Fries and Alibis Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  A Note from Trixie

  TATTOOS AND CLUES

  Special Invitation . . .

  Thank you!

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Trixie Silvertale

  All rights reserved. Sittin’ On A Goldmine Productions, L.L.C. and Trixie Silvertale reserve all rights to Fries and Alibis, Mitzy Moon Mysteries 1. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any manner whatsoever, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Sittin’ On A Goldmine Productions, L.L.C.

  [email protected]

  www.sittinonagoldmine.co

  * * *

  Publisher’s note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN: 978-1-7340221-3-1

  Cover Design © Sittin’ On A Goldmine Productions, L.L.C.

  * * *

  Trixie Silvertale

  Fries and Alibis: Paranormal Cozy Mystery : a novel / by Trixie Silvertale — 1st ed.

  [1. Paranormal Cozy Mystery — Fiction. 2. Cozy Mystery — Fiction. 3. Amateur Sleuths — Fiction. 4. Female Sleuth — Fiction. 5. Wit and Humor — Fiction.] 1. Title.

  Chapter 1

  I wake up with a pounding headache and a dry, sticky tongue. Rolling over, I’m confronted with an unpleasant odor. Oof! My sheets are way past due for a wash.

  Flashes of last night’s bachelorette party peek through the curtain of fog draped over my brain. A red and pink streamer tickles my forehead with fresh whispers of regret. I yank it from my hair and roll onto my feet.

  The room swirls and I cradle my head as more images bubble to the surface. Did I dance on the bar at the Flicka Shack?

  No. I think that was Elisa.

  But I’m certain that I, the one and only Mitzy Moon, grabbed the mic from Fat Carol and screeched out an endless rendition of “My Heart Will Go On.”

  I wish I could say this sequence of events is a rare occurrence. No such luck. Over the years of struggling to survive in foster care I built a wall around my emotions. Now I prefer to drown them—or eat them. I exhale stale air and urge my grey matter to make a plan.

  Today my To Do list will be short:

  Take aspirin and drink two gallons of water.

  Do as little as possible at work.

  Apologize to Fat Carol.

  Don’t look at me like that—she calls herself Fat Carol. She’s not even fat; she thinks it’s ironic. Don’t get me started.

  4. Wish that I could afford to call in sick, collapse onto my sofa, and binge-watch . . . anything.

  As the hydration seeps into my cells, a few more choice moments float up from the murky depths. I should probably head over to the free clinic and get a Z-pak to ward off whatever slimy creatures crawled out of Shady Ben’s mouth and onto my tongue while I was licking his tonsils!

  By the way, welcome to my life.

  This is it: Parties. Booze. Regrets. There’s a whole sad little orphan backstory—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I could also thrill you with tales of my amazing career at the coffee shop du jour, but I don’t think you can handle that much excitement in one day.

  Yes, I need to get a life—or at least start crowdfunding for one.

  KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

  Insistent, but not threatening. It’s probably Jennifer stopping by on her morning run to fill me in on the dirty details of my nocturnal escapades.

  Lucky for me I’m still wearing my skinny jeans and Supernatural T-shirt from last night. No need to wrap up in a nasty sheet.

  Not that Jenn stays sober; she just has a relentless Insta. Hooray. Because there’s nothing quite as wonderful as a public, online portal cataloging the breadth of my poor judgment.

  Stepping over more than one insect carcass, I make my way toward the pounding assault on my aching head.

  Before the door opens completely I hit her with a zinger. “So, what manner of atrocity did I commit, Jenn?”

  As the wizened old man hunched in my hallway pulls into focus, my jaw falls slack like a broken ventriloquist dummy. “I was expecting someone else,” I stammer.

  “That makes two of us,” he snipes. His bulbous nose twitches and he harrumphs into his thick grey mustache with what I assume is disdain.

  Ouch.

  He balances an ancient leather briefcase against the wall and rummages through the contents. His gnarled hand grasps a bulging manila envelope. He sticks the corner between his teeth—the color of the pouch blending unfortunately with the shade of his chompers. He closes the briefcase with two sharp clicks and clears his throat. Three times. His saggy cheeks flap unceremoniously.

  “I’m looking for Mizithra Achelois Moon.” A gust of pipe smoke and denture cream wafts toward me on the tail of his inquest.

  I stare in surprise, flavored with a pinch of gut-churning horror. The last time someone came to the door and slaughtered the pronunciation of my full, legal name they followed up by informing my babysitter that a commuter train had killed my mother.

  The old man shifts his pear-shape back on his heels and strains to see the number dangling from one screw on the door next to my slowly nodding head.

  “Do I have the wrong apartment?” He huffs and wags his balding head.

  “I’m Mitzy.” I can’t bring myself to say the whole name. My late mother was the only one who called me Mizithra. It happens to be the name of a Greek cheese, and also the thing that brought her and my since-vanished father together twenty-two years ago.

