Mrs. Thistlethwaite and a Shadow of Doubt: Tillamook Tillie, #3

By J.B. Hawker

Has old age finally caught up with Mrs. Thistlethwaite's remarkable memory? When Tillie finds a murder victim at the bus stop, she calls her friend, Detective Ransom, but when he arrives Tillie is unconscious and there is no body. Has she had a stroke? Is she imagining things? Or is a killer getting away with his crime?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.B. Hawker
• Release date: Jun 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781722023591

J.B. Hawker

Raised in the northern end of the Sacramento Valley in California, J.B.Hawker's early life was framed by mountain ranges. While her physical vistas were bounded on almost every side, her imagination was free to soar without limits. "I've made up stories my whole life," said Hawker when interviewed. "While other children might need a flashlight to read under the covers after bedtime, I simply made up my own stories, many of which lasted multiple nights, having intricate details and characters drawn both from my life and my imagination." After twenty years serving small churches from Alaska to South Dakota as a pastor's wife, she returned to her California roots to start over in mid-life as a single business woman and author. J.B. has published many articles on faith and ministry as well as programming materials for women's ministry. "Hollow" the first book in the Bunny Elder series and winner of the BRAG Medallion Award, was her first published fiction. J.B. has three grown sons. Her oldest, the father of her three beautiful granddaughters, lives in northern Italy, the setting of the second book in the series, "Vain Pursuits", featuring the on-going adventures of Bunny and Max. "Seadrift" takes Bunny to the Oregon coast where their story continues. "...and Something Blue" concludes this series with Bunny and her new husband sailing off to Australia and, as usual, drifting into a series of inadvertent adventures.  

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Also by J. B. HAWKER

The Tillamook Tillie Series

Mrs. Thistlethwaite and the Magpie

Mrs. Thistlethwaite

and the

Whippersnapper

The First Ladies Club Series

The First Ladies Club

A Body in the Belfry

A Corpse in the Chapel

The Bunny Elder Novels

Hollow

Vain Pursuits

Seadrift

...And Something Blue

Short Story Collections

Cozy Christmas Sweets

Cozy Campfire Shorts

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Mrs.

Thistlethwaite

and

a

shadow of doubt

A Tillamook Tillie Mystery

J. B. Hawker

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 J.B Hawker

ISBN-13: 978-1722023591

ISBN-10: 1722023597

All rights reserved.

Dedicated to my precious

daughters-in-law,

Anna and Michele

1

The sun peeked beneath the clouds as it prepared to sink into the Pacific Ocean. Thunder rolled over the coastal mountains; the springtime storm growling farewell to the soggy Tillamook Valley. In the twilight, a lingering rain shower lost its enthusiasm and stole away into the forest.

In a nearby town, retired Cincinnati police detective, Burt Spillane, entered the circle of light illuminating an empty bus stop.

An observer, had there been one, would have noticed a bounce in Spillane’s step. A miserable year spent following his target from state to state had almost defeated him, but at last, here in this small town on the Oregon Coast, the culprit was within his grasp.

Since retiring, Spillane kept himself busy as a private investigator. His current case had consumed most of his time for many months and he was eager to see the end of it.

Pausing with a satisfied smile on his worn and rumpled face, Spillane pulled out his cell phone and hit a preprogrammed number, eager to share his news with his client. When the call went to voice mail, he breathed a mild curse under his breath.

He was disappointed, but he was reluctant to leave a message. This news needed to be shared in person. If not face-to-face, at least voice-to-voice in a phone call. He wanted to hear what he anticipated would be a joyous reaction to his news.

After tracking this crook’s trail of fraud and heartbreak all the way from Ohio, a lead from one of his victims, an

elderly widow in Utah, had finally led Spillane to Tillamook.

He felt sure that the man he’d been hunting would soon be put away. His clients’ gratitude and praise for the work he did was as important to Spillane as the fees they paid.

Tomorrow Spillane would go to the local authorities, lay out everything he’d found, and let them take over, but tonight he was eager to share the good news with his client. She’d been paying his way all this time and she deserved to be the first to hear.

Spillane made up his mind to call again first thing in the morning, but he couldn’t resist sending her a tease tonight.

He eased his weary bulk down onto the rain-spattered slats of the metal bus stop bench, ignoring the dampness seeping through his denim pants, and sent a text message: Progress at last! Will call U in AM with full details.

Spillane slipped the phone back into his pocket with a grunt of satisfaction and leaned back, looking forward to a cold beer and a well-earned night’s sleep back in his motel room.

Tomorrow he would be on the first flight home. He looked forward to sleeping in his own bed, again.

