Mountain City Murder: Hannah Scrabble Cozy Mysteries

By Marty Donnellan

The year is 1978. Entrepreneur, roller skating teacher, spy thriller author, and amateur detective Hannah Scrabble overhears a conversation in the park which sets her and her long-suffering suitor, Melvin Pearl, on the trail of a ruthless killer. To Hannah's surprise, her search also points to an unsolved mystery from her own past. Hannah will do just about anything to solve a mystery. If only she could discover who holds the key to her heart.

This book is rated "G" for General Audiences, and is available in both regular and large-print paperback editions. Don't miss the exciting novella-sized companions to the Hannah Scrabble Series, "Thursday Mystery" and "Saturday Mystery"!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marty Donnellan
• Release date: Oct 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215256718

Marty Donnellan

Marty Donnellan is a lifelong resident of Atlanta, GA, USA. She is a writer and illustrator, doll maker, skater and skating teacher, nursing home art teacher, grain growing enthusiast and founder/director of Joy Community Kitchen, Inc., a 501(c)3 non-profit food charity. She is the author of seven books. Four are stories set in the imaginary world of frendibles, two are non-fiction "how-to" manuals (teaching doll making and roller skating), and the latest is a cozy mystery.

Book preview

Mountain City Murder

A Hannah Scrabble

Cozy Mystery

by

Marty Donnellan

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Pine Cone Press

Copyright © 2014 Marty Donnellan

All rights reserved.

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended. Mountain City, NC is a fictitious location.

Cover Art by Cricket Press, www.cricket-press.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

About the Author

Other Books by Marty Donnellan

Special Preview! New Story – Thursday Mystery, a Hannah Scrabble Short Cozy

Comments? I’d love to hear from you. [e-mail]

CHAPTER 1

August, 1978

Hannah Scrabble looked up from the red-and-green wool scarf she was crocheting. There’s more, she said from her velvet rocking chair. "Right after that, I overheard the black-haired woman say to her friend, ‘and that’s when I decided to tell him everything I know.’" 

So? Melvin Pearl’s gaze rested on the green branches outside Hannah’s living room window.

So, what do you think she decided to tell him? Maybe she knew his wife was cheating. Or that he’d embezzled money. Or –

The problem with you is you’re nosy, Melvin broke in with a smile. Gets you into all kinds of trouble. This was just a couple of strangers who passed you in the park. Remember last time? Rising from his chair with a grunt, he worked a loose corner of his plaid shirt back into his ill-fitting jeans.

If I’m such a problem, how come you're always hanging around? Hannah countered, turning back to the scarf. Oops – that was supposed to be a single crochet, not a double. She pulled it out.

Melvin rubbed one worn boot against the other. I didn’t say you were a problem, I said you had a problem. You’re always misunderstanding me on purpose. Is that scarf for me?

No. I guess you’re just a glutton for punishment.

I reckon. Who’s it for, then?

Debbie in typesetting, her son.

But it’s August.

It’s never too early to be making holiday gifts. She sighed. Is there some reason you dropped by, Melvin?

Other than to bother you on a beautiful Saturday? No.

You sure you didn’t maybe stop by for some dinner or something?

Melvin’s weathered face relaxed into a grin. Thought you’d never ask. After that we can go roller skating. I’ll pay. On the way you can tell me all your theories about what the black-haired lady heard.

Roller skating! Hannah exclaimed, forgetting her crochet count again. You’re forty-one years old. When was the last time you roller skated?

When I was seventeen or eighteen, before I went into the service. I was pretty good back then. Got me a kiss or two out of it as I recall.

Well, you won’t catch me out there. I’d fall and break my neck.

What? You’re only thirty-three.

Thirty-two.

But didn’t you ever go skating as a kid?

All the time, Hannah admitted. I even won a waltz-jumping contest once. I still have the trophy. It was around twenty years ago. 1958, I think. I guess you were already grown and gone. A sharp memory intruded of her gangly self at age thirteen, and the three thin-lipped blonde girls who had nicknamed her Hardscrabble Hannah and made fun of the twirly skating costume her mother had made for her performance.

Hannah laid her crochet aside and rose from the rocking chair. She had won that contest anyway, and she knew for a fact that one of the blonde girls now scrubbed toilets for a living. The other two she’d lost track of. She glanced at the clock.

