A couple weeks ago I went on twitter to click on recent followers. For once the whole list came up fairly quick without telling me to wait because of a hiccup. Turned out to be more tweets than I had received notice about in my emails. I sent a message thanking each one and mentioned my books. In return I had a message back from Kindle Surprise. If I would email my book titles the books would be mentioned on Twitter. I did that. Then I had a tweet on Twitter from Booksie Jar telling me my twitter address had been mentioned along with several others. Pays to keep replying to followers. I am several behind right now. Most of these are fishermen and gardeners but they probably read books or someone that follows them will read my Thanks for following me-buy my books tweet.
I was gone to the Ozarks last week - to Nevada, Missouri to be exact. It is so good to connect with many of my southern cousins on my mother's side. It had been four years since I had been home. We lost a Uncle, my mother's brother, - one that we all considered very special. That brought on reminiscing while my family was together, and the usual I can't retain all this. We need it wrote down with a family tree for our children. Since I took some of the cousins one of my books the stares were directed at me. All right, I did write a book for my husband's family last year. I have many old pictures of my mother's aunts, uncles and grandparents and stories. So I volunteered. Cuts into my writing a book time, but I have entered this thinking of it as a labor of love for my generation of cousins and their future offsprings.
I've heard from a cousin in Oskaloosa, Iowa that a bookstore downtown called Book Vault has put a few more of my books in the online store and when asked in the store they will order the books. This cousin is a good salesman for me. She goes in the store, reminds the clerk that she is related to me and she'd like any book I've written. Now if only I can talk the other 49 cousins that are scattered across the country into doing that. Maybe if I keep passing around free books it will happen.
Now on my blog sites I'm going to submit the first chapter from Specious Nephew - Book 2- Amazing Gracie Mysteries. Most that read the title probably think that I spelled suspicious wrong, but I remembered my Ozark born mother pronouncing the word specious and thought that was the way my Gracie Evans spoke. Remember this series is historical mysteries set in early 1900's. My blogsite http://www.booksbyfaybookstore.weebly.com or http://www.booksbyfay.blogspot.com
If you want to see a review look on Amazon and find the ebook in Kindle and Nook stores.
In this book, the owner of Moser Mansion Rest Home in Locked Rock, Iowa, Molly Moser, is planning her wedding to the butter and egg man, Orie Lang. She is having a garden wedding in the back yard. The residents are invited to the wedding, and they may ask a relative to escort them. Gracie Evans doesn't have any relatives. Libby Hook has one son in California that refuses to come back for a wedding. Melinda Applegate has lost track of her brother and sister since they moved away from Iowa. She decides it is time she tried to find a relative so she advertises in a reader to reader column of a big newspaper. Much to her surprise, Melinda gets a letter from Jeffrey Armstrong. He claims to be her nephew and would be glad to come for the wedding. Once he shows up, Gracie takes a dislike to him. She can just tell he is up to no good, but Melinda won't listen. She is too busy letting Jeffrey escort her around town and on buggy rides. Gracie tries to tell others at the mansion of her suspicions. They think she is jealous, because Melinda wasn't rocking with her on the porch any more. Molly Moser Lang leaves on a month long honeymoon, leaving her friend, Moxie McEntire, in charge of the rest home. If Gracie didn't have enough to worry about with the specious nephew lurking about now all sorts of upheaval breaks loose. Jeffrey's vague threats to quit nosing around worry her. Moxie may be trying to replace the late Rachel Simpson as the town's lady of the evening. With all that's happening, Miss Molly is going to be gone way too long to suit Gracie.
Chapter 1
God didn't intend for old folks to like fall, thought Gracie Evans. She vigorously rubbed her aching, left knee. The crisp, north breeze rattled brown leaves on the unkempt, pivot hedge along side of Moser Mansion Rest Home For Women. A shiver run through Gracie, settling in under the dark gray braids wrapped around her head. In an instant a strong gust of wind tore loose a handful of leaves and scooted them along the porch floor in front of Gracie and her companion, Melinda Applegate. The leaves made it all the way to the south end of the porch. They swirled up in a whirlwind motion then scattered across the yard, lodging in the dead leaf piles at the base of the hedge and the picket fence.
Looking at the clematis on the trellis in front of her, Gracie grimaced. The look of it was more proof that fall was an ugly time of year. It was the ninth of September. The vine had thinned to a screen of yellow leaves, like what was left of the ones on the honeysuckle and morning glory vines that grew on either end of the porch.
Not that Gracie needed shade from the hot, summer sun now. The two handmade, Amish rockers positioned behind each of the three vines no longer needed protection. In fact, what little warmth the sun provided soaked into her, feeling mighty good now that this sudden cool snap hinted at an early frost.
She didn't bother to squint through the peek holes in the vines. She'd kept them clear of leaves during the summer to give Melinda and her an unobstructed view of the neighbors comings and goings. Now there were more natural openings then leaves, and wouldn't you know not much exciting to watch across the street since the lady of the evening, Rachel Simpson, was murdered and her house burnt to the ground.
Two doors north of Rachel's house, Mavis and Dan Jordan split up during the summer. That couple sure kept things exciting for awhile with their fighting. Many a night she'd watched Dan Jordan sneak into the side door of Rachel Simpson's house after dark until his wife, Mavis, found out. Then Dan ran off. After that Mavis went off the deep end. She murdered the Simpson girl, realized that Gracie and Melinda knew too much and put fear into everyone at the Moser mansion until Gracie and Melinda helped get Mavis arrested for Rachel's murder. Now the Jordan house stood empty.
A retired couple, Earl and Sara Bullock, owned the house on the middle lot across the street. Nice enough couple but about as exciting as watching an old dog chase his tail. The highlight of their day seemed to be working in the flower beds and garden in the summer. Of course, that was more than she had to keep her busy. Gracie had to give them that. All she did was sit, letting people wait on her.
Now with fall coming on, Gracie expected the Bullocks would stay out of sight, indoors by the fire, but this day had certainly been different. There had been a flurry of activity at their house. For the better part of the day, Gracie sit tight to her rocker, trying to figure out what the heck was happening over there.
The fact was there just wasn't any other way for Gracie to occupy her time in the rest home. She was willing to stick with sitting on the Moser porch until much colder weather hit Locked Rock, Iowa to keep from sitting closed away in the dark parlor. That would happen soon enough. Of course, Melinda agreed to rock on the porch with her. That helped. They always had each other to pass the time of day with. That is, when she could keep Melinda awake.
Besides there wasn't anything wrong with a body being curious. Gracie felt she needed to stay informed about what was happening in the community. What easier way to do it for an old person besides listening and watching the neighbors.
"A penny for your thoughts," suggested Melinda in her soft voice, breaking the silence. She relaxed her head against her rocker, her light gray, curls flattened to her face like tiny springs. The petite woman gave Gracie a long, thoughtful look.
Gracie studied on what she should say before she spoke, wanting to blurt that God hadn't intended for fall to be a season suitable for old folks, but she resisted. Melinda would scold her for being sacrilegious if she bothered to be so truthful. Instead she looked down at the sunlight that filtered through the vine onto her lap. Stretching a crooked finger out, she tapped at the pale yellow sparkles of light that danced along the folds of her brown skirt. Finally, she answered in her brassy voice, waving her finger back and forth toward the open space between the two vines. "I'm thinking now that the sun's peeking under the roof we should move our rockers over so we get the full sunshine. I don't know about you, but I'm mighty chilly. Here it is early in the afternoon when the day should be the warmest. If you ask me it's too early to have this cold a weather."
Melinda smiled at Gracie's complaining. She replied softly, "Well, you know the old saying. If you don't like the weather in Iowa, wait awhile. It'll change."
"Just the same, I'd rather not freeze to death any sooner than I have to. A body could catch her death sitting in the shade on a day like today. Let's move over in the sunlight."
Melinda nodded agreement. She rose, scooted her rocker over, and left room for Gracie. Tugging her rocker into position, Gracie plopped down. Tapping her toes on the floor, she began to rock energetically, hoping that would help warm her up.
A group of children ran down the street, shouting and laughing. Definitely the fall season is for the younger generations, confirmed Gracie to herself. Young ones stayed active enough that they didn't feel the chill in the air. Thank goodness her mind was clear enough that she remembered those days, but she gave a deep sigh when she thought about how long ago that was. Gracie contemplated Main Street with hitching racks almost empty of buggies and horses. "Not much business at the stores with the farmers in the fields, gathering in the corn crops before the first snow came. Orie Lang hadn't even been by much lately to take Miss Molly for a buggy ride."
"He managed to stop picking corn long enough to pick Miss Molly up for church again Sunday. Most times he stays for dinner like last Sunday before he heads back to the farm," defended Melinda.
"Expect Aunt Pearlbee's cooking is the only good meal that bachelor gets. He's no dummy," replied Gracie.
Smiling, Melinda made a tent of her fingers and brought them up to touch her lips. "If you'd been paying attention lately, you'd notice Mr. Orie isn't taking notice of Aunt Pearlbee's cooking while he's here."
"Come to think of it, Mr. Orie didn't seem in such a hurry last Sunday. He spent a good part of the afternoon in the parlor with Miss Molly. He must be about done with the harvest," decided Gracie.
"Reckon so. It'll be good for Miss Molly when Mr. Orie starts coming more regular. Since they've been sparking, Miss Molly seems so happy," said Melinda.
Gracie didn't have a reply for that comment so she sat quietly drifting in her thoughts. She watched a couple of squirrels, chasing each other along side the porch. For the last several days, they'd scampered across the yard with their cheeks full. Now that their fur coats grew thick and fuzzy to ward against the cold, they sensed it was time to store a food supply for the winter. They buried walnuts and acorns in the ground or hid their bootee at the base of the hedge. It seemed like only yesterday, Melinda and she watched from the gazebo while a couple of squirrels scurried up the old maple in the backyard, carrying food to babies in a leafy nest. It must be true that the time passes faster as a body gets older. No doubt about it, thought Gracie, frowning. She looked at the brown spots covering the back of her hands and wondered when they had turned ugly on her.
