Read Online Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 03 - Writing Can Be Murder by Marilyn Rausch, Mary Donlon - Free Book Online
Authors: Marilyn Rausch, Mary Donlon
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written about in
his last chapter. The leaves on the maples were just starting to turn orange.
The apple tree was laden with ripe fruit, so heavy the branches almost reached
the ground. Chip grabbed a grocery bag and went to the side yard to Jane’s
Wealthy apple tree. He plucked an apple, rubbed it on his shirt and took a
bite; a little juice ran down his chin. He filled the bag half full with bright
red apples and folded down the top.
The
apples were perfect for desserts and would make a nice gift for Bernice, the
waitress at the Cinnamon Bun Café, who was on a kick of experimenting with new
bakery delights. He grabbed the keys to his Ford from the house and headed for
the driveway. Runt, his golden retriever mix, beat him to the car, sat by the
door wagging his tail and barking. Chip sent him back to the yard, the dog’s
tail drooping. His animals had ruined his previous vehicle and he was
determined to keep this new one pristine. That was until he watched Runt’s
dejection, called him back and opened the back door. Runt raced across the yard
and took a flying leap into the back seat. Nothing like a happy dog, Chip said
to himself.
***
In
the two years Chip that had been a resident of Turners Bend, the main street of
town had begun to come back to life. Out
of Business signs were slowly being replaced with Open for Business signs. It had started with last year’s renovation
of the Bijou Theater. Since then, and much to Chip’s pleasure, a tiny new and
used book store opened. It was run by the same owner as The Book Shoppe in
Boone. The Cinnamon Bun Café continued to thrive and was Chip’s favorite place
for home cooked food served with a dollop of town gossip.
“Lord,”
said Bernice, as she looked up when the café’s door chimes jingled. “You look
like you tangled with a hay baler.”
“Hi
Bernice. Just a little mishap up in Minneapolis. I brought you some apples.
Figured you could make a pie or two.” He handed the grocery bag over the
counter and sat on one of the red Naugahyde-covered stools.
“Thanks
Chip. I’ve got a new donut for you to try. A Maple Bacon Bismarck.” She entered
the kitchen and returned with a huge donut loaded with maple frosting and
topped with two strips of crisp bacon.
Chip
took a bite, then another. “Bernice, I thought your cinnamon and caramel rolls
couldn’t be beat, but this is nirvana.”
“I
don’t know what nirvana is, but I can tell you these little porkers have been
selling like hot cakes. I’m getting ideas for new treats from the folks at the
Dutch Oven Bakery over in Boone.”
Chip
turned as he heard the door open and Turners Bend’s police chief, Walter
Fredrickson, sauntered in and looked around. The chief spotted Chip and sat
down at the counter next to him. He looked at Chip’s donut and said, “Bernice,
give me one of those things and a cup of coffee, please.”
He
turned to Chip. “Well, I hear you had an eventful trip to the Twin Cities. I
got a call from some detective named Franco. He spun me quite a tale and asked
me to keep an eye on you. Seemed like a decent guy.”
“Yes,
he is. He reminds me a lot of one of my characters, Mike Frisco. Patrick
Finnegan’s murder is a puzzler, but I’m confident Franco will find the perp.”
“You
think someone’s gunning for you, too?” said Fredrickson as he pulled the bacon
off his Bismarck and munched on it.
“Nah,
I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” answered Chip. That’s the
story I’m sticking with for now, Chip said to himself, wanting to believe it
was truly the case.
“I
don’t know about that. I think there’s more to it than a drive-by shooting.”
The chief unsnapped his shirt pocket, removed a folded piece of paper and
opened it. He showed it to Chip. “This is a printout from a security camera at
the National Car Rental counter at the airport in Minneapolis. He’s the dude
who returned a black Escalade, about 45 minutes after your parking ramp
encounter.
his last chapter. The leaves on the maples were just starting to turn orange.
The apple tree was laden with ripe fruit, so heavy the branches almost reached
the ground. Chip grabbed a grocery bag and went to the side yard to Jane’s
Wealthy apple tree. He plucked an apple, rubbed it on his shirt and took a
bite; a little juice ran down his chin. He filled the bag half full with bright
red apples and folded down the top.
The
apples were perfect for desserts and would make a nice gift for Bernice, the
waitress at the Cinnamon Bun Café, who was on a kick of experimenting with new
bakery delights. He grabbed the keys to his Ford from the house and headed for
the driveway. Runt, his golden retriever mix, beat him to the car, sat by the
door wagging his tail and barking. Chip sent him back to the yard, the dog’s
tail drooping. His animals had ruined his previous vehicle and he was
determined to keep this new one pristine. That was until he watched Runt’s
dejection, called him back and opened the back door. Runt raced across the yard
and took a flying leap into the back seat. Nothing like a happy dog, Chip said
to himself.
***
In
the two years Chip that had been a resident of Turners Bend, the main street of
town had begun to come back to life. Out
of Business signs were slowly being replaced with Open for Business signs. It had started with last year’s renovation
of the Bijou Theater. Since then, and much to Chip’s pleasure, a tiny new and
used book store opened. It was run by the same owner as The Book Shoppe in
Boone. The Cinnamon Bun Café continued to thrive and was Chip’s favorite place
for home cooked food served with a dollop of town gossip.
“Lord,”
said Bernice, as she looked up when the café’s door chimes jingled. “You look
like you tangled with a hay baler.”
“Hi
Bernice. Just a little mishap up in Minneapolis. I brought you some apples.
Figured you could make a pie or two.” He handed the grocery bag over the
counter and sat on one of the red Naugahyde-covered stools.
“Thanks
Chip. I’ve got a new donut for you to try. A Maple Bacon Bismarck.” She entered
the kitchen and returned with a huge donut loaded with maple frosting and
topped with two strips of crisp bacon.
Chip
took a bite, then another. “Bernice, I thought your cinnamon and caramel rolls
couldn’t be beat, but this is nirvana.”
“I
don’t know what nirvana is, but I can tell you these little porkers have been
selling like hot cakes. I’m getting ideas for new treats from the folks at the
Dutch Oven Bakery over in Boone.”
Chip
turned as he heard the door open and Turners Bend’s police chief, Walter
Fredrickson, sauntered in and looked around. The chief spotted Chip and sat
down at the counter next to him. He looked at Chip’s donut and said, “Bernice,
give me one of those things and a cup of coffee, please.”
He
turned to Chip. “Well, I hear you had an eventful trip to the Twin Cities. I
got a call from some detective named Franco. He spun me quite a tale and asked
me to keep an eye on you. Seemed like a decent guy.”
“Yes,
he is. He reminds me a lot of one of my characters, Mike Frisco. Patrick
Finnegan’s murder is a puzzler, but I’m confident Franco will find the perp.”
“You
think someone’s gunning for you, too?” said Fredrickson as he pulled the bacon
off his Bismarck and munched on it.
“Nah,
I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” answered Chip. That’s the
story I’m sticking with for now, Chip said to himself, wanting to believe it
was truly the case.
“I
don’t know about that. I think there’s more to it than a drive-by shooting.”
The chief unsnapped his shirt pocket, removed a folded piece of paper and
opened it. He showed it to Chip. “This is a printout from a security camera at
the National Car Rental counter at the airport in Minneapolis. He’s the dude
who returned a black Escalade, about 45 minutes after your parking ramp
encounter.
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