Like so many law enforcement officers, Spillane was divorced. His wife hadn't been able to put up with the demands of his job and had opted for a more stable life with the weedy, little accountant who'd done their taxes.

Even though nobody waited for him back home, Spillane looked forward to the comfort and familiarity of his small apartment and the daily routine of life back in Ohio.

Spillane slapped his palms on his thighs and leaned forward to push himself up off the bench.

Hearing shuffling footsteps behind him, he turned toward the sound, felt a searing pain in his neck, and the world went black.

2

In the nearby community college, pleasingly plump octogenarian, Matilda Thistlethwaite, retired schoolteacher and current leader of a yoga class at the Senior Center, was getting ready to go home from an evening adult education class. She removed her leather welding gloves and shrugged off a thick, khaki-colored protective jacket. She laid them on the workbench beside helmet, pliers, wire brush, and safety glasses. Carefully folding the jacket, she placed everything, except the helmet, into a plastic tub and slipped the tub into her assigned cubby above the bench.

She picked up the ancient welding helmet with a sigh. Standing on tiptoe, stretching to her full five-feet one-inch height, she hoisted the helmet in among the others on the shelf above the row of cubbyholes, wondering, once again, why all the modern, light-weight welding hoods were always already in use whenever she arrived for class.

In the first week of classes, she’d had her choice from half-a-dozen of these heavy vintage metal helmets remaining on the shelf after all the newer models had been taken, but, thanks to the steam punk craze finally arriving in Tillamook, these industrial models had been vanishing from the classroom to reappear as props or costumes at steam punk gatherings. Unfortunately, this one ancient example remained and always fell to Tillie. She approached each class session hoping the ugly relic would have joined the others in support of the fad, but, so far, every time she selected her equipment, only the heavy protective hood remained.

If she were the type of woman to take such things personally, she might suspect her classmates were trying to discourage her from attending, much as her friends had tried to dissuade her from signing-up for the class.

Upon hearing of Tillie’s plans, long-time friend, Opal Pyle, had leaned on the hoe she was using to clear weeds from her vegetable garden and had shaken her head so vigorously her short, gray hair was tossed into jagged clumps around her narrow, lined face.

You’ve had some unusual ideas in the past, she’d said, looking down from her superior height. But this takes the cake. Why in the world would you want to learn to weld?

Because it’s something I’ve never done, of course, Tillie had replied with a smile.

It was part of Tillie’s regimen of cerebral calisthenics to stretch her mind by learning new and unusual skills and languages. When she’d seen a notice in the library about this evening welding class at the community college, it intrigued her, and she’d wasted no time in signing up.

Being age-appropriate never concerned Tillie in her campaign to stave off senility, but she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of her current pursuit. The welding teacher seemed to think her participation was a joke, as did her fellow students.

Also, the despised welding hood gave her a headache.

Before leaving class, Tillie donned an authentic Peruvian alpaca wool poncho, her favorite wet weather gear. The wool was naturally water repellent and the boldly striped poncho had sentimental attachments, as well. It had been presented to her decades previously when she’d accompanied her late archaeologist husband on an expedition to South America.

Lifting her umbrella from a hook near the door, she stepped into the corridor and followed a cluster of exiting community college students out into the damp evening.

As she carefully placed her purple plaid rain boots on the wet concrete steps, she noticed the school janitor emerging from the trees at the far side of the parking lot. She briefly wondered what he might possibly be doing in the woods, then dismissed the disagreeable man from her thoughts.

Tillie had tried to engage him in conversation on their first encounter and found him to be distinctly unfriendly. He was a tall, sharp-faced man with unruly black hair and a tattooed neck, but even though she’d tried to overlook his unpleasant appearance, she had found it to be a reliable indicator of the man’s character.

As she often said, You can’t tell a book by its cover, except sometimes you can.

A steady drizzle in the February twilight created a misty haze around street lamps and the headlights of the departing cars as Tillie splashed across the parking lot toward the bus stop.

Having given up her driver’s license years before, Tillie relied on public transportation whenever her dear friend, Slim Bottoms, wasn’t available to chauffeur her in his beloved vintage Cadillac. Just now, Slim was visiting his grandson in England, so Old Betsy, as he referred to the car, was unavailable.

With a smile on her round face, Tillie unfurled her bright yellow umbrella, thinking that although an umbrella couldn’t make the rain go away, a colorful one could provide its own little bit of sunshine.

Tillie’s colorful rain boots squelched along the pavement and her umbrella formed a halo around her white hair, worn in a single braid wrapped atop her head like a crown.

Although Tillie usually let her braid hang down over her shoulder, she’d put it up in a corona for the welding class. Each student's supply kit provided what the instructor called a doo rag to keep hair away from sparks, but Tillie couldn’t see herself wearing one.

