Armed and Outrageous (An Agnes Barton Mystery) Read online

  Armed and Outrageous

  Madison Johns

  Dedication

  I dedicate this novel to every senior citizen that I have cared for in either a nursing home or hospital. If not for their quick wit and spunky personalities, this novel would never have been possible.

  In memory of Rosa Lee Hill and Rose Hamilton

  Copyright © 2011 by Madison Johns

  Armed and Outrageous Madison Johns

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental

  KINDLE EDITION

  Book cover Nixon Johns

  http://nixonjohnsart2011.blogspot.com/

  Editor Barbara Pappan

  Second revision editor Robert Walker

  http://www.robertwalkerbooks.com/

  Proofreader Terry Crawford Palardy

  http://terrysthoughtsandthreads.blogspot.com/

  Third Edition Proofreader E.D. Trimm

  Interior design by The Mad Formatter

  http://www.TheMadFormatter.com

  Chapter One

  My internal alarm clock went off at five as it does every morning. Reluctantly, I pulled my feet out of my comforter. I had forgotten and left the air conditioner on sixty-five the night before, but heck, older gals have been known to get pretty heated at night. Not that it mattered much, but I wake up every morning wringing wet. Most mornings, I feel like a wet dishrag.

  First thing in the morning, standing isn’t an easy task, and today was no exception. I grabbed my bedside table with one hand, pushing the other against my mattress and stood. I heard a thump and looked down and noticed my denture cup had hit the floor and not only did it open, but my dentures had bounced beneath the bed like an angry crab. I hoped the damned things hadn't managed to break into pieces. If I had to take them for repairs – again – it would make the third time this month.

  It’s a crying shame to feel so achy and sore every morning. I’m only seventy-two, and that’s not old. I remember a time I thought seventy to be old, but the closer I came to seventy, my perception had changed.

  I flipped the light switch and knelt on the floor in search of my false teeth. I finally spotted my dentures among the dust bunnies that I hadn't even known were there, and I used my grabber to reach the dentures; of course, I'd leave the dust bunnies for another day. The grabbers were the only practical thing I got out of physical therapy, those grabbers that could also be useful for pinching my best friend, Eleanor, when she gets out of line.

  I examined my errant, runaway dentures. I sighed in relief as they were still intact, although loaded with ancient cat hair. My cat Duchess sheds enough hair to knit a blanket for the homeless.

  I plopped my dentures back into my denture cup, and as I waddled across the cold, wood floor and into the bathroom, Duchess wound herself around my ankles as if to trip me for laughs. This cat will be the death of me one day, literally. I think she is secretly an assassin, a ninja cat.

  First things first, I had to pee. Once done, I walked to the shower, adjusted the temperature, and pulled my rose flannel nightgown off. I stepped in carefully and let the hot water pound my achy body. As is her habit, Duchess is never far away. I wondered why cats are so fascinated with water when they hate it so much. Then I pondered human nature and I understood, sort of.

  I could almost hear what sounded like my answering machine. They better have left a message because I’m not hurrying a bit. I don't think the word hurry is in a senior citizen’s vocabulary. I stayed in the shower and scrubbed myself until the water became lukewarm.

  One thing I can’t stand is a smelly old woman. Not that I considered myself old by any means. I’m Agnes Barton, and I can still turn a head or two around this sleepy town of Tadium, Michigan.

  I grabbed the rail bar attached to my bathtub, a staple in any seniors' house and clambered out. I toweled off and surveyed my reflection in the mirror while Duchess jumped into the empty tub. Sure I’m no prize, but considering all I had been through in my life, the mirror told me outright: “Agnes, you’re none the worse for wear.” My blue eyes still twinkled whenever I batted my eyelashes – which I still had to bat! I may have bags under the eyes, but who at my age doesn’t? I have a crease that starts at the corner of my nose and runs all the way to my chin, but my lips are still full and inviting when I smile. Age spots are plentiful because of all the time I’ve spent in my garden during the summer months all these years.

  I picked up a brush and ran it through my wet silver hair. I decided last year to let nature take its course, and stopped coloring it altogether. I snapped on a pair of pearl earrings, the clip kind. Never was one for the other kind. I have a jewelry box full of costume jewelry left by my mom. God rest her soul. I wear her jewelry every day. It makes me feel like she’s still with me.

  I put my underclothing on, no granny panties for me. I wear bright pink bikini panties with a matching push-up bra. I laughed out loud. I can still remember the shocked look from the young lady at Victoria’s Secret in Saginaw when I bought them. She giggled when I told her, “They’re for me, dearie, and not my granddaughter.” As if all women my age have grandchildren. I wrinkled my forehead.

  No, I can’t think about that today, it will ruin my whole day.

  I pulled a purple and pink paisley silky blouse and purple pants on and slid my swollen feet into a pair of white ballerina style flats. Next, I gave my hair a quick smoothing out before I put a tube of pink lipstick in my pocket.

  I walked into the living room and inhaled deeply. I admired the knotty pine walls in the living room, one of the reasons I bought this house. A cabin by the lake is what I always wanted, but I ended up buying a house across the road from Lake Huron.

