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Fruitcake and Fraud-Small Town Girl Mysteries Book 3

By Jann Franklin

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“Merry early Christmas, Doc! How’s yore shoppin’ comin’ along?”
My second Christmas in Graisseville, and it was feeling more and more like home. “Pretty good. I’ve still got my dad and you. The two hardest people to shop for on my list. Any ideas?”
Even through the phone I could hear Shorty’s brain cells sizzling. Since Annabelle entered his life, he took gift giving seriously. “Well, he’s been complainin’ he needs a new ratchet. An’ he was thinkin’ o’puttin’ out some fertilizer on his front yard this spring.”
Okay, maybe not as seriously as I had thought. “Those are great ideas, don’t get me wrong. But I was thinking more along the lines of a new shirt, or some pillows for his couch.”
Cue the horse snort. “See, that’s why women jus’ don’t get it! We don’t want somethin’ on our couch we gotta move jus’ t’sit! But if yer gonna get ‘im a shirt, ya’ should get ‘im a work shirt. Think about it, Doc. The good Lord wants us t’work six days an’ rest on Sunday. We need six times as many work shirts as we do Sunday go-tuh-meetin’ shirts.”
He made an excellent point, as always. “What if I got him a gift card to Big Ed’s Parts n’ More? Then he could buy a work shirt, a ratchet, or fertilizer? Whatever his heart desires, as long as it costs fifty dollars.”
My friend and my father were cut from the same cloth—they bought their clothes and their fertilizer at the same store. It did make my shopping that much easier.
“Now that we got yore shoppin’ all taken care of, I need yore opinion on somethin’. Do ya’ have a few minutes?”
Another change from dating Annabelle–Shorty asked permission to interrupt my life. Most times, anyway. “Of course, any chance to give my opinion is welcome. Fire away!”
“Uh, well I’m tryin’ t’come up with a gift for Annabelle. We’ve been datin’ over a year, an’ I already gave her all the flowers an’ candles an’ jewelry that she needs. She’s tryin’ t’watch her weight, so no food. Besides, it needs t’be more special than chocolate or flowers, anyway. Doc, this is the longest I ever dated a woman.”
It certainly was, and the whole village knew it. Many a woman had tried to capture Shorty’s heart, but failed. That was probably why Annabelle had succeeded…because she never tried. She continued to be her practically perfect self, letting Shorty know the kind of person she was from the beginning. My friend fell hook, line, and sinker for her refreshing honesty.
“Tell you what—I’m due for a coffee and chat with Annabelle, anyway. Let me talk to her and see what she’s getting you. That should give me some ideas.”
Part of me wanted to suggest an engagement ring. But marriage was a commitment two people needed to decide upon themselves. Well-meaning friends needed to stay out of it.
“Whatcha gettin’ my cuzzin’ for Christmas? Now, I don’t know exactly what he got for ya’, but I bet yer gonna like it! It’s gotta be good, cuz every time I ask ‘im about it, he gets real quiet.”
Shopping for Cayenne—or Cay, as we all called him–had been easy. And hard. Truthfully, I couldn’t put into words what it had been. Officially, we’d been dating for almost eleven months. In practice, we’d been on maybe eight dates. Cay’s parents had retired, leaving him to manage the Hoot n’ Holler restaurant and catering all on his own. He’d been flying solo for a while, anyway. But once folks found out Auntie Bell wasn’t cooking, all H-E-Double hockey sticks broke loose.
“Auntie Bell’s crab cakes were thicker than these. Send ‘em back!”
“My etouffee had at least a dozen more shrimp in it when Auntie Bell was cooking—send it back and put more shrimp in it!”
The complaints and demands rained down on poor Cay like a thunderstorm—quick and painful, with no end in sight.
December traditionally was the most profitable month for the restaurant, with Christmas parties hosted and catered. Cay had already prepared me.
“I’m really sorry, Ev. You’re not going to see or hear from me until after New Year’s. Then, of course, it’s Mardi Gras season…we’ll be swimming in gumbo and King cake. But after that, for sure.”
My gift to Cay was to break up with him. He’d be free to focus on the restaurant. And I’d be free from halfhearted excuses why we couldn’t see each other. My heart hurt for what could have been. But the restaurant was the love of Cay’s life, and I’d never even be a close second.
“Cay got me a gift? Last I heard, I wasn’t going to see him until after Mardi Gras.”
“Uh, well, I don’t know about that, Doc. Look, forget I said anythin’. Anyway, What’re ya’ gettin’ ‘im?”