In her younger days, she didn't have time to worry about yesterday or tomorrow for that matter. In the fall, she kept busy on her farm. Just like the men farmers, she'd work along side a wagon pulled by a team of work horses. She yanked the ears out of the dried shucks and threw them at the wagon. As she walked down the rows between the dried stalks, she shouted, "Come Queen, come Buck." The horses moved slowly past her, stopping when Gracie hollered whoa. All the while hurrying as fast as she could, Gracie worked to fill the wagon, making the most of the daylight hours. She was pretty darn good at picking corn. As good as any man she knew.
And now what am I gathering? She asked herself at that moment in 1903 while she sat on the mansion porch Locked Rock. A sudden breeze blowing from Canada made her mighty uncomfortable. Gracie silently answered her question with, goose bumps. She vigorously rubbed her arms. Tugging her walnut stained, knit shawl tighter over the front of her long sleeve, tan blouse, she smoothed it out in her lap over her calico skirt.
What she needed was something to think about besides being cold like what was going on in the front yard right then. A swarm of monarch butterflies fluttered across the front yard, flitting from the large rest home sign over to the vines then back to the picket fence. They seemed restless as if too tired to light and rest. The orange and black blurs soared up high and floated down in a slow, graceful ballet. Migrating on their journey south, the butterflies needed to rest for a spell, but by morning, they'd be on their way again. Once in awhile in the summer, a lonely butterfly flitted around the honeysuckle, but that wasn't the same. It'd be another year before a large number flocked together to give this kind of show and then only for a few hours on their way south.
As the monarchs fluttered down the street, Gracie relaxed back against her rocker and sighed.
"Gracie, if you keep frowning, you're face is going to freeze that way with as cool as it's getting," teased Melinda. "What's the matter with you today?"
"I hate the cold of fall and winter. That's all. I feel winter coming in my bones already, and I dread it," Gracie said with sincerity.
"Well, worrying about something that you can't stop from happening isn't going to make you feel any better. I swear the better I get to know you the more the word curmudgeon comes to mind." The way Melinda looked at Gracie wasn't altogether flattering.
Gracie gave her a hard look right back. "Whoa there! That don't sound like a nice thing to call me. What is this crud mudge on anyway?"
"The word is curmudgeon. If you want to know what it means look it up in the dictionary in the Moser library," said Melinda.
"Fine friend you are. Calling me names," snapped Gracie, wiggling indignantly in her rocker.
The screen door hinges squeaked. The cook, Pearlbee, shuffled slowly through the doorway, steadying a tray with two cups on it. The thought ran through Gracie's mind that if Pearlbee's hips got any broader, she'd have to turn sideways to go through the doors. Wouldn't do to bring that up to the cook though. Let Pearlbee's dander get up and she turned into a cyclone in action.
"Hi, Aunt Pearlbee," greeted Gracie. "Didn't realize it was tea time yet. We can sure use that."
"Yes, thank you, Aunt Pearlbee. I'm so glad Miss Molly decided to start having tea time. It breaks up the afternoon." Pearlbee lowered the tray down to Melinda. She hooked her fingers in the handle of a steaming cup, lifted it off the tray and wrapped her hands around it.
"I'm sure ready for something to warm me up," said Gracie, reaching for her steaming cup.
The cook's unsteady gait made it hard for her to keep the tray steady. Melinda suggested in concern for the cook's safety, "Aunt Pearlbee, you really should use your cane more."
"Ah's knowed it Missus, but cain't when I gets my hands full," declared Pearlbee.
"Maybe we should come get our own tea from now on. That would be of help wouldn't it, Gracie?" suggested Melinda.
Gracie thought Pearlbee puffed up some. Never could tell when she'd get miffed about someone taking a chore away from her. Gracie sure didn't want that anger directed at her. Let this be Melinda's idea. Noncommittally, she shrugged her shoulders. "Don't make no never mind to me."
"Then that's what we will do. You just let us know when you're ready Aunt Pearlbee. We'll come to the kitchen after the tea." As if she sensed Pearlbee might not know how to take this helping hand, Melinda gave the cook a close inspection and quickly changed the subject to one favorable to Pearlbee. "My, you do look nice in your new uniform, Aunt Pearlbee," she complimented.
"Thank ya, Missus," beamed Pearlbee, swishing her hips exaggeratedly to model the full effect of her newly acquired, black, challis dress set off by a white linen collar and cuffs on the long sleeves. Pearlbee reached for the hem of her full length, stiffly starched, white apron and held it out. She twisted around to show them the fancy way the pointed yoke straps came to a v in back where the ties made a bow.
Gracie took a sip from her cup before she watched the cook model her uniform. Drinking the warm tea make her even more uncomfortable. "Aunt Pearlbee, find us those quilts we cover our laps with when you have time. I don't think it's going to warm up enough out here this afternoon to be comfortable without them."
"Sure thing, Miss Gracie. Ah's be right back." Pearlbee waddled back to the screen door, balancing the empty tray.
Melinda watched the cook disappear then chastised, "Gracie, the least you could have done was tell Aunt Pearlbee you liked her new uniform."
Gracie pursed her lips, thinking about her answer. "Maybe but she looked all right in the ever day outfits she used to wear as far as I'm concerned."
"But she's proud of that uniform, and she does look nice in it," insisted Melinda.
"Don't expect Aunt Pearlbee would have gotten that fancy getup if she hadn't kept up such a fuss over that missing red apron we borrowed and didn't bring back. Miss Molly just gave her the uniform to calm her down," reminded Gracie, looking away from Melinda to across the street. Her mind was torn between arguing with Melinda and wondering what the two strange men were up to at the Bullocks. They made repeated trips, carrying boards and rolls of wiring into the house.
"What do you mean we?" Melinda's sweet, quiet voice rose a little. She darted a glance at the door. Focusing on Gracie, she lowered her voice, "As I remember it, that idea was yours, putting the apron in the package mean Mavis hid in exchange for the bloody dress she wore when she murdered Rachel Simpson. You're just lucky Aunt Pearlbee hasn't found out yet."
Gracie straightened in her rocker, squared her shoulders and jabbed a crooked finger at Melinda. "I'm lucky. As I recall you were right there in the tool shed in the middle of the night helping me find that package. Weren't you?"
Melinda sunk back in her rocker. "You're right," she muttered half heartily, looking down at her folded hands in her lap.
A door bang across the street. Gracie put her attention in that direction. She sure didn't want to miss anything. With curiosity in her voice, she exclaimed, "There comes a couple men out of Sara Bullock's house again. Wonder what she's having done? Sure was a mess of boards and wire, those men unloaded from that wagon this morning."
"Look at that fence post those two men put up in the corner of the yard. Must be all of thirty feet tall. Makes me nervous wondering what kind of animal Earl intends to keep in Rachel Simpson's yard when they get it fenced in," said Melinda.
"That ain't a fence post. No animal needs a fence that high in the air," snorted Gracie in disdain. "That's a city girl for you."
"Well, Miss Know It All, what is it for then? Oh wait, here comes Sara. We'll just ask her," returned Melinda, defensively.
"Yahoo, ladies," shouted Sara, waving at them.
Gracie noted under her breath, "Sara, got her apron on. Must be making a hurry up call."
Melinda returned the wave and called eagerly, "Good afternoon. Come on up here."
Sara settled her wide hips between the arms of a rocker behind the honeysuckle vine. She untied her bonnet and removed it from her head.
Anxious to get out of Sara what was going on, Melinda asked, "We've been dying of curiosity about all the activity at your place. What you fixing?"
Gracie leaned forward to look around Melinda.
Sara took her time folding and placing her bonnet in her lap. She knew the elderly women could hardly wait to satisfy their curiosity. Grinning, she said, "Not fixing anything. I got me a job. That stuff goes with it."
"What kind of job?" Rushed out of Gracie's mouth.
"I'm a telephone switch board operator," informed Sara proudly.
"What's a telephone?" Gracie wanted to know.
"That's one of those new contraptions that people are talking on to each other now," shared Sara.
"Well, what is that big fence pole in the corner of your yard for?" quizzed Melinda.
Sara giggled. "It's not a fence pole. That's a telephone pole."
"See there," Gracie rubbed in. "I told you that was no fence post."
"Well, let Sara finishing tell us what it is then," Melinda snipped, peevishly.
Their neighbor continued to explain, "There will be more poles set down the block. Wire has to be strung on them and hooked to the houses of everyone who has a telephone to send messages over."
"What's going on out here?" Molly Moser peeked through the screen door. "I thought I heard talking."
"Afternoon, Molly. I was just telling Gracie and Melinda about my new job," replied Sara.
"What! You have a job? Tell me, too." Molly popped outside. The screen door shut with a hollow bang and bounced a couple times before it stilled. The young woman scurried over to sit down in the rocker next to Sara. She gripped the rocker seat, leaned forward and put all her attention on their neighbor.
"I'm going to run the switchboard for the telephones out of my home. I'm what they call a switchboard operator," Sara announced proudly. "Want to come see what it looks like? The workmen should have everything about set up by now."
"Sure, I'd like to see," said Molly, eagerly.
Melinda looked at Gracie. "We want to go, too. Don't we?"
"Reckon." With little enthusiasm, Gracie tried to digest what this new gadget that Sara described was all about as they crossed the street. She wasn't so sure she was going to like whatever it turned out to be.
The small, clapboard house the Bullocks owned was one of several look alike houses in town built in a hurry to accommodate people that moved to town after the railroad came. Gracie followed behind Molly and Melinda through the neat, but sparse parlor. Between the worn, dark brown, horsehair couch and a stuffed chair that matched it sat a table with a kerosene lamp in the middle surrounded by books. A rocker was by the front window. Near it sat a small table with a bouquet of pink and lavender asters in the center. Most likely they'd be the last flowers Sara would gather this year out of her flower beds.
The middle of the floor was covered by a large, oval, multicolored rag rug. Knowing how handy Sara was, Gracie figured she braided it from sewing scraps and the best parts of old clothes. Sara like Gracie never threw anything away. Gracie's mother used to say, "Just as sure as shootin' you throw away something, there'll come the day you could have used it." Over the years, Gracie found her mother's advice to be right. What never came up was the fact that finding something later that had been laid back for future use was often a hopeless case. In later years, Gracie hunted through the piles of objects discarded by her parents and herself, searching for an item. If it took very long to find what she was looking for, she'd then have to stop and think a while to remember why she wanted to find the object in the first place.
