Close Encounters of the Murderous Kind: Bobbi Sue Baxter Mysteries, #1

By Marissa Shrock

Bobbi Sue Baxter longs for the summer of 1988 to be over so she can leave her boring hometown of Wildcat Springs behind forever. Start using her journalism degree on stories with some excitement. She has no idea more excitement than she's ever wanted is about to come after her.

 

On her way home from a movie, Bobbi Sue stops to help an injured dog and spots what looks like an alien. A blinding light flashes, and when Bobbi can see again, the creature is gone. Did she really see . . .? No! Impossible. She says nothing to anyone, especially not to her conspiracy-obsessed father.

 

But when Bobbi Sue slips and tells her friend, Hemingway "Hemi" Miller, he shows her a story from Close Encounters in the USA. It's about a man who reported an experience nearly identical to hers. And when well-known townsman, Ross Garland is found shot dead close to where she saw the "alien," Bobbi Sue knows she can't stay quiet.

 

The only problem is, the person behind the murder is intent on her doing exactly that, no matter what it takes.

 

Book one in the Bobbi Sue Baxter Mystery Series will have you exercising without getting out of your chair, 'cause your heart is going to be racing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cimelia Press
• Release date: Jun 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201378660

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

JUNE 1988

"Roberta, this article is entirely wrong for the Wildcat Wellspring. From behind her desk, Amanda Miller stared through her blue, oversized reading glasses and waved the paper at me. Rewrite it by tomorrow morning."

Cringing at her use of my given name, I stepped forward and took the paper. She’d made so many red marks, it looked like a bloody-footed chicken had tap danced all over it. How could I have gone wrong writing a feature about our town’s newly crowned Soybean Queen? I couldn’t meet Mrs. Miller’s intense gaze, so I stared at her outdated macramé owl wall hanging.

Even the bird appeared annoyed.

What would you like me to change? I adjusted the crooked shoulder pad on my floral-print dress.

Everything. Your tone is condescending, and the article reads like a hit piece.

I gasped. My toughest writing professor at the University of Northern Indiana had never been that brutal. "Are you joking?"

No.

Dumb question, Bobbi Sue. Mrs. Miller never joked about anything.

She stood and removed a book publisher’s catalog from the shelf behind her desk. You show no respect for pageant winners.

I surveyed the middle-aged woman’s slender figure, flawless makeup, elegant French twist, and long white sundress cinched with a wide red belt. I’d be willing to bet she’d been a pageant girl once upon a time, and she’d probably won a title.

All hail, Queen Amanda.

I pictured her perched upon a golden throne, with scepter in hand, and a crown gracing her head. The peons will obey my orders! she’d shout with a scowl as her courtiers scurried for cover behind suits of armor.

Roberta! Are you listening? She removed her glasses and dropped them onto her desk.

Yes. I blinked away the ridiculous daydream. "I do respect them. That’s why I was trying not to make Misty Ambrose sound like an airhead."

Congratulations. You achieved the exact opposite.

Misty didn’t give me any substance.

You didn’t ask the right questions.

"I asked our Soybean Queen how she, as the face of agriculture in our community, thought the town could support local farmers struggling because of the drought. She gave me a blank look and said, ‘There’s a drought? I had no idea. I’ve just been enjoying the sunny days. I guess I should watch the news. Heehee!’ How am I supposed to work with that? I waved the paper. I had to ask her about clothes and movies. But at least we know she adores the fit of Guess jeans and has a major crush on Paul Hogan."

For a split second, I thought I detected the slightest hint of amusement in Mrs. Miller’s eyes, but it was entirely possible my imagination was working overtime—again.

In spite of how you portrayed the Soybean Queen, many young girls see her as a role model.

How’d she keep saying Soybean Queen with a straight face? "A role model? Maybe if we want to encourage women to be oblivious—"

If you can’t take criticism from an editor without resorting to sarcasm, you should reconsider a career in journalism. She glared at me. "The Wellspring may be a small paper, but you still have to earn your way to bigger stories. If writing a feature about a pageant winner is beneath you—"

It’s not. I lifted my chin.

