Murder@ the Black Mesa Café: A Minerva Doyle Mystery, #1

By Marty Knox

Who Murdered Mom?

Toxic Mom Instigates Her Death

When an elderly Matriarch collapses at a local Route 66 diner, nearby Samaritans rush to save her life. Then the mother's family from hell punishes the newlywed's good deed with a wrongful death lawsuit. 

Minerva and Michael Doyle must search for the cause of the domineering mom's demise before they are ruined. How can they prove their innocence to a feuding clan? Can the couple trust anyone in a small Arizona town full of strangers?

Cyber forensic expert, Minerva, and retired ATF agent, Michael, team up to pit their wits against a clever killer culprit,

Find out NOW. Look Inside. 

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Includes BONUS previews of the next books in the Minerva Doyle mystery series.

Coming soon:

Book 2 - Murder@ the Black Mesa Salon  - Missing Sweethearts Discovered in Carriage Lake. Who Murdered My Sister?

Book 3 - Murder@ the Black Mesa Dance - - Suicidal Student Snuffed on Stage Fly. Who Murdered the Nerd?.

Book 4- Murder@ the Black Mesa Mailbox  - Vigilante Wreaks Fatal Justice in Cyber Bully's Death. Who Murdered the Troll?

Book 5- Murder@ the Black Mesa Church  - Cult Preacher Meets Doomsday. Who Murdered Our Minister?. 

Book 6- Murder@ Black Mesa Route 66 - Route 66 Fatality No Accident. Who Murdered the Car Guy?

 

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Barn Books
• Release date: Jul 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386972228

Marty Knox

I’m Marty Knox, a. retired math teacher and computer science instructor, BSBA, MED Math. Lived in Arizona for thirty-eight years. I dwell in a small town in Missouri (pop. 600+) in the spring; summer, fall, & alternate a winter visit to Arizona. I’ve worked as a graphic artist, photographer, web designer, programmer, typesetter, technical writer, & illustrator. My publishing background is in newspaper & book publishing, acquisitions, editing, advertising, marketing, and sales. Ruben Donnelly. Cox Newspapers, Carter Art Service, a Math & Science College textbook publisher, and a Satellite Electronic offshoot of Motorola. I taught Computer Science, Math, ESL, & GED at Arizona Community Colleges on the Pima, Navajo, and Hopi Rez, & the High School Math Department Chair on the Apache Rez. I’m a member of professional writing groups: SINC, Sleuths Ink, and Joplin Writers Guild. Also a member of AEA and NEA. Contact me for a reader ARC copy of future books in the series: Murder@ the Black Mesa Salon Book 2 Murder@ the Black Mesa Dance Book 3 Murder@ the Black Mesa Mailbox Book 4 martyknox4.gmail.com If you are interested in my ideas for upcoming books you can follow me on my storyboards at:www.pinterest.com/marthaknox58 If you have questions about Arizona, or the Minerva Doyle Mystery Series I’ll answer them on my blog. https://martyknoxblackmesa.blogspot.com

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Marty Knox

Copyright

Copyright © Marty Knox 2018

All rights reserved

THIS BOOK IS A WORK of fiction. The characters and incidents are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is fictionalized or coincidental. Although there exist actual roads, geologic features, and towns, they are only there for reference. The author’s imagination created the small Arizona town you will not find on a map.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form of electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ΑΘΕΝΑ  γλάûκες

Athena (Minerva) and glaukes (owl)

Tetradrachm coin circa 410 AC  Museum of Fine Arts Lyon

Contact: White Barn Books

% Martha Knox

PO Box 221

Golden City MO 64748

[e-mail]

https://www.pinterest.com/marthaknox58

https://martyknoxblackmesa.blogspot.com

Editors: Marsha Wookie, Jean Horn

Cover Design: Jaycee De Lorenzo

Typeset: Georgia

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

Dedication

"In every land

Hardness is to the North of it,

Softness in the South,

Industry in the East,

And inspiration in the West."

Irish saying

FOR MY BELOVED BOOKWORMS who imparted the love of books down through the generations.