Sara motioned for her guests to follow her. She led them to a door on the north end of the parlor. "This is the spare bedroom, but there's room for the bed and the switchboard, too."
When they heard the women, the two workers, in chambray work shirts and jeans, got up from a kneeling position. Both of them were covered in dirt and sawdust. They'd stuffed a vast number of rubber coated wires attached to the back of the switchboard into a hole in the board floor. They stepped back from the large piece of plywood nailed in one corner to let Sara and her friends view their handiwork.
"We just about have the switchboard hooked up, Mrs. Bullock. You'll be able to try it out afore long," the taller of the two men told Sara, pointing to the board full of small, gold cranks with white knobs.
Gracie leaned forward to inspect the silver plates below the cranks. She recognized several names. Sara stepped up beside her and picked up a brown, bell shaped piece resting on a small wooden platform at the edge of the switchboard. "This is called a receiver. It's what I listen into when folks talk to me." She held it to her ear and pointed to a wooden framed hole at the side of the switchboard. "This is what I talk into."
"Who all has one of these telephones?" asked Molly.
"The Locked Rock Mercantile and some of the other businesses. Some folks in town like Doc Lawson, Madge Potter, Phillip Harris, and a few others," said Sara. "Not many people yet, but more will want one once they see how it works."
"Sounds like folks that has money to me. I'll bet something like this gadget don't come cheap. What good is it going to be when no one that we want to talk to has one of them," said Gracie in a matter of fact tone.
Ignoring Gracie, Melinda asked, "How far away can you talk on one of these things?"
"To anyone that has a telephone all over the country. Lots of folks have them out east in the bigger cities like New York."
Molly studied the switchboard. Suddenly, she spoke. "I'd like to have one, too."
"Really, Miss Molly," said Melinda, gleefully.
"Yes, think how quick it'd be to get Doctor Lawson if one of us needs him. All we'd have to do is ring him up. Can you sign me up, Sara?"
"I sure can. You'll have one put in tomorrow."
"Golly Moses, that soon. I'm excited about this. Aren't you ladies?" Instantly, her thoughts turned elsewhere. Molly glanced down at the watch attached to her blouse. "Oh my, look at the time. We better think about heading home. Aunt Pearlbee must have dinner about ready, and she doesn't like it if her food gets cold."
Monday, August 22, 2011
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
I'll start by informing you how to find my mystery books. The latest Amazing Gracie Mystery, book six, as well as the other five are on Amazon and http://www.booksbyfaybookstore.weebly.com and ebook in kindle and nook. Book six, Locked Rock, Iowa's Hatchet Murders, is on ebay for the month of August and on webstore I have several of my books at http://webstore.com/~booksbyfay for a limited time to test out a different sales site. Ordering from my online bookstore or an auction site assures the books come directly from me so the books are cheaper. An added bonus is I can sign the books I send out. Lately if buyers mention they bought one of my books from Amazon and wished they had gotten it from me so it had been signed I send a mailing label signed by me that can be pasted in their books.
This series is mentioned along with my other books on http://www.Iowacenterforthebook.org. and is listed on the website http://www.cozy-mystery.com.
The books have received good reviews on Amazon. Luv2read posted Agatha Christie Meets Little House On The Prairie. I highly recommend the Amazing Gracie Mystery Series to anyone who has ever known or had a nosy elderly neighbor that seemed to always know what is going on in the neighborhood. This series of books are a funny, laugh out loud read. These books are unique as the time period is the turn of the century.
She posted in an Amazon mystery discussion group that she found the characters so well written that Gracie reminded her of her grandmother, and the sheriff was actor Sam Elliott. The story was so descriptive she could see the scenes playing out in her head.
For the first chapter of Neighbor Watchers, book 1, go to my blog at http://www.booksbyfaybookstore.weebly.com or http://www.booksbyfaycom.blogspot.com
When the thought came to me to write a mystery series using characters based on personalities of some of the elderly I took care of at the nursing home I realized the stories would have to be based in a different time period to be believable. So I picked 1903. For one thing that is a simpler, slow paced time. However when you live near or in a small town in the Midwest like I do you find that personalties and characteristics of people haven't changed much in a hundred years. So take away the horses and kerosene lamps and you might be able to imagine the people in your town.
Back a hundred years ago, families cared for elderly relatives in their homes. Women without families moved into a house with other women. They rented a room and were given three meals a day. This is the basis of Moser Mansion in Locked Rock, Iowa. A grand Victorian house inherited by a young woman that couldn't afford the upkeep on the house unless she rented out rooms so she turned the mansion into a rest home or retirement home for women.
I discussed Gracie Evans in the last post. Another resident at the mansion is Melinda Applegate. She's a dainty, soft spoken, refined lady which makes her the total opposite of Gracie. She protests ideas Gracie come up with, but she's a follower, and Gracie's a leader. Libby Hook is a standoffish person who dislikes Gracie so Gracie picks at Libby which keeps them in a permanent disagreement. The mansion owner is a single young woman, Molly Moser, with a busy social life who is clueless about what's going on around her until someone points out what Gracie has been doing.
In book one as in all the other books, you will find Gracie and Melinda rocking on the front porch between meals. They didn't have activity directors in those days. Three vines grow from trellises on the porch. The women make sure to position their rocker behind the vines. Gracie tears peek holes in the vines so they can spy on the neighbors. They think the neighbors don't know it.
Sounds harmless enough until one hot evening in August after dark. Gracie and Melinda are rocking behind the vine directly across from the lady of the evening's house. This gives them the advantage of seeing married, "respectable" Locked Rock men slipping into the woman's house through a side door. This particular evening a woman goes into the house. Though Gracie takes everything with a grain of salt, Melinda is beyond shocked. That woman appears to be the last visitor. The next morning the butter and egg man is making his rounds and finds the lady of the evening has been murdered.
The sheriff comes to investigate, but Gracie convinces Melinda not to talk to him. They are afraid without proof the killer will be set free and come after them which she does. You'll have to read the story to see how Gracie and Melinda get out of this mess.
Each book has an ending but to understand the characters and references to past books it is better to start with Neighbor Watchers and read each of the books in order. The books are numbered on the cover so you'll be able to tell which one comes next.
I used clip art on the bright yellow cover that seemed to suit the story. Eyes are peeking from the middle of a wreath of clematises with doves perched on top. On each of the other books the back cover has a smaller version to depict an Amazing Gracie Mystery Series.
These fictional stories are set in central Iowa where I live. I hoped that would be a marketing appeal to mid western readers looking for entertaining, humorous feel good books rather than hard core violent mysteries based in large cities. I'm finding those readers for my Amish book series are easily converted to reading my mystery series. One reader who lives nearby tells me it's torture waiting for the next Gracie Evans book. She likes them that well. So anyone interested just give the first a try and see if you want another one or two or three or six. Next post will be about book 2 in the series - Specious Nephew.
First Chapter
As if from a long ways off, Gracie Evans heard the hushed squeaks made by her rocker answered by the rocker beside her. The hollow sound she made when she tapped her high top, black shoes against the porch floor, Melinda Applegate's shoes echoed. In spite of herself, the rocking motion lulled Gracie. Her eyelids grew heavy. Her head jerked, nodded and jerked again. She relaxed back against the rocker, and closed her eyes.
Later that afternoon, Gracie stirred when sweat tickled her scalp beneath the two dark gray braids crowning her head. Feeling droplets seep from her hairline and trickle down her cheeks, she roused. She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket and pulled out a large, red handkerchief to swipe her face.
Squaring her hunched shoulders, she straightened in her rocker and gave a slight shake of her head to clear it. The layers of calico and cotton petticoat she wore acted as a funnel to trap the uncomfortable heat radiating up from the floor. At that moment, she imagined she felt like the glass shade on a kerosene lamp that had just been lit, warming up and in a very short time too hot to touch.
Gracie grabbed a handful of her brown skirt. She discreetly raised it just enough that her shoes showed and vigorously shook the material several times to let some of the hot air escape. The only other relief came when she stirred the breeze in front of her face by waving a paper fan in short, fast strokes.
Silently, Gracie chided herself for dozing off, then excused her napping with the fact things were bound to be this way. Boredom is what she got in return for retiring from her farm. She straightened up and tried to read the black print on the large sign posted near the picket fence gate. She couldn't make it out. Leaning forward, she squinted and failed again. At first, Gracie feared her eyesight had gone bad. With a measure of relief, she realized heat waves shimmering over the shaggy, brown grass blurred the words.
She mumbled to herself, "No need to read the sign. I know it says Molly Moser's Rest Home For Women. I ain't too senile yet to remember where I live or that this town is Locked Rock, Iowa." She sighed and leaned back again.
Every day, she tried to resign herself to the fact that Moser mansion would be where she'd live for the rest of her life. However, she saw no harm in wishing for some excitement to spice up the long days.
Across the street, a door banged. Earl Bullock paused long enough in the shade of his house to straightened his straw hat, before he ambled toward Main Street. Gracie wondered if he or his wife, Sara, ever suspected what transpired next door to them at night. Out loud, she said, "Where do you suppose old Earl's headed on such a hot afternoon? It's not like him to leave home this time of day since this hot spell started."
Melinda failed to answer. Gracie looked away from their neighbor long enough to glance beside her. Melinda stirred slightly. The petite woman raised her sagging head and mumbled, "He's probably shopping for Sara. With as hot as it is, I'd send my husband to fetch for me if I had one." Gracie paused to think about that statement while she studied a string of black ants that paraded by her feet.
As if the heat had got to them, the tiny insects struggled to crawl over the peeling, blue paint at the edge of the porch. Melinda's idea seemed as good as any other for a person to be outdoors in the middle of the day, taking the full brunt of the unrelenting, August sun. That is, until she looked up to see Earl disappear through the saloon's batwing doors.
"It don't appear Earl's after anything for Sara unless she wants a beer. The last I knew, she's a teetotaler. Not many folks in town this afternoon, Just lookee there where most of the buggies and wagons are parked. Over at the saloon hitch rack," Gracie criticized in her brassy voice.
Melinda rubbed her eyes with her finger tips then leaned forward to peer around Gracie. "Humph," she replied, shaking her head with enough energy to cause her mass of gray curls to bounce like tiny springs. "I wonder at the way some people spend their time. I pray they're as faithful about going to church as they are their patronage at that place."
