Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) Read online

  Rip Tide

  A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery

  Book Two

  by

  Jeanne Glidewell

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-820-0

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 2015 by Jeanne Glidewell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedication

  This story takes place in Rockport, Rip and Rapella Ripple's hometown on the Coastal Bend (Gulf Coast) in south Texas. My husband Bob, Dolly, the best traveling cat we've ever owned, and I, spend much of our time there, too, in our waterfront condo on Key Allegro Island. Heaven to me is relaxing on our back deck with a cup of coffee, after a successful day of wade-fishing, and enjoying a beautiful sunset from our hard-to-beat viewpoint on Little Bay. I thought it would be appropriate to dedicate this book to a few of my most beloved Rockport friends: Cheri Sheets, Barb Harrison, Cindy Colmer, and Sue Hale. These ladies not only support me in my writing career, but they're also a lot of fun to hang out with, go fishing with, and just spend time with doing all sorts of amusing and entertaining things. They play no small part in why Rockport, Texas, is my favorite place in the entire world. Thanks for all the great times we've had, ladies! And here's to many, many more in the future!

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my editors, Alice Duncan of Roswell, New Mexico, and Judy Beatty of Madison, Alabama, who take very good care of my manuscripts. I'd also like to thank Nina and Brian Paules, of eBook Prep and ePublishing Works, who take very good care of my books after Alice and Judy are through with them. All four are very special people and incredible to work with.

  I'd also like to thank two women I met through messages they sent me via my website, www.jeanneglidewell.com, whom I now consider friends. They are Yvonne Pineiro, of Centereach, New York, and Shirley Worley of Shawnee, Kansas. My thanks to Yvonne, an incredibly talented artist, for her random acts of kindness and for providing me with inspiration. Using a photo she took off my Facebook page of baby elephants I'd photographed while on a Kenya Safari, Yvonne sent me a beautiful framed print she'd drawn of it. Her breathtaking drawing now hangs proudly in the entryway of our Kansas home. You can see and/or purchase some of Yvonne's amazing work via her online store − www.amazon.com/handmade/studioyp

  I also greatly appreciate Shirley, an author in her own right, for her proofreading skills. Having completed her debut novel, Easy Money, she is currently writing a sequel. It's nice to have Shirley's sharp eye to catch obscure and occasionally bizarre errors before the books are released. The ones she doesn't catch—that's all on me!

  Character List

  Rapella Ripple—A spunky senior citizen and full-time RVer who's determined to track down the killer of her son-in-law's best friend and business partner when Milo lands on the top of the suspect list. Despite being miffed when her daughter, Regina, refers to her parents as "rednecks," nothing says "Get 'er done" quite like Rapella.

  Clyde "Rip" Ripple—When a murder is committed in the county where he once served as Sheriff, the other half of this sixty-eight-year old couple is miffed when he's banned from the police station by the man he'd groomed to replace him. Sheriff Joe Peabody considers Rip's involvement a "conflict of interest."

  Regina Ripple—The Ripple's fifty-year-old daughter is miffed when her husband won't consent to buying her a new high-dollar vehicle. Perhaps she's unaware of the true reason Milo is denying her this luxury she feels she so greatly deserves. Much to Rapella's chagrin, Reggie and her mother are polar opposites when it comes to money.

  Milo Ripple—A nasty bar brawl ensues after Milo becomes miffed at his best friend when Cooper Claypool's poor judgment threatens the future of their co-owned business. Having no verifiable alibi and a perceived motive to kill, Milo is considered a good candidate for the title of "killer." His boneheaded and tight-fisted tendencies frustrate Rip, who is trying to clear his son-in-law's name. Are all of Milo's in-laws' efforts in vain?

  Cooper Claypool—This victim of a gruesome death is found floating, spear-side up in the Gulf of Mexico. Miffed at being blindsided by his best friend's ire the previous day, he had opted to go spear-fishing alone. Perhaps he needed to give his mind and heart a chance to cool off. But being shot dead with one's own spear-gun is just plain cold-hearted.

  Big Bob—Big Bob is miffed when he feels as though he's being stalked by a determined senior citizen. Could this large gap-toothed man be someone other than who Rapella thinks he is?

  Dr. Patrick O'Keefe—Newly divorced, this general practitioner is miffed that his ex-wife, Avery Curry, is fighting him for custody of Liz, while she's shacking up with the murder victim. And Rapella's habit of cooling him off doesn't unmiff him any, either. Could his most recent "operation" have been an ominous plan carried out to eliminate the competition?

  Avery Curry—The victim's current live-in girlfriend is more panicked than miffed when she's asked to cook up something she doesn't have a clue how to prepare. Her miffedness subsides when an unexpected Master Chef steps in and tries to help pull her backside out of the fire. But was her professed love for Cooper Claypool sincere?

  The Schillings—Both Mack and Trey are miffed when MC Hammerhead Construction Company fails to hold up their end of the deal. How far will the father-and-son team go to get even?

  Julio Sarcova—A local barber and former customer of Milo and Cooper's who becomes miffed when his young son's health is compromised by MC Hammerhead's less than professional standards. Did Julio find time between protests to exact justice on his son's behalf?