Richard Laverne Knox – USMC Viet Nam – Kathy Reich

Michael Thomas Thelen – USAF Viet Nam– Louis L’Amour

Mark Timothy Thelen – CAP – Arthur C. Clarke

Joseph Thomas Thelen – USN WWII– Edgar Rice Burroughs

Thomas Michael Doyle – US Army WWI- Arthur Conan Doyle

Frank Hensley Bryant – James Fennimore Cooper

Charles Lewis – US Cavalry GAR-Jules Verne

Jacob Bryant – Nathaniel Hawthorne

Chapter 1 March - Bread and Death

Everything revolves around bread and death. Yiddish Proverb

GEEZE, I HAD TO GIVE everything except a DNA sample and a pint of blood to sign my contract. My brain hurts, I said. Then I jammed my seat belt tight. Thanks to Arizona’s conflict with the Federal government, my briefcase bulged with Homeland Security documents, transcripts, an FBI fingerprint check, birth certificate, social security card, and passport.

Let’s not eat dinner in a town with cement tepees as the major tourist attraction, I said to my hubby Michael.

Minnie, why not try the Mom and Pop diner we spied off of I-40 by the turnoff to old Route 66? Michael suggested.

Excellent idea. I’m sweaty, thirsty, and exhausted. I leaned against the headrest. A cool glass of sweet tea is what I need right now.

The Black Mesa Café, a burnt brick-red building, beckoned. Emblazoned on the bay window, a hand-drawn sign announced ‘Home of the Crazy Burro.’ Signs attached to the cinder block walls advertised Coca-Cola, Texaco, Camel Cigarettes, Beeman’s Chewing Gum, even Route 66. I couldn’t escape tacky.

Michael opened the door of the café. A blast of frigid air welcomed us as delicious smells washed over me from a mahogany counter laden with freshly baked pies. Magnificent antique beveled glass mirrors adorned the wall.

Perched on a crimson leather stool, I wriggled and twirled the chrome shoe kicks with my back to the crowd. An auburn-haired waitress in faded jeans, cowboy boots, and an Arizona Cardinals’ polo dropped two menus on the counter.

Welcome to the Black Mesa Café. What do you want to drink? She smiled with cheerful hospitality, no fake server grin. Not much makeup other than a swipe of smoky eyeshadow, a dash of brick-colored lipstick, and a spatter of freckles showing on tanned skin.

Rose, my wife Minerva wants sweet tea, and I need coffee, black. He observed the server’s name on her shirt pocket.

Then Michael pointed to an empty corner in the diner’s rear. We scooted over to the cluttered red Formica and chrome table. With a flourish, he stacked dishes in a neat pile and wiped the top off with a wet bar towel someone had left behind. He had a mischievous temperament that suited an optimistic nature. Michael couldn’t stay serious for long.

As a couple, we’d go to a strange café. Before I realized it, he poured water and refilled cups for customers. The behavior used to embarrass me, but most restaurant owners didn’t fuss, so neither did I anymore.

Okay, enough of the musical chairs, Rose teased. She placed tortilla chips, homemade salsa, and our drinks on the table.

Minerva wants the Crazy Burro, red sauce, guacamole, and sour cream on the side, and I’ll have the Cowboy Burger with fries, Michael said.

While we waited for food, we played our favorite guessing game. Both of us undertook to outdo the other with a fantastic imaginary sketch of fellow diners. As a retired (ATF) Alcohol, Firearms, Tobacco, and Explosives agent, Michael loved to analyze people.

Look at that customer at the counter in dirty Carhartts, with a whiff of sulfur and brimstone. The devil’s apprentice? Come here to capture an unsuspecting soul? Michael said.

A sooty man slouched over a burger and fries, gobbling up the meal as if he had to rush out the exit. The worker slurped up a drink and banged the empty cup for a refill. He launched a glare at the sizeable noisy group in the rear corner.

Welder, in a hurry to return to the job site, I concluded. Face, neck, and hands tanned. Pinhole scabs pepper his face, but the forehead from his eyebrows up is white. Sparks made tiny burn holes in the dungarees. Welding rod blackened his sleeves. He’s wearing thick steel-toed shoes and needs protection from an iron bar dropped on his foot.

Identify Mr. Cowboy over there. The one with the mustachio and $200 Stetson, I said. My turn to challenge Michael.

Michael inspected the gentleman. Knife pleated jeans tucked into spit-shined boots, starched ironed long-sleeved shirt, black vest, and a bolo tie. Gun at the waist. Legal to carry a firearm in Arizona. A gold pocket watch and a badge on the vest. Yep, he’s the local law. The man placed his palm near the weapon and shifted to inspect us as he paid the bill.

Our score one to one. Even. Your turn to test me next. Loser pays for lunch, I said.

Do the senior citizen in the next booth surrounded by a circle of kinfolk, Michael said.

