Mayhem With A Capital M

By Marlene Chabot

When Jake Ballad, owner of Java to Go, is informed that an overworked police department can't spare a cop to catch someone pilfering gas from his vans, he reaches out to Private Investigator Matt Malone. Even though the PI's business is hurting, he's in no hurry to commit himself. Malone's scheduled to take an all-expense paid trip to Puerto Vallarta with his girlfriend and there's no way he's forfeiting that. Ballad persists. Too bad the PI didn't have a crystal ball. Java to Go's seemingly minor problem is just the tip of the iceberg.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marlene Chabot
• Release date: May 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393301356

Marlene Chabot

Marlene Chabot, a resident of Minnesota, began writing mysteries in 1995 and has been involved with freelance writing since 2007. She received a B.S. degree in education from St. Cloud State University, an A.A.S. Business Marketing degree from Anoka-Ramsey Community College, and a certificate from the Institute of Children's Literature. In 2022 she published her first anthology, and in 2023 she completed her seventh novel 

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Other writings by Marlene Chabot

NOVELS

Detecting the Fatal Connection

(Previously listed as China Connection)

North Dakota Neighbor

Mayhem With A Capital M

Death At The Bar X Ranch

Death of the Naked Lady

Death of the Pickle King

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ANTHOLOGIES

Why Did Santa Leave A Body?

A Visit From Santa

Festival of Crime

The Missing Groom

Cooked to Death: Lying on a Plate Vol II

Serving Up A Surprise

Dark Side of the Loon

More Than Lessons

SWF Stories and Poems

The Gulper Eel

Marco Island Stories and Poems Vol IV

The Scarf

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my family, friends, and readers who have supported me in anyway, whether large or small, over the years. Without your support, I wouldn’t be all that I am today.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to express my gratitude to Angie Sanders who gave of her time to edit this book.

Cops are notorious for making private investigators squirm. I’d decided to skip out and leave Pedro holding the bag. Unfortunately, the darn conscience stopped me cold. Would I want a ton of cops breathing down my neck without anyone propping me up? Heck no. So I did the decent thing, hung around and put up with whatever crap the cops dished out.

PART ONE

~1~

On the day Great Aunt Fiona croaked, a Malone relative originally from Northern Ireland, she dispersed her gift of premonitions upon a certain member of our clan, namely me. Supposedly, none of my siblings or cousins had the right type of temperament to receive it. My fate was sealed.

A wee lad at the time, I hadn’t yet learned how one can remain respectful to an elder and at the same time tell the person how strongly one feels about something, including an old, old person on their death bed.

And now, being forty-some years old and considered a gentleman by the people who know me well, I continue to suppress my true feelings about the gift and still haven’t uttered a single foul word to anyone concerning it. Even so, it’s a curse of the worst kind. The albatross hangs around me night and day, like my mutt Gracie, waiting for the right set of circumstances to drag me deeper into its folds.

Of course, if I were to be totally honest, which I’m frequently not due to the nature of my business, private investigator, I’d have to acknowledge on rare occasions having a sixth sense has worked to my advantage. For instance it really came in handy for two particular cases I worked on. The first dealt with the pop bottling industry, and the second with property on which a new school was being built. Pretty sweet, huh?

Hearing this you may wonder what the fuss is all about if the gift is helpful in even a small way. Well, when the curse strikes, I get nauseous and weak in the knees. Not something a grown man wants the world to see. A pregnant woman who has suffered similarly in her first trimester can easily relate.

Before my premonitions kick into high gear though, things have to be in perfect alignment, like a solar eclipse or other phenomenon. Well, today, New Year’s Day, obviously they were, and in church of all places. Talk about weird!

I happened to be sitting in the middle of the church in one of the well-worn oak pews at Holy Rosary Catholic Church in Northeast Minneapolis surrounded by my folks and other family members waiting for Father Mc Nealy to finish up a rather long-winded ice fishing story he’d weaved into his sermon, when my mind drifted off, seeking objects of interest instead like the six-foot marble carving of Mary and baby Jesus, which resides in an alcove above a small side altar to the left of me.