On days the weather permitted, Gracie and Melinda watched from the Victorian mansion's large porch. Neighbor watching gave Gracie something to do besides sit and twiddle her thumbs. She considered it a harmless past time to while away the endless hours. Besides, it was downright obliging the way the neighbors divided up the day for her without knowing it.
Gracie's conscience plagued her a little for being nosy, but she'd excuse her actions. What she saw after dark she kept to herself. After all, she had her limits about what she'd repeat. What went on across the street at Rachel Simpson's house she didn't intend to share with anyone not even Melinda.
As soon as their minds cleared from their nap, Gracie decided it was time to move to the north end of the porch in line with the Jordan house. Leaning forward, she plucked a heart shaped leaf that drooped down in the round opening. "Morning glories sure grow fast. I had our holes cleared awhile back." Gracie tilted her head toward one shoulder then leaned the other direction, inspecting the hole. "Can't see a thing with all them leaves in the way," she growled. Tossing the leaf over the edge of the porch in behind the petunias, she snapped off another one. "Pect I'll have to clear the holes in the other vines before you know it." She peeked through the hole to make sure her view was unobstructed. When she was satisfied with her efforts, she settled back in her rocker.
A back door across the street banged. Dan Jordan came into sight, carrying a scrap pan and water pail. Dan's large, watch dog, a black with white patches, slick haired mixed breed, lifted his head and uncurled in his hollowed out spot under the oak tree. He stood and stretched, watching Dan place the containers on the ground. When his master spoke, the dog's tail wagged in rhythm with his swaying back end. He pattered to the man, dragging the clattering chain attached to the log, tool shed. Dan bent over and scratched the dog behind the ears, before he went back into the house.
An hour passed. Gracie jerked out of her stupor at the sound of a slammed door. Quickly, she leaned forward to peek through her hole. Dan, a Jewel Tea Salesman, tromped down the porch steps with his wife, Mavis, right behind him. "Lookee there!" Tapping the floor with her foot to start her rocker, Gracie reached over and patted Melinda on the arm to wake her. "Mr. Jordan's suited up for work with Magpie marching right behind him. She looks as mad as an old wet hen again." Gracie stopped rocking and straightened her bent shoulders. Pointing a crooked finger, her head bobbed up and down in anticipation of a good show. "Magpie sure favors that red dress. She wouldn't look quite so stocky if she'd wear other colors. What do you think?"
"I think you shouldn't call her that name. One of these days you'll slip and call her that to her face. Mark my words, from what we've seen of that woman's temper lately, you'd be sorry you did," reproached Melinda.
Grabbing her white blouse tacked to her ribs, she shook it. "I'm glad I left my corset off. It's way too hot for that today. Maybe we should go sit in the parlor."
"Hold your horses! Let's see what the Jordans do first," barked Gracie.
Dan, a tall, handsome man with broad shoulders, halted abruptly at the end of the yard. He whirled around and peered down at his shrieking wife. "For Pete sakes, keep your voice down. The whole neighborhood will hear you."
Mavis glanced around at the nearby houses and across at the mansion. Her face contorted. She defiantly squared herself in front of her husband with her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "Oh fiddlesticks! Those two old prunes on the Moser porch probably couldn't hear a stick of dynamite go off if it was under one of their rockers so don't put me off with that excuse. I want some answers, and I want them now," demanded Mavis, jabbing a finger in his chest.
Gracie's smile dried up, but she listened without comment. She knew Melinda was right about Mavis's temper. It wouldn't do to laugh at her peculiar habit of wearing the same red dress most of the time or at her thick, black hair pulled back in a large chignon, making her head look too big for her body. Not within range of her hearing anyway.
"I told you I have a sales meeting. That's why I'm going to be late. I'm looking to get a good commission from this kitchenware sale if I swing it. We can talk about anything you want when I get home. Now go in out of this heat, Sugar Pie. See you tonight," cooed Dan as he walked away.
Waving her hands in the air, Mavis muttered to herself as she spun around and headed back to the house.
Gracie cocked her head, straining to catch a word or two, but from that distance, she couldn't make out what the angry woman mumbled.
Sauntering down the street with his hands in his pants pockets, Dan whistled, In The Good Old Summertime.
"Did you hear what Magpie said about us?" Gracie asked indignantly.
"I heard, and did you hear what they said? They can see us sitting over here," worried Melinda, disturbed by that fact but a bit distracted as she watched Jordan calmly amble toward them.
Noting the look on her companion's face, Gracie stated what she thought Melinda was thinking. "It don't seem right how easy that man can act as though nothing is wrong right after he has a fight with his wife."
As the salesman strolled in front of the mansion, he glanced over at the porch as though he had just seen the women. Waving, he called, "Good afternoon, ladies."
Gracie managed a curt nod before she looked away. She had no intention of acting as though his presence on the street was any concern of hers. In an attempt to be courteous, Melinda raised her hand in a half hearted wave.
After Dan was out of hearing range, Gracie fumed, "I could tell that woman a thing or two about what we old prunes can hear and see. I ain't that old. Could tell her a thing or two about her dudie husband, too."
"Like what? He's a good salesman. I bought an Autumn Leaf clock from him once." Melinda gave her a curious look.
Gracie smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt and muttered quickly, "Ah, I'm just letting off steam."
Inwardly, she chided herself for letting her tongue get ahead of her thinking. She thought she knew the reason behind the Jordan fights, but she had to be careful not to reveal more than she was willing to tell.
"It wouldn't be too smart to tell Mavis anything if you want to keep listening in on their fights. Would it?" Melinda waited, studying Gracie who took some time to think about her answer. "No, reckon it wouldn't be smart atall."
If the Jordans realized how well Melinda and she heard their fights, the couple might be more discreet. If that was to happen, Gracie didn't see any reason to sit on the porch in the afternoon heat.
"We should feel sorry for Mavis what with all the problems she has with her man. If she wasn't so disagreeable all the time, she'd probably be a nice person," lectured Melinda, always looking for the best in everyone.
Gracie studied the Jordan place thoughtfully for a moment. She shook her head. "I doubt it. She reminds me too much of Bessie Brown. She always stayed disagreeable just like Magpie. On her good days, I could walk right by her, and she'd stare mean like at me. Other times just looking at me was enough to make her want a fight."
Melinda looked puzzled. "What did you do that upset this Bessie all the time?"
"Nothing. That old gal was born plain mean just like Mavis Jordan."
"Gracie, I doubt that anyone is born mean," disagreed Melinda. "How did you ever manage to make peace with Bessie?"
"I shot her," said Gracie, calmly.
"Oh, Gracie!" Melinda cried. Her face paled as her blue eyes widened. She slowly shook her head and managed to utter, "You didn't do that, did you?" She leaned close and peered at Gracie intently. "You're pulling my leg. Aren't you?"
"No, I'm not. It was either me or that cow. The older I got, the harder it was to get out of her way when she charged at me."
"Oh my goodness! Bessie was a cow." Melinda took a deep breath and flopped back in her rocker, patting her chest. Giving Gracie's admission some thought, she reconsidered. "But still in all, it seems to me that's a drastic thing to do to your own cow."
"At the time, I felt like that's all I could do," answered Gracie, with a shrug of her shoulders. She studied a crack in the floor and traced it with the toe of her shoe to keep from looking at Melinda.
"What do you say we go in for awhile out of this heat? Please," begged Melinda. "Let's see if Aunt Pearlbee made some fresh lemonade."
Gracie scowled. Wanting to change the subject so she wouldn't have to move, she opened her mouth to complain about the heat and decided that wouldn't do any good. Melinda would find her complaining another excuse to go inside. On the other hand, Gracie didn't feel guilty about voicing her opinion. Being dissatisfied with the weather was human nature and not just one of her old age gripes.
In the winter, everyone in Locked Rock complained about the knee deep snows and cold temperatures, and they grumbled about the heat and dry spells in the summer.
When she farmed she spent most of each day outside, and she didn't want that to change. Besides she came to the conclusion a long time ago if she had her pick of either miserable season, she'd choose summer. Her old bones could stand heat a sight better than cold, and after all, this was August. Mother Nature would cool the temperature down soon enough. In no time at all, she'd have no choice but to be stuck indoors.
Gracie glanced from downtown to across the street, reminding herself she wouldn't miss much now. Nothing interesting happened until darkness set in. She might as well give in to Melinda's pleading, besides she was thirsty.
"I reckon a glass of lemonade would hit the spot." Gripping the rocker arms, she strained to lift herself to her feet. She felt a twinge of envy, watching Melinda. That spray, little woman could get out of her rocker twice as fast and was already opening the screen door.
As if from a long ways off, Gracie Evans heard the hushed squeaks made by her rocker answered by the rocker beside her. The hollow sound she made when she tapped her high top, black shoes against the porch floor, Melinda Applegate's shoes echoed. In spite of herself, the rocking motion lulled Gracie. Her eyelids grew heavy. Her head jerked, nodded and jerked again. She relaxed back against the rocker, and closed her eyes.
Later that afternoon, Gracie stirred when sweat tickled her scalp beneath the two dark gray braids crowning her head. Feeling droplets seep from her hairline and trickle down her cheeks, she roused. She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket and pulled out a large, red handkerchief to swipe her face.
Squaring her hunched shoulders, she straightened in her rocker and gave a slight shake of her head to clear it. The layers of calico and cotton petticoat she wore acted as a funnel to trap the uncomfortable heat radiating up from the floor. At that moment, she imagined she felt like the glass shade on a kerosene lamp that had just been lit, warming up and in a very short time too hot to touch.
Gracie grabbed a handful of her brown skirt. She discreetly raised it just enough that her shoes showed and vigorously shook the material several times to let some of the hot air escape. The only other relief came when she stirred the breeze in front of her face by waving a paper fan in short, fast strokes.
Silently, Gracie chided herself for dozing off, then excused her napping with the fact things were bound to be this way. Boredom is what she got in return for retiring from her farm. She straightened up and tried to read the black print on the large sign posted near the picket fence gate. She couldn't make it out. Leaning forward, she squinted and failed again. At first, Gracie feared her eyesight had gone bad. With a measure of relief, she realized heat waves shimmering over the shaggy, brown grass blurred the words.