Good. If you want to remain employed, then do as I say.

I understand.

That includes your work in the bookstore.

I gritted my teeth. Have I not been meeting your expectations?

You’re well read, and our customers have been pleased with your recommendations. Your beach-themed window display was effective because we’ve had many positive comments and sales. She put on her glasses, sat, and opened the catalog. That’ll be all. Have the rewritten article on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.

I will, and I’m sorry. I trudged from her office to the employee break room at Miller’s Books where I’d stowed my purse in my assigned cabinet.

Mrs. Miller had hired me to work in her bookstore for the summer, but when she’d learned I was a journalism major, she’d offered to let me write articles for the Wildcat Wellspring, the biweekly newspaper that her late husband had founded and that she ran out of her bookstore office. She couldn’t pay me, but I’d have clips for my portfolio.

Did I have what it took to be a journalist if I couldn’t write an acceptable feature about a pageant winner on my first try?

At least my new job beat waiting tables at Chuckie’s Chicken, which was how I’d spent the past three summers. I was no beauty queen, which didn’t bother me. But apparently, despite ears that I thought were too large, I was attractive enough with my shoulder-length brown hair, blue-gray eyes, and slim figure that the occasional male customer made suggestive comments. Last summer, one jerk had even slapped me on the backside. When I’d complained, Chuckie had told me to be grateful for the nice tips.

At least Mrs. Miller would never tolerate that behavior. I suspected her son Hemingway had a crush on me, but he was a harmless dweeb who knew how to keep his paws to himself.

If he didn’t, his mother would chop them off.

I grabbed my purse, threw open the door that led to the alley, and stepped into Hemingway’s path. Hemi, as everyone but his mother called him, was a total string bean, but he had a pleasant smile and intelligent brown eyes. Since Mrs. Miller’s dress code required our Sunday best, Hemi nearly always wore a bow tie. Today’s version was Ghostbusters ectoplasm green.

Are you okay, Bobbi Sue?

Why wouldn’t I be?

"I overheard Mother lambas—uh—talking to you."

Then you know I have an article to rewrite. I wasn’t about to tell him that his mother had a legitimate shot at playing the evil queen in any kids’ movie ever made. "She’s convinced that I think writing for the Wellspring is beneath me because it’s a small paper, which is ridiculous." I brushed past him into the alley.

He shut the back door and leaned against it. I’ve heard you say Wildcat Springs is boring, and you can’t wait to get out.

After college, he’d moved home to help his mom run the store, and I’d yet to figure out why he was willing to permanently reside in a one-stoplight, Indiana hick town with a propensity for tornadoes.

Wanting to live in a city isn’t a crime, I said. I like the excitement.

I get it. He lowered his voice. But Mother loves our community and hates it when people look down on us, so be careful what you say.

I will.

And one more thing.

What’s that?

Mother’s only hard on people she thinks have potential for greatness.

I snorted. Are you speaking from experience?

See you tomorrow. He saluted and slipped into the bookstore.

Shattered Dreams was playing on the radio as I drove my red Escort out of Wildcat Springs, so I cranked the volume and belted out the lyrics that felt somewhat apropos, given my current mental state.

Since no one with a shred of sanity would ever want to hear me sing, I reserved my performances for an audience of two—God and Eduardo Escort.

Farmland surrounded Wildcat Springs, and I passed corn and soybean fields on my way home. My parents and I lived north of a tiny burg called Venlap that was too insignificant for its own zip code and consisted of a dozen or so houses, a small church, and a seasonal produce stand that was closed for the day.

I coasted up to Venlap’s four-way stop and noticed a new sign pointing north to the soon-to-be-opened Creekside Inn. My dad’s construction company was renovating the old brick mansion.

Not sure why anyone would pay to vacation in the middle of nowhere, I mumbled to myself as I zoomed through the intersection.

