Trouble With The Tumbleweed Twister: A Trouble In Tumbleweed Mystery

By Lawrence Kelter, Melissa Bourbon, Christie Craig and Diane Kelly

Trouble With The Tumbleweed Twister

Tough times have put the squeeze on auto mechanic Smoky Rolle. Forced with losing his home, Smoky accepts an easy money side job from his cousin Travis. What should've been a quick fix goes sideways when Travis is abducted at gunpoint leaving Smoky to wonder if Tumbleweed is the sleepy little West Texas town he believed it to be or if something nefarious is bubbling beneath the surface. Secrets lead to lies and lies to larceny in this pulse-pounding smalltown mystery.

 

Four authors. Four stories. One Town. And a whole lot of trouble ...

Trouble In Tumbleweed Mysteries

The small town of Tumbleweed might sit in the remote desert of west Texas, but trouble still seems to find it. Someone's always trying to kill someone else for one darn reason or another, and things get as tangled and twisted as a tumbleweed. The Trouble in Tumbleweed series is an entertaining and interrelated collection of mystery novellas from some of the genre's most popular and bestselling authors, including Diane Kelly, Christie Craig, Lawrence Kelter, and Melissa Bourbon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: F Street Books
• Release date: Aug 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201828806

Lawrence Kelter

I never expected to be a writer. In fact, I was voted the student least likely to visit a library. (Don’t believe it? Feel free to check my high school yearbook.) Well, times change I suppose, and I have now authored several novels including the internationally best-selling Stephanie Chalice Thriller Series. Early in my writing career, I received support from none other than best-selling novelist, Nelson DeMille, who reviewed my work and actually put pencil to paper to assist in the editing of the first book. DeMille has been a true inspiration to me and has also given me some tough love. Way before he ever said, “Lawrence Kelter is an exciting new novelist, who reminds me of an early Robert Ludlum,” he told me, “Kid, your work needs editing, but that’s a hell of a lot better than not having talent. Keep it up!” I’ve lived in the Metro New York area most of my life and rely primarily on locales in Manhattan and Long Island for my stories’ settings. I try very hard to make each novel quickly paced and crammed full of twists, turns, and laughs. Enjoy! LK

Book preview

CHAPTER

One

The sky was still tinged with ebony and the cobwebs in Smoky Rolle’s brain had yet to clear. Trudging toward Cowboy Coffee, he tripped over the same loose board that caught him by the toe every morning. He looked back at the wily plank and scratched the back of his head in consternation. Near as he could figure, or couldn’t, it hadn’t moved since the day before but he had no doubt it would take him by surprise when he came in for his coffee at 6:00 a.m. the next day, and likely the morning after that.

The forty-year-old auto mechanic was always the first customer to arrive in the morning. The place was empty save for the memorabilia that adorned the barnboard walls, mementos of ages past. Festooned on the walls were photos of Audie Murphy and Waylon Jennings, tarnished spurs, and pitted brass hardware, as well as an honest-to-God canteen and a sword from the Mexican American War. An oxen’s yoke had been repurposed and was now a coat hook.

He'd just about made it to his usual table when Norman slammed a heavy porcelain mug of coffee on the tabletop, a twenty-four-ounce trough of pure black joe packing a wallop stronger than an electric cattle prod. It didn’t stop Smoky from resting his head on folded arms and closing his eyes. Amy Lynn, his seven-year-old daughter had him up most of the night fretting about ghosts and such. A chapter book she’d taken out of the school library had planted seeds of other worldly beings and it would be no small task for him to rebuild a transmission valve train on half a night’s sleep. He crushed his thumb the last time he did a groggy suspension repair and had to shut down the shop most of a week. It was a hard-learned lesson, one he wouldn’t forget.

True to form, Norman plopped down at the table in front of him. The man was as wide and square as a billboard and just as obtrusive. Chatting with Norman was like sitting in front of a wind turbine and once he got revved up there was no stopping the man. His T-shirt read, I will put you in my trunk and help people look for you. Don’t test me! He opened the newspaper. The Tumbleweed Tribune had been published continually since 1906. It was Norman’s tie to a new world, a world he’d lived in for several years but still didn’t feel comfortable calling home and probably never would. Most mornings he and Smoky began the day together, with Norman rambling about something he’d seen in the newspaper and Smoky doing his darndest to ignore him. He didn’t mind the chatter as long as Norman didn’t expect him to participate in the conversation. He needed to keep his mind peaceful and quiet and give the java the precious time it needed to work its magic.

