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  Sitting on a Fortune

  The Sisters, Texas Mystery Series

  Book 9

  Becki Willis

  Copyright 2020 by Becki Willis

  Clear Creek Publishers

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All places, people and events are created from the author’s imagination. In the event a real-life venue, location, or incident is mentioned, it is with the utmost sense of respect and stems from the author’s affections and /or attempts at authenticity. Interaction with such a place or person is completely fictional and should not be construed as endorsement or fact.

  Cover design by dienel96

  Editing by SJS Editorial Services

  Second look by Baker Blooper Editing

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  One

  The night was black, offering no glimmer of light into the darkened house. The only illumination came from the dim glow of a digital clock.

  Earlier reconnaissance revealed the location of objects worth taking. With the house now quiet, save for the occasional groan of settling timbers and protesting pipes, silent feet moved through the space, procuring the items of value.

  A slight miscalculation on the width of a cabinet door, and the stockpot clattered to the floor.

  “Shh!” The warning hissed from behind clenched teeth. “You’ll wake the old man!”

  “He could sleep through a tornado.”

  “With all this banging and clanging, it sounds like one now.” The grumbling thief scooped up the copper-bottomed pot, tucking it best he could beneath one arm and cradling it to him. “Better not press our luck,” he reasoned. “This will do for tonight.”

  He stopped to listen, making certain there was no movement from the bedroom. Satisfied, he tiptoed toward the back door and eased it open. Unable to see past his own nose, he nonetheless made a show of peering from left to right.

  With an air of authority, he motioned his troops forward and melted into the night.

  Two

  “I’m telling you, that man is crazier than a bedbug!”

  “Granny Bert, that’s not a nice thing to say.” Madison deCordova frowned at her grandmother’s blunt outburst.

  “What’s the truth have to do with being nice?” her grandmother demanded. Bertha Cessna rapped her knuckles on the tabletop with a smart nod. “You mark my words, that man’s remote control is missing a few buttons. You could whisper in his ear and hear an echo, there’s so much empty space rattling around up there. Forget renting out space. With a draft like that, not even a candle would survive.”

  “Shh! He might hear you!” Madison cautioned, stealing a covert glance at the man in question.

  Tom Pruett sat at a nearby table, spinning yet another tale to anyone who would listen. His current audience was Genny Montgomery, owner of New Beginnings Café and Madison’s best friend since junior high. A polite smile graced Genny’s lips, but her eyes had a glazed-over look of disconnect.

  Tom Pruett had that effect on people.

  Not for the first time, Madison wondered about the man’s age. She guessed him three or four years either side of eighty, but it was difficult to tell, considering everything about the man was monochrome. Thinning gray hair and a wilting mustache did little to complement the ashen pallor of his skin. Beneath shaggy gray brows, his eyes had perhaps once been blue, but were now a faded, watery gray. Even his wardrobe was as bland as his features; he faithfully dressed in khaki work pants and matching shirt. He carried a gray cane to assist with his shuffled gait, but he was still agile enough to come and go as he pleased, darting about town in a light gray Prius.

  If not for his vivid imagination and outrageous tales, there would be nothing of interest to set Tom Pruett apart.

  Nonplussed by her granddaughter’s warnings, Granny Bert insisted, “He’s too busy yammering to hear anything but the voices in his head. Listen to him, telling Genny some nonsense about people coming into his house at night when he’s sleeping! Like anyone in their right mind would want to watch him snore.” A cynical snort summed up the elderly woman’s feelings on the subject.

  Amusement hovered at the edges of Madison’s mouth, spilling into her voice. “To hear him tell it, these people are robbing him blind in the middle of the night. I don’t know why anyone would want to take his pots and pans, but that’s what he’s claiming happened last night.”

  “Last week, he told Sybil there were Nazi war planes flying over his house. The week before that, he claimed some Hollywood producer was filming a documentary about his life.”

  Madison nodded. “We’ve heard that one before. Depending on what version he tells, it’s either his daughter, his niece, or some famous yet unspecified producer who’s doing the filming.”

  “Like I say,” Granny insisted, “the man is loonier than a ‘toon.”

  “He’s not originally from here, is he?” Madison murmured. “I don’t think I remember him from before.”

  Before referred to her teenage years. While her parents chased after yet another of her father’s dreams, Madison moved in with her grandparents. Growing up in the small community was a far cry from the exciting world of racecar circuits (her father’s life ambition at the time), but Madison credited it as being the best decision her parents ever made. Life with Joe and Bertha Cessna gave her the stability and support she needed and helped mold her into the self-reliant, responsible adult she was today.

  College drew her away, but after twenty years, two children, and the unexpected status of widowhood, she returned and was once more living in The Sisters. The sparkling diamond rings on her finger were proof she had new reason to stay this time.

  “He’s a transplant,” her grandmother confirmed. “He and his wife moved here about the time your twins were born. She took over as school counselor when Glynda Purdue ran off with the band teacher.”