Someone had spilled the beans and was frantically shoving them back into the can. Or trying to.
“Probably a gift card to Big Ed’s. Sounds like that’s what the men in my life enjoy.”
Another snort—some things never changed. “Nah, Cay’s not gonna like that. How ‘bout a nice new wallet? Or some o’that good smellin’ men’s cologne he wears?”
Was I really going to take gifting advice from Shorty? I couldn’t tell him the truth—he’d take the breakup worse than Cay.
“The cologne sounds nice, Shorty. Thank you for the suggestion. Anything else on your mind?”
Much as I loved my friend, I knew he was calling for a reason other than to check the status of my Christmas shopping.
“Uh, yeah, now that ya’ mention it. Iffin yer too busy with yore classes an’ all, that’s okay. But I’ve got a case I’d like some help on. Nothin’ big, like a murder or a bank robbery. The sheriff an’ his crew always get those big cases. Course that don’t make any sense tuh me. Seems like we oughta have a crack at ‘em.”
“You know, you’re right—that does seem unfair. Why should the people sworn to uphold the law get to catch the ones breaking those laws? Maybe you should talk to your cousin Hugh, see if he’ll run an article in the Gazette about the injustice.”
Shorty had learned to ignore my sarcasm. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that. Anyways, I’ve got a robbery…well, sorta. I’d like ya’ t’work with me an’ figure it out.”
“Here in Graisseville? A robbery? You mean one of the 298 people got robbed? Well, that narrows our suspect pool to the other 297. Actually, less than that if you eliminate me, you, my dad, my brother and his wife, …”
A crackle of irritation sizzled through my phone. “Now hold on, Doc! No need t’be so sarcastic. An’ it could be someone outside o’Graisseville. That number 298 is jus’ the people livin’ inside the village limits. I ain’t part o’that number. So take off yore sarcastic hat an’ put on yore detectin’ hat, okay? I’m pullin’ into yore driveway, so be sure an’ have that detectin’ hat on yore head when ya’ answer the door. An’ don’t tell Zy, but I got another box o’treats for ‘im.”
Shorty’s cousin Cletus owned Brown Dog Bakery, an upscale dog treat company. He specialized in creating high end dog treat recipes and selling them to a national manufacturer. Off the Chain Chewies, featuring my dog’s face, had paid for Cletus’ new fishing boat. Zy’s payment for the use of his face was a monthly box of treats. Shorty insisted they arrive at his house, so he could bring them over and film Zy’s reaction as we unboxed them. Zy probably needed to renegotiate his contract, but it was low on my to do list.

***

After the filming of the unboxing, we settled down to business. I’d learned to keep a stash of Zapp’s Crawtator chips in my pantry, and orange soda in my refrigerator. I was on the downhill of losing the last stubborn ten pounds, so the rest of my kitchen featured what Shorty called slim pickings. As he made his way to the pantry, he slipped into PI mode.
“Pearlie Rabalais called me a few days ago. She’s the lady who hands out fruitcakes durin’ the Christmas holidays.”
“Oh, yes…Pearlie. She makes one for every founding family in Graisseville, plus all the sheriff’s deputies, firefighters, and EMT’s. I heard she wanted to widen the circle to employees of the Graisseville school system, but the teacher’s union stepped in. Something about the fruitcake violated union policy. I think it had something to do with bribery.”
“Yeah, it’s more like a vie-oh-lay-shun o’human decency! That fruitcake’s dry as a cotton field in August. Fact is, I’d rather eat the dirt in my backyard than try t’put away one o’Miss Pearlie’s fruitcakes.”
Thankfully, I’d avoided Pearlie’s questionable creations for quite some time. Mother had initially thanked Pearlie every year for her delivery, then dumped the crumbly loaf into the trash. When Nate was seven, Daddy deemed him old enough to answer the door and telephone. My father underestimated my brother’s loyalty to the truth.
“Why hello there, Nathan! You may not remember me, but I’m Mrs. Rabalais. I’ve stopped by to deliver your family a delicious fruitcake that I’ve created from scratch. It’s a closely guarded family recipe, handed down from my great great grandmother. Is your mama home? I’d love to chat with her.”
As Pearlie squinted into the cool recesses of our hallway, Nate set her straight.
“No, ma’am. My mama isn’t home, but I can save you some trouble. The second you leave our front porch, I’ll just throw your fruitcake into the trash. That’s what my mama does every year, and I’ve seen no evidence her behavior will change. So as soon as you leave, I’ll just take care of that job for her.”