Norman ran the back of his hand over his cheek, which was shaved smoother than a baby’s behind. For now. By noon he’d have to sneak in a midday shave or look like a werewolf until closing time. He had a coarse dark beard made up of hairs roughly the diameter of oak saplings. Hell of a storm we’re expecting, Norman blurted. Category Three. That’s bad, right?

He knew the answer. It played in the back of his mind but he was too tired to move his lips or respond in any physical matter. A Category Three storm meant winds in excess of one hundred and ten miles per hour. To put it in real-world terms, it meant that Tumbleweed was screwed. There’d be devastating amounts of property damage, extended power outages, cell towers downed, or as he often referred to it, a shit storm. The last time Tumbleweed got hit with a Cat III, the president declared the town a national disaster area. It meant that ... It meant there wasn’t going to be life as usual, not for a darn long time. Folks would have to fend for themselves as best they could, boiling water to drink and living off the land if they had the good sense to grow vegetables and such. There’d be a run on the grocery store. Basic items like milk, eggs, and toilet paper would go real quick although why a power outage would kick off a bout of Montezuma’s Revenge was anyone’s guess.

I’m filling the bathtub, Norman said.

He cracked a heavy eyelid and peered at Norman with a veiny eye. "Filling what?"

The tub, Smoky. I’ve got a separate tub and shower in my apartment upstairs and the tub is never used. Last time a twister tore through here we didn’t have running water for days. Don’t you remember?

All of your coffeemakers are electric, aren’t they?

Yeah. So?

Well, what good is a bathtub full of water gonna do you if you can’t operate the coffee urns? He left his challenge hanging in the air while his eyelids fell once more. He didn’t see the lighting bolt strike Norman but heard the back of the barista’s hand smack the newspaper.

"Son of a...gun, Norman said. He often forgot where he was and the role he was expected to play in the genteel West Texas community. He nudged Smoky’s arm. Would you look at that?"

He was losing his battle with consciousness. Look at what? he asked, his eyes tightly shut. Just read it to me, Norman. Can’t you see I’m spent?

Portable generators, thirty percent off. It’s the answer to our prayers. Power outages in Tumbleweed were as common as Longhorn Cattle and had cost Cowboy Coffee a slew of revenue. This is a great idea. I’m gonna talk to Mikenna about it as soon as she gets in. Mikenna was the store manager and Norman’s boss. She was twenty years his junior, the man’s complete antithesis, a perky blond-haired tour de force who moved with such velocity her pigtails trailed in the breeze like handlebar streamers on a Schwinn. She was thoughtful and cautious and rarely bought into Norman’s hair-brained suggestions, but this one? Who knows, maybe the senior statesman had finally come up with a winner. He nudged Smoky’s arm again and shoved the paper in his face. You friggin’ believe it? That’s what they call serendipity, ain’t it? I mean, what are the chances?

Once Norman was off on a tirade there was no reeling him in. He’d extoll the urgency for acquiring a portable generator until Mikenna gave him the look that meant I can’t listen to this anymore.

It’s a good idea, isn’t it? Norman continued to ramble. I know you think I’m not the sharpest cookie in the jar but a stitch in time heals all wounds, don’t it?

He shook his head. Norman, you’re as good at metaphors as I am at tango dancing.

Norman’s expression was blank. Come again?

Accepting defeat, he lifted his head and rolled his neck in a lazy circle—the popping of his spinal vertebrae was loud enough to be heard out on the street. His eyes were still closed as he reached for the heavy coffee cup and put the rim to his lips. He savored the aroma of the house-ground beans before taking a small sip.

Good, huh? Norman asked, eager to have his brewing skills acknowledged. Italian roast, there’s nothing like it. Mikenna’s gave me the free range to buy the coffee beans wherever I want. So, I grab them off this guy I know in Newark.

Newark, New Jersey?

Norman nodded. "I tossed chicory leaves in with the coffee grounds. Gives it that little extra