Probably time to be starting dinner, she said. How about you make the salad?

Before they sat down to eat, Hannah turned off the lights in the dining room. She often did this, to allow the late summer sun to cast an emerald glow through the trees onto the white walls. A tree spell, her mother used to call it. Honor Scrabble, her grandfather, had built the house in 1936. After he died, the house and surrounding thirty-six acres of woods, pasture, and farmland had passed on to her parents. Upon their deaths from a car accident in 1971, Hannah and her younger brother Ben had inherited both the farm and a fairly sizeable sum of money. Ben, who preferred city life, found he couldn’t live without the money, and Hannah found she couldn’t live without the house and land. As their value was about equal at the time, dividing their inheritance along those lines had suited them both.

Situated on one of the gentler mountain slopes of western North Carolina, the house was small but tidy, with generous windows and polished oak floors. Hannah had always loved it – even as a child, she’d thought it smelled like cinnamon and bread baking and sometimes apple pie, even when there was nothing in the oven. Oaks, sweetgums, pines, and poplars surrounded the house, with the winter months allowing more complete views of the surrounding Black Mountains. These days, Hannah took as good care of her home as a cash-strapped single woman with poor mechanical skills could. Ben had other things to do.

During dinner Melvin kept after her until she agreed to go skating with him. Afterward, he tackled the dishes while she went to change from her rayon maxi-dress into a pair of high-waisted jeans and a soft, gathered blouse. They got into Melvin’s red-and-white Bronco and headed to Galaxy Quest Family Fun Center, Mountain City’s only roller rink.

They pulled into the parking lot which was crowded and littered with cigarette butts. Melvin paid their admission and they went inside. Attached to the grimy, orange concrete wall opposite the ticket booth was a poster containing rink rules and regulations, another poster announcing a new Roller Disco night on Fridays, and a large, black-and-white framed portrait of the rink’s dour-looking builder and original owner, Alvin Miller.

As they passed through the door separating the lobby from the skating area, they were assailed with loud, unfamiliar music with a thundering bass, and a crowd of mostly younger people. The large maple skate floor was as they remembered it, and surprisingly unscarred considering the millions of pounds of skaters who had rolled over it.

Nothing has changed, has it? Hannah commented, taking in the navy carpeted walls, stained white ceiling, rusty yellow lockers banked against the far wall, and the gigantic clock over the lockers. Except the people. And the rather badly airbrushed galaxies on the walls. And the new disco ball.

And the music. Melvin began twitching his mustache and thwacking an imaginary electric guitar. ‘Well, I’m hot blooded, check it and see, I got a fever of a hundred and three,’ he sang with gusto. He rolled his eyes. Who can even listen to this stuff?

If you don’t like it, how come you know all the words? Hannah asked, amused.

Melvin set down his imaginary guitar. I like to, uh, keep up with things.

Hannah had to laugh. Melvin couldn’t sing and had no rhythm. After storing their belongings in one of the dented yellow lockers, they exchanged their shoes for the musty-smelling leather rental skates they remembered, and sat down on one of the rink’s many carpeted mushroom stools to put them on. Lacing up skates on the stool next to them was another couple who looked about the same age as Hannah.

This place smells just like it did twenty-five years ago, Melvin shouted at the man above the music.

People breathing and sweating and not enough air circulation equals mold, the man shouted back. He stuck out his hand. Adam Larkin. Larkin Heating and Air. Adam Larkin had shiny, jet black hair and thick lips that curled up on one side into a permanent smirk. He’d probably been told he looked like Elvis Presley his entire life. More like Elvis’s mean older brother or cousin, Hannah decided.

And this is my wife, Tonya, Adam said, gesturing. Tonya, a short, fairly attractive woman with overly tan skin and voluminous frosted waves, acknowledged them coolly.

Melvin Pearl. Master engraver at Dickson’s Printing and Graphics, Melvin replied. This is my, um, friend, Hannah Scrabble.

The goat lady! Tonya blurted. Immediately she blushed. I’m sorry. It’s just that, you know, you and all those goats and the big floppy hat and the staff, I see you – Noticing her husband’s glare of disapproval, she stopped trying to explain herself and turned her embarrassed smile to the skaters on the floor.