Then, remembering the manners Mother and Daddy had poured into him, he finished with, “Now you have a nice day, Mrs. Rabalais. And stop by any time.”
When Mother returned from the store, Nate stood at attention, giving her an official report on the phone call from Mrs. Willis and the visit from Pearlie Rabalais. Mother nodded at the phone call, but almost fainted at Nate’s report on Miss Pearlie.
When Daddy got home, he patted Nate on the back and pronounced him the official door and phone keeper. Mother declared Nate would never come within five feet of either while living under her roof. In the end, it was a combination of both. Mother made me or my sister Mad handle outside communication when she wasn’t home. When Daddy was in charge, he promoted Nate to keeper of doors and telephones.
Shorty was well aware of Nate’s encounter with Pearlie and her fruitcake. “I guess she don’t bring ya’ one o’her grit cakes since ya’ moved back. Seein’ as how yore mama threw them out all those years.”
“Nope, and I really should thank the good Lord for that blessing tonight when I say my prayers. But what about you? You’re not part of a founding family, or a first responder—you don’t get any of those frightful fruitcakes.”
“Yeah? Ya’d think so. But when I come back from the Gulf War, an’ the village threw that parade for me, it sealed my fate. Ol’ Miss Pearlie, she brought me a fruitcake the next Christmas. T’thank me for my service, she said. Doc, the MRE’s we got in Kuwait were better than that dang dry as a bone cake!”
Poor Shorty! He lost his right leg from the knee down in the Gulf War, a sacrifice well deserving of a reward. But not a reward best suited for compost in a garden.
“Anyways, this year Miss Pearlie had all her fruitcakes coolin’ on her screened-in back porch. It wasn’t locked or nothin’. I mean, who’d steal fruitcakes? But they did! Someone stole eighty-two loaves of fruitcake, God bless ‘em.”
By then, my cup of jasmine tea was a perfect 180 degrees. As I sipped, I mulled over the story. “So, no leads, then?”
Shorty shook his head once, taking the bare minimum of time. He needed to get back to his chips and soda.
“Well, you’ve got to determine why someone would steal the fruitcake. That’s going to give you a list of suspects.”
My PI choked down his chips, eager to correct me. “Ain’t that obvious? They stole ‘em so they wouldn’t have t’be all fake an’ such, an’ thank Miss Pearlie for her terrible fruitcake!”
“No, that’s not it. Think about it, Shorty. What’s easier: thanking Miss Pearlie, who really is a sweet and kind lady, and throwing her fruitcake in the trash? Or pulling up your truck and throwing eighty-two fruitcakes into it, then finding somewhere to get rid of them? No, there’s another reason someone stole them. And we’ve got to figure out why.”
At last, a case! It had been over ten months since we’d solved the Remy Robichaux murder. Teaching crime fiction and creative writing paid the bills, but solving crime stirred my soul. Finding the fruitcake thief didn’t rank as high on the fun scale as solving a murder, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
I did have one burning question, though. “How much is Miss Pearlie paying you? I’m not asking you to share the fee—I’m just curious.”
Shorty wiped his mouth. “Uh, well, she wanted t’pay me in baked goods. Now, I ain’t ever had anythin’ other than her fruitcake. But I didn’t wanna take no chances. I told her $200 a day plus expenses.”
Of course! Shorty was a fan of The Rockford Files, so it made sense he’d quote Jim Rockford’s fee structure. No matter it was from the late 1970’s.
He took the last swig of orange soda and crunched the can. “Miss Pearlie said that was fine, but she could only afford two days, maybe three. Truth be told, I’been missin’ my PI time, solvin’ cases an’ all. So, I said I’d do it for a new set o’tires. The ones on muh truck are lookin’ pretty bald.”
As always, I knew this story had a logical thread in there somewhere. I just had to ask the right question. “Why would you ask Miss Pearlie to pay you with truck tires?”
Shorty stood up and tossed the soda can into my trash, then rolled the open end of the chip bag and clipped it. The words neat freak scrolled across my brain. “Geez, Doc…don’tcha know? The Rabalais family owns Graisseville Tires n’ More. Miss Pearlie’s father-in-law opened the doors back in 1957. Or was it 1955? Anyway, her son runs it now. Yeah, she can get me some top o’the line tires.”
Ah, small town connections! “That’s right, I remember. And new tires are more than adequate payment. Okay, I’m in! It’ll be fun to work with you again, anyway. So, where do we start?”