  Theirs had been a classic “meet cute.” She was shopping at some over-priced hipster grocery store and my rumored-to-be irresistible father had reached for the same ball of mizithra cheese that my mom had grabbed. Their hands touched. Cut to her apartment. Their naughty places touched. He never called. She kept the baby.

  Maybe she named me after the cheese in some strange hope that he would return and they would share a laugh. That never happened. And now she’s gone too. So, it’s Mitzy. Just Mitzy, okay?

  Oh, crap. The old shriveled guy has been talking the whole time I took a trip down memory lane. I missed literally everything he just said. Nod and smile, my mother always said.

  So I do.

  He hands me the large envelope, says, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and shuffles away.

  Since I’ve lost pretty much everything, I shrug and tear open the envelope as I kick the door shut with my UN-pedicured heel.

  Cash.

  A key.

  Documents.

  Did I mention the cash?

  Pushing aside yesterday’s empty ta
keout container, I upend the envelope onto my dining-room TV tray and stare.

  I don’t deal with much cash in my world, but I’d have to say this particular pile of hundreds looks like a crap ton of money. I could count it, but I don’t want to ruin the illusion of wealth by discovering an actual dollar amount.

  I touch the crisp bills. They feel real. I’ll have to sneak one to work and make a mark on it with that magic authentication pen, just to make sure it’s a real “Benjamin.”

  Yuck. Visions of Shady Ben’s hands on my body slither into my consciousness.

  I need a shower.

  Touching the bills one more time, I gasp and race to throw my deadbolt and chain the front door. Now that I’m rich some low-life might try to rob me.

  As I turn to stumble toward a Silkwood-style erasure of last night’s transgressions, the shiny golden key seems to call to me.

  I pick up the key and feel the heft of it in my hand. The brass is cool to the touch, and the angled barrel displays the scars of age and use. It’s definitely larger than any key I’ve ever seen—and it’s not flat. It’s sort of a triangle-ish thing with teeth on all three sides.

  Weird.

  I can’t seem to put the key down, so I hold it in my right hand while I shuffle through the loose papers with my left.

  Does that say “Last Will and Testament?”

  I drop the key.

  My eyes race over the words, and with each sentence my hands shake a little more.

  My grandmother, a woman I’ve never met, is dead. But the thing that is flipping my beanie is that this is my disappearing dad’s mother. She’s dead and she left me her bookshop in some podunk town clinging to the shores of some Great Lake I’ve never heard of . . .

  The cash is meant to help me settle my affairs—if only—and relocate to said podunk town. This stranger thinks (thought) that I would abandon my life to run some small-town bookstore?

  I make no effort to stifle my laughter as I drop the papers and walk toward the bathroom, shaking my head.

  The steam swirls around me while I scrub the shampoo into my cigarette-smoke-scented white-blonde hair. Another gift from slumming it with Shady Ben. Seems like the second time this month I ended up pity-kissing a rando in the smoke pit at a bar/party.

  SPUTTER.

  SILENCE.

  “No. No. No. Please do not do this right now.” I twist the turny knobs in the shower, rub the tile like a magic lamp, and pray to the shower gods to give me enough water to rinse the flipping shampoo out of my ey—

  DELUGE.

  Ice-cold water thunders out of the showerhead and blasts all sound and feeling from my world. I’m so shocked I can neither speak nor move. I gasp and suck in air as if that can counter the freezing fluid. Fortunately, I’ve played through this scene a few times and I know the water could stop again at any moment, so I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming and thrust my head under the icy spray.

  The water indeed ceases to grace me with its presence roughly sixty seconds later. Close enough.

  Wrapping a towel around my shivering body, I run to the kitchenette to make some hot coffee.

  No coffee.

  That sounds about right.

  I promised myself I’d stop at the Qwik Mart after the party last night and grab a few things.

  Clearly that did not happen.

  On the bright side, I didn’t wake up in Shady Ben’s shifty bed!

  Time to get dressed and run down to that coffee shop where I work and see if I can get a pre-shift cup of wake-up juice.

  Chapter 2

  Don’t worry, I put all the lovely cash inside a nearly empty box of waffles in my freezer-ette and taped the key under my toilet tank. I actually stuck the key under the tank with a wad of freshly chewed gum. You didn’t believe I had tape, did you?

  Now that I’m rich I have to be more careful. Plus, if life in the foster system has taught me anything, that weird old dude will be back this afternoon to say “gotcha” or “oops” and take it all back.

  Pushing open the door of Hot Kafka, I inhale the rich scent of waking up.

  Dang it! I forgot to clean the whipped-cream stain off my uniform. Maybe I can slip into the bathroom before anyone sees me.

  “Namaste, Mitzy!” Prayer hands and a blessed head nod approach as the soundtrack of singing bowls reaches a crescendo.