She mumbled to herself, "No need to read the sign. I know it says Molly Moser's Rest Home For Women. I ain't too senile yet to remember where I live or that this town is Locked Rock, Iowa." She sighed and leaned back again.
Every day, she tried to resign herself to the fact that Moser mansion would be where she'd live for the rest of her life. However, she saw no harm in wishing for some excitement to spice up the long days.
Across the street, a door banged. Earl Bullock paused long enough in the shade of his house to straightened his straw hat, before he ambled toward Main Street. Gracie wondered if he or his wife, Sara, ever suspected what transpired next door to them at night. Out loud, she said, "Where do you suppose old Earl's headed on such a hot afternoon? It's not like him to leave home this time of day since this hot spell started."
Melinda failed to answer. Gracie looked away from their neighbor long enough to glance beside her. Melinda stirred slightly. The petite woman raised her sagging head and mumbled, "He's probably shopping for Sara. With as hot as it is, I'd send my husband to fetch for me if I had one." Gracie paused to think about that statement while she studied a string of black ants that paraded by her feet.
As if the heat had got to them, the tiny insects struggled to crawl over the peeling, blue paint at the edge of the porch. Melinda's idea seemed as good as any other for a person to be outdoors in the middle of the day, taking the full brunt of the unrelenting, August sun. That is, until she looked up to see Earl disappear through the saloon's batwing doors.
"It don't appear Earl's after anything for Sara unless she wants a beer. The last I knew, she's a teetotaler. Not many folks in town this afternoon, Just lookee there where most of the buggies and wagons are parked. Over at the saloon hitch rack," Gracie criticized in her brassy voice.
Melinda rubbed her eyes with her finger tips then leaned forward to peer around Gracie. "Humph," she replied, shaking her head with enough energy to cause her mass of gray curls to bounce like tiny springs. "I wonder at the way some people spend their time. I pray they're as faithful about going to church as they are their patronage at that place."
On days the weather permitted, Gracie and Melinda watched from the Victorian mansion's large porch. Neighbor watching gave Gracie something to do besides sit and twiddle her thumbs. She considered it a harmless past time to while away the endless hours. Besides, it was downright obliging the way the neighbors divided up the day for her without knowing it.
Gracie's conscience plagued her a little for being nosy, but she'd excuse her actions. What she saw after dark she kept to herself. After all, she had her limits about what she'd repeat. What went on across the street at Rachel Simpson's house she didn't intend to share with anyone not even Melinda.
As soon as their minds cleared from their nap, Gracie decided it was time to move to the north end of the porch in line with the Jordan house. Leaning forward, she plucked a heart shaped leaf that drooped down in the round opening. "Morning glories sure grow fast. I had our holes cleared awhile back." Gracie tilted her head toward one shoulder then leaned the other direction, inspecting the hole. "Can't see a thing with all them leaves in the way," she growled. Tossing the leaf over the edge of the porch in behind the petunias, she snapped off another one. "Pect I'll have to clear the holes in the other vines before you know it." She peeked through the hole to make sure her view was unobstructed. When she was satisfied with her efforts, she settled back in her rocker.
A back door across the street banged. Dan Jordan came into sight, carrying a scrap pan and water pail. Dan's large, watch dog, a black with white patches, slick haired mixed breed, lifted his head and uncurled in his hollowed out spot under the oak tree. He stood and stretched, watching Dan place the containers on the ground. When his master spoke, the dog's tail wagged in rhythm with his swaying back end. He pattered to the man, dragging the clattering chain attached to the log, tool shed. Dan bent over and scratched the dog behind the ears, before he went back into the house.
An hour passed. Gracie jerked out of her stupor at the sound of a slammed door. Quickly, she leaned forward to peek through her hole. Dan, a Jewel Tea Salesman, tromped down the porch steps with his wife, Mavis, right behind him. "Lookee there!" Tapping the floor with her foot to start her rocker, Gracie reached over and patted Melinda on the arm to wake her. "Mr. Jordan's suited up for work with Magpie marching right behind him. She looks as mad as an old wet hen again." Gracie stopped rocking and straightened her bent shoulders. Pointing a crooked finger, her head bobbed up and down in anticipation of a good show. "Magpie sure favors that red dress. She wouldn't look quite so stocky if she'd wear other colors. What do you think?"
"I think you shouldn't call her that name. One of these days you'll slip and call her that to her face. Mark my words, from what we've seen of that woman's temper lately, you'd be sorry you did," reproached Melinda.
Grabbing her white blouse tacked to her ribs, she shook it. "I'm glad I left my corset off. It's way too hot for that today. Maybe we should go sit in the parlor."
"Hold your horses! Let's see what the Jordans do first," barked Gracie.
Dan, a tall, handsome man with broad shoulders, halted abruptly at the end of the yard. He whirled around and peered down at his shrieking wife. "For Pete sakes, keep your voice down. The whole neighborhood will hear you."
Mavis glanced around at the nearby houses and across at the mansion. Her face contorted. She defiantly squared herself in front of her husband with her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "Oh fiddlesticks! Those two old prunes on the Moser porch probably couldn't hear a stick of dynamite go off if it was under one of their rockers so don't put me off with that excuse. I want some answers, and I want them now," demanded Mavis, jabbing a finger in his chest.
Gracie's smile dried up, but she listened without comment. She knew Melinda was right about Mavis's temper. It wouldn't do to laugh at her peculiar habit of wearing the same red dress most of the time or at her thick, black hair pulled back in a large chignon, making her head look too big for her body. Not within range of her hearing anyway.
"I told you I have a sales meeting. That's why I'm going to be late. I'm looking to get a good commission from this kitchenware sale if I swing it. We can talk about anything you want when I get home. Now go in out of this heat, Sugar Pie. See you tonight," cooed Dan as he walked away.
Waving her hands in the air, Mavis muttered to herself as she spun around and headed back to the house.
Gracie cocked her head, straining to catch a word or two, but from that distance, she couldn't make out what the angry woman mumbled.
Sauntering down the street with his hands in his pants pockets, Dan whistled, In The Good Old Summertime.
"Did you hear what Magpie said about us?" Gracie asked indignantly.
"I heard, and did you hear what they said? They can see us sitting over here," worried Melinda, disturbed by that fact but a bit distracted as she watched Jordan calmly amble toward them.
Noting the look on her companion's face, Gracie stated what she thought Melinda was thinking. "It don't seem right how easy that man can act as though nothing is wrong right after he has a fight with his wife."
As the salesman strolled in front of the mansion, he glanced over at the porch as though he had just seen the women. Waving, he called, "Good afternoon, ladies."
Gracie managed a curt nod before she looked away. She had no intention of acting as though his presence on the street was any concern of hers. In an attempt to be courteous, Melinda raised her hand in a half hearted wave.
After Dan was out of hearing range, Gracie fumed, "I could tell that woman a thing or two about what we old prunes can hear and see. I ain't that old. Could tell her a thing or two about her dudie husband, too."
"Like what? He's a good salesman. I bought an Autumn Leaf clock from him once." Melinda gave her a curious look.
Gracie smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt and muttered quickly, "Ah, I'm just letting off steam."
Inwardly, she chided herself for letting her tongue get ahead of her thinking. She thought she knew the reason behind the Jordan fights, but she had to be careful not to reveal more than she was willing to tell.
"It wouldn't be too smart to tell Mavis anything if you want to keep listening in on their fights. Would it?" Melinda waited, studying Gracie who took some time to think about her answer. "No, reckon it wouldn't be smart atall."
If the Jordans realized how well Melinda and she heard their fights, the couple might be more discreet. If that was to happen, Gracie didn't see any reason to sit on the porch in the afternoon heat.
"We should feel sorry for Mavis what with all the problems she has with her man. If she wasn't so disagreeable all the time, she'd probably be a nice person," lectured Melinda, always looking for the best in everyone.
Gracie studied the Jordan place thoughtfully for a moment. She shook her head. "I doubt it. She reminds me too much of Bessie Brown. She always stayed disagreeable just like Magpie. On her good days, I could walk right by her, and she'd stare mean like at me. Other times just looking at me was enough to make her want a fight."
Melinda looked puzzled. "What did you do that upset this Bessie all the time?"
"Nothing. That old gal was born plain mean just like Mavis Jordan."
"Gracie, I doubt that anyone is born mean," disagreed Melinda. "How did you ever manage to make peace with Bessie?"
"I shot her," said Gracie, calmly.
"Oh, Gracie!" Melinda cried. Her face paled as her blue eyes widened. She slowly shook her head and managed to utter, "You didn't do that, did you?" She leaned close and peered at Gracie intently. "You're pulling my leg. Aren't you?"
"No, I'm not. It was either me or that cow. The older I got, the harder it was to get out of her way when she charged at me."
"Oh my goodness! Bessie was a cow." Melinda took a deep breath and flopped back in her rocker, patting her chest. Giving Gracie's admission some thought, she reconsidered. "But still in all, it seems to me that's a drastic thing to do to your own cow."
"At the time, I felt like that's all I could do," answered Gracie, with a shrug of her shoulders. She studied a crack in the floor and traced it with the toe of her shoe to keep from looking at Melinda.
"What do you say we go in for awhile out of this heat? Please," begged Melinda. "Let's see if Aunt Pearlbee made some fresh lemonade."
Gracie scowled. Wanting to change the subject so she wouldn't have to move, she opened her mouth to complain about the heat and decided that wouldn't do any good. Melinda would find her complaining another excuse to go inside. On the other hand, Gracie didn't feel guilty about voicing her opinion. Being dissatisfied with the weather was human nature and not just one of her old age gripes.
In the winter, everyone in Locked Rock complained about the knee deep snows and cold temperatures, and they grumbled about the heat and dry spells in the summer.
When she farmed she spent most of each day outside, and she didn't want that to change. Besides she came to the conclusion a long time ago if she had her pick of either miserable season, she'd choose summer. Her old bones could stand heat a sight better than cold, and after all, this was August. Mother Nature would cool the temperature down soon enough. In no time at all, she'd have no choice but to be stuck indoors.
Gracie glanced from downtown to across the street, reminding herself she wouldn't miss much now. Nothing interesting happened until darkness set in. She might as well give in to Melinda's pleading, besides she was thirsty.
