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    Murder at the Bus Depot: Kelly O'Connell Mysteries
    Murder at the Bus Depot: Kelly O'Connell Mysteries
    Murder at the Bus Depot: Kelly O'Connell Mysteries
    Ebook239 pages4 hours

    Murder at the Bus Depot: Kelly O'Connell Mysteries

    By Judy Alter

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    About this ebook

    Dallas developer Silas Fletcher sees endless real estate opportunities in Wheeler, Texas if only he can "grow" the town. Blue Plate Café owner Kate Chambers likes her hometown just the way it is, thank you very much, without big box and chain stores. When Fletcher tries to capitalize on a thirty-year-old unsolved murder, Kate know she must fight for her town, and she uses historic preservation of the old bus depot as one of her weapons. A suspicious death and a new murder make her also fight for her own life.

    All your Wheeler friends are here—Kate's partner David, Chief of Police Chester, brother-in-law Tom and difficult sister Donna—along with some new faces, such as the adventure-seeking Steffens of Ohio, Silas, Bronx-born minister Tony Russo and his wife Ambra, and Delia Jackson, sole survivor of a doomed and sad family.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAlter Ego Press
    Release dateApr 6, 2018
    ISBN9780996993517
    Murder at the Bus Depot: Kelly O'Connell Mysteries
    Author

    Judy Alter

    An award-winning novelist, Judy Alter is the author of six books in the Kelly O’Connell Mysteries series: Skeleton in a Dead Space, No Neighborhood for Old Women, Trouble in a Big Box, Danger Comes Home, Deception in Strange Places, and Desperate for Death. With Murder at the Blue Plate Café, she moved from inner city Fort Worth to small-town East Texas to create a new set of characters in a setting modeled after a restaurant that was for years one of her family’s favorites. She followed with two more Blue Plate titles: Murder at the Tremont Inn and Murder at Peacock Mansion.

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      Book preview

      Murder at the Bus Depot - Judy Alter

      Chapter One

      Leotta down at the pottery shop mentioned she’s thinking of moving to Edom, and Nellie, who mends and irons everyone’s clothes, thinks Canton might be a better place to do business. Donna’s been complaining about lack of business at the B&B too.

      Tom Bryson slumped in a chair at his favorite corner table in my Blue Plate Café and looked utterly dejected. I wanted to ask him what was new about Donna complaining. She was my twin sister and his wife—we both knew, and sometimes acknowledged it to each other, that she’s difficult and given to complaining.

      So what’s your point? I asked. Is Wheeler falling apart because of the loss of two businesses?

      He sighed and took another sip of his coffee, which by now was surely lukewarm. It could be. We’re losing tourists and even folks from around here go to Edom because it’s got all those craft attractions.

      It doesn’t have the Blue Plate Café, I said indignantly. Not anything with food near as good as I serve here.

      A smile flitted across his face. I know, Kate, but one restaurant can’t hold a town together. We’ve got to come up with a plan to grow Wheeler.

      It took all my self-restraint to tell him that was an improper use of the verb to grow. Instead, I asked, What do you suggest?

      He’d obviously been thinking about this. A craft festival. Show off our local craftsmen and attract others from the area. Make a day of it. Lots of publicity. His mind worked as he spun these thoughts out. And a big lunch—maybe barbecue and beans and all the trimmings. He paused a minute, and then said, We’ll honor the citizen of the year at that lunch. Make a big deal of it.

      I was very glad at that moment that the Blue Plate didn’t do barbecue, but I also had a sinking feeling I knew who would get to do most of the work on this festival. Donna would be above such planning—and totally inept at it.

      It’s February, always a low time for tourists. Are you maybe jumping the gun? I sipped at my green tea, hoping to talk him out of this wild idea. Wheeler never was a tourist attraction, so I thought his concern was a little misplaced. What tourist is drawn to an unremarkable small town sixty miles east of Dallas? We weren’t even really in fabled East Texas—too close to Dallas, too far from the piney woods.

      Nope. If we’re going to do it in May, when it’s not yet too hot or buggy, we need to start planning now. You got a legal pad I could use?

      Sure. I fetched it from my desk and watched him pull the pen out of his pocket and begin to scribble notes.

