Bedpans, Teapots and Corpses (A Maggie and Irene Cozy Mystery Book 1)

  Bedpans, Teapots and Corpses

  A Maggie and Irene Cozy Mystery

  by

  Kitty Margo

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission by Kitty Margo at www.kittymargo.com or at [email protected].

  Published August 15, 2015

  Copyright © 2015 Kitty Margo

  Cover art by Dottie Dunlap Mabry

  [email protected]

  Cover design by Viola Estrella

  violaestrella.com

  Dedication

  To my dear friend Marjorie Horton, for our brainstorming sessions during the writing of this book. Your brain should be a national treasure. It was my pleasure and honor to collaborate with you on this book.

  My sweet middle son Billy, for always coming through with an answer when I called him with a what would be the outcome if this happened question? Or how could I make this idea work question? Or an is this even possible question? You make your mama so very proud.

  And last, but certainly not least, to Red Hatters all across this great land of ours for giving me the inspiration to write this book.

  Chapter One

  Maggie

  Early one hot and muggy Wednesday morning in June, when the humidity was so thick you could stir it with a stick, I was sitting on my back porch watching traffic pass. Granted, there was a broomstraw field between me and the highway, but I could still tell the difference between the BMW’s and Cadillac’s that zoomed past on their way to the US Open in Pinehurst. Tiger Woods was reported to make an appearance today, so you can just imagine how crazy the traffic was.

  I was in my old flowerdy cotton nightgown that had seen better days, and even I will admit that it was too threadbare and frayed around the hem to be seen prancing around outside in, but it was the most comfortable stitch of clothing I owned. Heavenly days! What if the cable man, or telephone man, or an escaped convict happened by? I would never live such humiliation down.

  I decided to go inside and change, just as soon as I finished my cigarette. As much as these things cost now I wasn’t about to put it out until I was inhaling filter, and don’t even start in on me about the dangers of smoking. I have been lighting up for so long that if I were to stop now it probably would kill me.

  I was inhaling the delicious aroma of caffeine with my nicotine as my hands cradled my first steaming cup of coffee of the day, while my gaze worked its way around my dazzling flowerbeds. In that moment, the thought struck me of how truly blessed I was to live in the South where we have such lovely weather. I couldn’t live up North where it snows every week in the winter and folks are stranded in their homes for days on end. No sirree! I’m liable to go stark raving mad. I was still pondering the Northern climes when my vision was snatched to an unusual patch of green in my broomstraw field.

  Going to stand at my porch rail, I put my glasses on for a better look. Sure enough, there were lush, green plants growing right smack dab in the middle of my field. And, honey, they were huge. At least waist high. Who in their right mind would have the audacity to plant tomato plants on my property without bothering to tell me? My first reaction was to lick my lips and imagine how good a tomato sandwich would be. A big, red juicy tomato on a couple slices of fresh Merita bread with Duke’s mayonnaise and some salt and pepper. Oh, honey, it would make you slap your grandma.

  I was still having trouble believing what I was seeing with my own eyes though. I mean, shouldn’t they have at least asked my permission first? Ha! If they had asked, I would have told them to go right ahead as long as they supplied me with enough produce to keep me in mater sandwiches. What was wrong with society nowadays? My mama would have whipped me with a corn stalk if I had traipsed onto somebody else’s property and turned it into my own personal garden spot.

  It was right then and there that I decided this situation might need further investigation. You don’t know me, but if you did, it wouldn’t take you long to figure out that I am as nosy as the day is long.

  Needless to say, I didn’t even think to put shoes on as I went barreling across the yard barefooted, jogging around the swimming pool, and hurdling the creek like I was 34 years old instead of 54. Terribly winded and gasping for breath, I put my hands on my knees and took several deep breaths before I proceeded to march my hind end through that waist high vegetation, snakes and all. This was my property, and the least I was going to get was a few ripe tomatoes for my trouble.

  On closer inspection, I stopped dead in my tracks as my heart melted and puddled around my feet. Jesus take the wheel. These were not tomato plants. As a nurse, I had been to enough mandatory drug education classes to know that those pointy leaves were cannabis. Marijuana. Pot. Weed. Reefer. No matter what you called it, it was still illegal.

  As paranoia settled around me like a warm blanket, I immediately started looking around to see who was watching. I had vivid images of the DEA surrounding me with Tommy guns, and walkie talkies, and advising the local authorities of a major drug bust in Maggie Moore’s back yard. I just knew they were going to take my house, my car, and my nurses license on the spot and I would soon be living in a culvert. I could hardly think rationally. I was too busy fretting over whether or not I knew any good lawyers. Then it hit me.

  I have to get rid of it!

  But how on earth was I going to get rid of a field of tall, healthy marijuana plants that probably have roots as long as I am? One plant at a time was my answer. Don’t tell me the Lord isn’t still in the business of giving us sound advice.