Hearing my words aloud, I winced. Had my negative attitude about my hometown influenced my article about the Soybean Queen?

Possibly.

However, it was more likely that my broken friendship with Misty had impacted the article’s tone. In fifth grade, Misty and I had been friends until Joey Lamb asked me to go with him during recess. I’d said yes without knowing she liked Joey, and she’d declared our friendship over forever. She’d stuck to her word, but we had different interests and would’ve drifted apart anyway.

Still, the incident had stung.

A couple miles north of Venlap, Wildcat Woods beckoned, and I drove through a winding foliage tunnel and dodged potholes until I reached my parents’ driveway. The wooded front yard obscured the sprawling stone house my parents had built when I was ten and my sister Rochelle was eleven.

Though my family enjoyed the solitude, the setting was peaceful, private, and slightly creepy for the uninitiated. I parked in the driveway, and as I marched into the house, I vowed to write the best feature article on the Soybean Queen that Amanda Miller had ever read.

An hour later, any enthusiasm I’d felt about proving Mrs. Miller wrong had vanished, and I was certain this one article had the power to ruin my entire future in journalism. I’d listened to my recording of the interview with Misty again and had come to a painful conclusion.

Mrs. Miller was right.

I hadn’t asked the right questions and was going to have to call Misty and inquire about her nannying job, because I needed something substantial to balance the article, and her work with children was the best option.

I yanked the paper out of my typewriter, crumpled it, and tossed it at the trashcan where it bounced off the rim and landed next to my other errant shots.

Feeling like a teenager, I dramatically threw myself onto my bed with a groan and stared at the poster of Matt Dillon that I’d hung on the ceiling after seeing The Outsiders. I should take it down now that I was an adult, but I had the remnants of a crush.

Sensing my angst, my gray tabby, Nita, leaped onto my bed and rubbed against me. She’d been my sidekick since she’d wandered onto our back deck when she was a kitten. I’d secretly fed her tuna, to my mom’s dismay, but a few days and a trip to the vet later, I had a new companion.

I stroked the cat’s head. Why wasn’t I more thorough?

Nita meowed.

Exactly. I have a lot to learn. I reached over to the nightstand, picked up the receiver, and punched in Misty’s number.

Hello? The woman’s sultry voice contrasted with Misty’s perky chirp.

May I speak with Misty? It’s—

Hold on. There was a clink, as if she’d set the phone down, and a muffled, Misty! Phone! filtered through the line followed by, What’re you doing here?

A man said something I couldn’t distinguish.

I’m aware we need a replacement, but can we trust him? the woman asked.

The man responded, but I couldn’t hear his words. Now that I’d heard the woman speaking more, I realized she must be Stacey Melchor—Misty’s stepsister.

Fine, Stacey hissed. You’d better not be wrong. I’ll see you later.

A door slammed.

What was that about?

Misty! Stacey yelled again. Phone!

Hello? Misty finally answered.

The other line clicked.

It’s Bobbi Sue Baxter, and I—

What a coinkydink! I was just going to call you. It’s like our minds are melded.

I rolled my eyes. I have some follow-up—

"I had a blast talking to you the other day, and I’m going with some friends to see Big Business at the drive-in tonight at nine. Why don’t you come with?"

Was Misty being nice because she wanted me to write a flattering article? Even though she was a space cadet, she was perceptive enough to guess her past treatment of me might come back to haunt her.

Please? I was awful to you when we were kids, but I’ve grown up. Would you give me another chance?

"You were pretty awful."

Remember how much fun we used to have? It all came back when you were interviewing me.

This invitation isn’t about the article, is it?

No—that’s harsh. Misty sounded hurt, and I would’ve bet twenty bucks she was sticking her lip out—even if no one was there to witness her pout.

I glanced at my watch. I had plenty of time to ask my questions, finish the article, and get to the theater. Besides, I didn’t have anything better to do since my high school friends had scattered. I’ll meet you at the drive-in if you answer a few follow-up questions first. I need more information to finish your article.

