I headed left out of the driveway and drove through the rolling hills to New Oslo with the radio cranked. I tried to drown out the worries of yet another murderer on the loose with Led Zeppelin, but it was an exercise in futility. Soon enough though, I was descending into the wooded valley where New Oslo was nestled.
Once I hit the town proper, I slowed, so when Becky Baker of Becky’s Good Hair came running out of her salon, waving her arms in the air, it was easy to safely pull to the curb.
Her blonde hair poofed into a curly halo around her head (as was her style since high school) and her bright blue eyes wide with excitement, she hustled to the passenger side of the truck. She waited expectantly for a moment outside the window before tapping on it and pointing down, indicating she wanted me to roll the window down. I pointed at the window crank on my side to show her it wasn’t an electric window then reached across to unlock the door.
Climbing in, she eyeballed the inside of the door with disgust. “A crank window, really? All the work you do on cars, and you can’t make it an electric window?”
I bit my lower lip to keep from giving her a sharp answer.
“Anyway…” She turned to me after slamming the truck door closed. “Have I got news for you!” Without waiting for me to respond, she blurted out, “There’s been another mysterious death!”
“I know.” I scratched my neck as I looked out the driver’s side window. I turned back to her. “I found the body.”
Her body seemed to deflate. Even her poofy hair seemed to droop. “Again?” She sighed. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Sorry. Never even occurred to me to call the biggest gossip in town.
“It’s been busy. You know. We still have the show filming out at the house too.” I decided to give her that little bone and let her gnaw on it a moment.
It didn’t take her long. “Oh my gosh,” she said, her eyes going wide. “Is the dead person one of the TV people? Oh, I hope it’s not that Chick guy. He’s a tasty morsel.”
I grimaced. “No, not Chick. And ew, Becky. You’re a married woman.”
She grinned and nudged me with an elbow. “Well, I can’t daydream about your looker anymore, can I?” She paused then leaned in. “Right?”
I ignored her casting for gossip. “Is that all you needed, Becky? I have to stop in at the Historical Society about one of the items the crew has found.” It wasn’t a lie, technically. The crew did find it. And then attempted to steal it.
Becky sighed. “Yes, I guess. But you need to get in for a haircut soon. You haven’t let me touch a hair on your head since high school!”
There was a reason for that. My school picture from 10th grade was all the evidence I needed to avoid letting this woman near me with scissors.
At my silence, she pressed on. “At least a manicure?” Her eyes zeroed in on my hands. “Oh, I know, you always say I’m a mechanic. There’s no point, but I could help the health of your nails. And you look like you could use a paraffin dip too. Your hands are hella dry!”
I resisted the urge to hide my hands. “I’m good, thank you.” Before I could stop myself, I went on. “Maybe a pedicure though. It’s been a dog’s year since I did anything for my feet.” I cringed at my own words as they escaped my mouth.
“Yes! And you don’t have the excuse of working on engines with your feet!” Becky clapped her own perfectly manicured (and moisturized) hands. “Day after tomorrow?”
I smiled. “Yeah, sure. In the afternoon.”
“All right!” Becky was almost bouncing with her excitement. “And you can update me on the dead guy!” She paused, her eyes darting to the right. “Or dead girl?” She looked back at me and raised her eyebrows.
Isn’t it enough I agreed to a pedicure? I shook my head. “Guy.”
Becky grinned and hopped out of the truck. “See you back soon!”
I groaned but smiled and waved before pulling away from the curb. I only had about a block to go to get to the Historical Society Museum and attached antiques store. I hoped I could make it without being coerced into anything else.
As I drove down to the second block, I noted the American flags on each light pole for Veterans Day. The town was hosting a ceremony as usual, on Saturday afternoon. Freddie and I had finally given in to receiving Quilts of Valor—an honor I hadn’t been ready to face before—and Nick would be getting one, too.
As I parked and got out of my truck, I noticed three faces watching me from the historical society window—and another one next door, in the antiques shop. I waved, encompassing both windows and all the folks watching me.
Ginny Prunn, in the antiques shop, hurried to put an I’m next door sign up on the door and trotted out to me. Her usual sparkly getup did not disappoint, as she was wearing bedazzled jeans and a sweater with the moon and a collection of shiny stars, topped off with a knitted beret with sparkles in the variegated yarn. Despite her 90-some years of life, she was brimming with energy.
“Tessa, sweetheart, how are you holding up?” she asked, rushing to me and grabbing me into her spindly arms.
Obviously, she had heard the news.
“Good morning, Miss Prunn,” I said, accepting her hug. “I’m fine. Have some questions for you guys.”
“Oh, yes, Freddie texted me. Olive should already be working on it.” Ginny linked her arm through mine and pulled me toward the Historical Society door.
The three faces waiting for us inside belonged to Hank and Hollis, lovingly referred to as the “two old coots on the bench,” moved inside for the winter, and Olive Prunn, Ginny’s younger sister. The trio of octogenarians were less peppy than Ginny in varying degrees.
“Tessa.” Olive’s gravelly voice reached me first. “Another dead-o?”
Hank shot Olive a look before reaching up to turn on his hearing aid. Hollis chuckled at his friend and ran a hand over his sparse white hair before tugging at one of his ears.
The three turned to me expectantly and waited for me to report on the body.
“It’s one of the TV crew,” I said. “A man. And a young woman from the crew was injured but alive.”
“And what do the pictures Freddie sent us have to do with it?” Olive asked. “The pocket watch?”
“We’re not sure, just that it was with the dead man. It was wrapped in a cloth from our garage, so it must’ve come from our property.” I pulled out my phone and opened the photo. “But we don’t know who the initials are. AJ?”