  The marijuana was planted in rows so neatly; it looked like a man with a tractor and a planter had sowed it. They were long healthy rows without a speck of unwanted Johnson grass or honeysuckle vines smothering the plants. Somebody had tilled carefully between each row. Probably using my tiller!

  It really was a beautiful patch of cannabis. Not that I have ever seen another patch to compare it to, but you know what I mean. At any rate, don’t you know I started yanking plants out of the ground right and left, thinking Lord, why me?

  So for the next hour I was busier than a one legged man in an ass kicking contest as I slung dirt and sand all over me while holding plants in the air and cursing my youngest son. He was the culprit. I didn’t even have to question who had perpetrated such a blatant act of law-breaking activity only a few steps from my house.

  Two hours later, I was sweating profusely, dirt was sticking to my face, my hair and my clothes, and I had to look a hot mess after pulling up all those plants in my nightgown with my undies flapping in the breeze. I was past exhaustion, so tired in fact that I could barely lift my arms. Yet, by the time I had finished, a pile of marijuana stalks higher than my head lay before me.

  Now what?

  Burn every last stalk. That’s what. Brushing my filthy hands on my even filthier nightgown, I raced to the shed and grabbed the gas can that I used to fill the lawn mower. Then I raced back to the field and began sprinkling gas on the pile.

  Just as I was about to flick my lighter I heard my oldest son Trip hollering, “No, mama! No fire! Not in the broomstraw! That whole field will go up in flames and everybody in the neighborhood will be high as a Georgia pine!”

  He had a good point. But still. “We have to get rid of it,” I yelled back. “They will confiscate every
thing I own if they find all these pot plants on my property.” He didn’t bother to question who had planted this particular herb garden. We were both ready to kill my youngest son.

  Trip could only shake his head when he stood beside the pile of marijuana with me, a worried frown creasing his brow. Dirt covered me from head to toe and I had to look like a mad woman standing in the middle of a field of straw holding a gas can and a cigarette lighter.

  “I can’t believe Noah would do something so stupid as to plant his dope field right across from a major highway.”

  “Me either,” I mumbled dejectedly.

  “Go put some clothes on, mama.” Trip cut his eyes at my nightgown and I knew exactly what he was thinking. Your grandchildren give you a beautiful new pair of pajamas every year for Christmas and here you are wearing that raggedy old thing when your new pajamas are still in the box on the top shelf of the closet. “You can’t be running around half naked. I wouldn’t doubt if somebody hasn’t already taken a video of the crazy woman in the field off 211 and posted it to YouTube.” He was headed to his work truck when he called over his shoulder, “I’ll take care of this.”

  Trip owns a construction company and I didn’t notice his trailer behind his work truck until I was dressed in a pair of capris, a tee shirt, and flip flops and was headed across the yard. By that time, he was unloading his bobcat from the trailer with a determined look on his face and headed toward the woods, not the broomstraw field as I would have suspected. Why on earth was he going into the woods when the uprooted plants were so neatly stacked in the field?

  Then it finally dawned on me that he was going to dig out our large compost pile to make room for the illegal plants. It goes without saying that we would have the happiest worms in the entire state of North Carolina.

  Chapter Two

  Maggie

  After the hole was dug, Trip took the bobcat to the field and scooped up the pot plants, depositing them in the compost pile. It took several trips before he finally covered that pit up and smoothed the dirt over it. Me? I was in the field picking up any remaining leaves and stalks that had slipped undetected by the jaws of the bobcat. I didn’t intend to leave one trace of evidence as to what had been growing in this field, right under my nose, for the last few months.

  Loading the bobcat back on the trailer, and driving the truck around to the front of the house, I met Trip as he ambled across the yard with a conspiratorial wink and asked, “What’s for breakfast?”

  Less than a half hour later, Trip and I sat down to a plate of country ham, grits, toast, with him 6 fried eggs over easy and me 2 with the yellow busted and cooked hard. Nothing turns my stomach and makes me want to hurl worse than the sight of a runny yolk on an egg. Whooo, lawd. Just the thought makes me queasy.

  I shifted my eyes away from his plate, not eager to witness the yellow mixing with his grits when he cut into his eggs. I wasn’t at all sure my stomach - which was already unsettled from my morning activities - could take it. Swirling my spoon around in my grits, I said, “I wondered why Noah had been coming home to visit so often lately. About every week for the past few months he has spent a night or two with me. He kept late nights too, but I just thought he was out rambling like he always did. I never suspected he had a major drug cartel operation in my back yard.”

  Trip rubbed his eyes and chuckled. “You have been watching way too many movies, mama.”

  “I suppose.” But I was still worried that either some Mexican drug kingpin or a DEA agent was going to bust through my back door at any minute.

  “Weren’t you at all suspicious when Noah started coming home so often?” Trip asked, washing a mouth full of breakfast fixings down with a large gulp of coffee. “You know he can never stay in one place for long.”

  Feeling a blush staining my cheeks, I replied, “No, not really. I just thought he was visiting because he loves his mama so much.”

