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  MAGIC MUMBLES

  An Ollie Stratford Mystery

  N.C. Lewis

  Copyright © 2018 by N.C. Lewis

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except with brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Acknowledgements

  A special thank you to wonderful readers Carol Kurimbokus, Shaneequa Neureiter, Pat Grunwald, Dawn Bradman, Sandy Fields, and Bonnie Drummond.

  Other Books in the Series

  The Ollie Stratford Murder Mystery books can be enjoyed in any order. Here are the books in the series:

  Texas Troubles

  Creek Crisis

  Bitter Bones

  Magic Mumbles

  Teddy Tumpin (April 2018)

  For more information please visit www.nclewis.com

  Prologue

  I'm Ollie Stratford, forty-six pushing forty-seven, widowed with four kids—all grown. A recent transplant from New York City—Brooklyn, to be exact. Ealing Homestead, a ten-acre estate on the outskirts of a Texas Hill Country town called Medlin Creek, is my new home. They say the Hill Country is the wedding capital of Texas, that's why I've converted my property into an event center. Unfortunately, the brides aren’t biting, and I've had to take a part-time teaching position at Medlin Creek Community College to make ends meet.

  Chapter 1

  "Oh crap!"

  I gasped in disgust, waving the piece of paper in the air. I had been enjoying flipping through social media posts on my laptop computer while sorting through the mail. Bodie, the stray dog I had rescued on my first day in Texas, sat patiently waiting for a belly rub.

  The first envelope which I quickly tossed away was from a realtor wondering if I wanted to sell my property. I'd only purchased Ealing Homestead a few months ago, how did I get onto their mailing list so fast? Next to go was an advertisement for interior remodeling and redecoration. With only a part-time teaching job at the Medlin Creek Community College, remodeling wasn't an option I could afford or even dare dream about. After that, there was a note from the local newspaper, the Medlin Creek Times, reminding me that my subscription was about to expire. I tossed that too.

  It was the last envelope, slim and brown with no postage stamp, that rocked my Monday morning routine and robbed Bodie of his usual playtime. The envelope had a real easygoing slogan printed in blue, cursive lettering: Havis County Tax Office, Where We Always Serve You First. My stomach churned as I opened it. I knew what it contained. With trembling hands, I unfolded the single sheet of paper inside.

  Dear Ollie Stratford, the Committee of the Mayoral Office of Medlin Creek has informed the Tax Assessor’s Office of your recent occupancy of Ealing Homestead. Congratulations on the recent move to Texas, a warm and welcoming state. The Havis County Tax Assessment Office is writing to inform you that the said property assessment for outstanding taxes is thirty-five thousand dollars plus administrative costs of fifteen hundred dollars. Payment is now overdue. To avoid an additional levy of thirty-seven hundred dollars, please settle your balance within the next fourteen days. Further questions can be answered by dialing the number at the bottom of the enclosed invoice.

  I stood up and walked across the small office, to the window. Outside, in the early morning sunlight, a cluster of cedar trees and small bushes grew without restraint. A partially broken down barbed wire and wood fence, overgrown by grasses, marked the perimeter of the backyard. Ealing Homestead seriously needed repairs, but several months into ownership, my plans to turn the ten-acre property into an event center had come to a big, fat zero.

  My mind drifted to the abandoned oil well by the creek. Although everyone I spoke to said it had potential, it too had proven to be little more than another financial black hole. To date, the only thing flowing out of the oil well were new bills. Bills which I didn't have the ready cash to pay.

  I shivered at the realization that settling the overdue taxes would consume my entire emergency fund, and leave nothing left over for urgent repair or renovation.

  "Oh crap," I said again out loud.

  Bodie wagged his tail.

  "Just as I'm settling into Medlin Creek and making new friends!"

  Bodie didn't understand, instead he rolled over for a belly rub. For several minutes I patted his stomach as he jauntily brushed his tail against the office floor. Then I rose and paced.

  "The Hill Country is the wedding capital of Texas," I said aloud, repeating the mantra I had learned in Mr. Maxwell's Get Paid for Your Event Center by Next Week training course. The classes came with a one-year no extra expense business coaching program from Mr. Maxwell. "Ollie," he had said on one of his Maximum Dollars—Minimum Stress coaching calls, "you should be able to rent Ealing Homestead for a significant fee. Use the profits to fix up the place."

  But after months with hardly a paying client, and all the expenses of supporting the property, I barely broke even. The part-time teaching position at Medlin Creek Community College was my only reliable source of income. There was no way I could pay the outstanding taxes without either draining my emergency fund, or selling the property.

  There wasn't an easy solution, but I knew if I didn't act I would yield my future to faceless, county hall bureaucrats who sat gossiping under artificial light in tiny, windowless cubicles like mushrooms growing on dung.

  "Damn it!"

  This time, I threw my arms in the air as I said the words. I wasn't about to let my independence be ripped from my hands by county tax collectors. Not after fighting for so many years after John had died, to raise the children and keep my head above water.

