Murder at Catfish Corner: A Maggie Morgan Mystery

  Murder at Catfish Corner

  A Maggie Morgan Mystery

  Michelle Goff

  Copyright © 2015 Michelle Goff

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  Prologue

  Boone Osborne’s not as young as he used to be.

  When the eighty-one-year-old was a younger man, he hoed corn, tied up tomato plants, and picked beans underneath a blazing sun for hours on end. But those days were just a memory to him. Nowadays, working outside in the heat of the day left him exhausted and he could tend to his vegetable garden only in the early morning or in the late evening. Daybreak found him emerging from his house with a thermos of water in one hand and his work boots in the other. As soon as he sat on his porch steps and pulled on his boots, a rabbit hopped out of his garden.

  “By gum, you’d better run,” Boone said as the bunny raced across his yard.

  Boone stood and watched the rabbit until it ran out of his sight and safely onto his nephew’s property. Just as he started to turn and walk to the garden, something caught his eye and he approached his nephew’s land. Not that there was much land left to the two acres Boone’s brother had passed on to his son, Earl David. After Earl David had taken possession of the property, he had paid a backhoe operator to dig a one-and-a-half-acre hole in it. Earl David had then stocked the hole with catfish and turned the place into a pay lake he christened Catfish Corner. Boone had never understood the meaning behind the name. It wasn’t in a corner as far as he could see. It was to the left or right, depending on your perspective, but not in a corner. When Earl David had shared the name with his uncle, the old man had asked, “Corner of what?” On this muggy morning, a dark object floating on the edge of that lake continued to hold Boone’s attention. He stopped short of the chain-link fence that separated his property from Earl David’s, peered into an opening in the fence, and said, “Bless my soul. That can’t be right.”

  Chapter One

  Maggie Morgan whisked the mixture of milk and cornstarch into water and watched gravy materialize as if by magic. When the gravy thickened to her satisfaction, she added the boiled potatoes and seasoned the dish with pepper. She emptied the potatoes and gravy into a serving bowl, which she sat on the table amidst cooked cabbage, green beans, a turkey breast, and cornbread. She took a step back and admired the meal she had prepared primarily from garden produce. Of course, the cornbread and turkey hadn’t come from her dad and uncle’s expansive garden, but she figured the corn component of cornbread came from somebody’s garden. She could come up with no such justification for the turkey breast, which she had selected from the grocery store’s frozen food aisle, but she knew better than to serve a meatless meal to her carnivorous dad.

  All things considered, Maggie regarded the meal as relatively healthy. Sure, she seasoned the cabbage with bacon grease and added slabs of bacon to the green beans, and, yes, a fresh raspberry pie baked in the oven. There was no way she could rationalize the pieces of that pie she planned to eat or the potatoes and gravy she hoped to heap on her plate. But she felt she had earned the feast that covered her kitchen table. After solving Mac Honaker’s murder the previous autumn, she had resolved to curb her overactive sweet tooth as well as her fondness for fried, fatty foods, both of which had added a few pounds to her trim figure. More than six months, one-hundred-ninety workouts, and dozens of salads later, she had developed a healthier relationship with food and dropped the excess weight.

  Maggie peered into the oven to check the pie just as her chocolate lab, Barnaby, scurried out of the kitchen. Maggie smiled, waited for the doorbell to ring, strode to the front door, and opened it for her boyfriend, Luke, who stood on the porch holding a bouquet of wild flowers.

  “Are those for me?” Maggie asked with a smile.

  “No, they’re for your mom.”

  Maggie frowned.

  “I’m joking. Even if I brought your mom flowers, I would have the good sense and decency to bring you some, too.” Leaning in for a kiss, Luke handed the flowers to Maggie and said, “You look wonderful and the food smells great.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie said, accepting a kiss from him. “I know I shouldn’t brag, but the beans and cabbage taste as good as they smell. I can’t speak for the taters and gravy. I haven’t sampled them yet.”