  "Captain Hook"—An unidentified menace who's determined to recoup the funds owed his boss. This dude stays miffed. But without a lofty level of miffedness he couldn't intimidate debtors over the phone as effectively. The Ripples suspect Captain Hook is a moniker for the real killer and could possibly be someone they're already investigating as a potential perpetrator. Is this dude miffed enough to actually eliminate debtors who don't cave into the pressure?

  Philip Bean, a.k.a. "Pinto"—A local fisherman who's miffed that the over-harvesting of oysters was forcing him to stretch every dollar to the max just to eke out a living. After all, he has to pay the crew even when the day's booty ain't worth a hill of beans. It's said killers often return to the scene of the crime. Is this adage true in this crime?

  The Willis Brothers—Billy and Spider are miffed because their court-ordered AA meetings were cutting into their drinking time. For
tunately for these two rummies, Pinto can't afford to be too particular about who he hires as deckhands. These two siblings have set the bar low for their stations in life. But could they have had another objective in mind?

  From the Desk of

  Jeanne Glidewell

  Dear Reader,

  As a cozy mystery writer, every one of my novels should begin with the same nine words. Make yourself comfortable while I tell you a story. Because that's what I am; a storyteller. I'm not a wordsmith, a grammar professor, or even a fifth-grade spelling bee champion. I'm just a storyteller who's always happy to spin a yarn for the entertainment of others.

  Please do not feel compelled to look up questionable words in this novel that my wonderful editors reluctantly let slide (while gritting their teeth). I grew up winning a good deal of Scrabble games by making up words (with believable definitions too bizarre and specific to have been made up) and I'm not above making them up now on those occasions when no word recognized by Funk & Wagnalls quite fits the bill. "Miffedness" is not the result of one of those occasions, by the way, but I won't vouch for "unmiff." I suppose my novels should come with the warning: "Do not try this at school."

  Also, keep in mind, Rip Tide is a work of fiction, and I have freely used the creative license that comes with it; such as a few specific non-facts about the Rockport area, local business names and places, specifics about spear-fishing (which, like the majority of readers, I've experienced exactly zero times), and other random acts of total fabrication that are merely products of my imagination. I try to be as factual as possible, but when that option's not feasible, I just reach in and pull something out of my bag of tricks. And it's a very deep and crowded bag.

  I'd also like to apologize in advance for the fact I can't seem to quit my bad habit of blathering—something Alice Duncan chides me for every time she edits one of my books. (I've tried patches, pills, even hypnotism—but nothing seems to work.) Rip Tide might have been more aptly titled Blathering Heights. With all that in mind, I hope you enjoy this tale involving one of my favorite pastimes: fishing while wintering in our Rockport, Texas, vacation home.

  Happy Reading,

  Jeanne

  Chapter 1

  "Fishy, fishy in the brook, come and get on daddy's hook," my husband, Clyde "Rip" Ripple, sang as he pretended to cast a heavy duty fishing rod inside Tackle Town, a popular sporting goods store in our hometown of Rockport, Texas. I don't think he had any idea how ridiculous he looked when he set the invisible hook on an imaginary fish. When Rip began pretending to reel in a large catch, which was clearly putting up quite a fight, I had to walk away so it wasn't obvious to other shoppers that he was my husband.

  Satisfied with the fishing rod's performance, after apparently landing the "whopper" successfully, he walked over and placed two identical rod and reel combos in our basket.

  "I can't wait to catch a big redfish," he said excitedly.

  "Oh, wasn't that what you just caught in the bait bucket aisle? I didn't see you measure it, honey. Just how large was that thing? By the tussle it gave you, I have to assume it was a dandy."

  "Oh, good grief! I almost forgot I need to get a couple of those stick-on measuring tapes to adhere to the sides of our poles. Thanks for reminding me." He turned on his heels to head back in the direction from which he'd just come.

  "Seriously? I can't wait to see what a $117.29 fish looks like!" I exclaimed, speaking to his backside.

  "What are you talking about?" He turned back around to ask.

  "We're buying fishing licenses, expensive rods and reels—"

  "I wouldn't want a trophy red to get away because we were using inferior equipment."

  "Hand-held nets and neoprene waders—"

  "Milo said they like to get out and wade for redfish in the shallows of Aransas and Copano Bays, and we wouldn't want to have to sit in the boat feeding bait to the crabs while Milo and Cooper are catching keeper fish right and left."

  "And fishing line, nets, stringers, life jackets, pliers—"

  "Duh."

  "And why do we need all those four-and five-dollar plastic lures when Milo said we'll be using live bait? Mullet and shrimp, I think he said."

  "Well, dear, it's because I need something to fill my new tackle box. There's no sense having a big tackle box if it's not fully stocked with tackle. And I had to have something to keep my steel leaders, sinkers, hooks and all in. It'd be embarrassing to have to keep my fishing gear in a Ziploc bag. I'd look like a kid fishing with a Mickey Mouse fishing pole. Besides, that way we'll be prepared if the reds aren't biting and the guys decide to 'throw some plastic' for speckled trout, as Milo put it," Rip said in defense of his power-shopping spree.