As if on cue, the theme song from Murder, She Wrote blared from my phone.
“Now, who could that be?” The only people who called me were family and friends—and they all had special ringtones.
“Evangeline? This is Jack Hebert. You don’t remember me.”
Oh, but I did. I could barely remember what I’d eaten for breakfast, much less what happened in high school. And I’d had my nose in a book all four years. But Jack Hebert stuck out in my head. He’d tried his charms on me, but that wasn’t the part I remembered. At the time I’d been too naïve to notice.
One afternoon in the library, I’d been killing time, waiting for middle school to let out. One of the tradeoffs for getting my license was to pick up my sister Mad every day. Her given name was Madeline, but Nate nicknamed her Mad for her temper. Unfortunately for Mad, it stuck.
Jack popped into the library, an unusual action for the school quarterback.
“Hey! Evangeline, isn’t it? Say, would you like to go to The Burger Shack and get a shake? Most of the football team’s already there—they’re saving us seats.”
As usual, I found books more intriguing than boys. “Oh, I don’t know any football players. Besides, I’ve got to pick up my sister in another twenty minutes. Thanks anyway.”
Jack was relentless. “We can bring her along. C’mon, it’ll be fun! I’ll introduce you to everybody. You two will get a real kick out of the whole experience.”
Mad probably would. My sister had always been more concerned with fashion and popularity than I’d ever been. I’d never get her out of The Burger Shack.
“Oh, that’s okay. We both need to get home and help my mother with supper. But I appreciate your invitation. Maybe another time.”
Was Jack determined to mooch a milkshake off me? Or was he fascinated by a girl he couldn’t impress? As I stuck my nose back into Little Women, I saw an index finger curl over the top of the book.
“Whatcha reading there? It can’t be more interesting than me.” My eyes traveled from the finger to the baby blues framed by the longest eyelashes I’d ever seen—especially on a boy. He pulled the book down to reveal his crooked grin. No doubt Jack had flashed that smile at enough women to fill our football stadium. The guy had been doing this his whole life. But he’d never met a girl like me.
“Actually, it is more interesting than you. I’m at the part where Beth gets scarlet fever and gets so sick, they don’t think she’s going to make it through the night.”
Up went my book, blocking baby blues, inch long eyelashes, and a mouth open wide enough to swallow a burger from The Burger Shack.
Our little meeting in the library changed my relationship with Jack Hebert. The guy spoke to me in the hallways, even holding doors open for me. He continued to accumulate free movie tickets and food from his adoring masses, but he put me in a different category altogether.
In my senior yearbook he wrote, “To Evangeline—the one that got away.” He headed off to LSU, then law school, settling into the Louisiana Attorney General’s office. From there he took a turn toward politics, or so I’d heard. I never attended any high school class reunions, so I never knew where he landed.
Imagine my surprise a few years ago when I spotted a postcard in my mailbox. “Jackson Hebert: The Choice For Change.” Jack’s baby blues and crooked grin stared back at me, thirty plus years older, but just as handsome. Maybe a little wiser?
When I’d gone to the polls, I’d voted for him. He’d won by a landslide, and I’d considered reaching out. Then life got busy, Doug passed, and the kids needed their remaining parent more than ever. I’d heard through my father that Jack’s wife died of ovarian cancer, but I wasn’t sure what to say. “Hey, Jack! Welcome to the dead spouse club. It totally stinks, but you get a lot of sympathy food.”
I’d wondered if he’d forgotten me. The voice on the other end answered that question.
“Jack? Of course, I remember you! Why, you’re my United States senator. I voted for you, by the way.”
Shorty’s eyes squinted in that familiar slant I’d learned to recognize. Next would be the frantic hand gestures. I really should get with him sometime and learn what they all meant. I always felt like I was playing a round of Charades…and losing every time.
What did two hands facing palms up mean, anyway? Shorty didn’t know something? Well, that was normal. But why was he telling me?
“Oh, well, thank you. I do appreciate your vote. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my uncle Sid Hebert has been arrested for murder. Of course, he didn’t do it! My entire family is rallying around him.”
Jack Hebert was calling me! Senator Jack Hebert was calling me. The last important political figure who’d contacted me was Roby Melancon. He’d decided to run for police chief of Graisseville. We didn’t even have a police force, but Roby wanted the position, anyway. He thought people would respect him more with a title. Poor Roby didn’t get enough signatures to even get on the ballot, which was a blessing. He’d made so many promises to get his petition signed, he would have spent his entire term trying to fulfill them. Jack definitely trumped Roby on the political ladder.