A sizable clan took up the entire back corner of the coffee shop. They gazed with rapt attention as the white-haired elder commanded silence. The sun-beaten weathered woman pointed an arthritic bony finger at each individual. She spoke in a dry, raspy tone.

Every one of you is after my money. I brought an updated will right here in my pocketbook. You’re not entitled to a damn thing unless you support me. Whenever I choose, I can revise who inherits. Lawyer Smith is helpful since I pay him a packet of cash every month. He tied up paperwork nice and legal: land, mineral rights, and grazing leases. The crone’s voice blasted over the diners as a baby whimpered.

Most people ducked their heads, ignored the loud outburst, and struggled to focus on their meal.

She’s someone’s parent, I hypothesized. Clutches them in a tight fist. Mom must protect something important in the purse. She holds onto it for dear life. I detest emotional blackmail, so logically they’re a dysfunctional dynasty in action. I’ll wager Mom pits siblings against each other to make them squirm.

Rose appeared with the food. Game over, I dove into a Crazy Burro.

Homemade salsa, handmade tortilla, and fresh guacamole, I said as I entered foodie heaven with the first morsel.

Michael didn’t communicate with his mouth full, so he saluted in approval. We chewed in comfortable silence as dishes clattered around us in the busy café. Later, Michael sprawled out in the seat and stretched his shirt over his jeans.

Terrific burger. Add this diner to the list, he said.

On our honeymoon last summer, we traveled across the United States in a Winnebago. As we checked out historical sites and quirky towns, we ate at Mom and Pop diners. Then we wrote favorites onto a Route 66 Diner List.

Shouts of alarm from the extended clan in the next booth interrupted us. A baby shrieked. Plates and cups crashed to the floor. The elderly matriarch passed out on the dinner table. When I punched 911 on my phone, the dispatcher knew the exact location.

Michael raced over to the elderly victim while helpless relatives fluttered around her. Only a tall, slender lady beside the vulnerable older woman kept calm.

Can you settle the family while Michael helps? I requested. The baby’s wails were ringing in my ears.

Mother? The fashionable woman patted the victim’s hand.

The mother’s head rolled back, unresponsive to her daughter’s urgent query. So Michael laid the elderly victim onto the bench. He cleared her airway and checked her pulse. As he performed CPR, I handled the relatives.

Then I stood up and pulled chairs into the banquet room. Help me move the tables. The EMTs need space to work, I stated to the crowd. A siren screeched nearby.

Rose stepped forward. Richard. Victor. Flynn. Ed. Shove stuff out of the way now. Let’s go. She snapped her fingers in impatience at the most prominent man in front, and the others followed his lead. They obeyed her as if she were a Chief Master Sergeant. Guys shoved tables out of the aisle, and the gals stacked chairs. The siren stopped.

A wiry pony-tailed EMT burst through the door. She wore navy scrubs, with a Stethoscope wrapped around her neck, and ugly practical cop shoes.

Woman passed out. Pulse thready, face clammy. I cleared the airway, Michael said.

The EMT took over the patient while Michael stepped back out of her way. She clicked open a gunmetal gray suitcase packed with equipment. Three more EMTs dressed in heavy black and yellow boots rolled a Striker folding bed through the room. After they eased the platform a few inches above the floor, they lifted the victim onto it.

I observed the organized rescue as the EMTs wheeled the elderly matriarch through the door. The family gathered up her belongings and followed the emergency crew.

Before leaving the elegant woman announced, Thank you for helping Mother.

Everybody. Listen. Let’s say a prayer for Mrs. Steven, Rose said. People went silent and bowed. Dear God, please hold her in your hand. Keep her safe on this journey. Thy will be done. Amen.

Rose looked around at the chaos. Leave your tickets at the cash register. Dinner is on me. Thanks for helping.

Customers helped straighten up the restaurant. Women cleared dishes. I pushed chairs back under the table. Men moved heavy furniture. Someone grabbed a broom and swept up the EMTs’ debris. The Black Mesa Café looked as if nothing had gone wrong, but an odor of medicinal alcohol and ozone wafted in the air.

Oh, I need a drink, Rose said. I’ve never had this much trouble since I inherited the place from Dad.

Rose gathered the dinner tickets strewn around the cash register. During the confusion, people had thrown piles of twenty-dollar bills on the counter. Rose wiped her eyes with a napkin. This town, I told them dinner’s on me. No one had to leave money.

I’m glad the daughter had enough common sense to calm the family, I said.