The altar, abundantly decorated, held ten huge pots of cardinal-red Poinsettias that should’ve been removed after Christmas. Instead, petals fell one at a time creating a new altar cloth which brought to mind the saying, She loves me, she loves me not...

Kapow! My stomach hurt like a boulder had struck it. Evidently, the curse wanted my attention. Why now? I’d never experienced the effects of it while attending any church services. At least I was sitting. I’ve been known to slip to the floor when an attack strikes. It scares the bejeebers out of whomever I’m socializing with.

I inhaled deeply. I could only think of two things that might’ve triggered the darn sixth sense, the Mexican grown flowers or the statue. Since Mary and Jesus were too busy listening to countless prayers to bother with a guy like me, it had to be the flowers. I expelled the stale inhaled air, clutched my sides, and waited for the pain to dissipate.

After six minutes had gone by, the internal war still raged on, the knots in the stomach hadn’t dissolved. No need to panic though. Church services don’t let up for another half an hour, giving me ample time to recover.

With that in mind, I glanced at the flowers once more to see if the pain would increase. It didn’t, which I took as a good sign. The poinsettias probably weren’t to blame for my problem either. They simply reminded me of Mexico, where the girlfriend and I were going for a winter getaway in two weeks. How could one possibly run into trouble in paradise?

When the plane lets us off south of the border, Rita Sinclair and I will be ankle-deep in hot sand sampling margaritas and spicy foods. However, if she gets the urge to search for cheap trinkets without me, I’ll probably squeeze in a siesta.

What’s that? You think I should hang out with the girlfriend every minute.

Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m not that kind of guy. Many men besides myself appreciate women who don’t expect their significant others to tag along every single time they go somewhere.

Oops. I just realized I should never have revealed my travel plans to you. For all I know you could be linked to an evil element out in our universe.

Oh, well, it’s too late. The deed is done. I’ve a feeling though you want to sneak more info out of me. Like, how does a PI scrape enough dough together for a trip out of the country when he barely manages to provide necessities for him and his mutt on his weekly income?

Asking such a question is fine with me. It’s only normal for one human being to wonder how another, with less income than he, can find ways to have fun, especially when flights don’t come cheap.

The elderly pastor coughed unexpectedly, causing me to take notice of him again. Sorry, I can’t seem to shake this annoying cough, he said.

This story wasn’t any better than his exaggerated fish one. The man’s an old pro. The bulletin I snatched off the small table before entering the main part of the church announced that he’ll be celebrating forty years of priesthood this March. That’s plenty of time to learn how to reel in those disinterested in his tales, including me.

I don’t’ believe it. As soon as I focused on the man of cloth standing at the podium, the stomach problems disappeared. Just goes to show, backtracking is worth it.

Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten your quest to find out how this guy can afford a trip on his tiny income, but the congregation is about to sing a song and might appreciate another voice, even though I can’t carry a tune.

~2~

With mass concluded, it’s time to fess up. A few members of the family, including myself, aren’t as holy as our parents think. If we had our way, we would’ve skipped the holiness scene altogether. But our seventy-year-old mother, a determined woman of French descent and devout Catholic, insists we attend mass on New Year’s Day, like she has for eons, so we don’t dare aggravate Mom especially when she gives us a reminder on Christmas day.

Don’t forget, next week New Year’s Day is a Holy Day of Obligation. A special day set aside by the church hierarchy to honor Mary. She sighs. Of course non- Catholics aren’t obliged to come, referring to our significant others.

After appeasing Mom for another year, it’s on to secondary matters certain family members think more important. We drive to the two-story framed-house of our childhood, fill plates with high carb foods, and park our butts near the twenty-five inch TV screen to watch the Rose Bowl game.

Fair warning, there is a teeny drawback watching football games at my folks’. Family rituals are followed to the ninth degree, including not talking other than during commercial breaks. So, if you’re inclined to watch the game in this house, bring an ample supply of paper and pen to write messages.