“Oh, no! I hadn’t heard. I’m so sorry, Jack—I know you’re close to your uncle. What can I do to help?”
“Thank you, Evangeline. I appreciate your sentiments. And you’re right—Uncle Sid and I are close. His business dealings throughout the years have not always been on the up and up. But he’d never kill anyone. Anyway, I understand you and Shorty Cormier have some sort of investigation business. You’ve solved a couple of cases for the sheriff, I’ve heard. Is that right?”
Wow! Senator Jack Hebert knew about our crime fighting. Maybe he’d authorize some sort of signal, similar to the one Commissioner Gordon flashed in the sky for Batman? Then, when anyone needed us, they could call Jack and he could flash the signal. But what would it look like?
“Uh, Ev…are you there?”
Whoops! “Yes, Jack…I mean, Senator. Sorry, what was the question?”
A soft chuckle floated through my phone. “You can call me Jack. Is it true you’ve solved some cases for the sheriff?”
“Oh, yes! We’ve solved two murders, actually. And we’re working on a robbery case right now.”
Should I have mentioned the case of the missing fruitcakes? Technically, it was my third investigation, which improved my statistics. At least, I thought it did. Honestly, I’d dropped my statistics class after failing the first test.
“Oh, hey, that’s impressive. Uncle Sid’s being held without bond at the jail in Baton Rouge. I’d like to hire you to find the real killer. When could you get here and talk to him? And his lawyer, I’m sure. He wants to be present for every single meeting, so he can bill more hours.”
Interesting comment, considering Jack had practiced law for many years. Of course, he’d been a prosecutor. They worked for pennies but slept with a clear conscience.
“Let me talk to Shorty and I’ll give you a call back. Or should I just talk to Sid’s lawyer?”
Another chuckle drifted into my ear. “No, I’m calling the shots. In case you didn’t know, the founding families have a slush fund of sorts. It helps with legal expenses for family members on the wrong side of the law. Sid isn’t the first founding family member to utilize the fund. But everything’s running through me—the expenses, the legal strategy…all of it. I want to make sure my uncle has access to every available resource.”
“Of course. Give me five minutes and I’ll call you right back.”
Maybe I could have put Shorty on speaker phone, and we would have sorted out the details. But did I trust my PI to be professional and refrain from sarcastic comments? Not a chance.
“Was that the not-so-honorable Senator Jackson Hebert? Well, butter my behind and call me a biscuit! What’s that guy want?”
“I’d rather not…butter your posterior, that is. Or anywhere on your person, for that matter. Goodness, I’m never going to get that image out of my mind! Senator Hebert wants us to meet with his uncle Sid at the jail in Baton Rouge. He’s been charged with murder, and the senator would like us to find the real killer.”
Ah, the all too familiar horse snort. “Well, of course he’s sittin’ in jail. Those Heberts are nothin’ but a bunch o’thieves anyway. Not a far jump t’murderin’, that’s for sure.”
Shorty didn’t have much compassion for any of the founding families, except the Bergerons of course. Even though my ancestors were one of the five families to settle Graisseville, we didn’t think much of it.
My dad would always say, “I betcha a Dunbar or a Cormier opened the door for ol’ great great granddaddy Clement Bergeron, as he stepped into the clerk of court’s office. Yes sir, ol’ Clement was the fifth person to register his property in Graisseville. But if Bergerons were as polite as those Dunbars and Cormiers, why Clement would have been sixth or seventh in line. We Bergerons don’t always have the best manners.”
My father and Shorty’s dad had been the best of friends, not caring who was and who wasn’t a so-called founding family. “Evangeline, God loves all of us, and He doesn’t care when we moved to Graisseville. Or Louisiana, for that matter. But I’ll tell you one thing…”
Dad would always lean closer, like he was revealing an important secret. “It might not say so in the Bible, but I have it on good authority that the good Lord cheers for LSU on His day of rest.”
Nate actually believed that bit of nonsense well into high school. All that to say, the other founding families could be a bit uppity at times.
“Okay, I’ll call the senator back and tell him we’d rather chase a fruitcake thief than a murderer. After all, you do need new truck tires.”
A low growl echoed in my kitchen. If my PI hadn’t consumed half a bag of Crawtators and a can of soda, I’d think his stomach was complaining. But it was the sound of a man admitting I was right.

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