The Witch of Grandad Bluff and Others: Jess Thornton Detective

By Jess Thornton

Jess Thornton, private eye, is a young man from a small city, who nevertheless manages to find himself in strange, and often supernatural situations as he tries to solve crimes. From traveling through time, to fighting witches, he could only survive with the help of his preternaturally gifted warrior friend, Alexander Blackdeer. The two of them together, in this box set of four tales, manage to meet Elvis, King Arthur, and even Nathan Hixon of early La Crosse historical fame. Driving his old Packard 1950 Packard 8 restored auto, he attacks crime where he finds it, with Alexander the mighty warrior beside him.They fight by the side of Native Americans from long ago, and war with magical medicine men and eagles that are possessed. But, at the end of the day, they wind up back at home in present day La Crosse, either at Jess's high rise Hoeschler building downtown office, his north side boathouse, or at Alexander's immaculately restored Victorian mansion on Indian Hill. And on their downtime, they grill out, work out, drink beer, and smoke cigars...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moos Publishing
• Release date: Feb 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386518051

Jess Thornton

Jess Eden Thornton is the author of several books on family, the post office past and present, and Americana.  His writings espouse traditional family values, while displaying the underlying humor in the family, neighborhood, and of working life. He also has written a few fantasy stories, one in collaboration with Robert E. Howard, the inventor of Conan. He resides in the driftless region of Wisconsin, deep in an isolated coulee.

Book preview

The Witch of Grandad Bluff and Others

The Witch of Grandad Bluff and Others

Jess Thornton- Private Detective Series

Jess Thornton

Moos Publishing

Volume One

Contents

For White Buffalo Calf Pipe Woman

Copyright © 2017 Jess Thornton

All rights reserved.

ISBN:  9781797499932

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Created with Vellum Created with Vellum

One

First Impressions

The rain just wouldn’t stop coming, puddling on the green grass and running in streams down the curbside. I was looking out my office window, high in the skyscraper in which I had rented. The top floor. ‘I really was rising in the world,’ I thought. There was a knock at my door.

I set my red tennis shoes down on the floor from where they had been resting atop my old desk. I stood, still listening to the pounding of the falling rain on the large, art deco-styled window frame in the wall, opening the old wooden door, with its old-fashioned frosted glass center. I still got a thrill when I saw my name lettered on it in black- Jesse Thornton- Private Detective. I always thought the smoking revolver underneath made a nice statement.

It was a woman standing there. She would have been quite attractive, if she had had a shred of a smile. She didn’t. I need to hire you- my husband has disappeared.

She looked at me, all at once taking in my dashing blue Brewer’s cap, and no doubt noting appreciatively the huge breadth of my shoulders as she looked me up and down. I waited for her gasp of delight when she noted my red tennies, and smiled in anticipation. It never came.

"You are the detective, I take it?" she said, rather more disappointed than delighted. Ah, well- some cannot appreciate the subtly of being shabby chic…

I am, madam, I said, removing my hat and hanging it on the wall hanger. Please have a seat, I said, indicating the old wooden chair that stood on the other side of my equally ancient wooden desk. My cigar, which was curling off aromatic plumes of fine tobacco smoke, nestled in a large green ashtray of cut glass.

She looked at the cigar, and then the chair, as if they were twin poisonous serpents, then looking at me with a look of quiet disgust and disappointment. (I know, I find it hard to believe myself). Then she turned, and left the office, leaving the door wide open. I watched as her expensively-dressed backside hastily went down the hall to the elevator, and picked up my cigar. I took a long, deliberate couple of puffs. Wonderful!

‘A Cubs fan, perhaps?’

---

Walking to the door, I gently closed it. The rain kept pounding against the large window, that same window that was on the top floor of my downtown La Crosse, Wisconsin office building. I had thought that I had it made when I rented it, just a few months back; moving in from an upstairs office on Caledonia street on the north side of town. And, in a way, I had- this building was a beautiful, Art Deco building constructed in 1941 by Franklin Hoeschler- The Hoeschler Exchange Building. I loved it, and after all- I was really up high!

However, I did need to make the rent, and if all of my clients reacted as had this last one, I would soon be in financial jeopardy- just then the phone rang. I lifted the receiver, and listened intently, something we detectives do very well. Aromatic smoke enveloped my head, to my joy.

I apologize, said a female voice. "It was just that- that cigar, and that old-fashioned office, and, well, you are too young for such a position…" she trailed off. I smiled freely, knowing that she was safe from my animal magnetism, being out of the room.