  "Okay, I get it, Mr. Trump! My point is that Milo said we were each allowed to keep three redfish per day. If we both limit out we'll have a total of six fish. Divide six by what this basket-full of stuff's gonna cost us, and by my account we'll have about $117.29 invested in each redfish we catch. And that's not including the bait we'll still have to buy!"

  "Just be thankful we didn't have to buy the boat, too," Rip said. "We might catch our limits in trout, sheepshead, flounder and/or black drum, too, you know. Besides, you can ask any fisherman and they'll tell you they can buy fish at the grocery store much cheaper than they can go out and catch them themselves. But that's of no significance. One doesn't fish to save money on their grocery bill. They do it for the pure enjoyment of the sport and the excitement of catching that trophy fish. The same thing goes for hunting, sweetheart."

  Not interested in any response I might have to his explanation, Rip walked away to check out a rack of Guy Harvey merchandise: t-shirts, belts, jackets, and ball caps, with depictions of trout, redfish, sailfish, tarpon, and other game fish on them. I assumed the fish needed to see which particular fish you were hoping to catch before they decided whether or not to bite down on your bait. Judging by the cap Rip brought back and tossed in the basket, he was hoping to land a hammerhead shark.

  "I'm putting my chest waders back if we're going to be out there wading amongst sharks," I said.

  "Actually, Milo told me we were more in danger of a dolphin grabbing hold of the fish on our stringer than being attacked by a shark. But he did say a fisherman pulled a five-hundred-pound bull shark out of Aransas Bay a few years ago."

  "Thank you, honey. That makes me feel so much better about wading now!" I said with a dramatic shudder. Rip shrugged and turned to head toward a rack of Columbia fishing shirts with mesh backs covered by cape-like material. Air vents, I assumed. "Don't tell me that to have a successful day of fishing we have to dress like Harold Ensley, too."

  For years, Rip tuned in weekly to watch Harold Ensley's show, The Sportsmen's Friend, to see what the fishing legend would reel in on that episode. Even though we resided in a fishing community, Rip's career had kept him too busy to participate in the locally popular activity. But learning the art of angling had been on his bucket list since he retired from law enforcement. I really was happy to see him enthusiastic about the upcoming fishing excursion, just appalled at the chunk the trip would take out of our checking account.

  As I watched Rip select a pale blue shirt from the rack, I wondered if the fish might not take me seriously if I had on the stained Texas Rangers shirt I was planning to wear. They'd been handing the t-shirts out free at the admissions gate when we attended one of the Rangers' baseball games nearly twenty years ago. And if something's free, I'm all over it whether I need it or not.

  I was much more financially conservative than my husband of nearly fifty years, as was abundantly clear by the over-flowing basket of merchandise he was now pushing toward the check-out counter. All I'd added to the cart was a two-dollar tube of lip balm with SPF-30 sun protection in it. I was more concerned about getting blisters on my lip than I was about catching fish.

  Rip and I had sold our home in Rockport five years ago when we were sixty-three, and bought a thirty-foot travel trailer. We, or more accurately, I,
nicknamed it the "Chartreuse Caboose" after we'd painted the trailer that color to amuse ourselves on a slow afternoon. Rip would classify the phrase "we painted" as a misnomer because he was neither amused by the work, nor in favor of the paint job to begin with. It might have been the yellow and brown sunflowers I'd added to give our trailer a little extra pop that had turned Rip off. Fortunately, a lengthy foot massage was his weakness and in exchange for one, I could have gotten him to paint all the SpongeBob characters down the sides of the trailer, too.

  Rip's idea of amusing himself on a slow afternoon was being stretched out on the couch with a Crown and Coke in one hand and the TV clicker in the other. It was often up to me to keep Rip busy, or even mobile, at times. My restlessness was the primary reason we were now full-time RVers, traveling the country and living a more active lifestyle.

  Occasionally, we'd stay in an RV park for several months and help out the campground owners for free rent and occasionally a little cash, to boot. Other times we'd drive from place to place just enjoying the scenery and the open road. We had a tendency to follow the sun like a field of sunflowers. Hence, the reason I added a few of them to our trailer's paint job. And here, you probably thought it was an odd decision on my part.

  We were spending this entire winter back in our south Texas hometown on the Gulf so we could spend some time with our fifty-year-old daughter, Regina, and get to know her husband a little better. Also, we felt it would give Rip, with his new artificial hip, some much-needed time to recoup and recover in the warmer climate.

  Dolly, our plump grey and white tabby, traveled with us. Her belly didn't drag the ground when she walked yet, but she seemed to have set her sights on that attainable goal. Her favorite place to take a cat nap was stretched out on the back of the couch with the sun glaring through the window, roasting her fur. Dolly was actually hot to the touch sometimes. We nearly had to use hot pads to pick her up at times. But like a pig on a spit, Dolly turned over on occasion to ensure she roasted evenly and didn't get too done on one side or the other.