      * * * *

      I’m Kate Chambers. A few years ago, my sister and I inherited our grandmother’s estate, the woman who had raised us with love, kindness, and strict rules. After Gram died, I left a good job in Dallas as a legal assistant to come back to the small town of Wheeler, run the café, and live in Gram’s house next door. To do that, I had to buy Donna out of her share of the business and house, and the friction between us only increased when she frittered her inheritance away doing outrageous remodels to an old house she turned into a B&B. She also took on a Dallas lover, and I had to dig for the truth when he was murdered. The saving grace in all this is that David Clinkscales, my boss in Dallas, followed me to the country. He has a tiny house on a nearby lake but he pretty much lives at Gram’s house with me. Gram channels me more often than I’m comfortable with, so I hope she turns a blind eye to our living arrangements.

      * * * *

      Marj, my head waitress and right-hand person, came to whisper in my ear. Customer says his eggs were cold, so was his coffee, and he doesn’t think he should pay the bill.

      I got up from my chair and asked, Who bussed his table?

      I did, she said.

      Did he eat all his meal?

      Plate was licked clean.

      I went to tell the gentleman that if his food was unsatisfactory he should have sent it back. Since he ate every bite of it, I could only assume it wasn’t that bad and charge him for his breakfast. When I said as much, he exploded.

      That’s the trouble with you small-town folks. You aren’t interested in making folks welcome. I’m going to change that.

      He paid and took his huff out the door with him. I dismissed his threat about changing Wheeler. I was glad I didn’t need Tom for backup, because he never looked up, never noticed. Or that was what I thought until I got back to the table. That’s what’s wrong, he said. We’ve got to make folks see us as a tourist destination, not a town of country bumpkins.

      I considered rapping his knuckles with the table knife but forbore.

      He took off in a different conversational direction. There’s a guy wants to buy the old bus depot and turn it into sort of a visitors’ center. Might be a good thing. I’ve been getting complaints it’s an eyesore and ought to be torn down. Some folks think we should get rid of it, because it represents the most shameful thing in our history.

      I was indignant all over again. It’s a part of our town’s history. Maybe an unfortunate part, but that would be like erasing Sallie Thurgood and what happened there.

      Everyone in town knew that Sallie Thurgood had been bashed in the head at the old bus depot, when it was still operating. Sallie had a T-shirt concession in the depot and answered phones and kept the place running, including selling tickets for the bus run to Dallas. She was young, sweet, married—and, so rumor had it, having an affair. The murder had never been solved, though everyone in town had an opinion at the time. I was probably about five or six and didn’t really remember much about it.

      Besides, I said, it would be wrong to tear it down while the murder is still unsolved.

      I agree with that, Tom said. DNA evidence is much better these days, and with all due respect to our local law people, who knows what a professional investigative team would turn up. But that’s neither here nor there. Millie’s showing the building to him this morning.

      And what does Millie know about history or preservation? Millie was Tom’s administrative assistant or whatever you want to call her position. The city owns that old depot, and so it fell to Millie to show it, unless Tom himself took it on with all his other chores. It wasn’t what I’d call a charming building—small and square, clapboard now in bad shape with a warped window. I remembered it as much larger from childhood, with a covered front porch, decorative railings, and long benches where people sat to wait for buses. Today, it would need a lot of work.

      I was speechless, looking for something encouraging to say. Finally, I managed, I suppose he’ll fix it up. Who is this guy?

      Name’s something Fletcher. That was him you just forced to pay for his meal.

      My mouth hung open. I should say something, but what came out was not helpful. Does he know it’s a murder scene? Granted, a long time ago, but does he know?

      Tom went on sipping that cold coffee, so I got up and refreshed it. Yeah, he knows. Plans to capitalize on it.

      Capitalize on a murder? I was horrified. Is he going to paint fake blood on the floor and have a T-shirt booth? I suppose he’ll sell a T-shirt with Sallie Thurgood’s picture on it.

      Calm down, Kate. I’ll make sure it’s tasteful. Sort of an ‘In memory of....’ kind of thing. It might just work.

      Sallie Thurgood’s family still lives in town. Do they know this?

      Yes, and yes. Susan and Slim Jackson, her parents, and two sisters, Angel and Delia. The parents are pretty old now, but they all approve of the idea because they hope it will finally bring the killer to justice. Fletcher just might be on to something.