  “We both know he loves you, mama.” Trip buttered a slice of toast before tearing off half with one bite. “But he loves his weed too, and this was just another one of his get rich quick schemes.”

  “He probably would have been rich if I hadn’t happened upon that field this morning.”

  Trip raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Or in prison.”

  I nodded agreeably. “Yes, well, there is that too.”

  My oldest son drank the last of his coffee and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin I had folded and placed beside his plate. “What are you going to do about Noah?” Leaning back in his chair with a frown, he folded his arms across his massive body builder’s chest. “Let him off with a slap on the wrist like you always do?”

  “I guess I will call him up and bless him out,” I mumbled halfheartedly.

  “Let me call him,” Trip was quick to volunteer. “I need to have a word of prayer with my baby brother this morning.”

  I knew there wouldn’t be a single bible verse recited in their morning prayer, but in all honesty, I was more than happy to let Trip handle the problem of dealing with my youngest son.

  Trip touched a few numbers on his phone and went out the back door when Noah answered, evidently to pace. Lord knows you need a stern resolve and the patience of Job to deal with that wayward child.

  Trip was walking toward the woods behind our house, since he obviously didn’t want me being privy to their heated conversation. However his voice occasionally rose in volume to the point that I could hear a few choice words and colorful phrases from inside the house. It was easy to tell from his posture, and the way his hands were slicing through the air, that they were not discussing our annual Fourth of July picnic, or any other fun filled family gathering for that matter.

  I watched him through the kitchen window while I washed the breakfast dishes. He looked so much like his father. Then I started reminiscing about how happy we all were when the boys were little, and before their father died a few years back. That got me to sniffling and pretty soon my eyes were so full of tears that I couldn’t even tell if I had scrubbed all the grits out of my pot.

  Deciding to let it soak, I dried my hands on a dishtowel. Then I grabbed a paper towel from the roll and swiped at the water works trailing from my eyes. I couldn’t bring my dear husband Earl back, so there was no use blubbering about it. Instead, I would go spend time with his oldest son. Trip could always cheer me up.

  With the dishes in the drainer, I scooted down the back steps and listened. Trip wasn’t yelling at Noah. That was usually a good sign. But where was he? Perhaps I should make one more walk through the field for any remaining signs of illegal substances before I pronounced the job done.

  I had made two rounds through the field when I looked up to see Sheriff Sammy Hoskins marching straight toward me. Sweet Jesus! Trip was right. Somebody had videoed me pulling up the pot plants this morning and Sammy was coming to arrest me. Life as I knew it was over. I would be fingerprinted, I would have a criminal record, my grandchildren would be bullied because of their jailbird grandma, and my best friend in prison would be named Big Bertha.

  Trip!

  I had to warn my son to stay hidden in the woods. I would never allow him to be charged as an accomplice to the crime. He was innocent of all charges. I should never have involved him in this mess to begin with. What could I do?

  I was frantically running through scenarios in my head. Should I try to make it to the Raleigh Durham International Airport and sneak onto a plane headed for Mexico? Should I plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court. Should I fall to the ground and thrash around like I was having a seizure so Trip could make a clean getaway? Or should I just tell the truth and let Noah deal with the consequences of his own actions for once? After all, Sammy Hoskins was Trips best friend, surely he would be lenient on him. Of course I would never do that!

  Actually it was too late to do anything now. I was out of options. Sammy was almost in spitting distance. He was wearing sunglasses so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could imagine the disappointment in them.


  “Good morning, Sammy,” I chirped gaily. “What brings you visiting this morning?”

  “I was looking for Trip.” He took his hat off and raked a hand through his slicked back hair. “Have you seen him?”

  “Um… no,” I lied through my teeth. “I haven’t seen that boy in over a week.” I told myself it was motherly instincts that made the lie slip so easily from my lips. “When you see him, tell him he needs to come visit his mama more often.”

  Sammy looked at me funny and put his hat back on. “I sure will, Maggie. I will tell him those exact words as soon as I see him.”

  “Thank you, Sammy.”

  Sammy perused my grimy nightgown with a skeptical glance, probably wondering if he should take me in for a mental evaluation. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing in the field this morning, Maggie. Looking for something?”

  Not looking for anything at all. Just taking my morning constitutional. My cholesterol has been a little high and Doc Stewart told me to try to walk as often as I can.”

  “That’s sound advice, Maggie.” Sammy shuffled from one foot to the other. Poor thing was obviously nervous about having to arrest a member of his mother’s quilting bee. “I hope you listen to him.” It was obvious however that he was far from satisfied with my answer. “How did you get so dirty walking around in a field?”

  I waved a hand down the front of my ruined gown, knowing there wasn’t enough Tide on the East coast to clean it. “Oh, this really isn’t as strange as it looks.”

  He grinned. “It’s not?”

  “Heavens no.” I forced out a tiny laugh. “I was working in my flowers… um… and thought I saw something out here in my broomstraw field.”

  Sammy tilted his head to the side curiously. “Like what, Maggie?”