With all the years we’ve been doing this football game routine. I’m surprised no one has ever suggested jumping on a rental bus and heading to Pasadena, especially with our clan’s distaste for winter and their obsession with the Rose Bowl. That adventure would be talked about for years. Then again, maybe it wouldn’t, depending on the outcome.

We’d finally reached our destination after a twenty minute drive. Of course, if we’d hit red traffic lights or driven on snow clogged roads, we’d still be another ten minutes away from the home of my youth.

My folks had led the Malone caravan home as they had for many years. Even so, I still found myself wondering what malady would befall my three siblings and me if we went ahead of them. Would we be zapped to an alien ship?

When we reached home, Dad cautiously maneuvered his Ford Taurus along the blacktopped driveway leading to the garage, without digging up one iota of snow-covered grass running alongside it. Of course, the rest of us tried to copy him to the letter, which wasn’t always easy.

As always, the Topaz and I brought up the rear. There’s nothing wrong with that. By sheer coincidence, one particular quote suits me fine. The last shall be first and the first shall be last. In this instance, I’ll be the first one out of here tonight. No being held prisoner while others dillydally with long good-byes.

Keith, Margaret’s non-Catholic husband who had remained at my folks’ place while the rest of us went to church, popped into the hallway entrance just as Michael and I walked in.

Where the heck have you guys been? Margaret told me mass lasts an hour; you’ve been gone almost two. Before we could respond, the football fanatic hastily added, They’ve already showed the panoramic view of the 94,392 people seated in the stands. If you don’t get moving, you’re going to miss the kick-off.

His words didn’t shake me to the core. Calm down, Keith, I said, pulling the cuff of my winter jacket back enough to expose the new wristwatch purchased at Target with a Christmas gift card. The game doesn’t start for another ten minutes.

Michael and I slipped our jackets off and tossed them on the nearby coatrack, one of those cheap metal ones that topple over whenever it reaches overload. Fortunately for us, Michael’s family and my two sisters had taken their coats to the nearest guest bedroom, so we didn’t have to worry about it falling over.

With his jacket disposed of now, my brother swooped into the kitchen. I’m thinking for nourishment since his stomach had been churning loudly during the entire church service. You see, a true practicing Catholic avoids all forms of food an hour before taking communion at mass. Whether Michael has remained true to his Catholic roots I don’t know. I’ve never felt the need to pry. He might have been merely running late and didn’t have time to squeeze breakfast in.

I, on the other hand, totally ignored the call of food for the moment, unusual for me, and remained in the hallway entrance to give my 6' 2 sandy-haired brother-in-law a dose of reality concerning drive time to church. Keith, for future reference, it takes a good twenty minutes to get to church."

How can that be? Margaret pointed it out to me the other day. It’s two blocks from here.

St. Francis?

Yeah, I guess so. Its spiked tower skims the sky.

That’s not the church my folks attend and it never will be. They’ve been going to Holy Rosary Church forever. That’s where they got married and had my siblings and I christened. Isn’t that right, Mike? I said as he came out of the kitchen loaded down with food.

Yeah. We made our Holy Communions and confirmation there too. He scratched his dark-black thick head of hair with his free hand. Geez, how many years it’s been since I was an altar boy? I mean altar server. Before I let loose with a smart remark about his never actually being one, Michael strolled off to the living room where the TV was situated.

Five seconds later, the rest of the gang came pouring out of the kitchen like Lemmings, their plates overflowing with food. Hmm? Perhaps Keith and I should get some grub before it’s all gone. I grabbed my brother-in-law’s thick, football player like arm. Let’s see if they left us anything.

Keith shook his head when we got into the kitchen. I’m confused, Matt.

I swallowed the miniature carrot I’d shoved in my mouth. I get that. There’s so much food to choose from.

It has nothing to do with food, he said as he piled slices of cheese and sausage on a Styrofoam plate. I thought the Catholic Church was strict about where one could attend mass. At least that was the word on the street when I was a kid. He added more to his plate: meatballs, mini-pizzas, and ruffled chips.

I grabbed another carrot from the veggie plate. Yeah, so?