It’s all right, Tonya, Hannah said as she tightened the bow on her skates. She wasn't embarrassed. She loved taking care of her goats. Who cared what this woman thought? Maybe she would fall down.

Well, here goes nothing, Melvin said, standing. He extended a hand to Hannah. Ready?

The pair stepped gingerly down a step onto the skate floor and began making short, wobbly strokes forward, cringing as younger and better skaters whizzed by them, a few of them backwards. Overhead, the mirrored disco ball slowly rotated, projecting tiny, moving squares of light onto the floor and walls.

Gliding shakily on one foot and then the other, Hannah giggled. I must look like a giraffe on wheels.

A cute giraffe on wheels, Melvin thought, though he had learned from experience not to say things like that to Hannah. The woman had a temper on her.

Halfway around the rink, Hannah broke away from him and began to stroke more confidently forward. Melvin found himself unable to keep up but didn’t mind because now he could survey her from behind. Hannah was tall and thin, with wide hips, copper-colored waves, and long arms and legs. No one had ever thought of her as beautiful, not even Melvin. There was, however, something beautiful in her plainness, a beguiling feminine frankness he found irresistible.

And she was skating better than he thought possible. As for him, he’d only been on the floor a couple of minutes, yet his ankles were already trembling and he was starting to sweat.

Hannah skated two or three laps, passing Adam Larkin who she noticed was lecturing his wife. Glide, Tonya. It’s easy, just one two, one two – why can’t you glide! She smirked as she passed them – Tonya hadn’t fallen but she was looking distinctly uncomfortable. She caught back up with Melvin.

I think I remember how to slow down, she shouted above the music. She placed one skate behind the other at a right angle and dragged it lightly behind her. See? It’s called a T-stop. Girlish delight filled her face.

Melvin grinned. Looking good. Still remember your waltz jump? His smile faded. Hannah?

Hannah was no longer listening. Instead, she was staring at something in the distance. Melvin! She clutched his arm. It’s the black-haired woman and she's crying!

CHAPTER 2

Hannah’s violent motion caused Melvin to trip and crash to his knees. His mouth opened in a silent scream.

Oh, my goodness! She dropped beside him. Are you all right? I didn’t mean to make you fall. It’s just that the woman I told you about earlier, she’s here!

What woman? Melvin wheezed, not looking up.

The woman I overheard saying she was going to tell the man everything she knew. I saw her in the snack bar and she’s crying. Melvin, I’ll be right back. I’ve got to see what’s going on.

Leaving Melvin panting on his hands and knees, Hannah rose and deftly skated to the end of the maple floor. She hopped up the step to the carpeted area, duck-walked across it in her skates, and rolled into the tiled snack bar.

The black-haired woman was sitting at one of the battered Formica tables with her back to Hannah. Across from her sat a man with bright red hair and a square jaw and an ugly shirt. Hannah could hear the woman sniffling, and the man looked coldly furious.

Hannah quickly ordered and paid for a Coke. Trying to look inconspicuous, she sat down with her soda at the next table, back-to-back with the woman and facing the same direction as the man. She strained to hear their words.

Stop crying, you’re making a scene, she heard the man hiss behind her. You need to keep your mouth shut from now on, understand? Not another word to anyone. Keep... your stupid mouth... shut.

Please don’t let Theo hear you speak to me that way, the woman pleaded.

Just go on home. I’ll be there in a few hours. I’ll walk you out.

Hannah heard the couple get up. She turned slightly, and out of the corner of her eye watched them head toward the exit.

Rats. To follow them would be too obvious. There was nothing to do but go back to Melvin. Melvin! Her heart sank. How rude she had been to leave him. She hoped he was all right. She got up, her eyes searching the skate floor. To her surprise, he was pretty much where she’d left him, still on his hands and knees but now crawling through the rushing stream of skaters and the moving squares of light toward the carpet.

She sighed. Melvin wasn’t overweight, but in her opinion rarely got enough exercise, so it was no wonder he was having trouble. She decided not to let him know she had witnessed his humiliation. She waited until he was safely seated on one of the mushroom stools before returning – not skating to him across the maple floor, but duck-walking on the carpet.

Melvin, are you all right? I couldn’t find you, she said. Three teens sat snickering at them from the next stool, but stopped at her threatening expression.