      I didn’t know the parents, except by reputation, and nobody I ever talked to explained why the father was called Slim He just was. I imagined they were in their eighties by now, and I knew they never came into the café. But I knew Angel. She didn’t live up to her name. She was the one who was quick to blame her sister’s murder on the sister herself. Asked for it, she said more than once, out of hearing of the parents, of course, Working late at night alone in that shack and messing with another man when she had a perfectly fine husband. Just plain asking for it.

      Angel’s husband was a shoe store manager in Canton, a position she apparently thought entitled her to some airs. Delia could make no such pretensions. Far as I knew, she never married and lived at home with her parents. I couldn’t help but wonder what Sallie was like. In the one or two pictures I’d seen, she looked young, innocent, and quite pretty—big eyes, straight blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, a friendly smile on her face. Maybe that was it. She was just too friendly with everyone. Maybe there was a traveling salesman.... The list of maybes could go on forever and didn’t offer much hope.

      Most people thought Steven Thurgood, enraged that his wife was cheating, had bashed her in the head. But he was cleared, as in nobody could find any proof. He moved to Canton, quickly remarried, and had a family. Alan Jake Dawson, the man she’d supposedly had an affair with, was also cleared, mostly because no one could prove he even knew Sallie beyond a pleasant Howdy, let alone was having an affair with her. I never did figure out why everyone called him Jake, but most folks barely knew he had any other name. He still walked the streets of Wheeler, doing odd jobs for whoever needed a room painted or a roof repaired or whatever. And then there was Jake’s wife, Velma. She jumped to his defense whenever a conversation went anywhere near the subject of murder, so she inadvertently kept the whole thing, and Sallie Thurgood, alive in everyone’s mind. I’d heard her talking about it in the café and thought she protested too much.

      Velma and Jake came into the café on a fairly regular basis. Jake was genial and outgoing, but most folks thought an aura of notoriety clung to him like a bad smell. Velma, as if to compensate, played the organ at the Methodist church, taught Sunday school, and belonged to not one but two women’s circles. She was, people said, a good woman, bless her heart.

      All that Fletcher fellow is on to is making himself money. I hope he doesn’t want to eat in here very often. I was a little more vehement than I intended.

      Oh, come on, Kate. I’m sure you just caught him in a bad moment.

      Tom eventually left, his duties as mayor and the owner of the only hardware store in town calling him. after a bit, Chester Grimes, our police chief and my good friend, came in. Any sticky buns left? he asked. And don’t tell Carolyn. She’s got me on this gosh-awful diet. I know you gals love it, but I am so darn tired of tuna fish.

      I grinned and fetched a sticky bun—the next to last one left. He ate, and we chatted companionably. Unable to hold my tongue, I brought up Fletcher, whatever his first name was, and asked Chester if he knew about him.

      He sighed. Yeah, I know. I’m not so happy about the idea of using that old murder to attract tourists. We might as well put up some fake gallows or stage a shootout. East Texas as it used to be. He took another bite of his bun and a sip of coffee and then added, Carolyn’s livid at the idea.

      So am I, I said. How had I missed so much going on in my town when everyone else seemed to know about Fletcher and his plans? I always felt the café was Gossip Central for Wheeler, but apparently not this time.

      * * * *

      Since the lunch rush hadn’t started and there was a lull in the café, I stole some time to call David, who was in Dallas tending to his law practice. David’s cottage out on the lake, one of those tiny houses, was too cold in February, and he moved in with me. At least that was the ostensible reason. I liked to think there was more to it. He expected me to return the favor once warm weather came and move out to the lake, but he was in for a disappointment. I loved living in Gram’s house right next door to the café—I wasn’t going to sleep in a lake cabin with mosquitoes and have to drive half an hour to start the morning’s sticky buns at six.

      I poured out the story about Fletcher and his plan to capitalize on Sallie Thurgood’s murder.

      Another old murder? he groaned. We just got through dealing with the last one. I don’t think I can take it. One of his former clients was the widow of a wealthy Dallas businessman who had been murdered years earlier. When his children got greedy for an inheritance, David had to figure it all out, including who had murdered the businessman. More murders followed, and it had been a scary time.

      Tom has this crazy plan for a craft festival, after this Fletcher character turns the depot into a gory welcome center.