That’s all right, ma’am, I said. Many say I was just born old, since I appreciate things that most of my peers do not, such as old architecture, fine cigars, and old automobiles, amongst other things. I refrained from saying old women since this lady was at least 35, probably 10 years older than myself, but, if truth were to be told, that was true as well.

She sighed. Well, the fact is, I need help. My friend Rita told me you helped her immensely, and that was why I came to you.

I remembered Rita, and the random attacks that she had been subject to- until I made them stop. I had always thought that maybe I had used a little too much force, though.

Well then, I said. Just what is the problem?

---

After getting off the phone with Ms. Joni McClellan, I was driving down to Riverside Park. Such a pleasure, driving my 1950 Packard 8 sedan, a beautiful old car with a deep green shade. As I said to Ms. McClellan- ‘I do love fine, old vintage things’!

The rain pounded on my windshields; I say it in the plural since the windshields of those days were separated by a line of sheet metal in the middle, joining the two panels. The wipers were on fast, since I only had the choice of two- fast or slow. Actually, fast worked just fine, especially since I only had a few blocks to drive. I turned left on State Street, just by the post office, and continued down towards the park.

I was engaged to Paul for over a year, and we married last fall, she had said on the phone. She kind of broke up then, and I said ‘there there’, or maybe I just waited for her to get over it. I’m sure I puffed on my cigar, and looked out again at the rain, two things I am very good at. Paul McClellan is his name, from a very prominent family indeed in the area, I’m sure you’ve heard of them? she asked.

I hadn’t. My own acquaintance within the circles of the Coulee Region as La Crosse is known was hardly amongst the elite. I sometimes crossed paths with some of those of that persuasion, but they were not of my milieu, which was rather, how shall I put it, more bluish in their collars, not their blood. I like to spend time with those who actually work for a living. Tradesmen- carpenters, plumbers, mailmen- you get the idea. Actual workers. People who sweat.

I knew Ms. Joni McClellan and her type. Her type was definitely Paul McClellan. He was from an old money sort of family; and while I have nothing against any of that type- (heck, Franklin Hoeschler, the dentist-turned real estate mogul who had built the building in which my office resided had been of that type, God bless him), still, his type was not my type. As an ex-logger, apple orchard worker, and a brief stint as a mixed martial artist- well, none of my money had ever been old. It didn’t stay around long enough to become that.

She had told me that she and ‘her Paulie’ had been out to dine at The Charmant, a boutique hotel and dining establishment built in 1898, and remodeled from the former candy factory that it had once been. I knew it well, since it was but a few blocks from my skyscraper of an office. Many was the brandy old-fashioned I had consumed within its walls, along with my colleagues- those largely blue-collar workers I have mentioned previously. But there were others that went there as well, of a more refined vintage.

"We had finished a wonderful dinner with the Andreason’s- Max Andreason of the Andreason car dealership, I’m sure you know it. Ms. McClellan’s eyes had fluttered with actual delight. The Chateaubriand- it is to die for- right up there with the prime rib at the Freighthouse down the road!"

"Well, after we had finished, Max invited Paulie out for a stroll out front- you know, down in Riverside Park?" I did indeed. Everyone in the Coulee Region knew all about the beautiful Riverside Park, an on-the-banks of the Mississippi River park that had been the focal point of downtown La Crosse since it had been built in 1911.

"Well, Margie Andreason and I chatted over our profiteroles, which is one of their premier desserts- have you tried it? I had not. Well, you should- Pearl Street vanilla ice cream after all, with a divine hot chocolate sauce- but anyway, we just waited and waited!"

I had waited here myself, contentedly blowing clouds of wonderful smoke skywards into my high office ceiling, waiting for Ms. Joni McClellan to continue with her divine, endless dinner. I waited, but she did not continue.

And what happened? I asked, finally. She broke into sudden tears.

"Nothing!" she sobbed over the phone. "We waited and waited, and they never came back! I had to pay the check myself, and I am hopeless with money and cards and things!"

I waited, again. Both Paul and Max never came back?

She sniffled, and then finally continued in a small voice. "Well, Max showed up. He came home that night, and told Margie that he and Paul got into an argument- and he, Max, had just walked on home, he was so angry. They live right on Ebner Coulee Road, so it was quite a hike for him, but he said it felt good to ‘blow off the steam’.

Did Margie call you to tell you this? I asked.