"I reckon a glass of lemonade would hit the spot." Gripping the rocker arms, she strained to lift herself to her feet. She felt a twinge of envy, watching Melinda. That spray, little woman could get out of her rocker twice as fast and was already opening the screen door.
This series is mentioned along with my other books on http://www.Iowacenterforthebook.org. and is listed on the website http://www.cozy-mystery.com.
The books have received good reviews on Amazon. Luv2read posted Agatha Christie Meets Little House On The Prairie. I highly recommend the Amazing Gracie Mystery Series to anyone who has ever known or had a nosy elderly neighbor that seemed to always know what is going on in the neighborhood. This series of books are a funny, laugh out loud read. These books are unique as the time period is the turn of the century.
She posted in an Amazon mystery discussion group that she found the characters so well written that Gracie reminded her of her grandmother, and the sheriff was actor Sam Elliott. The story was so descriptive she could see the scenes playing out in her head.
For the first chapter of Neighbor Watchers, book 1, go to my blog at http://www.booksbyfaybookstore.weebly.com or http://www.booksbyfaycom.blogspot.com
When the thought came to me to write a mystery series using characters based on personalities of some of the elderly I took care of at the nursing home I realized the stories would have to be based in a different time period to be believable. So I picked 1903. For one thing that is a simpler, slow paced time. However when you live near or in a small town in the Midwest like I do you find that personalties and characteristics of people haven't changed much in a hundred years. So take away the horses and kerosene lamps and you might be able to imagine the people in your town.
Back a hundred years ago, families cared for elderly relatives in their homes. Women without families moved into a house with other women. They rented a room and were given three meals a day. This is the basis of Moser Mansion in Locked Rock, Iowa. A grand Victorian house inherited by a young woman that couldn't afford the upkeep on the house unless she rented out rooms so she turned the mansion into a rest home or retirement home for women.
I discussed Gracie Evans in the last post. Another resident at the mansion is Melinda Applegate. She's a dainty, soft spoken, refined lady which makes her the total opposite of Gracie. She protests ideas Gracie come up with, but she's a follower, and Gracie's a leader. Libby Hook is a standoffish person who dislikes Gracie so Gracie picks at Libby which keeps them in a permanent disagreement. The mansion owner is a single young woman, Molly Moser, with a busy social life who is clueless about what's going on around her until someone points out what Gracie has been doing.
In book one as in all the other books, you will find Gracie and Melinda rocking on the front porch between meals. They didn't have activity directors in those days. Three vines grow from trellises on the porch. The women make sure to position their rocker behind the vines. Gracie tears peek holes in the vines so they can spy on the neighbors. They think the neighbors don't know it.
Sounds harmless enough until one hot evening in August after dark. Gracie and Melinda are rocking behind the vine directly across from the lady of the evening's house. This gives them the advantage of seeing married, "respectable" Locked Rock men slipping into the woman's house through a side door. This particular evening a woman goes into the house. Though Gracie takes everything with a grain of salt, Melinda is beyond shocked. That woman appears to be the last visitor. The next morning the butter and egg man is making his rounds and finds the lady of the evening has been murdered.
The sheriff comes to investigate, but Gracie convinces Melinda not to talk to him. They are afraid without proof the killer will be set free and come after them which she does. You'll have to read the story to see how Gracie and Melinda get out of this mess.
Each book has an ending but to understand the characters and references to past books it is better to start with Neighbor Watchers and read each of the books in order. The books are numbered on the cover so you'll be able to tell which one comes next.
I used clip art on the bright yellow cover that seemed to suit the story. Eyes are peeking from the middle of a wreath of clematises with doves perched on top. On each of the other books the back cover has a smaller version to depict an Amazing Gracie Mystery Series.
These fictional stories are set in central Iowa where I live. I hoped that would be a marketing appeal to mid western readers looking for entertaining, humorous feel good books rather than hard core violent mysteries based in large cities. I'm finding those readers for my Amish book series are easily converted to reading my mystery series. One reader who lives nearby tells me it's torture waiting for the next Gracie Evans book. She likes them that well. So anyone interested just give the first a try and see if you want another one or two or three or six. Next post will be about book 2 in the series - Specious Nephew.
First Chapter
As if from a long ways off, Gracie Evans heard the hushed squeaks made by her rocker answered by the rocker beside her. The hollow sound she made when she tapped her high top, black shoes against the porch floor, Melinda Applegate's shoes echoed. In spite of herself, the rocking motion lulled Gracie. Her eyelids grew heavy. Her head jerked, nodded and jerked again. She relaxed back against the rocker, and closed her eyes.
Later that afternoon, Gracie stirred when sweat tickled her scalp beneath the two dark gray braids crowning her head. Feeling droplets seep from her hairline and trickle down her cheeks, she roused. She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket and pulled out a large, red handkerchief to swipe her face.
Squaring her hunched shoulders, she straightened in her rocker and gave a slight shake of her head to clear it. The layers of calico and cotton petticoat she wore acted as a funnel to trap the uncomfortable heat radiating up from the floor. At that moment, she imagined she felt like the glass shade on a kerosene lamp that had just been lit, warming up and in a very short time too hot to touch.
Gracie grabbed a handful of her brown skirt. She discreetly raised it just enough that her shoes showed and vigorously shook the material several times to let some of the hot air escape. The only other relief came when she stirred the breeze in front of her face by waving a paper fan in short, fast strokes.
Silently, Gracie chided herself for dozing off, then excused her napping with the fact things were bound to be this way. Boredom is what she got in return for retiring from her farm. She straightened up and tried to read the black print on the large sign posted near the picket fence gate. She couldn't make it out. Leaning forward, she squinted and failed again. At first, Gracie feared her eyesight had gone bad. With a measure of relief, she realized heat waves shimmering over the shaggy, brown grass blurred the words.
She mumbled to herself, "No need to read the sign. I know it says Molly Moser's Rest Home For Women. I ain't too senile yet to remember where I live or that this town is Locked Rock, Iowa." She sighed and leaned back again.
Every day, she tried to resign herself to the fact that Moser mansion would be where she'd live for the rest of her life. However, she saw no harm in wishing for some excitement to spice up the long days.
Across the street, a door banged. Earl Bullock paused long enough in the shade of his house to straightened his straw hat, before he ambled toward Main Street. Gracie wondered if he or his wife, Sara, ever suspected what transpired next door to them at night. Out loud, she said, "Where do you suppose old Earl's headed on such a hot afternoon? It's not like him to leave home this time of day since this hot spell started."
Melinda failed to answer. Gracie looked away from their neighbor long enough to glance beside her. Melinda stirred slightly. The petite woman raised her sagging head and mumbled, "He's probably shopping for Sara. With as hot as it is, I'd send my husband to fetch for me if I had one." Gracie paused to think about that statement while she studied a string of black ants that paraded by her feet.
As if the heat had got to them, the tiny insects struggled to crawl over the peeling, blue paint at the edge of the porch. Melinda's idea seemed as good as any other for a person to be outdoors in the middle of the day, taking the full brunt of the unrelenting, August sun. That is, until she looked up to see Earl disappear through the saloon's batwing doors.
"It don't appear Earl's after anything for Sara unless she wants a beer. The last I knew, she's a teetotaler. Not many folks in town this afternoon, Just lookee there where most of the buggies and wagons are parked. Over at the saloon hitch rack," Gracie criticized in her brassy voice.
Melinda rubbed her eyes with her finger tips then leaned forward to peer around Gracie. "Humph," she replied, shaking her head with enough energy to cause her mass of gray curls to bounce like tiny springs. "I wonder at the way some people spend their time. I pray they're as faithful about going to church as they are their patronage at that place."
On days the weather permitted, Gracie and Melinda watched from the Victorian mansion's large porch. Neighbor watching gave Gracie something to do besides sit and twiddle her thumbs. She considered it a harmless past time to while away the endless hours. Besides, it was downright obliging the way the neighbors divided up the day for her without knowing it.
Gracie's conscience plagued her a little for being nosy, but she'd excuse her actions. What she saw after dark she kept to herself. After all, she had her limits about what she'd repeat. What went on across the street at Rachel Simpson's house she didn't intend to share with anyone not even Melinda.
As soon as their minds cleared from their nap, Gracie decided it was time to move to the north end of the porch in line with the Jordan house. Leaning forward, she plucked a heart shaped leaf that drooped down in the round opening. "Morning glories sure grow fast. I had our holes cleared awhile back." Gracie tilted her head toward one shoulder then leaned the other direction, inspecting the hole. "Can't see a thing with all them leaves in the way," she growled. Tossing the leaf over the edge of the porch in behind the petunias, she snapped off another one. "Pect I'll have to clear the holes in the other vines before you know it." She peeked through the hole to make sure her view was unobstructed. When she was satisfied with her efforts, she settled back in her rocker.
A back door across the street banged. Dan Jordan came into sight, carrying a scrap pan and water pail. Dan's large, watch dog, a black with white patches, slick haired mixed breed, lifted his head and uncurled in his hollowed out spot under the oak tree. He stood and stretched, watching Dan place the containers on the ground. When his master spoke, the dog's tail wagged in rhythm with his swaying back end. He pattered to the man, dragging the clattering chain attached to the log, tool shed. Dan bent over and scratched the dog behind the ears, before he went back into the house.
An hour passed. Gracie jerked out of her stupor at the sound of a slammed door. Quickly, she leaned forward to peek through her hole. Dan, a Jewel Tea Salesman, tromped down the porch steps with his wife, Mavis, right behind him. "Lookee there!" Tapping the floor with her foot to start her rocker, Gracie reached over and patted Melinda on the arm to wake her. "Mr. Jordan's suited up for work with Magpie marching right behind him. She looks as mad as an old wet hen again." Gracie stopped rocking and straightened her bent shoulders. Pointing a crooked finger, her head bobbed up and down in anticipation of a good show. "Magpie sure favors that red dress. She wouldn't look quite so stocky if she'd wear other colors. What do you think?"
"I think you shouldn't call her that name. One of these days you'll slip and call her that to her face. Mark my words, from what we've seen of that woman's temper lately, you'd be sorry you did," reproached Melinda.
Grabbing her white blouse tacked to her ribs, she shook it. "I'm glad I left my corset off. It's way too hot for that today. Maybe we should go sit in the parlor."