      David let out a low whistle. Wow! I’ve been gone two and a half days, and I missed that much?

      I just found out about it today, but everyone else seems to know—Chester and even Carolyn hate it, but Sallie Thurgood’s family agreed with the plan. They think it might help find out who killed her. Besides, Fletcher apparently told them if they find out who killed their daughter, there might be a huge financial settlement, and they’d be rich. David, you and I know that’s not going to happen. I could feel tears about to come, and above all I didn’t want to cry on the phone in the middle of the restaurant. This is not what I want for my town. I’ll see you tonight. I hung up and dabbed at my eyes, hoping not to smear makeup.

      I think he asked, Who is this Fletcher guy? but I was already ending the call. He’d find out soon enough.

      Just before the lunch rush began, Tom barged through the doors and cut off my introspection. May I please have chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans? His tone was almost pleading.

      I ordered it and then sat at his table. Seemed like we were starting the day all over again but on a different note. What happened?

      He wiped a weary hand across his face. Silas. Silas Fletcher. He did an about-face, says he’s not sure he wants anything to do with this town after the way he was treated this morning.

      Silas! So that was his first name. Strange name for a tycoon, I thought. I refused to feel guilty about my encounter with the man that morning. He was in the wrong, and Tom and I both knew it. My response to Fletcher’s latest trick was weak. Well, there’s always that craft festival.

      Yeah, sure. One of my lamer ideas.

      All I could say was, I bet Fletcher will calm down.

      Tom gave me a cryptic look.

      * * * *

      Silas Fletcher walked into the café about five thirty that evening. I nearly dropped the plate of chicken-fried I was holding.

      Contrary to this morning, he was all smiles and politeness. Mind if I sit at the counter?

      No, not at all. Just let me go deliver this dinner.

      When I came back, he spoke before I could say anything. I’m sorry we got off to a rocky start this morning. I just don’t like cold eggs, but I apologize for my rudeness. Tom Bryson tells me you’re someone I should get to know if I want to do business in Wheeler.

      My teeth were on edge again. His compliment was definitely marred by his reference to cold eggs. We never serve cold eggs. I bet he let them get cold while he read the business pages of the Dallas Morning News. I plastered a smile on my face and asked, Mr. Fletcher, I thought you did an about-face and never wanted to see Wheeler again? Tact is not my long suit.

      Silas, please call me Silas. I’m a developer, and I see great potential in this town. This morning was just a fit of temper, and I’m over it.

      I bit my tongue to keep from asking if he was given to fits of temper. Besides, he’d used the word I hated. Wheeler didn’t need developers, if he intended to build a bunch of condos. How would you ‘develop’ Wheeler? I deliberately emphasized the term sarcastically.

      He looked at me appraisingly. No, Kate—may I call you Kate? I don’t want to build condos and resort communities. I want to develop small ranchettes in the surrounding area—places where people can have horses, live in the country, hunt if they want. But we have to put this town on the map, so that people will want to live in the area.

      Since I despise hunting, he wasn’t making any progress with me. "And you propose to do that by stirring up Sallie Thurgood’s murder and turning the depot into a grisly tourist attraction?

      He gave me a surprised look, as though sizing me up. But before he could answer, David sauntered in, leaned across the counter to give me a quick but ostentatious kiss, and then seated himself next to Fletcher and held out his hand. David Clinkscales. I see you’ve met my lady.

      Fletcher stammered, Uh, yes, I have.

      I was pleased to see Fletcher a bit discommoded. But then I could hear Gram, Kate, this is not like you. Be kind to strangers. It’s in the Bible. Yes, Gram. I tried to rearrange my thoughts as I handed Silas a menu and asked David what he wanted for supper.

      David’s response was quick. Can we take some of that chicken stew home and open a good bottle of white wine? I brought some from Dallas. He had glanced at the day’s specials.

      That sounds good, Fletcher said. I’ll take a bowl, with the house wine.

      We don’t serve wine or beer, I said, and now I put real regret in my voice.

      David didn’t miss a beat. You just come home with us, and we’ll share our wine. David knew by now who Silas Fletcher was, and this was a smooth move on his part, but not one necessarily to my liking.

      And that’s how I ended up eating supper at Gram’s kitchen table with David, whom I adored, and Silas Fletcher, to whom I had taken an

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