Well, no- after I went home, I was so upset, I just went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, with no Paulie there- I called the police! They said they’d look around, but assured me that he was probably just ‘horsing around’. Then, I called Margie- she told me what Max had said. She seemed as surprised as I was that Paul hadn’t come home yet! She started crying again.

I will look into it, I said, and hung up. Histrionics are not my thing, not at all.

---

I parked my car next to the old cannon by the levee in Riverside Park. I knew it was there in memorial of World War 1, but it looked way older- more like a Revolutionary War cannon, one of those that fired the giant, round cannonballs you would imagine from 200 years ago or more. After the over-the-top crying and histrionics of Joni McClellan the honest age and patina of such an ancient object was a relief.

Walking over along the riverfront, towards the giant Indian figure that stood cross-armed in vigil by the end of the park, I observed the shoreline. The rain pelted down unabated, splashing off of the old cannon, and dotting the river with small splashes as it entered the big waters of the mighty river of all rivers- the confluence of the Mississippi, the Black, and the La Crosse river all into one giant flowage.

I was determined to remain unimpressed, and pulled my blue Brewer’s cap down low to shield my face from the rain. My cigar had gone out, but I still chewed it contentedly, as I examined the shoreline. Ducks quacked at me, and I was glad the weather kept away the many tourists who would have felt compelled to exclaim to me Nice weather for ducks! Although I usually admirably restrain myself, my training in the martial arts sometimes makes it difficult to avoid taking an all-too aggressive stance against verbal cliche and idiocy.

I walked the entire shoreline along the levee. From the dock of the La Crosse Queen next to the big Indian, all the way down to the Waterfront restaurant- nothing. I headed back, water dripping from the bill of my cap, with a wet, dead cigar dangling from my lips. I was drenched from my red tennis shoes all the way up. My cell phone rang again, and as I usually did, I left it in my pocket, nice and dry.

I walked past the old fountain, which was still shooting out jets of water, which seemed crazy in this downpour, but I kept my feelings to myself. There was no one else in the park to express them to, anyway. As I passed the 1930’s bandshell, I glanced up at the old concrete stage. Nothing untoward there either. I shrugged, and headed north.

The International Friendship Gardens are a place where lots of really nice little gardens are interspersed from different nationalities, the purported goal being to ‘promote friendship’. I stood in the pouring rain, musing on international friendship, something of which I had seen very little in real life. I tried to light my cigar, soaked as it was. I do have a torch of a lighter, one that runs on butane and heats like a flame-thrower, although I normally far prefer my Zippo. The torch worked though- a small miracle.

I relaxed, wreaths of smoke pluming out from beneath my hat brim into the rain. I’m sure I was a strange figure there, a 25 year old man, with a drenched Brewer’s cap and long water-proof trench coat ala Humphrey Bogart, smoking a large ring-gauge cigar (50), with clouds of smoke pouring out around me in the rain. I was used to being an anachronism around La Crosse. That didn’t bother me a bit.

---

What bothered me was what I saw, just under the arch into the Friendship Gardens. The Chinese arch, that led into a charming walkway across pools of water, lush foliage, and artfully designed concrete bridges. A shoe, lying amongst the seaweed and moss covered rocks, almost concealed by the large goldfish swimming about it.

Lying down on the concrete bridge, I reached into the water, as the rain continued to pelt me from above. A bright orange fish looked up at me in surprise; but I think even more with pity- he knew that I wasn’t meant to be as wet as him. Pulling out the shoe, I used my detective skills to determine that it was a man’s shoe, and it was brown. Elementary, my dear. My first clue.

Two

Max Andreason

It was another short drive to the country lane on the edge of town that is Ebner Coulee road. It winds up the bluff, and would have been a pretty drive on a sunny day. I couldn’t really see all that much, though, through the sheets of rain that fell, blowing across my ancient windscreen. The wipers hardly made a difference, but I kept them on, since I found the clicking sound comforting amidst the shrieking of the cold, late spring wind.

The Andreason house was a large, country-style house, but it was still a mansion. Not a Mc Mansion, like they build nowadays all over the country for the monied and the tasteless, but a real mansion. I went around the long, circular front drive, and stopped right by the big front door, framed by pillars of real stone; Corinthian if I remember my high school history correctly, and swung the big brass knocker. It even had Andreason printed right on it, so I knew I was in the right place. Another excellent piece of detection.

I expected the butler, but it was Max Andreason himself who answered the door. He was a large man, both in height and in girth.

Mr. Andreason, I said, looking up at him, I am investigating the disappearance of Paul McClellan. I shouted to be heard over the storm.

