the cooking and serving. That was seven months ago. It was Gracie’s idea to change the hours and start offering only breakfast and lunch, then close early. This part of Main Street rolled up the sidewalks at sunset. Besides, there was simply too much competition for the dinner dollar in Dollywood and Pigeon Forge. Candlelight and ambience weren’t Annie’s style. She was a blue-jean-peanut-shells-on-the-floor kind of girl. Sneakers instead of high heels. Denim instead of silk.

The Tin Roof Cafe stood out in its colorful uniqueness. The narrow porch, made of rustic wood planking, was slightly elevated above the sidewalk and contained two heavy metal bistro tables, each with two chairs. The signature tin roof sported a fresh coat of green paint and twinkling lights glittered along the edge of the overhang.

A canvas banner proclaiming now open for breakfast hung from the roof that afforded protection for those customers who chose to eat on the porch while enjoying the view.

During the months between the spring explosion of dogwood and azalea and the brilliant fall colors, Main Street was clogged with bumper-to-bumper traffic. And with a hint of spring in the air, notwithstanding the current meteorological aberration--producing bone-chilling cold, the tourists would soon return.

Large concrete flowers pots were placed by the City Beautification Committee at measured intervals on both sides of Main Street. Last fall’s chrysanthemums had been replaced by purple and yellow pansies, their tiny painted faces dancing in the chilly breeze. The black wrought iron lamp posts were always draped with festive decorations in keeping with each season. Frolicking Easter bunnies were the current adornment.

Annie and Gracie served their regulars throughout the year. Reese and Randy, helicopter pilot and photographer from the local TV station, came every weekday after they finished the six-to-nine morning traffic watch. To be politically correct, they were life partners and were loved and respected by all who knew them. Her main sources for local gossip were Gail Stinson, the bank teller; Wanda Baker, the realtor; Shirley, the police dispatcher; and Dotty, the Police Department secretary, who joined the luncheon crowd. Locals were her mainstay during the slow winter months.

It was also Gracie’s bright idea to install a huge fifty-inch flat screen TV high on the wall so that all twelve diners seated at the long counter could watch the local yokels dish out Smoky Mountain banter on Good Morning Gatlinburg. Even the patrons at the four tables could see as well. It was a big hit with everyone.

The best part of Gracie’s plan was closing early, getting home in the daylight and not putting in those twelve, fourteen hour days. Annie Malone now had a life outside her thriving little business.

On this chilly Friday morning, everyone’s attention was locked onto the live coverage of the protest rally in front of the old school house. Today, Reese and Randy were whirling around in the sky in their Channel Three helicopter documenting what the announcer was calling a peaceful riot.

One of the patrons called out, That’s an oxymoron and a lively discussion ensued on poor grammar used by the broadcast and print media.

Somehow Annie’s chain of local gossip had broken a link. She was clueless as to the cause of the uproar. So, when Dr. Kevin Littleton came in for breakfast, she asked, Dr. Littleton, do you know anything about the noisy crowd down the street? I thought I heard your name mentioned on TV.

Yes, yes, it’s me. Zoning change.

Annie scowled slightly. I don’t understand.

I’m trying to buy that old abandoned school house at Main and Mulberry. I’ve decided to open a private medical practice. Live upstairs and have my offices, examining rooms and waiting room downstairs. There’s an area for a parking lot where the playground used to be. It’s perfect.

Will the walk-in clinic close?

I hope so. Both the nurse and receptionist are coming with me. It’s a franchise. I don’t own it, I just work there.

Who’s opposing you?

The historical society is one faction. They want to turn it into a museum-slash-library, but an Atlanta developer wants to tear it down and build a big high-rise condo project. I’ve lived here most of my life--except college, med school and internship--and no one has ever shown a bit of interest in that piece of property. Then when I decided to buy it and put in for a zoning change, all hell broke loose. I don’t want to get into a bidding war. Can’t afford it.

Isn’t the building run down?

Yes, he drawled. On the inside. It was built in 1880, but the exterior is rock solid. I plan on doing a gut rehab on the interior.

The school building is huge. Isn’t it too big for one doctor? Annie asked.

If I swim instead of sink, I’ll take on a partner, Kevin responded. Maybe a pediatrician.

I heard the condo units would sell for half a million, someone added. The view wouldn’t be much. Rich folks could watch the bums smoking dope behind the Mercy Mission House. Then there’s the dilapidated buildings at the Farmers’ Flea Market.

Don’t forget the abandoned factory, someone else chimed in. That’s where they use to print the newspaper before computers took over.

Gracie interrupted. The City doesn’t own that property. It’s not theirs to sell. St. Rita’s Catholic Church owns the entire three block area. Even the Flea Market.

Why does the Church own so much property? Annie asked.

"They had plans to build