  Returning to the desk, I slumped into the office chair and picked up the letter, reading it again. The rhythmic pounding of my heart echoed through my ears, and a sheen of perspiration formed on my upper lip as a sour feeling filled my stomach. I pressed my palm to my cheek.

  "I need an idea," I said aloud, "a good one."

  But nothing came.

  Chapter 2

  Sometimes it's good to talk, sometimes it's good to listen. Right now, I needed to talk to someone who was paid to listen. I called Mr. Maxwell. He picked up on the third ring.

  "Ollie, it is great to hear from you. I hope you know that I'm your number one fan." His voice was filled with the confidence of an oily, furniture showroom salesperson.

  I explained the situation.

  "Well, this is outside of our usual Maximum Dollars—Minimum Stress coaching call, but I've coached people to victory from a similar situation. Yes, oh yes, I'd be delighted to point you in the right direction." Mr. Maxwell lowered his voice to almost a whisper. "For an incremental fee, of course."

  I mumbled a reluctant acceptance. His idea might be worth a few dollars, it was worth a try.

  "One moment," he said in an oily voice, "while I run your credit card. Did you say the security code was seven, eight, two?"

  I confirmed.

  The line went dead for several moments as he waited for the card to be processed.

  At last he said, "Wonderful." Then, smacking his lips together as if devouring a tasty dessert, and in a low mumble sounding like a witch doctor reciting an ancient spell, he repeated the situation. "Large tax bill, no bookings, mounting debts…" His voice trailed off, and he became silent.


  As I waited, I stared at the laptop screen. The gentle sound of Bodie's breathing and the quiet hiss of the air-conditioning were the only sounds in the still room.

  Suddenly, like an excited child on Christmas Eve, Mr. Maxwell's voice broke the silence.

  "Ollie, all you have to do," he said in a shrill voice, and then there was a long dramatic pause as if he was thinking of something—anything—that would justify his incremental fee.

  "All you have to do," he repeated, his voice now rising to a crescendo, "is figure out a plan of action!" He spat out the word "action" like a politician promising 'no new taxes'.

  "A plan of action," I repeated, unable to hide my cynicism.

  Mr. Maxwell didn't respond to the tone of my voice, but like any good salesman, moved to close a sale the buyer was unaware they needed.

  "Yes, let me help you out a little, Ollie. As you know, I sold my event center several months ago. I'm out of the business and not going back. Guess what I'm doing now? Go on," he said in a voice that contained a little too much enthusiasm, "guess." But he didn't wait for a response before he continued. "Micro homes," he squealed triumphantly.

  Then he continued, his voice indistinguishable from the infomercials that dominate late-night television. "Oh my! I have developed a new online course on micro homes. It's called Get Paid for Micro Housing by Next Week. And in this online program I show you how to transform your property into a profitable passive stream of income by renting micro homes to the tourists, who are flocking to the Hill Country like winter geese. I’ll share with you all the secrets, so you can take the fastest path to cash. Ollie, I’m literally giving you the keys to the micro homes kingdom.

  Think about it, Ollie, if you sign up now, I'll give you the exact steps the most successful micro home tycoons have used to generate wealth beyond reason. I'll even throw in a full year of free consulting. Imagine it, for two small payments of five thousand dollars you could potentially make millions, and then pay any tax bill out of petty cash. This is a limited-time offer. Now, Ollie would you like to pay by credit card or check?"

  In my imagination I saw Mr. Maxwell's brilliant-white teeth grinning through the cell phone air waves as his eyes glinted in greedy anticipation. He had executed the sales pitch perfectly, all that was needed now was for the cash to tumble out of my pocket and into his. But today, I wasn't buying. I hung up.

  Huffing angrily under my breath and no further ahead, I shuffled through the stack of papers on my desk. A small black card with gold lettering "Admit One," tumbled out.

  FREE ticket to Mysterious Malcolm's Magical Masquerade

  Monday at 7:30 p.m. at the Lilly Building

  Downtown Medlin Creek.

  I smiled as I turned the ticket over in my hand. The entire Speaker Circle, a public speaking club for professionals of which I was a member, would be attending the show.

  "At least," I said aloud, "the show will take my mind off my problems for a few hours."

  The old, wooden, mechanical clock that sat on the mantelpiece in the living room struck the top of the hour. As was my habit, I got up and stretched. After one final downward-facing dog, I lay for several minutes flat on my back in the dead man's pose with my eyes closed, and my mind emptied of worry—for the moment.

  Chapter 3

  An urgent buzzing disturbed the tranquility.

  As my mind slowly focused, I realized it was my cell phone. I picked it up—a message from Peter Travis, a member of the Speaker Circle.

  Our next meeting is Tuesday at noon in the library. I'll continue my presentation on the history of the fire ant. Please text back if you are coming so I can set up the room for the proper number of attendees.

  Although I had little interest in the history of the fire ant—and Peter's monotone voice killed the most interesting of topics—I enjoyed the camaraderie of the oddball group of individuals that made up the Speaker Circle.

  Yes Peter, I will attend. Good luck with your presentation.