  “Really? I don’t remember hearing about that scandal.” Madison twisted her mouth in a rueful expression and confessed, “Of course, I spent the first three months of the twins’ life sleep-deprived and completely overwhelmed with my two little bundles of joy. The only clear thing I remember about that time was their uncanny ability to sleep at exact opposite times.”

  “You had more important things to worry about than small-town scandals, but I must say, that one did create quite a stir.”

  In truth, it didn’t take much to stir the gossip mill in the small community. Even with the two towns combined, the population barely topped two thousand. Despite live streaming and online shopping to fill the gaps, there wasn’t much to do in the way of entertainment in Juliet and Naomi, commonly referred to as The Sisters. Madison liked to believe that the locals weren’t so much nosy as they were bored. Even when their own lives lacked excitement, they could live vicariously through their friends and neighbors.

  And when their friend
s’ and neighbors’ lives were just as boring… well, they could always embellish.

  Thinking Mr. Pruett’s tired wardrobe could use some embellishing, Madison darted a guilty glance at her own attire. Who was she to criticize tired, monotonous wardrobes? Her clothes racks were full of outfits that could just as easily be found in her grandmother’s closet. Even with the new, trendy additions from her trousseau, she had dressed this morning in one of her favorite go-to outfits: a blue oxford button-down shirt and black slacks. Not even a stylish pair of sandals adorned her feet.

  Have I learned nothing from my stylish assistant? She chided herself silently. Derron would be appalled by her lack of embellishment.

  Redirecting her attention away from her boring wardrobe, Madison commented, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone mention a Mrs. Pruett.”

  “You wouldn’t. She passed about five years ago. He’s gone steadily downhill ever since.”

  “Maybe he’s just lonely and makes up these fantastical stories to keep himself entertained.”

  “That’s all fine and dandy,” Granny Bert huffed, “but he should keep his fantastical fantasies to himself!”

  “Children?”

  “Just the phantom daughter he mentions now and then.”

  Madison shook her dark head in empathy. “That’s sad. I can’t imagine how empty my life would be without the twins—and now Megan—to liven things up.” With the addition of Brash’s daughter, there were now three sixteen-year-olds keeping her days tapped out at full steam.

  “Imagine the joys of having four sons,” her grandmother said, her voice colored with shades of sarcasm. “What one didn’t think of, the others did. More often than not, your father was the ringleader.”

  “Yet to hear him tell it,” Madison quipped, “he was always the one left holding the bag. He blames it on being the youngest.”

  Granny Bert pointed a crooked finger her way. “I’m here to tell you. As the baby of the brood, your father got just about anything he wanted. He’d dream up schemes and get his older brothers to do his bidding. Just ask him about the sawed-off leg of his father’s favorite easy chair. Fifty years later, and it’s still a mystery.”

  Madison laughed over the rim of her tea glass. She could only imagine the mischief Charlie Cessna stirred up, aided and abetted by three doting older brothers. He did a fine enough job, all on his own.

  “Speaking of chairs…” She set the tea down as she changed the subject. “I found one I’d like to buy for Brash. His birthday is coming up next month, and I officially have no ideas on what to get him. I thought having his own chair for the bedroom might be nice.”

  “Every man needs his own recliner,” Granny Bert agreed.

  “This one isn’t a recliner, but it is over-sized and quite comfy. I found it at New Again Upholstery.”

  “That job you’re doing over in Navasota?”

  Madison nodded. The restoration and resale shop had hired In a Pinch Professional Services to fill in while their key employee, the proud father of a new bundle of joy, took paternity leave. Even though Madison knew nothing about upholstering furniture when she started, she considered her two-week stint there a crash course in all things upholstery. With what she’d learned under the owner’s tutelage, she hoped to tackle this project on her own.

  “Best of all, they said I could use the employee discount. Which comes in handy, because in just a few more days, I’ll be out of a job.”

  “Not—Not if I hire you.”

  The words didn’t come from her grandmother.

  Madison jerked her head up to see a bright-eyed boy standing beside their table, his chin wavering ever so slightly. He could be no more than ten or eleven, even though he was taller than most kids that age. His ruddy, chubby cheeks, rounded belly, and high-pitched voice suggested he hadn’t seen puberty yet. When the boy shifted on his feet uncertainly, Madison realized the brightness in his eyes could be attributed to nerves, unshed tears, or both.

  She put extra warmth into her smile. “Hello. Who have we here?”

  “My name’s Monte Applegate. And you’re the police chief’s new wife, right? The one who solves clues and things. The one who helps people.”

  “I’m Madison deCordova. And, yes, I’d like to think I help people whenever I can.”

  “Good. I want to hire you.” Monte dipped a beefy hand into his front pocket. After considerable rummaging, he pulled out his fist and opened it over the table. Down rained several crumpled bills, two rocks, a half stick of gum, and several loose coins. He fished out the rocks and gum, pushing the money her way. “There’s twenty-two dollars. I’ll have another three by the end of the week. Is that enough?”