"Hold your horses! Let's see what the Jordans do first," barked Gracie.
Dan, a tall, handsome man with broad shoulders, halted abruptly at the end of the yard. He whirled around and peered down at his shrieking wife. "For Pete sakes, keep your voice down. The whole neighborhood will hear you."
Mavis glanced around at the nearby houses and across at the mansion. Her face contorted. She defiantly squared herself in front of her husband with her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "Oh fiddlesticks! Those two old prunes on the Moser porch probably couldn't hear a stick of dynamite go off if it was under one of their rockers so don't put me off with that excuse. I want some answers, and I want them now," demanded Mavis, jabbing a finger in his chest.
Gracie's smile dried up, but she listened without comment. She knew Melinda was right about Mavis's temper. It wouldn't do to laugh at her peculiar habit of wearing the same red dress most of the time or at her thick, black hair pulled back in a large chignon, making her head look too big for her body. Not within range of her hearing anyway.
"I told you I have a sales meeting. That's why I'm going to be late. I'm looking to get a good commission from this kitchenware sale if I swing it. We can talk about anything you want when I get home. Now go in out of this heat, Sugar Pie. See you tonight," cooed Dan as he walked away.
Waving her hands in the air, Mavis muttered to herself as she spun around and headed back to the house.
Gracie cocked her head, straining to catch a word or two, but from that distance, she couldn't make out what the angry woman mumbled.
Sauntering down the street with his hands in his pants pockets, Dan whistled, In The Good Old Summertime.
"Did you hear what Magpie said about us?" Gracie asked indignantly.
"I heard, and did you hear what they said? They can see us sitting over here," worried Melinda, disturbed by that fact but a bit distracted as she watched Jordan calmly amble toward them.
Noting the look on her companion's face, Gracie stated what she thought Melinda was thinking. "It don't seem right how easy that man can act as though nothing is wrong right after he has a fight with his wife."
As the salesman strolled in front of the mansion, he glanced over at the porch as though he had just seen the women. Waving, he called, "Good afternoon, ladies."
Gracie managed a curt nod before she looked away. She had no intention of acting as though his presence on the street was any concern of hers. In an attempt to be courteous, Melinda raised her hand in a half hearted wave.
After Dan was out of hearing range, Gracie fumed, "I could tell that woman a thing or two about what we old prunes can hear and see. I ain't that old. Could tell her a thing or two about her dudie husband, too."
"Like what? He's a good salesman. I bought an Autumn Leaf clock from him once." Melinda gave her a curious look.
Gracie smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt and muttered quickly, "Ah, I'm just letting off steam."
Inwardly, she chided herself for letting her tongue get ahead of her thinking. She thought she knew the reason behind the Jordan fights, but she had to be careful not to reveal more than she was willing to tell.
"It wouldn't be too smart to tell Mavis anything if you want to keep listening in on their fights. Would it?" Melinda waited, studying Gracie who took some time to think about her answer. "No, reckon it wouldn't be smart atall."
If the Jordans realized how well Melinda and she heard their fights, the couple might be more discreet. If that was to happen, Gracie didn't see any reason to sit on the porch in the afternoon heat.
"We should feel sorry for Mavis what with all the problems she has with her man. If she wasn't so disagreeable all the time, she'd probably be a nice person," lectured Melinda, always looking for the best in everyone.
Gracie studied the Jordan place thoughtfully for a moment. She shook her head. "I doubt it. She reminds me too much of Bessie Brown. She always stayed disagreeable just like Magpie. On her good days, I could walk right by her, and she'd stare mean like at me. Other times just looking at me was enough to make her want a fight."
Melinda looked puzzled. "What did you do that upset this Bessie all the time?"
"Nothing. That old gal was born plain mean just like Mavis Jordan."
"Gracie, I doubt that anyone is born mean," disagreed Melinda. "How did you ever manage to make peace with Bessie?"
"I shot her," said Gracie, calmly.
"Oh, Gracie!" Melinda cried. Her face paled as her blue eyes widened. She slowly shook her head and managed to utter, "You didn't do that, did you?" She leaned close and peered at Gracie intently. "You're pulling my leg. Aren't you?"
"No, I'm not. It was either me or that cow. The older I got, the harder it was to get out of her way when she charged at me."
"Oh my goodness! Bessie was a cow." Melinda took a deep breath and flopped back in her rocker, patting her chest. Giving Gracie's admission some thought, she reconsidered. "But still in all, it seems to me that's a drastic thing to do to your own cow."
"At the time, I felt like that's all I could do," answered Gracie, with a shrug of her shoulders. She studied a crack in the floor and traced it with the toe of her shoe to keep from looking at Melinda.
"What do you say we go in for awhile out of this heat? Please," begged Melinda. "Let's see if Aunt Pearlbee made some fresh lemonade."
Gracie scowled. Wanting to change the subject so she wouldn't have to move, she opened her mouth to complain about the heat and decided that wouldn't do any good. Melinda would find her complaining another excuse to go inside. On the other hand, Gracie didn't feel guilty about voicing her opinion. Being dissatisfied with the weather was human nature and not just one of her old age gripes.
In the winter, everyone in Locked Rock complained about the knee deep snows and cold temperatures, and they grumbled about the heat and dry spells in the summer.
When she farmed she spent most of each day outside, and she didn't want that to change. Besides she came to the conclusion a long time ago if she had her pick of either miserable season, she'd choose summer. Her old bones could stand heat a sight better than cold, and after all, this was August. Mother Nature would cool the temperature down soon enough. In no time at all, she'd have no choice but to be stuck indoors.
Gracie glanced from downtown to across the street, reminding herself she wouldn't miss much now. Nothing interesting happened until darkness set in. She might as well give in to Melinda's pleading, besides she was thirsty.
"I reckon a glass of lemonade would hit the spot." Gripping the rocker arms, she strained to lift herself to her feet. She felt a twinge of envy, watching Melinda. That spray, little woman could get out of her rocker twice as fast and was already opening the screen door.
As if from a long ways off, Gracie Evans heard the hushed squeaks made by her rocker answered by the rocker beside her. The hollow sound she made when she tapped her high top, black shoes against the porch floor, Melinda Applegate's shoes echoed. In spite of herself, the rocking motion lulled Gracie. Her eyelids grew heavy. Her head jerked, nodded and jerked again. She relaxed back against the rocker, and closed her eyes.
Later that afternoon, Gracie stirred when sweat tickled her scalp beneath the two dark gray braids crowning her head. Feeling droplets seep from her hairline and trickle down her cheeks, she roused. She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket and pulled out a large, red handkerchief to swipe her face.
Squaring her hunched shoulders, she straightened in her rocker and gave a slight shake of her head to clear it. The layers of calico and cotton petticoat she wore acted as a funnel to trap the uncomfortable heat radiating up from the floor. At that moment, she imagined she felt like the glass shade on a kerosene lamp that had just been lit, warming up and in a very short time too hot to touch.
Gracie grabbed a handful of her brown skirt. She discreetly raised it just enough that her shoes showed and vigorously shook the material several times to let some of the hot air escape. The only other relief came when she stirred the breeze in front of her face by waving a paper fan in short, fast strokes.
Silently, Gracie chided herself for dozing off, then excused her napping with the fact things were bound to be this way. Boredom is what she got in return for retiring from her farm. She straightened up and tried to read the black print on the large sign posted near the picket fence gate. She couldn't make it out. Leaning forward, she squinted and failed again. At first, Gracie feared her eyesight had gone bad. With a measure of relief, she realized heat waves shimmering over the shaggy, brown grass blurred the words.
She mumbled to herself, "No need to read the sign. I know it says Molly Moser's Rest Home For Women. I ain't too senile yet to remember where I live or that this town is Locked Rock, Iowa." She sighed and leaned back again.
Every day, she tried to resign herself to the fact that Moser mansion would be where she'd live for the rest of her life. However, she saw no harm in wishing for some excitement to spice up the long days.
Across the street, a door banged. Earl Bullock paused long enough in the shade of his house to straightened his straw hat, before he ambled toward Main Street. Gracie wondered if he or his wife, Sara, ever suspected what transpired next door to them at night. Out loud, she said, "Where do you suppose old Earl's headed on such a hot afternoon? It's not like him to leave home this time of day since this hot spell started."
Melinda failed to answer. Gracie looked away from their neighbor long enough to glance beside her. Melinda stirred slightly. The petite woman raised her sagging head and mumbled, "He's probably shopping for Sara. With as hot as it is, I'd send my husband to fetch for me if I had one." Gracie paused to think about that statement while she studied a string of black ants that paraded by her feet.
As if the heat had got to them, the tiny insects struggled to crawl over the peeling, blue paint at the edge of the porch. Melinda's idea seemed as good as any other for a person to be outdoors in the middle of the day, taking the full brunt of the unrelenting, August sun. That is, until she looked up to see Earl disappear through the saloon's batwing doors.
"It don't appear Earl's after anything for Sara unless she wants a beer. The last I knew, she's a teetotaler. Not many folks in town this afternoon, Just lookee there where most of the buggies and wagons are parked. Over at the saloon hitch rack," Gracie criticized in her brassy voice.
Melinda rubbed her eyes with her finger tips then leaned forward to peer around Gracie. "Humph," she replied, shaking her head with enough energy to cause her mass of gray curls to bounce like tiny springs. "I wonder at the way some people spend their time. I pray they're as faithful about going to church as they are their patronage at that place."
On days the weather permitted, Gracie and Melinda watched from the Victorian mansion's large porch. Neighbor watching gave Gracie something to do besides sit and twiddle her thumbs. She considered it a harmless past time to while away the endless hours. Besides, it was downright obliging the way the neighbors divided up the day for her without knowing it.
Gracie's conscience plagued her a little for being nosy, but she'd excuse her actions. What she saw after dark she kept to herself. After all, she had her limits about what she'd repeat. What went on across the street at Rachel Simpson's house she didn't intend to share with anyone not even Melinda.