Yeah, good thing, Gloria was here; she’s the brains of the outfit, said Rose. The Steven clan argues with each other, but they come together in a crisis.

Are you going to be okay? I asked. Then I patted her shoulder.

Tomorrow’s another day. I hope Mrs. Steven comes out of the hospital. God willing, Rose said. Nothing a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast can’t cure.

Chapter 2 March - Honey and Vinegar

You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Yiddish Proverb

Michael woke me up the following day with a scratchy passionate kiss. As he hugged me, Old Spice aftershave lingered on my skin. Disconcerting eyes observed the world in mild surprise at the wickedness he saw. Cursed with a dimple in his chin and a cheery lopsided grin, his personality radiated mirth. Black hair, inherited from a long-dead Celtic ancestor, stuck straight out, so my fingers curled his thick wet mop. The only thing that kept him from being an Adonis was his squashed potato nose, which, when broken in a donnybrook, never healed right.

Michael was pleasant to shop for: dark indigo jeans, white cotton socks, and comfortable leather moccasins. His plain pocket undershirts were navy blue or black, and I bought them in six-packs. Michael snapped on his cartoon wristwatch, pocketed a Swiss Army knife, and he was ready. Despite his early morning neat habits, he’d unravel until relaxed scruffiness, and a five o’clock shadow won out by evening.

What team are you supporting today? I said.

Arizona Diamondbacks. The randomness of his ball cap choices made a genial conversation starter with strangers.

I’m starving and need coffee now. The fancy gourmet mud they serve at this B&B sucks. Too bitter and burnt. Hop to it. Wait for you downstairs, Minnie mine. He playfully snapped his towel at me.

For years, school readiness was my priority when sharing a bathroom with kids. My high cheekbones were fever bright red at awkward moments, so I never needed blush. A touch of favorite mauve lipstick, a swish of eyeshadow, and a swipe of mascara completed a simple makeup routine. Dressed in a casual wardrobe for the day, boots, jeans, and t-shirt, I stuffed my unruly hair under a ball cap.

At the bottom of the handcrafted hundred-year-old oak staircase, we collided when I rushed downstairs. Michael’s sweet tooth mandated him to grab a handful of muffins for a quick snack. But the pastries and OJ offered at the Bed and Breakfast didn’t fit my standard for breakfast. We headed to the Black Mesa Café and chose our table in the back of the restaurant.

MY HUSBAND KNEW WHAT I wanted to eat and ordered breakfast. Morning, Rose. No menu. Denver omelet for her, side of fruit, English muffin dry, salsa. Two over easy, bacon, crispy hash browns, sourdough for me. Iced coffee with creamer on the side for Minnie. Black coffee, lots for me, Michael said.

Pardon me, may I talk to you for a minute? said the town Marshal as he tipped his Stetson. Ma’am, sorry I’m interrupting, but I want to ask your spouse a few quick questions. Michael grabbed his coffee and sat at the counter with the tall lawman.

After Rose delivered my drink, I asked her, How are you feeling?

Fine. No sleep, but I’ll OD on coffee. It’ll get me through the breakfast rush, she said.

How’s Mrs. Steven?

She’s at the county hospital in Holbrook. OK, so far. Nice of your hubby to step in to help her. Mrs. Steven has a big family, but they don’t have common sense. They’re my regulars and eat here every Payday Friday. I’ve memorized what everyone eats and drinks. Odd, they didn’t sit in their usual spots.

Her stroke shook us. I hoped to pull out local gossip. My husband’s retired. I start a new job at the college in August, and we’re looking for a home to buy.

Are you LDS?

No, why?

Most Latter-Day-Saints’ members buy a house by the Temple in Snowflake. Other folks settle in our town because we don’t fit in with the high and mighty too much, Rose whispered, so no one overheard her.

Is the Steven family LDS?

Mrs. Steven disapproves of Mormons, thinks it’s a cult. She feuds with her son Victor since he married an LDS woman. Doesn’t bother me none what people believe as long as they work hard, stay honest, and abide by their word, Rose said. As she left, she poured coffee for a customer who sat behind me.

Couldn’t help overhearing, said a robust gray-haired man as he leaned over my booth. Here’s my card. If you want something quiet, with land, call me. He turned back around to finish his breakfast.

When Michael returned from his discussion with the town Marshal, I filed the Realtor’s card in my planner. What did the Marshal need? I asked.

Charles Dubois thanked me for my help, Michael said. "The Marshal commended me because