  The boy’s expression was so eager and sincere, she dared not smile. Instead, Madison counted aloud as she straightened crumpled bills and sorted change. “Twenty-five dollars is a lot of money,” she acknowledged. “What kind of job did you have in mind?”

  “I need to find out who killed my dog.”

  Hazel eyes flew to his. “Someone killed your dog? Deliberately?” she squeaked.

  His legs shifted again. “He may not be exactly dead,” he conceded. Lifting his chin with confidence, he went on quickly, “Yet! But he will be soon, if I don’t find him. He won’t eat from no one but me.”

  Madison scooted over, making room for the boy in the booth beside her. “Have a seat,” she said, patting the spot encouragingly. “This is my grandmother, by the way. Bertha Cessna.”

  “I know who Miss Bert is,” the youth acknowledged. Like a gentleman, he extended his hand for a proper greeting. “My grandmother is Jean Applegate.”

  “The artist? Why, yes, I do believe I see the resemblance!” The older woman pumped his hand enthusiastically. “How is that talented grandmother of yours? Still painting, I hope?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Every chance she gets.”

  “I have one of her paintings over my sofa. It’s the focal point of the room.”

  The boy offered a weak smile, uncertain of what a focal point was.

  Madison filled the silence with a gentle prod. “Tell me about your dog, Monte.”

  This, he could do. “His name is Pup. I’ve had him about three years now. I found him in a cardboard box down at the dump. On Saturday mornings, I like to go down there and search for treasure. That day, I hit the jackpot! Can you believe it? Somebody had thrown that little puppy away! He was all scared and skittish-like, but I finally coaxed him out and gave him the sandwich in my back pocket. I took him home with me, bandaged up his cut leg, and he’s been fine ever since. But he won’t let no one but me feed him. Now that someone’s stole him, I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  Despite the boy’s glum expression, Madison had the urge to smile. She could picture the boy shifting and sorting through the smelly rubbish of other people’s castoffs, hoping to find something of value amid the leftovers. Would a sandwich from his hip pocket even be fit for consumption? She mentally shrugged away the image, trying to keep a straight face. One man’s trash is another boy’s treasure, she reasoned.

  Forcing her mind back on track, Madison asked, “Why do you think someone stole your dog?”

  “He’s a good dog,” the boy was quick to point out. “But, sometimes…” he admitted, “he does like to wander about. He especially likes to go over to our neighbor’s and nose around. Last time, he was pretty mad about it, so my dad said I needed to keep him tied for a while. Ol’ Man Andrews has a temper and threatened to shoot him the next time Pup came roamin’, so I took extra care to make sure he didn’t get loose. I had him on a rope behind a latched gate. But when I came home from school two days ago, he was gone.”

  “The gate was open?”

  His nod was vigorous. “I made sure I closed it good. I even used a rope to wrap around the latch. I found it untied and on the ground. The gate was open, and Pup… Pup was gone.” Monte’s chin quivered again, same as his voice.

  Madison laid her hand atop the boy’s arm. “Have you
talked to the neighbor?” she asked gently.

  “Me and my dad went over there, but he wasn’t home. We went back the next day, and he said he hadn’t seen him. Said he’s been out of town for a couple of days. I think he sometimes travels for his job. I put up posters around town and reported Pup missing to the police, but they said there wasn’t much they could do about a lost dog. A stolen dog would be different, they said, if I had proof someone took him. But how can I prove someone took him, when I don’t know where he is!”

  The boy looked so forlorn, Madison’s heart prickled in her chest. In her mind’s eye, she ran through her schedule for the next few days. Her stint in Navasota would be up on Friday. She was taking the girls shopping in Bryan-College Station on Saturday and promised Blake they would have a fish fry on Sunday, provided he and Brash caught enough fish. But that still left the evenings, now that the April sunshine lingered in the afternoon sky.

  She turned to the boy with a suggestion. “Let’s do this. If you’ll give me a good description of your dog, I’ll see what I can do. Do you happen to have a picture of him?”

  Monte nodded. “I put it on the poster.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his back pocket and handed it to her.

  “Perfect. I’ll share it on social media. Between my three kids and myself, we have hundreds of followers, so that should get us some good exposure. I’ll also drive around each evening and see if I can find him. Where do you live?”

  “A few miles out of Naomi, out on Sawyer Road.”

  “And who is your neighbor, the one Pup likes to visit?”

  “The old guy who owns Gold and Silver Exchange.”

  “Gerald Adams?” Madison asked in confusion. That man was in prison.

  “No, the new owner. Lamont Andrews.”

  “I don’t have a contract with me, but I think we can use this napkin.” She pulled a pen from her purse and scribbled out a quick receipt. She wrote a brief description of the job, added both their names and her telephone number, and scrawled ‘Paid in Full’ across the bottom.

  The boy studied it for a moment before looking up with a frown. “Don’t we need to sign it, or something? And don’t you need a copy?”