He beckoned me inside, since the wind and rain were blowing right into the front hallway, and shut the door firmly. Suddenly, it was completely quiet, only the faint ticking of an old grandfather clock off to the side disturbed the silence. I stood there dripping as Andreason turned back towards me, a look of concern on his face. He was probably late-thirties, but still he seemed like a kindly old uncle, worried about one of his nephews who had lost his skate key.

He ran a big, powerful looking hand through what was left of his hair, which had been blonde. His eyes were a rather startling shade of bright blue, the kind that seemed to look right through you. He smiled. I smiled back. Happy to be out of the rain, I guess.

Oh no, that doesn’t sound like Paul, he said. We had an argument the other night, nothing big; just a business dispute, and I stormed out. I was so mad really that I just walked all the way home, and I will say I felt better when I had come all this way. I was so tired, I just went right to bed. He looked at me with what looked like real concern for a friend. But you are saying that he never got home?

No, he didn’t, I answered, and waited. Waiting, I’ve found, is the primary skill of a detective. Andreason looked back at me, also waiting. It could have gone on all night, but all at once footsteps rang on the tiles of the hall. Margie Andreason walked in.

---

But it was much more than that- it was more like she appeared on stage! She was that kind of a woman- tall, but not too tall. Shapely, but not extreme. Dressed to the nines- except nothing was really fancy- it all just suited her so well, that I was sure that she knew that no one, man or woman, could ever take their eyes off of her. And, unlike her husband, she still had loads of long, shining white-blonde hair.

Max, who is this? she asked. Her look was not friendly, but it was not unfriendly either. Just puzzled.

I smiled my low-wattage smile, not the higher one that made nuns take off their habits. Jesse Thornton, ma’am. Private detective, looking into the disappearance of Paul McClellan. Her husband moved towards her, holding her by the shoulders. Concerned.

She looked up at Max, his big hands on her shoulders. Comforting her? Hard to tell.

We don’t really know anything. he said. He was still looking at his wife. Ah, wedded bliss! Please keep us informed. Paul and Joni are good friends of ours! He looked meaningfully at the door, and then, finally taking his hands from his wife’s shoulders, he turned and put his hand on the knob, looking at me. Meaningfully. Meaning, I was to leave post-haste.

I stood, looking at Margie. Tears were in her eyes, but whether they were for their good friend Paul, or were caused by the hard manipulations of her husband’s large hands, I couldn’t tell. Like I said, she was used to being looked at, but finally she returned my own gaze. Her green eyes were as remarkable as the rest of her, and they seemed to be trying to tell me something- but what?

Max’s big hand was all of a sudden on my shoulder. He was turning me towards the door, forcibly. His bright blue eyes looked into my own gray ones, and all at once he seemed much less kindly and uncle-ish. You are upsetting my wife- it’s time for you to go!

Reaching up with my right hand, I grasped his little finger with it. I squeezed, and twisted, ever so slightly… He let go of my shoulder, and groaned as I twisted him down to his knees. Larger men are always surprised when a smaller man can manipulate them easily, but that is where training comes in. Bruce Lee was what- 130 pounds or so- and he could easily dominate multiple men twice his size.

I let go, and he jumped to his feet, clenching his big hands into fists. Ah Ah Ah! I said, showing him my opened palms. I was leaving anyway. I dropped my card, lettered with Jesse Thornton- Private Detective onto a small side table, and once again noted with appreciation the smoking revolver beneath my name. Give me a call, either of you, should you hear anything from, or about Paul McClellan. And have a nice night!

I went out into the storm, rain and wind in nowise abated, and thought that perhaps I had not made friends this night.

---

As I drove back from the Andreason’s, I mused on my options. I had a shoe, probably size 11 or so, unlike my own size 10. No sense keeping it then, right? So, my next idea was to show it to Joni McClellan, see if she remembered it. Duh.

Actually, I had known this was my first step, but I had to see the Andreason’s first. I never get invited up on Ebner Coulee road, into the rural mansions. I was more the type to spend time up on Indian Hill, where a number of my real friends lived. St. Andrews street was not far on the odometer from Ebner Coulee road, but it was like night and day in terms of average income per person and demographics.

But right now, I was heading into another enclave similar to that of the Andreason household. I drove north, the windshield being cleared more by the sheeting rain that it was by the two-speed wipers. I drove slowly. Luckily, I seemed to be the only car on the road, which was smart of other drivers, and not so smart of myself. Nevertheless, I drove on- north- to Onalaska- north, to La Crosse’s own! I sang it lustily. Did I mention that I enjoy singing with the Coulee Chordsmen, the local barbershop society? I sing with a quartet- The Three Rivers Four.