As soon as their minds cleared from their nap, Gracie decided it was time to move to the north end of the porch in line with the Jordan house. Leaning forward, she plucked a heart shaped leaf that drooped down in the round opening. "Morning glories sure grow fast. I had our holes cleared awhile back." Gracie tilted her head toward one shoulder then leaned the other direction, inspecting the hole. "Can't see a thing with all them leaves in the way," she growled. Tossing the leaf over the edge of the porch in behind the petunias, she snapped off another one. "Pect I'll have to clear the holes in the other vines before you know it." She peeked through the hole to make sure her view was unobstructed. When she was satisfied with her efforts, she settled back in her rocker.
A back door across the street banged. Dan Jordan came into sight, carrying a scrap pan and water pail. Dan's large, watch dog, a black with white patches, slick haired mixed breed, lifted his head and uncurled in his hollowed out spot under the oak tree. He stood and stretched, watching Dan place the containers on the ground. When his master spoke, the dog's tail wagged in rhythm with his swaying back end. He pattered to the man, dragging the clattering chain attached to the log, tool shed. Dan bent over and scratched the dog behind the ears, before he went back into the house.
An hour passed. Gracie jerked out of her stupor at the sound of a slammed door. Quickly, she leaned forward to peek through her hole. Dan, a Jewel Tea Salesman, tromped down the porch steps with his wife, Mavis, right behind him. "Lookee there!" Tapping the floor with her foot to start her rocker, Gracie reached over and patted Melinda on the arm to wake her. "Mr. Jordan's suited up for work with Magpie marching right behind him. She looks as mad as an old wet hen again." Gracie stopped rocking and straightened her bent shoulders. Pointing a crooked finger, her head bobbed up and down in anticipation of a good show. "Magpie sure favors that red dress. She wouldn't look quite so stocky if she'd wear other colors. What do you think?"
"I think you shouldn't call her that name. One of these days you'll slip and call her that to her face. Mark my words, from what we've seen of that woman's temper lately, you'd be sorry you did," reproached Melinda.
Grabbing her white blouse tacked to her ribs, she shook it. "I'm glad I left my corset off. It's way too hot for that today. Maybe we should go sit in the parlor."
"Hold your horses! Let's see what the Jordans do first," barked Gracie.
Dan, a tall, handsome man with broad shoulders, halted abruptly at the end of the yard. He whirled around and peered down at his shrieking wife. "For Pete sakes, keep your voice down. The whole neighborhood will hear you."
Mavis glanced around at the nearby houses and across at the mansion. Her face contorted. She defiantly squared herself in front of her husband with her hands on her hips and glared up at him. "Oh fiddlesticks! Those two old prunes on the Moser porch probably couldn't hear a stick of dynamite go off if it was under one of their rockers so don't put me off with that excuse. I want some answers, and I want them now," demanded Mavis, jabbing a finger in his chest.
Gracie's smile dried up, but she listened without comment. She knew Melinda was right about Mavis's temper. It wouldn't do to laugh at her peculiar habit of wearing the same red dress most of the time or at her thick, black hair pulled back in a large chignon, making her head look too big for her body. Not within range of her hearing anyway.
"I told you I have a sales meeting. That's why I'm going to be late. I'm looking to get a good commission from this kitchenware sale if I swing it. We can talk about anything you want when I get home. Now go in out of this heat, Sugar Pie. See you tonight," cooed Dan as he walked away.
Waving her hands in the air, Mavis muttered to herself as she spun around and headed back to the house.
Gracie cocked her head, straining to catch a word or two, but from that distance, she couldn't make out what the angry woman mumbled.
Sauntering down the street with his hands in his pants pockets, Dan whistled, In The Good Old Summertime.
"Did you hear what Magpie said about us?" Gracie asked indignantly.
"I heard, and did you hear what they said? They can see us sitting over here," worried Melinda, disturbed by that fact but a bit distracted as she watched Jordan calmly amble toward them.
Noting the look on her companion's face, Gracie stated what she thought Melinda was thinking. "It don't seem right how easy that man can act as though nothing is wrong right after he has a fight with his wife."
As the salesman strolled in front of the mansion, he glanced over at the porch as though he had just seen the women. Waving, he called, "Good afternoon, ladies."
Gracie managed a curt nod before she looked away. She had no intention of acting as though his presence on the street was any concern of hers. In an attempt to be courteous, Melinda raised her hand in a half hearted wave.
After Dan was out of hearing range, Gracie fumed, "I could tell that woman a thing or two about what we old prunes can hear and see. I ain't that old. Could tell her a thing or two about her dudie husband, too."
"Like what? He's a good salesman. I bought an Autumn Leaf clock from him once." Melinda gave her a curious look.
Gracie smoothed a wrinkle in her skirt and muttered quickly, "Ah, I'm just letting off steam."
Inwardly, she chided herself for letting her tongue get ahead of her thinking. She thought she knew the reason behind the Jordan fights, but she had to be careful not to reveal more than she was willing to tell.
"It wouldn't be too smart to tell Mavis anything if you want to keep listening in on their fights. Would it?" Melinda waited, studying Gracie who took some time to think about her answer. "No, reckon it wouldn't be smart atall."
If the Jordans realized how well Melinda and she heard their fights, the couple might be more discreet. If that was to happen, Gracie didn't see any reason to sit on the porch in the afternoon heat.
"We should feel sorry for Mavis what with all the problems she has with her man. If she wasn't so disagreeable all the time, she'd probably be a nice person," lectured Melinda, always looking for the best in everyone.
Gracie studied the Jordan place thoughtfully for a moment. She shook her head. "I doubt it. She reminds me too much of Bessie Brown. She always stayed disagreeable just like Magpie. On her good days, I could walk right by her, and she'd stare mean like at me. Other times just looking at me was enough to make her want a fight."
Melinda looked puzzled. "What did you do that upset this Bessie all the time?"
"Nothing. That old gal was born plain mean just like Mavis Jordan."
"Gracie, I doubt that anyone is born mean," disagreed Melinda. "How did you ever manage to make peace with Bessie?"
"I shot her," said Gracie, calmly.
"Oh, Gracie!" Melinda cried. Her face paled as her blue eyes widened. She slowly shook her head and managed to utter, "You didn't do that, did you?" She leaned close and peered at Gracie intently. "You're pulling my leg. Aren't you?"
"No, I'm not. It was either me or that cow. The older I got, the harder it was to get out of her way when she charged at me."
"Oh my goodness! Bessie was a cow." Melinda took a deep breath and flopped back in her rocker, patting her chest. Giving Gracie's admission some thought, she reconsidered. "But still in all, it seems to me that's a drastic thing to do to your own cow."
"At the time, I felt like that's all I could do," answered Gracie, with a shrug of her shoulders. She studied a crack in the floor and traced it with the toe of her shoe to keep from looking at Melinda.
"What do you say we go in for awhile out of this heat? Please," begged Melinda. "Let's see if Aunt Pearlbee made some fresh lemonade."
Gracie scowled. Wanting to change the subject so she wouldn't have to move, she opened her mouth to complain about the heat and decided that wouldn't do any good. Melinda would find her complaining another excuse to go inside. On the other hand, Gracie didn't feel guilty about voicing her opinion. Being dissatisfied with the weather was human nature and not just one of her old age gripes.
In the winter, everyone in Locked Rock complained about the knee deep snows and cold temperatures, and they grumbled about the heat and dry spells in the summer.
When she farmed she spent most of each day outside, and she didn't want that to change. Besides she came to the conclusion a long time ago if she had her pick of either miserable season, she'd choose summer. Her old bones could stand heat a sight better than cold, and after all, this was August. Mother Nature would cool the temperature down soon enough. In no time at all, she'd have no choice but to be stuck indoors.
Gracie glanced from downtown to across the street, reminding herself she wouldn't miss much now. Nothing interesting happened until darkness set in. She might as well give in to Melinda's pleading, besides she was thirsty.
"I reckon a glass of lemonade would hit the spot." Gripping the rocker arms, she strained to lift herself to her feet. She felt a twinge of envy, watching Melinda. That spray, little woman could get out of her rocker twice as fast and was already opening the screen door.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Winning Essay Sparks Book's Main Character
This is my winning essay entered in an Iowa Health Care Association contest about a resident at the local nursing home where I worked. This woman made such an impression on me that I made her the main character, Gracie Evans, in my Amazing Gracie Mystery Series. Meet my Gracie Evans in this post and next week I'll post about the first book, Neighbor Watchers, in my mystery series.
A Lady For All Seasons
Her back, bent at the shoulders, makes her appear shorter than she really is. Her thinning, hair, pulled tautly back into a long, narrow braid that rests on the collar of her blouse, indicates she is a no frills person. But the first thing we notice when we enter her room is the pictures on her walls. As colorful as any rainbow after an April shower, each picture holds special memories for her. An artist's rendition of her with blushing skin and spring in her eyes hangs next to a black and white photograph that was taken in the summer of her life. It shows her dressed in a work shirt and jeans, holding a favorite cat, with their cheeks touching. The caption reads "...... And family."
Next to the pictures is a row of calendars. One calendar of spirited horses reminds her of her days as a farmer tending livestock, and another has pictures of songbirds with the bird of the month, a redheaded woodpecker. More times than she can count, she had heard one of those birds pecking away at a tree while she checked her cattle.
Another calendar has a larger than life, crimson rose looming over the days of the month. She looks at that rose and remembers how much she enjoyed working in her garden and flower beds. The next calendar is three cuddly kittens, looking mischievous enough to bounce out of the picture and chase each other around her room. She remembers her barn being full of cats. They were useful to catch mice, but to her, they were playful company. The last calendar has on it a beagle standing with one paw in the air, looking as if he might chase after a rabbit. He reminds her of a large, black dog named Major that she raised. He wasn't smart enough to be a stock dog, she said, but he was her dog.
She and I have a rural life in common. I see the seasons of her life within her when I talk to her about what it was like on the farm. She giggles a youth giggle, her head bobbing up and down, as I tell her about a sitting hen that pecked me. She shows a look of concern when I talk about a problem I have with my animals as she remembers the summer of her life when she was tending livestock. There is wisdom from the autumn of her years as she offers me advice gathered from her experience in farming.
As I talk to her, it makes me wonder when I see how quick her mind works what it would be like for me in the winter of my life. After helping take care of people with Alzheimer's disease, including my father, I question, "Will my mind go dormant like my father's did, or like the lady of all seasons, will I have my own rainbow with a pot full of memories at the end?"
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