  Fan-flipping-tastic. The SUPERvisor is already on me. “Hey, Dean.” If I still had long hair I could sweep it in front of my face and hide the stain as I run to the bathroom. However, two weeks ago, after I lost a drunken karaoke bet, I ended up with a cross between a Cardi B. pixie and a Betty White curl-bob. I refer to this as the “Bad Bet.” Not my finest moment.

  “Hey Mitzy, where ya headed?” He tilts his head with what I’m sure he thinks is concern.

  Dean miraculously crosses the entire Saltillo-tile floor in seconds and now stands inches from my person.

  “Just a quick trip to the restroom before my shift, Dean.” I try to scoot past.

  “Well that’s the thing, Mitzy. You’re shift started at 9:45 and it’s already 10:00, and well, I’d just be super-pumped if you would take care of your personal business at home and show up on time and ready to work.” Huge smile.

  And there it is. SUPERvisor Dean is always super-pumped about something. I live for his life lessons. “Copy that, Dean. I’ll just—”

  “Oh boy, Mitzy. Is that a stain on your uniform? It’s darkening your whole aura.” Huge smile downgrades to miniscule grin as he gestures toward my Macbeth-sized spot.

  I swat his unwelcome paw away from my boob area. “I’ll just clean it up right quick and be ready to go.”

  “Well, gee whiz, Mitzy, I’m gonna have to get you a new shirt and dock that from your pay. I’m super-sorry about that, but we have to put our best face forward at the Hot Kafka. Our customers expect a certain vibe.” He finishes with an emphatic nod and an attaboy fist pump.

  I’m pretty sure our customers expect coffee without spit in it. I mean, if they wanted fancy coffee served by people in clean uniforms they’d march down the street to the chain store with the mood lighting and free Wi-Fi. Of course, I don’t say any of this to Dean. I nod and smile.

  As I watch Dean’s peppy step take him to the Kokopelli-embellished stockroom door something dawns on me. Hey, wait one darn tootin’ minute. I’m rich. I don’t need this ridiculous job or this insanely positive SUPERvisor. I follow Dean into the stockroom and make my announcement. “I quit.”

  “Oh, hey now, Mitzy. Don’t get your chakras out of alignment.” He raises his hands like this is a robbery. “You’ll be back in the black in no time. I’ll only charge you my cost for the new uniform shirt. How’s that sound?”

  I’m sorry about this next part. Please skip ahead and pretend you don’t see me do this. “Ya know what, Dean? Here’s how it sounds!” I take off the stained shirt, throw it in his shocked face, and strut out of Hot Kafka into the unforgiving Arizona sun.

  Too bad I didn’t remember that I was wearing my skanky, greyish, holey bra BEFORE I made my statement. The strut would’ve been so much more impressive in a red lacey push-up thingy.

  Instead I run home with my arms crossed over my chest, sweat trickling down my back, and a little muffin topping my skinny jeans.

  Slamming my apartment door behind, I throw the deadbolt home.

  Just when I finally learned the name of the place, too . . . so long, Hot Kafka. “We could’ve been Franz.” I choke on my own pun as a loud and threatening knock assaults my door.

  I hold my breath.

  “I seen ya run in there, ya trollop.”

  That is Mr. Coleman. My landlord. Did you already guess that my rent is late—again?

  “I’ll be back in the morning with an eviction notice. Ya hear me?”

  THUMP!

  I jump as his fist connects with the door in one last frustrated punch.

  A sudden need to explore lakes comes over me. I believe they were purport
ed to be “great?”

  So long Sedona!

  I pack my stuff in a crummy ripped duffle bag and an old rucksack. In the movies there’s always a framed picture that gets lovingly tucked in the top, but none of my pre-tragedy childhood trinkets survived the foster care system. And now I tend to move frequently; so keeping the load light is essential.

  I put the cash in my boots, underwear, bra, and a bit in my wallet. Not exactly sure what to do with the key and not super committed to drug-mule-style hiding.

  I have a collection of keys I “borrowed” from the homes where I was placed from eleven until I aged out, but this strange key feels different. This key was given to me. This key was a gift from an actual relative.

  I opt for a chain.

  I slip the “jewelry” under my shirt and wait for the cover of darkness. Now that I’ve got money, I don’t want to waste any of my little pile of wealth on back rent. I mostly want to make a clean getaway and see what my key opens. It feels like a morbid game show.

  “Mitzy Moon! Your long-lost grandmother is dead! Let’s see what you’ve won!”

  Chapter 3

  I don’t think this loud, smelly bus could possibly make any more stops! I mean, why in the wide world does a bus need to stop at an empty bench in a town with the same population as I have fingers?

  No one boards. I’m as shocked as you are.

  We lurch forward, and I force myself to breathe as shallowly as possible. The odor of diesel fumes, unwashed humanity, and day-old turkey sub—with a soupçon of stale cigarette smoke—is not something I want seeping into the depths of my lung tissue.