  It’s nestled in the woods with just enough sunlight streaming through to help my garden grow. I have one of the best gardens in the area, and that isn’t an exaggeration. The proof is in the soil. I had it tested once; it’s loaded with nutrients and minerals, creating a perfect balance for growing ideal plants.

  The previous owner grew marijuana or wacky-weed as it’s commonly known. Around these parts, they call it funky flower. I heard he had the best crops around until the law shut him down. It’s too bad because these days it’s used for medicinal purposes.

  I could see the answering machine light flashing.

  I walked past the confounded blinking light with ease. The shower had done its magic and my limbs felt much better. I moved into the kitchen and pushed the white lace curtains aside before opening the window. Listening in enjoyment to the call of the mourning doves made me smile.

  Duchess jumped up on the counter and glared out the window, making soft mewing sounds. I knew if able, she’d snag a mourning dove for breakfast. She sure knew how to carry mice into the house and release them. They were still alive. I call it the catch and release program. It takes me weeks to locate and capture them. I use the traps called Tin Cat. It works better than Duchess.

  I filled the cat dish while Duchess meowed which sounded like a cannon blast to my ears. In all my days, I have never heard a cat meow so loud or often as Duchess.

  I made coffee and waited, listening while it dripped into the glass coffee pot. In anticipation, I poured myself a cup
before it was finished, adding a liberal amount of French vanilla creamer. Stirring it, I finally walked over to the answering machine, pushed the button, and sank into my black leather sofa.

  “Agnes … another missing person’s report … just hit the airwaves,” the voice started softly, pausing briefly. “Not far from here. Another young woman. Need you to be prompt. Twelve.”

  Eleanor Mason, quite a gossip, couldn’t at all contain herself when she found out any bit of news.

  Another missing young woman, I played the words over in my mind, frowned, and asked Duchess, “Has the whole damn world gone mad?”

  I finished my coffee, shut off the coffee pot, and headed out the door, settling myself in my red Mustang. No sedan for this old woman. I’m what folks like to call eccentric. I have a rose tattoo on my right shoulder too, got it for my sixtieth birthday.

  I drove up the road to Roy’s Bait & Tackle shop, the only place in this sleepy town where you can get an early edition of the Tadium Press. Tadium is just another small town on the Eastern side of Michigan, on Lake Huron, ten miles from East Tawas.

  The only place to stay in Tadium is Robinson’s Manor, a bed and breakfast. Some would say the old place was one of the most haunted houses in Michigan. The mansion was left empty for years after the entire family was murdered in 1968, a murder that remains unsolved even today.

  It seemed a bit odd the Robinsons didn’t build a house of that size on the lake instead of in a dark forest across US 23, a half-mile drive through the woods. However, it did make for an enjoyable drive in the springtime when white Trilliums blanket the ground, not a fragrant flower, but a protected one. Once you reach the end of the drive, it opens up to a clearing surrounded by a well-tended garden framed by maple trees. The current owners, Frank and Frances Bowdine, encourage their guests to help pick fresh produce in the summer. The original owner, the unfortunate John Robinson, had relocated from his native Charleston, South Carolina. He put his fortune into the construction of the white pillared house. It had two stories with a roof top deck for chairs and such, and from that height, one can see over the tree line to Lake Huron.

  Robinson's Manor is always booked throughout the year. Maybe it’s the mystery; maybe it’s the hope of seeing something out of the ordinary. It was rumored that the ghosts of the Robinson family still walk the grounds at night.

  I pulled into Roy’s Bait & Tackle shop, climbed from the car, and stepped inside. Fishing poles, lures, and nets entirely covered the warped walls, while air filters bubbled in the minnows’ tanks. I wrinkled my nose at the overwhelming stagnant smell of the place.

  Roy Garrison, the owner was here like always. He’s a married man, but that doesn’t stop him from flirting. His wife is a sweetheart of a woman and does rosary at one of the local nursing homes.

  Roy, a long-time resident of Tadium, inherited the property from his granddaddy, him being the only one in the family who had any interest in the old bait shop. In truth, his Granddaddy Mac had raised him. Roy’s father, Axel, was far more interested in spending money on women and whiskey than bringing his paycheck home to feed the family – one of many reasons Roy’s mother ran off leaving little Roy with his granddad.

  Roy’s baldhead seemed to be shinier than the sun today. He must be rubbing something on it to make it so, I told myself, because that big knob was normally not near so shiny. I inwardly laughed, knowing I could check my makeup in the mirror of his forehead.

  Roy wore blue jeans held up with red suspenders over a white T-shirt stained brown under the armpits. It was enough to make me want to vomit. I have always hated an unkempt man. I smiled despite how I felt.

  “Morning, Roy.”

  Rubbing one of his hands over his hairless head, he smiled. “Well, saints preserve me. I do believe an angel has descended from heaven to astonish me with her rare beauty.”

  I tried hard not to roll my eyes. Surely, they would somehow be stuck in my head never to return if I did. What an ass. Does he really think women want to hear that kind of crap? If he’s looking for a fool it’s not me, but I smiled just the same. I wanted to get the paper so I could leave before he came up with yet another, equally unimpressive comment.