  “Taters?” Luke followed Maggie into the kitchen. “I’ve never heard you say that before. The next thing I know, you’ll ask me for a sup of water.”

  Maggie usually didn’t welcome a non-native calling her or others out on their vernacular. But when it came from Luke, who had moved to Jasper, the county seat of Geneva County, a year earlier, it didn’t bother her. She recognized the difference between joking and condescending. “I always say potatoes,” Maggie explained as she put the flowers in a vase, “unless I’m talking about taters and gravy. For some reason, it doesn’t sound natural to say potatoes and gravy. Except, of course, when I’m referring to mashed potatoes and chicken gravy.” Maggie sat the vase of flowers on her countertop. “I’m sorry that so many rules dictate my particular take on the English language.”

  “That’s all right. It keeps me on my toes.” Luke looked at the bowl of cornstarch gravy and potatoes. “I know one thing for certain, that’s definitely not mashed potatoes or chicken gravy.”

  “No, it’s not, but I hope you like it,” Maggie said. “I know you grew up on a farm and are used to home-cooked meals, but I wanted you to experience one of our genuine Sugar Creek garden suppers. I just wish we had some corn on the cob, but it’s not full enough to pick yet.”

  “Maybe you could prepare another genuine Sugar Creek garden supper once the corn gets ripe,” Luke said and bent down for another kiss.

  Before his lips could make contact with Maggie’s, the back door opened and Maggie’s mom, Lena, carried a platter of food into the kitchen.

  “Hello, Luke,” Lena said.

  “Hello, Mrs. Morgan. What do you have there?”

  “I made some fried green tomatoes,” Lena answered, making room on the table for the platter.

  “You didn’t have to do that, Mom,” Maggie said.

  “Well, I’m glad she did,” added Maggie’s dad, Robert, who joined them in the kitchen after enticing Barnaby to go outside and into Maggie’s fenced-in back yard. “You can’t have a garden supper without fried green tomatoes.”

  Yes, you can, Maggie thought to herself. She didn’t want to hurt her mom’s feelings, but she wished she hadn’t brought the fried green tomatoes. Now that they were there, she would have to eat a few and she felt sure she hadn’t worked out long enough that morning to justify eating those crispy slices of temptation.

  The ringing of a timer cut short Maggie’s fretting and reminded her to check the pie. The crust had browned to her satisfaction, so she took the pie out of the oven and joined her guests, who had gathered around the table. She sat down just as her parents attempted to explain killed lettuce and onions to Luke.

  “Why do you call it killed?” Luke asked.

  “Because you fry the lettuce in hot grease, effectively murdering its nutrients.”

  “Well, I don’t know why you have to make fun of it,” Lena scolded Maggie. “You’ve sure eaten enough of it. Murdered nutrients or not. Huh.”

  “That reminds me,” Robert said. “Have you heard the news?”

  “News about lettuce and onions?” Maggie teased.

  Robert, who had been eating green beans mixed with c
abbage, cornbread, and turkey, interrupted his feast and said, “No. Why would they be talking about lettuce and onions on the news?”

  “They probably wouldn’t, but you said,” Maggie sighed. “Never mind. So, what was the news?”

  Still chewing, Robert said, “They found a woman floating in that pay lake over on Sassafras.”

  Chapter Two

  Robert’s news caused Maggie to momentarily abandon the potatoes swimming in gravy on her plate. “I hadn’t heard about a drowning. What happened to her? Was she killed?”

  With his attention focused on eating, Robert answered only with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Lena, on the other hand, said, “Why would your mind automatically think she was killed, Maggie? Whether she accidentally drowned or was murdered, dead is dead. Do you think a murder makes it more interesting?”

  “No, I only asked because we were talking about killed lettuce and onions and Daddy said –” Maggie closed her eyes and counted to ten. “What did they say on the radio?”

  “Just that she was found in that pay lake.” After consuming more of his mixed meal, Robert said, “They interrupted the Swap Shop to tell us that. I feel bad for her, but I think it could have waited until the program was over. It ain’t like they needed to warn us about a thunder storm headed our way or an escaped convict on the loose.”