My Catholic friends said if they didn’t go to the church closest to their house they’d be in deep trouble with their parish priest.

I chuckled. That was the case until maybe around the early ‘70s, but I could be wrong. Support of the neighborhood church was important. It gave the priest a handle on how much revenue he could expect to come in for repairs and such. I picked up a plate and selected a couple barbecued meatballs, a mini-pepperoni pizza, a dill pickle, and a few deviled eggs. Later I’d get more.

Keith set his plate on a counter, grabbed a bottle of Grain Belt Beer from the fridge, and then picked up his plate again. So you can go anywhere you want?

Sure. It’s like open enrollment for schools–a smorgasbord of choice. People attend whatever church service fits their schedule, but most still support the one they’re registered at thanks to direct deposits.

We’d been so busy chatting neither of us had thought to check the time. My sports-crazed brother-in-law did so now. Crap! Come on, Matt. I think we might’ve missed the opening of the game.

~3~

Keith was wrong. The game hadn’t started. We merely caught the tail end of some boring actor belting out another terrible rendition of the national anthem, the Star Spangled Banner. Francis Scott Key would’ve blown a gasket.

Key’s 1814 poem, written two years after witnessing the harsh reality of battle between our troops at Fort Mc Henry and the British ship HMS Minden, was meant to be joyous, not a downer. It’s about America’s victory.

Keith took the last available seat, leaving me with the floor. I had no problem with that. When I’m playing with Gracie and her toys, I frequently find myself low to the ground. I looked around, noticed a space next to my sister’s folding chair, and plopped down. Mary, who is single, lives and breathes Avon products, making my spot zone free of stinky feet at least.

The song ended. The singer walked off the field and a middle-aged bald-headed referee stepped on to it, ready to ask the time-worn question heard at the start of every game. Team captains, who wishes to make the call? After the response came, he said, Heads or tails?

The Huskies representative said, Heads.

The pressure was on. I could see it on the faces of the people in the stadium and here on the home front. The second the coin was released in mid-air, Dad shoved a handful of shelled nuts in his mouth, Keith stuffed his face with chips, and Michael squeezed the life out of the can of pop he was holding.

The referee, shortest in stature of the other two standing with him on the open field, bent down towards the rain-caked earth, carefully examined the coin resting by his feet, and proclaimed, Huskies won the toss!

Hot dog! Keith shouted, forgetting the established decorum of the room for a moment. I knew Purdue’s Boilermakers didn’t have a chance.

So did twenty thousand other people, my small-framed brother retorted.

Hush, Dad said as he gave the two of them the evil-eye.

The guys settled down in time for us to hear the Huskies team captain chose to take the ball. Then a well-planned commercial popped on the screen, many more would follow before the actual game got going.

Production people definitely know how to build tension, I mumbled to no one in particular.

Speaking of tension, have you ever wondered how many persons end up in the emergency room on game nights. I’ve heard women’s numbers are astronomical compared to men which sounds a bit odd to me. You’d think men would outnumber women by a landslide.

As mentioned earlier, this household is free to talk when a commercial break occurs and my brother Michael took full advantage of it. He left the leather hassock he’d been using and came over by me. When’s Rita supposed to arrive?

In about twenty minutes, I hope. Rita works for a medium-sized ad firm downtown and often gets delayed when she’s pressed to get a huge project done. We’ve been going together for about two years, but I haven’t asked her to marry me yet, although, I did give her a pre-engagement ring. The stone, a blue Topaz one, was purchased while I was on assignment in Brazil for Delight Bottling Company.

Michael rested a hand on a hip. So, are you working on any new cases?

I shook my head.

This time of year it’s pretty quiet. It should pick up in the next couple of days though, with all the family feuds during the holidays.

My brother grinned. Yeah, I bet a lot of crazy things happen this time of year.

If he only knew.

With a few seconds left on the clock to chat, I decided to bring up another topic which pertained to my siblings and me. Before I did though, I looked around to make sure my father wasn’t within earshot. He wasn’t. Hey, Mike, do you think Dad will make us wait till the games over to give us our travel tick—?