I was headed right to the McClellan household, which was on the golf course in Onalaska, just north of La Crosse. I passed the sign on Sand Lake road for Cedar Creek Golf Course, and turned right down the lane towards the clubhouse. I drove past the long, prairie style building, then down the lane to where the McClellan’s resided. All the lights were on inside, giving me a gleaming beacon; guiding me up their drive, where I parked my dripping Packard outside of a large garage. ‘What- no circular drive?’ I thought. All of this mixing with the upper classes had me feeling entitled.

Just then, the rain let up considerably. I stood outside, shaking the wetness from my trench coat and Brewer’s cap. I ran a hand through my longish wet hair, and threw the soggy hat back into the car. After all, I had surmised that Joni McClellan was probably a Cubs fan. Wouldn’t want to provoke her again.

Walking up the sidewalk leading from the drive to the front door, I looked up at the bluffs behind the McClellan residence. Never will I tire of the views and landscape of the Coulee Region, where magnificent scenes and vistas are your birthright, something you cherish- and need to remind yourself over and over again to never take for granted. For most people in this world have flat-crap to look at, along with suburban sprawl and citified decadence.

The Coulee Region of La Crosse is in the Driftless Zone; which means a small portion of the U.S. that was spared the scouring of the glacial drift south across the continent. The landscape was thus left rugged and pre-glacial, forever primeval. I believe the majority of the people that live here are similar, for the most part; at least the rugged part. Definitely salt-of-the-earth types. Nordic.

My musings behind me, I gained the front door. The porch was as long as the house, which means longer than I would want to sprint, and I am accounted a fair sprinter. I knocked. Nothing. Then I spied a small doorbell to the side. I rang it, and waited. And waited.

Since all the lights were on in the house, and I am a trained detective, I deducted that someone was probably home. I walked down the endless porch, and peered into the nearest window I passed. We detectives do not feel guilty about this, we are licensed peepers, after all. Music was blaring loudly, and although I love good blues and early rock and roll, not to mention barbershop, this was what I call rap crap. The most obscene, ridiculous, embarrassing, and actually evil fake music ever- musical graffiti. No redeeming value, whatsoever. Also, it explained why no one would answer the door, since no one could hear over that racket.

I went to the next window, which was a very richly decorated sitting room. I mean, if Miss Kitty from the old Gunsmoke TV western had had unlimited funds, and lived on a golf course- this would be her perfect living room.

Inside, perched on a red chair, (all the furniture was red), was Joni McClellan. Her red hair was perfectly matched to the room, and there was a red liquid in the glass on the table by her side. As a detective, I assumed it was wine. I also assumed that the dark haired man massaging her back was not her husband, Paul, whose shoe I was probably holding in my hand. He looked to be about 30 or so, and had a gold neck chain glinting on his hairy chest, which I could see since his shirt was unbuttoned almost to his belly button.

Suddenly it hit me: Tom Jones! Joni McClellan was listening to rap-crap, right alongside of Tom Jones! Laughing, I took Paul’s shoe, and rapped it loudly against the glass- they both jerked upwards and stared. The Tom Jones clone reached behind him, producing an automatic pistol.

I put my face near the glass, and motioned to Joni to let me in. I held up the shoe, and she pushed the Jones/clone’s arm away and down. Pointing to the front door area, she stood. I nodded, and then smiled briefly at the man with the Tom Jones looks. He did not smile back.

---

The front door was open, framing an angry Joni McClellan. What are you doing here? This is my private residence! She looked really mad.

I came to show you this, I said, proffering the shoe that I had fished out of the Friendship Garden waters. Is it your husband’s?

She looked at it for a long time, as her good friend, the fake Tom Jones came up behind her. He glared at me, his eyes glinting as hard as the lights from the bright gold chain about his neck. I smiled ingratiatingly, although neck chains are not my thing. This might be Paul’s shoe. Where did you find it? She did not ask me inside.

Tom Jones stepped forward then, as if to block me if she gave him the look, his hairy chest showing out of his unbuttoned shirt, with his rather flabby belly protruding beneath. Joni gave him a venomous look, like she had given me after first meeting me in my office. Off-putting.

Stay back, Pussycat! she said.

I was stunned. Pussycat? Did he live the part of being a Tom Jones clone? His name was one of the top songs of his hero?? And what kind of a name was that?? But I did not let this revelation distract me from my detecting.