  “Well, I disagree,” Lena said. “I think a woman found dead in a lake is more important than you looking for a used wheelbarrow to buy.”

  Robert furrowed his bushy eyebrows. “I never said I aimed to buy that feller’s wheelbarrow. I just told you that he had one for sale.” Robert looked at Luke. “I don’t know why somebody would try to sell that. I think a man would have to be pretty hard up if he couldn’t afford a new wheelbarrow.”

  Luke nodded his agreement and Lena ceased cutting a potato and turned her brown eyes toward the ceiling. “Well, you wrote his name and number down, so you must be interested. Why don’t you call him and ask him how many times he’s used it? Maybe it’s almost new. Maybe someone gave it to him as a gift and he already had a wheelbarrow so he never used it. Maybe it is a new wheelbarrow.”

  “I didn’t write down his name and number,” Robert said. “I wrote down the name and number of that feller with the chainsaw for sale.”

  “So,” Maggie interrupted, “they broke into the Swap Shop with the news about this woman drowning. I understand that dead is dead, but did they say anything about how she died?”

  “She was floating in the water, Maggie,” Lena said. “You’re a reporter. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  To keep from responding to her mom, Maggie popped a fried green tomato into her mouth and allowed herself a moment to savor the salty appetizer. After everyone finished their meal, she served coffee and pie.

  “Oh, my God,” Luke said. “This is the best raspberry pie I’ve ever eaten.”

  “It’s also the first raspberry pie you’ve ever eaten, so, by definition, it’s also the worst,” Maggie said.

  “It is good, Maggie,” Robert said. “Is this a brought-on crust?”

  “Yes, it’s a store-bought crust, Daddy.” Maggie caught Luke’s attention and they shared a smile. “You know I can’t make a pie crust.”

  “You could if you tried,” Lena said.

  Maggie ignored her mom and said to Luke. “I hope my reliance on brought-on pie crusts doesn’t change the way you feel about me.”

  “It actually makes me respect you more. I like a woman who recognizes her limitations.”

  “Good, because I’m a woman with many limitations.” Maggie lifted a bite of the warm, fruity pie to her mouth. She had to agree with Luke and Robert. It was delicious. The pats of butter she added to the top of the raspberry filling made all the difference. So what if they also added a few calories? By day’s end, she could be floating in a pay lake. If that happened, at least she could say she had savored one last piece of pie. With the dead woman still on her mind, she asked, “Daddy, didn’t I go with you to buy a pig from a man on Sassafras?”

  “Shew, that was at least twenty-five years ago. You couldn’t have been more than ten.”

  “Where’s Sassafras?” Luke asked. “Is it in Geneva County?”

  “It is,” Maggie answered, “but just barely. It takes anywhere from fifty minutes to an hour to get there from Jasper. It’s at least a thirty-minute drive from here to Sassafras.”

  “Wow,” Luke said. “I knew Geneva County was big, but that’s a long haul. That must have been one heck of a pig for you to drive all the way from Sugar Creek to get it.”

  “She was worth the drive,” Robert said. “She was a pregnant sow. She wouldn’t nurse all of her pigs, though. Mother here bottle-fed them.”

  “I fed them at the kitchen table,” Lena said.

  “I remember that,” Maggie said. “They were so little. I was afraid they wouldn’t make it.”

  “They did,” Robert said. “Every one of them made it, and I sold every one of them, too. That trip more than paid for itself.”

  “I’ve done a few interviews on Sassafras,” Maggie said. “I think that pay lake is near where we bought the sow. What was the name of that man we got her from? He was so nice.”

  “Boone Osborne,” Robert said as he used a scrap of crust to pick up the last trace of berries from his plate. “We traded here and there, but I ain’t seen him in years. He’s got to be an old man by now. Wonder what he’s up to these days?”