Peering through the mist as she bustled toward the bus stop, she saw a figure sitting on the bench and she felt pleasant anticipation at having a companion to chat with while awaiting the bus.

Tillie enjoyed meeting new people, as well as having new experiences. Meeting a new acquaintance is as good as reading a new book, she always said.

She stepped into the glow from the street lamp with a cheerful, Good evening!

The man failed to respond and Tillie shrugged. She knew that not everyone felt the way she did about strangers.

She perched on the far end of the bench to await the bus, taking advantage of this opportunity to work on strengthening her patience. Tillie recognized her weakness in this particular fruit of the spirit.

Seeing the bus approach, she hopped up, jostling the bench and the man on the other end slumped over.

Sorry! she said, turning toward him and noticing his awkward position and the emptiness of his half-open eyes.

She stepped nearer and touched his shoulder. Her fingers encountered something wet and sticky and she recoiled just as the driver cranked the bus door open.

You guys getting on? he called.

Looking at the blood on her hand, Tillie was mute from shock.

When she failed to respond, the driver shrugged, shut the door, and the bus pulled away.

Tillie, blinked and reached carefully into her bag for a tissue to wipe the blood from her fingers. Only when every trace of red was gone did she dig out her cell phone. She stood looking at it for several seconds before giving herself a shake and tapping a saved number.

Oh, John! I’m so glad you answered, she said. I’m sorry to bother you, if you aren’t on duty tonight, she added.

What’s up, Mrs. T.? Detective John Ransom responded.

Are you off on another adventure?

The detective had been relaxing in his bachelor apartment across town, where he’d been watching TV and enjoying a beer.

Oh, John! she wailed. There’s a man here at the bus stop. I tried to be friendly, but he wouldn’t talk to me. I thought he was just shy. How could I know he was being so rude because he was dead?

What do you mean? Slow down. What man? Ransom asked.

Tillie took a breath and began to explain.

My class ended and I was waiting for the bus... Oh dear! I’m afraid I missed it. That was the last one tonight, too.

Ransom slammed down the footrest, nearly ejecting himself from his worn-out leather recliner and stood up, frowning.

Calm down, Mrs. T. and tell me what’s happened.

Tillie opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, something smacked into the side of her head, a spray of sparks flashed before her eyes, and she crumpled to the pavement with a feeble moan.

Mrs. T.! Tillie? Ransom shouted into the phone. Are you okay?

3

Getting no response from Tillie, Ransom clicked off his phone, grabbed his coat, and snatched up his car keys.

She’d said she was at a bus stop following a class. At this time of night, that would mean either the high school adult education or a program at the community college. Only a few blocks separated the two schools, so Ransom could easily check both the bus stops. What he would do if Tillie wasn’t at either, he didn’t know.

Ransom had first encountered Tillie when investigating a cold case murder of a girl who’d been one of her students. He’d learned to appreciate Tillie’s

instincts and her remarkable memory, as well as her baking skills. He and Tillie had bridged the gap between their generations, developing a friendship.

Never married and devoted to his job with the Sheriff’s Office, Ransom welcomed Tillie into his life for her cheerful practicality and good company. Although he seldom thought of it in those terms, she’d become to him the grandmother every lonely boy wished for.

Fears for her safety filled Ransom’s mind as his car splashed through the wet streets, the tires throwing spray as he sped along.

When he reached the bus stop outside the high school, it was empty and the school building was dark. He pulled over to the curb and called Tillie’s phone, again. Still getting no answer, Ransom proceeded to the community college, his mind filling with all the things which could have made his dear friend go silent.

As he drew near, he saw the windows of the college building were also dark, but from a distance he made out a man in gray coveralls, apparently the maintenance man, disappearing between the buildings.

Peering through the misty windshield at the bus stop, Ransom saw what seemed to be a pile of multi-colored clothes on the damp pavement beside the bench.

Screeching to a stop in the buses only lane, he jumped out of the car and stepped onto the curb, just as Tillie lifted her head.

She tried to push herself up, looking dazed.

Mrs. T.! What happened? he asked, rushing over and crouching beside her.

Help me up, please, John. I’m feeling a bit shaky, she said, lifting her hand.

Ransom stood and eased Tillie onto the bench, and then picked up her cell phone from the sidewalk, where it lay between her tote bag and her umbrella.

Woozy, Tillie sat blinking and patting her chest, trying to get her bearings, while Ransom sat beside her, rubbing her other hand.

Was it a stabbing? she asked after taking a deep breath. There was quite a bit of blood.

What are you talking about? Ransom asked, looking Tillie over for signs of a wound.

"The dead man... was he shot or stabbed? Can you