  “I’m here to buy the morning paper is all. So if you please, be a good boy and fetch it for me.” Just like the dog you are. I could not help such thoughts racing in whenever I was around Roy.

  He played along with the suggestion and right on cue, he stuck his tongue out nearly touching his chin, and panted like a dog. He wobbled over toward the stack of papers while I rightly feared he’d come back with it between his teeth and gums!

  “Please, don’t put that paper in your mouth,” I said, my voice indicating how horribly unamused I was by his doggy antics, but thankfully, he used his ‘paws’ rather than his mouth.

  He turned abruptly. His demeanor had changed. “I wasn’t going to fetch it doggy style,” he snapped. Returning to the counter, he shouted, “That‘ll be fifty cents, Milady.”

  I dropped two quarters onto the counter and watched as they bounced off to Roy’s obvious irritation, noted by the narrowing of his eyes.

  I picked up my paper and left as Roy retorted. “Hon, why don’t you come back here, bend over, and I’ll show you doggy style.”

  I shook my head and continued toward my car.

  Chapter Two

  As I sat in the car and stared down at the front page of the Tadium Press, the headlines jumped out at me. Not that hard considering the newspaper only measures twelve-by twelve. Small town news usually consists of garage sales and arrest reports, not missing tourists.

  Missing Person Reported

  I read it out loud as stated. “Tourist Jennifer Martin reported missing by birth father, William Martin, President of Automated Industries, Detroit, MI. She came into Tadium area vacationing with friends. Late Tuesday night, she walked alone, presumably, to Quick Stop and never returned. Sheriff Peterson indicates no reason to believe foul play involved at this time.

  “Meanwhile, William Martin adamantly stated, “'I know my daughter, and there is no way she’d just up and leave. Jennifer has a medical condition requiring regular medication. Without it, her life may be in jeopardy.'“

  “The Sheriff’s Department will continue to look into the matter. When questioned further about the other missing person cases in the area, they wouldn’t comment.

  “In this reporter’s view, we need to start locking our doors at night. Living in a small town is hardly a reason to take chances. Sure, most of the missing women are from out of town, but for how long?”

  My hands shook, and I remembered all too well how many missing young women there were, including my granddaughter, Sophia. She had come to visit me last summer, and when she went jogging on US 23, poor dear, she simply disappeared, never to return. Sophia was an honor student and had just graduated from Saginaw Valley State University with a BA in Nursing.

  Sophia had curly brown hair, and I remember how she would cry as a child when I brushed it. She had the kind of baby blue eyes that almost jumped out at you, and her tan skin and freckled face simply glowed. Two huge dimples appeared when she smiled, displaying a dazzling set of teeth. Men showed her attention, but she shrugged it off as if unaware of her unique beauty.

  “Gram, I don’t have time for men. I plan to go back to school,” she’d so often tell me.

  Sophia had a well-toned body and jogged regularly. I remembered the last time I saw her. She wore a pink and white striped jogging suit, her hair tied back into a ponytail. I was in the garden that day. I remember glancing up and waving as Sophia ran north on US 23. That’s the last time I saw her.

  One year now. Is that all it’s been?

  I started my car and drove to Eleanor's house. I knew it wasn’t noon, not precisely, but I also knew Eleanor wouldn’t mind.

  Sunlight split through the gathering clouds over the lake. Not many waves today either, just a slight slapping of water against the beach. It reminded me of a postcard. Alt
hough the sun did begin to blind me a bit, reminding me what a night owl I used to be. Years ago I stayed up well past the witching hour, waiting for my husband to return from his night shift as a state trooper.

  Dark memories tried to surface, but I couldn’t allow myself to think about them.

  I shook my head to clear the bad thoughts, as I turned into Eleanor's driveway. Her house wasn’t much to look at from the front. It was more of the backyard. I walked in the front door. When I found the door not locked, I rolled my eyes. I shouldn’t be upset, I chastised myself; after all, most of us small town residents didn’t lock our doors. Call it small-town comfort, I thought next, but these days comfort may kill you.

  I walked through the house and noticed the lingering smell of bacon and eggs, both cooked too long, although the kitchen looked to be scrubbed clean.

  I eyed the beast of an old ironwood stove Eleanor used to heat her house. I would have replaced if it were up to me. Eleanor’s too old to be going out in the dead of winter to get wood from the woodshed. She’d just turned eighty-two after all, but you couldn’t tell it from the way she acted.

  Eleanor had two church benches with green and yellow plaid cushions that she used in the dining room; this cheap man’s version of a dining area fronted the glass patio door. Outside was a deck overlooking the lake.

  I slid the door open and found Eleanor leaning against the white fence that completely wrapped around the deck and extended all the way down to the lake.

  If you looked up at the house from the lake, you’d notice how the upstairs’ triangle windows looked like a pair of gigantic eyes, or maybe it was just me that saw these things. I was always one to see more into inanimate things than the average person.

  She didn’t turn at my approach.