I looked into Joni’s blue eyes. "I found it in the water running through The Friendship Gardens in Riverside Park. I just wanted to know if it truly was Paul’s." She looked at the shoe again, and nodded.

He did have shoes like that, she said. But then, so do many men, I’m sure. The shoes were simple, lace-up oxfords, but of a high level brand. Nothing you could buy at Wal-Mart, and not even anywhere in the Coulee Region, I was sure. ‘Johnston and Murphy, fine shoes since 1850’. I had done my homework. Very few, probably no other men in this rather blue collar area would have such a pair of shoes. I know I didn’t, parked next to my red, black, and white tennis shoes back home.

Let’s check out his closet, see if he has other shoes of this high-priced brand. I stepped forward. It would show us a lot if we knew this was his shoe of choice— I broke off abruptly, as Pussycat shot his fist towards my face. I slipped his punch, ducking quickly to the side, and gave him a roundhouse to the gut- his weak point, as I had ascertained. He slumped to the ground, groaning, and gasping for air. Now, shall we check out the closet? I asked Joni McClellan then.

There was no answer. She was on her knees, looking into Pussycat’s face as if he was an injured baby, rubbing his cheeks. Poor darling, she murmured. He caught his breath, and gradually seemed more at ease. It’s never pretty to get the wind knocked out of you.

"You bastard!" she screamed suddenly. She was on her feet, and pounding against my chest with both of her fists. It was about as effective as Pussycat’s attack. I grabbed her wrists, and held them together.

Do you want to find your husband or not? I asked. "Just let me know. If you don’t- well, that’s fine. But now that I am involved- I will find out what happened to him-I am just like that." I really am- I kind of never give up…

NO! she literally screamed at me. "I was right the first time, when I saw you in your horrible old office! Just leave me alone- Pussycat and I will find out what happened, we don’t need your help. Just go!"

Her pretty face was a mask of pure hate, looking right at me like a Gorgon. Pussycat, (I’ll never get used to that name, sorry), had gotten slowly to his feet, and was looking ready to try his luck again. His hand moved to his waistband, where I knew he would carry his pistol. As he drew it out, as quick as he could, I kicked him. Just one fast kick. Surgical. He fell to the floor, where I knew he’d rest for some time. I actually felt bad for him, as well as for Joni, whose romantic evening was suddenly ruined completely.

A swift kick to the groin will do that.

As I left, as had been requested, I sang a little ditty.

---

"What’s new pussycat

whoah whoah whoah whoah

What’s new pussycat,

whoah, whoah whoah, woah woah"

---

I heard the front door slam, hard. Some folks don’t have an ear for music.

---

I was at a crossroads. My employer, aka Joni McClellan, was obviously no longer going to pay me. If I was a practical man, I would just drop the whole thing, let Paul McClellan be wherever he might be, and look for another client. But I knew I wouldn’t.

Sometimes, a man’s strength is his weakness. My weakness (and my strength) is that I will not give up. I just won’t. If I am struggling, all is hopeless, and I am beaten almost to death- I won’t give up. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I am the most persistent. We cannot change what we are, and actually it usually serves me well, at least long term. Short term, well, I was not getting paid- but I was going to find out what happened to Paul McClellan.

I was driving my classic Packard back from Onalaska. Back to Indian Hill, where I had friends. As I drove, my cell phone rang. I pulled over, into the Center 90 parking lot, and answered it. I don’t know why, I don’t usually even have it on.

Hello- Jesse Thornton, private detective- who is it please?

There was a waterfall of tears. "I am so sorry! I don’t know what came over us- that was Paul’s shoe, and I want you to pursue this detective thing. Pussycat is all apologetic, and so sorry that he attacked you- will you please continue the investigation?" It was Joni McClellan.

I looked at the cell as if it was a snake. A two-faced one- what was this all about? I’ll need some payment to continue, I said. She told me she had already wired money into my account at the State Bank, and I was startled when she mentioned the amount. This was good news.

Alright, Ms. McClellan, I said, just what do you want me to do?

Find that bast- my husband, and let me know where he is!

I will ma’am, I said.

Call me Joni, she said, as she hung up.

I turned on the radio, the Oldies station I listened to- 92.7 FM. I was hoping for early Elvis.

What I got was It’s Not Unusual…

If old Pussycat had somehow engineered this- he had gotten his revenge.

---

I decided that I should just go home. The rain was pelting down in biblical torrents again, and I thought I’d better check on my place, anyway. Living on a boathouse makes