I’m fine. I got up and skated a whole ’nuther lap, Melvin lied. His face was still red but at least he was no longer panting. This skating business is easier than I remember. Do I get a kiss?

Hannah gave him a quick peck on the lips. I’m glad you’re all right. Sorry I ran off.

So where’d you go? Did you solve the mystery?

Shhh! Hannah said, glancing at the teens again. I’ll tell you later. You know, I’m feeling kind of wiped out from all this exercise. Do you mind if we leave and go get some ice cream?

What? You don’t want to wait for the hokey pokey? Melvin joked, though his expression was grateful as they unlaced their skates.

***********************

Monday morning Hannah woke up happy. She was scheduled to freelance after lunch in the typesetting department of Dickson’s Printing and Graphics Corporation, where Melvin also worked, which meant her morning was free.

After eating a somewhat mealy apple from one of her apple trees, she put on her favorite overalls, combat boots, and floppy hat, and walked the half-mile to the front pasture to feed and water her five Toggenburg goats. The pasture was close to the street though bordered by dense woods on three sides. This morning there were no cars on the narrow, winding mountain road.

Hannah rinsed and refilled the water trough, and gave her goats an affectionate good morning. All the goats were female except the oldest, Mikey, a large, dour-looking ram whose rectangular pupils appeared to look in different directions. Mikey pressed hopefully against her for a head rub. Still thinking about the conversation she’d overheard the night before, she stroked his earthy-smelling head and watched the other goats munch their grain. After a while she told them goodbye and headed back down the path to see what needed to be done in the garden.

Hannah’s vegetable garden was a large one, almost too large for a woman with no tractor, very little cash, and a small gas tiller that only worked sometimes. More often than not she gave up on the tiller and did what needed to be done with a hoe, rake, and shovel. Her brother Ben marveled that her produce was as luscious and healthy as it was, considering the fact that not only had she grown it without pesticides, much of it she’d cultivated using what he rudely called her third-world tools.

Since Hannah was often nearly broke, she sold her goats’ milk and cheese, garden produce, and baked goods to local businesses. She also freelanced as a typesetter at Dickson’s whenever needed, and at night worked on spy thrillers for which she hoped soon to find a publisher, thus ending her money woes and hopefully making her famous as well. The main character was a handsome, risk-taking spy named Trick Parker. So far she had completed two Trick Parker novels and received rejection letters from fifty-six publishing houses.

Hannah weeded the late summer garden and searched her tomato plants for any remaining tomatoes. She only found four, although lurking on the leaves near them were three hideous hornworms. Her gardening book advised her to kill the large, lime-colored caterpillars by cutting them in half with scissors, but she could never bring herself to do anything so violent. Making a face, she collected them in a bucket and tossed them into the woods.

Toward lunchtime she returned to the house, ate two zucchini boats stuffed with goat cheese, and got ready for work. She drove down the mountain to Dickson’s in her green 1973 Ford Ranger XLT pickup, a truck she had owned for five years and which still ran like a top. After clocking in, she sat down at her station and booted up one of the department’s new Compugraphic Editwriter 7500 photo-typesetting machines.

The machine was a marvel and Hannah loved it because, unlike its predecessors, it had a memory. This meant that for the first time ever, copy could be saved, retrieved, and edited. Hannah had quickly learned the many codes required for formatting text, and was proud of her skills. The output unit next to her keyboard transferred the images onto white photographic paper which flowed out in eight-foot streams for the paste-up artists in the next room to manually cut and paste into place.

Hannah’s co-worker and best friend Debbie Jackson sauntered into the typesetting room and plopped down at the station next to hers. Debbie wore a black, faux-leather miniskirt, black fishnet stockings, and a gold crocheted hat. She was a friendly, sardonic young woman with a twelve-year-old son named Henry for whom she worked several jobs to support. Dickson’s provided most of her income, and the rest came from her weekend job at the Hitchin’ Kitchen, a diner halfway between Mountain City and the larger city of Asheville. Debbie was as good a typesetter as Hannah and sometimes better.

What’re they inflictin’ on us today? she asked, holding out an open bag of M&Ms.

Hannah smiled and took a few. "Let’s see, I’ve got a brochure,