Awesome. Ask away.

As I questioned Misty about her job, I hoped I wouldn’t regret giving her a second chance.

Night Sky Drive-In Theater was located off the highway that connected Wildcat Springs and the nearby city of Richardville. Since it was a Thursday night, the lot wasn’t crowded, and when I parked next to Misty’s blue Firebird, she hopped out, waving enthusiastically, her side ponytail bouncing. She was wearing a denim miniskirt with a matching crop top, which was a questionable fashion choice for a chilly night. I looked down at my jeans and oversized color block sweater and shrugged.

Her curly red hair and enviable figure must’ve been how she’d won the Soybean Queen title, though she was a lot smarter than she let on. At least, she had been when we were kids. I wasn’t convinced her brain hadn’t atrophied in the last ten years.

Misty threw her arms around me. I’m so glad you’re here.

I patted her back awkwardly and escaped the hug. Who else is joining us? I glanced around since Misty had made it sound like there’d be a crowd.

My friend Kurt had to work because the other bartender at Tate’s Place called in sick. Stacey was supposed to come, but she bailed and wouldn’t even give a lame excuse. She’s caught up in something dramatic—as usual. Misty stuck out her bottom lip but then looked around and brightened. Let’s get snacks.

We hurried to the concrete block concession stand because the previews had already started. When’s my article coming out?

Tuesday.

I’m sooo excited. She tapped my arm. You made me look good, right?

Wildcat Springs will be impressed with your work as the Garland family nanny.

People think I’m an airhead, so I could use the positive press. I should’ve skipped the pageant if I wanted to get rid of that image, but I’ve always dreamed of being the Soybean Queen and riding in the back of a convertible in the parade. She beamed and gave a pageant queen wave. Did I tell you my grandma Thelma was the first Soybean Queen in 1928?

Only three times. But who’s counting? You did, and I’m sorry she didn’t live to see you win.

Me too. I still can’t believe she’s gone.

Mistyyyy! Seven-year-old Robin Garland ran toward Misty and threw her arms around her waist.

Hey, Robin. Misty hugged the little girl and smoothed her French braid. Who are you here with? She glanced around with concern in her expression.

Grammy and Tricia. She pointed at a paneled station wagon. Remember how Daddy was supposed to be home from his trip tonight?

Yeah. Misty’s face relaxed.

He called Mommy and said he wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.

I’m sorry, Misty said.

We were sad until Mommy said we could come to the movie with Grammy. She looked back at her grandmother and sister, who waved. Later, gator. She darted away.

After ’while crocodile, Misty yelled.

She and her sister are cute, I said. They go to my church. I approached the counter where a teenage boy waited. Small Coke and popcorn. I handed him some cash.

They’re cuties all right, but I feel bad for them sometimes.

How so? The Garlands seemed like the perfect family.

They don’t get a whole lot of attention from their parents. Their dad’s in pharmaceutical sales, so he travels a lot. Mrs. G is on the board for the community theater in Richardville. Plus, she’s always volunteering for charities. She covered her mouth, and her eyes widened. You won’t put that in the article, will you? I can’t afford to upset the Garlands and lose my job.

It’s finished, but I wouldn’t mention that anyway.

Thanks. Her panicky expression relaxed.

I picked up my popcorn and drink from the counter, then looked at Misty. Tell me about this Kurt guy you mentioned.

She grabbed her Reese’s Pieces and Sprite, and we returned to our cars. He’s sweet and cute, but we’re just friends. I’m seeing someone else. She giggled. If you want, I could see if Kurt would go out with you. He’s kinda shy, though.

I don’t want to get involved with anyone until I’m done with college.

Why? Aren’t there hot guys at your school?

Yes, but I want to focus on my career, and I’m planning to relocate next year.

She ripped open her candy. "If I were working with Hemi Miller, I might change my mind. She fanned herself. I’ve always thought he looks like Matt Dillon."

Hemi? I snorted. No way.