  Chapter Three

  By the time Maggie made it to the Jasper Sentinel, where she had worked for fourteen years, first as a feature writer and later as the lifestyle editor, the authorities had released the name of the woman found floating in the lake. Her name, Hazel Baker, meant nothing to Maggie and, unfortunately, the police shared no other information about her or her demise. Maggie hoped to learn more about Hazel later. In the meantime, she would have to make due with Hazel’s obituary, which she found waiting for her in the fax machine. When she reached her desk, she checked her email and found a message from the funeral home that contained Hazel’s photo.

  Maggie lowered her head and asked the newsroom, which except for her remained empty on this early Monday morning, “Why, oh, why? If they can add a photo attachment, why can’t they send the typed obituary?”

  Maggie clicked on Hazel’s photo and studied the woman smiling back at her. According to her obit, Hazel was sixty-two, but Maggie thought she looked younger in the picture, which was dated in the lower right-hand corner for the previous year. She attributed Hazel’s hale appearance to her welcoming smile, the vibrant blue sweater she wore, her captivating blue eyes, and her blonde hair, which was styled in a choppy bob. Maggie instinctively put her hand up to her brown hair and wondered if she should opt for a new style the next time she visited the hairdresser. She had sported a pixie cut since college. It was easy to fix and she thought it suited her. Yet, sometimes, she allowed herself a moment to imagine herself with long, luxurious-looking curls or even a pageboy cut. Maggie also admired Hazel’s yellow paisley scarf, which reminded her of her short-lived experiment with scarves. No matter how she tied them, Maggie had felt they made her look like Fred from Scooby-Doo. Just like the fantasies of stylish haircuts, the fascination with scarves had also eventually faded and she had returned to her reliable clothing choices.

  When she turned her attention back to the obit, she learned Hazel was a retired nurse who enjoyed cooking, traveling with her sister, and cheering on the University of Kentucky men’s basketball team. Maggie glanced at the photo again and said to herself, “I do believe the shade of that sweater is Wildcat blue.”

  “Are you talking to yourself, Maggie?”

  Maggie looked up to find her editor and mentor, Joe, standing beside her desk.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, at least you’re guaranteed to have a lively conversation.”

  “Indeed. Hey, the funeral home faxed the obit and emailed a photo for Hazel Baker.”

 
Joe stood over Maggie’s shoulder and examined the picture of Hazel. “She was an attractive older woman. Listen to me, calling her older. Sometimes, I forget I’m in my fifties.”

  “Mid-fifties at that.”

  “Better than late-fifties. Anyway, I called Tyler at home and told him to stop at the state police post on his way to the office. We should know something when he gets here.”

  Maggie left the office to interview the subject of her Garden of the Week feature and missed Tyler’s return from the state police post. She caught up with him that afternoon, but before she could ask him about Hazel Baker, a wasp buzzed around her head.

  “How did that wasper get in here?” she asked as she rolled up a newspaper to use as a weapon.

  “What did you just say?” Tyler asked.

  “I asked how this wasper –”

  “That’s it,” Tyler said. “What is a wasper?”

  “Now, Tyler, everybody knows what a wasper is.”

  “No, I’m afraid I have never heard of such a thing.”

  Maggie slammed the newspaper down on her desk, producing a noise that attracted the attention of the entire newsroom. “Well, it’s this thing I just killed.”

  “That is, or was, a wasp,” Tyler said. “Repeat after me, w-a-s-p. Wasp.”

  In the past, Tyler’s attitude in regards to the eating habits, vocabulary, place names, and, in general, customs and traditions of eastern Kentucky would have upset Maggie. But Tyler seemed to have developed something akin to respect for her after the Mac Honaker murder investigation. He still made no secret of his contempt for his adopted home and told anybody who would listen that he planned to move as soon as he found another job. And although his smugness continued to antagonize Joe, a transplant who had lived in the area for more than thirty years, and annoy everyone else in the office, Maggie now found the young reporter amusing.

  “Oh, Tyler, I’ve been saying wasper for years. It was probably my first word.” Maggie tossed the makeshift flyswatter into the trash can. “What did you find out about Hazel Baker’s death?”