The patriarch of the Malone clan cut me off with the clapping of his stubby hands. Attention, everyone.

Mike and I obeyed, but no one else did.

Dad fired off another round in Rock’n Roll decibels. Quiet please! His second appeal worked. Kids, I know you’re anxious to learn more about your trips, so let me remedy that.

All right, we’ll finally get the lowdown on our trips.

Dad faced Mom and sent her a message via hand signals.

She responded accordingly. Grabbing the four white business-sized envelopes situated on the top of the piano, she quickly passed them to him.

My father left the comfort of his lounge chair behind, held the envelopes in front of him, and announced our names in order of birth.

It was hard to realize that in mere minutes my not knowing what part of Mexico Rita and I would get to explore would stop bugging me, however the noisy clock by the piano, we inherited upon great-grandma’s death, would continue to annoy me the rest of the day.

While I nervously waited to receive an envelope, memories surfaced of report card days in grade school. Those days I’d sit straight as a ruler behind my desk, knees knocking and sweat pouring forth from every pore, waiting for the principal to hand me my card. Today Dad took the place of the principal.

After Michael received his envelope, he stepped aside, allowing Margaret to get hers, me next, and then Mary, the baby of the family.

Kids, Dad said, staring at the four of us huddled together, I told you in your Christmas cards the trips were my way of saying thanks for helping Mom during a difficult time, my heart surgery. But I never revealed the town you’d be flown to since the trips hadn’t been set up yet with a travel agent.

I glanced at my envelope, afraid to open it. After visualizing nothing but fun on a Mexican beach the past eight days, I suddenly realized I might be flying to Mexico City instead. What a catastrophe that would be. Maybe I should wait till Rita arrived to expose what the envelope contained. At least we’d be shocked or surprised together. Unfortunately, I had no foreshadowing Rita had struck a deal with my father, and had helped him plan the trip.

While I stood there, trying to determine what to do, Michael, a mail sorter for the main post office in Minneapolis, tore open his envelope. Helen, you’d better brush up on your French. We’re going to Montreal, he gleefully shared with his wife.

Good news for them. At Thanksgiving, Michael had mentioned he’d like to go to Canada.

My father had stirred the pot that day. Where would you kids go on vacation if you had the means to do so? he had asked. Quite honestly, I thought the question a waste of time. We all know Dad’s a huge fan of afternoon TV talk shows, so I figured his query had been merely influenced by either Oprah or Dr. Phil. Some guest probably threw out a variety of questions to get everyone to participate at meal time.

Not wanting to appear disrespectful, my siblings and I played along even though we had no clue where the discussion would lead. Surprisingly, that was the most talkative meal our family ever had. My older sister Margaret shared she’d like to go somewhere in the Caribbean. Mary, the youngest, and I both said, Mexico.

Michael’s wife Helen, a mixture of both Marilyn Monroe and Hilary Clinton, didn’t seem affected by the vacation news. She simply set her half-empty plate down on the coffee table and remained rigid as a rock. Supposedly, she requires a fair amount of time for information to register before reacting. At least that’s what my brother told me after their first date.

Rose, their eldest child, wasn’t going to allow grass to grow under her Mom’s feet. She drew closer to her mother and softly tapped her on the arm. What do you think, Mom?

Helen awoke from her mental slumber, smiled broadly, catapulted herself off the leather couch, and wrapped her light-weight arms around Dad. Merci, Archie. I can’t believe you remembered.

Remembered what? the snoop in me inquired, still pressing the unopened envelope to my chest like I was protecting the household from a poisonous snake.

Eleven-year-old Rose took it upon herself to hurl out the answer. Mom and Dad met in an introduction to French class at the University of Minnesota.

Ah, yes. I’d forgotten, Rose, I said. Good thing you’re recording everything for prosperity.

Thanks, she replied sweetly, too young to realize my comment dripped with sarcasm.

As soon as things quieted down, Margaret ripped open her envelope with gusto and scanned her paper.

Keith flexed his foot back and forth.