  Back at the desk, I reviewed my list for the day. There were teaching notes to prepare and student assignments to grade. But there were always teaching notes to prepare and student assignments to grade. I skipped over this task for now, settling on the more interesting activity of preparing a food hamper for the Sisters of the Creek Coffee Circle's silent auction.

  As I busied myself filling a wicker basket with tins and jars, I made a mental note to drop the hamper at Gratia Violeta's hair salon on Creek Street later during the week.

  The cell phone rang as I tried to secure the final ribbon bow on the handle. Stunned by the suddenness of its urgent ringing, I fumbled the bow which fell into the basket. After fishing around for several moments, I retrieved it and then tied it onto the wicker handle.

  The phone continued to ring as if angry at my neglect. I peered at the screen—Theodora Simon. I had worked with Theodora on an upscale party at Ealing Homestead, and I was keen to work with her again. She had recently launched into business as a professional event planner but had not yet established a regular list of corporate clients.

  "Hi, Ollie," she said breathlessly. "I've been booked to plan a wedding at very short notice—in two weeks! Ealing Homestead would be simply perfect. Can we meet at the Hill Country Hotel for lunch today to discuss details and sign contracts? Shall we meet, say, around noon? I'm buying."

  "Of course," I said, nodding. Then I smiled blankly down at the cell phone as Theodora's monologue continued, although I didn't hear her words because my mind filled with one thought, and one thought only—at last my luck is changing.

  Chapter 4

  It'd been a while since I'd last visited the upscale Hill Country Hotel, and I wanted to arrive a little early, so I could look around. At 11 a.m. I shut down my laptop and headed to the bedroom closet.

  I wondered whether to wear business attire. After all, the meeting with Theodora was to discuss business, and the Hill Country Hotel was not the sort of place you’d wander around dressed in blue jeans and T-shirt. I tried on my one business suit, a dark-blue jacket with matching skirt. In front of the bathroom mirror, I peered grumpily at the reflected image.

  "No, makes me look too much like one of those sharp-faced women business executives."

  I slipped into a lemon-patterned summer dress, strolled into the kitchen, refilled Bodie's water bowl and grabbed the hamper.

  Outside, the coolness of a late-summer morning had been replaced by rising heat. It's going to be hot today, I thought as I strolled along the dirt path through the little iron gate toward my Tahoe truck.

  A cat crate, several tins of kitten-formula food, two bowl's and bottle of water, rested on the passenger side seat. "Need to return you to Augustine Granger," I muttered as I moved it to the back of the Tahoe. Gray haired with wild, tawny eyes and Twiggy-thin body, Augustine ran the Medlin Creek Animal Shelter which was attached to her own home. The shelter took in all sorts of animals, but her home she kept for the care of kittens. Augustine was Medlin Creek's official cat lady.

  I placed the hamper on the passenger seat, climbed in, started the engine and headed toward the hotel found at the end of Lone Mountain Lane. The roadway, narrow and in parts gravel, snaked across the countryside and up the highest hill in Medlin Creek. For many years the regal property served as a country club for the well-off gentry of the surrounding towns. These days, wealthy tourists and hard-hitting business folk were the primary source of business.

  An ornate wooden and iron gateway surrounded by tall limestone walls announced entrance to the hotel grounds. A large grassy lawn with manicured deep green hedges stood in stark contrast to the rugged Hill Country landscape beyond its perimeter.

  I pulled my Tahoe into the parking lot where expensive SUVs jostled for space with top-of-the-line vehicles. Parked next to a very new, silver, Cadillac Escalade, I hurried across the parking lot. The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the slight odor of chlorine filling my nostrils.

  To one side, and out of sight, I heard the occasion
al urgent grunt followed by the gentle thud of racket on ball. The hotel had outdoor and indoor tennis courts where beginners could learn the game under the watchful gaze of professional coaches and former players. An Olympic-sized swimming pool surrounded by wooden tables with large umbrellas and fancy deck chairs came into view at the entrance to the hotel.

  Inside, the lobby featured huge windows offering wonderful vistas across the property, and the scent of potpourri, polished leather and floor wax, gave the place the aura of an upscale New York City gentlemen's club.

  The lobby was empty with no one behind the reception desk, so I sat in an oversized leather chair facing a window and took in the incredible panoramic view.

  After several minutes of quiet bliss, the almost silent whoosh of the automatic doors signaled another guest. I half turned, thinking it might be Theodora but knowing it was still too early for her arrival.

  The patter of tiny footsteps, like that of a child playing hopscotch, caused me to swivel around fully. Two colorless eyes gazed toward the reception desk. They were the least attractive feature of a rather repulsive face that was all nose, hooked with wisps of hair dangling from the tips like ripe grapes before harvest in a Mediterranean vineyard.

  It was Bryant Reynolds, the youngest partner at the Havis County Engineering Company, and a member of the Medlin Creek Community College Board. A tiny man, less than five feet in height, he wore tennis whites with a racket bag slung casually across his shoulder.

  I shrunk deep into the chair, hiding. Bryant had tried to fire me from my teaching position at Medlin Creek Community College. Fortunately, the college had ignored his requests to date. But as chairman of the board, he held a lot of power. Today, I didn't want a confrontation.