The Tommy Two Shoes Mysteries

The Tommy Two Shoes Mysteries

From Mountains to More

Thomas Beck

The Tommy Two Shoes Mysteries: From mountains to more

Copyright © 2014 Thomas Beck

Rights reserved.

Cover by JosDCreations

JosDCreations.com

ISBN-10: 194108706X

ISBN-13: 978-1-94108706-0

Laurel Highlands Publishing

Mount Pleasant, PA

USA

LaurelHighlandsPublishing.com

E-Book Distribution: XinXii

www.xinxii.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

In memory of:

My wife, Cindy

My mother, Sybil

My father, Carl

Table of Contents

Mystery Writer’s Mountain Retreat

Hey Copper

A Soft Spot for Redheads

Crime Hits Home

Burden of Love

Missing

More or Les

About the Author

Mystery Writer’s Mountain Retreat

I felt a deep desire to scribble mystery stories for most of my life, but my first adventure into the world of writing didn’t happen until after I had retired. Until recently, my only writing was to complete police reports on crimes I’d investigated over the thirty-four years as Pittsburgh police detective. I was about to attend my first retreat for writers. I’d been solving mysteries for a long time and now I wanted to put them on paper for others to read. My creative juices had been bottled up for way too long. I was taking the first step.

The daily grind of logging reports for the police files limited my time for writing and what I could include in my statements as a cop. Now, I was free to explore my creativity and had plans to write about some of my many experiences of crimes I’d solved from memories and my notebooks.

Fate directed me to a small advertisement for the Wilderness Lodge describing a retreat for writers in the Pittsburgh Press. I made the decision to start, by registering for the mystery writer’s seminar at a resort tucked in the mountains near Denver, Colorado. The flight from Pittsburgh had been uneventful, but tiring. The rolling scenery form the plane’s window impressed me with its ever changing beauty. The awe only increased when I saw the mountains as the plane approached the Denver airport.

I almost hoped that Aidan had stayed back in Pittsburgh.

Aidan LeClerc is my partner in crime… solving. While he was alive, he worked as a police reporter. Somehow, he managed to survive from day to day dealing with his multiple phobias. His ghostly being decided to move in with me, and now, I had to live with them. One of his fears was a fear of flying. I had terrible time convincing him that I was heading to Colorado with or without him. If he wanted to travel with me, he’d have to fly.

Late at night to relax after a hard day on the force, I’d fall asleep listening to Aidan share ideas and clues to the case on which I was working. In time, I relied on his help and he attached himself to me.

A moss green van, marked with a gold hued logo and the name of the Wilderness Lodge, picked me up at the airport. I was hoping to relax for an hour in my room or somewhere else at the lodge until the evening meal. A younger woman greeted me as I stepped into the wide lobby. "I’m Marsha. Welcome to the Wilderness Lodge. How can I help you?"

The highly polished reception desk reflected the softly flickering flames from the lodge’s massive, gray stone fireplace. The desk was centered directly beneath the multi-antlered elk chandelier. It was where Marsha Fontaine welcomed me and other guests as they arrived and issued keys to their rooms or cabins.

Marsha was a slender, fretful looking, Caucasian female: five-five, one hundred and five pounds with gray eyes, mousy brown hair and a receding chin. As a cop, I got into the habit of labeling people by their physical attributes. It came in handy when I questioned victims or chased a perpetrator or suspect of a crime as a detective. I had a memory for stats and could readily transfer my observations onto paper when I needed them to write my police report.

I gave her my name, but before she could say more, a ten year old tornado banged open the front door, grabbed an umbrella from a huge copper kettle stand, poked Marsha with the pointed end, then ran up the oak stairway. He disappeared into the second floor, the umbrella left swinging on an antlered light sconce.

That’s my brother, Michael. He can be so hyperactive at times, she apologized. Almost simultaneously, a shapely pair of legs descended the stairs. They belonged to the owner of the lodge, who was Marsha’s mother. The woman lifted the still swinging umbrella from the sconce, then replaced it in the urn before entering the dining room.

Marsha handed me the key and a map of the grounds with my cabin circled. She advised me, We are above eight thousand feet here. You may develop a slight headache and become out of breath more easily. Take your time and you should be fine.

I left the lodge, heading to my cabin. When I dropped my luggage inside my room, I was a little out of breath. I waited a few minutes, before heading back to the deck lined with Adirondack chairs. I wanted to enjoy the serenity until it was time for the evening meal.

*

Wait staff bustled, serving our meal in the cedar-board ceiled dining room. Thick log beams arched high overhead. The centers of the oak tables were made more rustic with small, bright green ferns in copper hued pots.

I’d just finished a wonderfully prepared evening meal of a fresh green salad, a Cornish game hen, and a medley of potatoes and vegetables, but the dessert of peach cobbler topped with a large dollop of whipped cream and the cup of strong, black coffee gave the perfect crowning touch to the meal. The great food and the unobstructed panorama was a wonderful way for me to unwind.

Settling back into my seat, I had the perfect view through the floor to ceiling windows, which overlooked a small lake. Dark spruce and hemlock trees crowded the far shore. In the distance, mountains still retained their crowns of bright snow and ice.

Hearing a cry of, Oh no! I tossed my thick linen napkin onto the dining table. Instinctively, I followed the loud cry of distress.

I lumbered into the lobby of the lodge like an old fire horse answering the bell.

Marsha was on her knees, frantically searching for something. As I approached, she muttered, I have to find my gold pen. She continued to whine, mumbling to herself. It was my favorite. Lawrence gave that pen to me. I’ve been writing all of my letters to him with it. I’m sure that he will know it’s not the same pen. How will I tell him that I lost it?

I re-introduced myself to the nearly hysterical girl. I’m Tommy Two Shoes, can I help?

I can hear the snickers. Tommy Two Shoes is my nickname. I picked it up after my pop was killed in a Pittsburgh steel mill accident. A heavy roll of steel broke loose, crushing him and injuring several co-workers. My father’s death tore my mother’s heart out. She never recovered or remarried.

I met many relatives at my dad’s funeral, even though I was too young to remember. Aunts, uncles, and cousins flowed in a seemingly endless stream. The one person I remembered the most was my mom’s brother, Aidan. Three years later, he lived with us for a short while to support my mom when my brother, John, disappeared from our yard while we were playing. Uncle Aidan and I formed a bond that extended after his passing. He was the person who encouraged me to write.

Like countless others who lost the bread winners in their family, we had to move in with Nana and Pappy. Nana used to tell us that it was almost as bad for us then as it was for her and Pappy living through the Great Depression.

Mom struggled to keep us fed. There was little money left over for clothing or anything else. To help, I sold newspapers for extra money. That left me almost no time to write.

One year, I had to wear a mismatched pair of shoes to school. Kids could be so cruel. That’s how I got the handle of Two Shoes.

I am thankful though. Another boy I knew had to wear a shoe on one foot and a boot on the other. They called him Shoe-Booty.

I left my pen on the desk when we were called to the dining room and now it’s gone! I can’t find it anywhere, Marsha’s nasal voice keened.

I strolled closer to the reception desk. On top of the mahogany desk was a thin sheaf of sea foam green paper. The top page had writing on it. Marsha popped up and quickly turned the page over. It was as if she were afraid that I would read what she had been writing to Lawrence. The polished, dark desk softly reflected the glow of the crackling flames from the fireplace.

As other diners finished their meals, they slowly drifted into the lobby, drawn by the noise and activity. The would-be mystery writers reluctantly began to help look for the missing pen. One by one, they joined the search party, just to quiet Marsha’s mewling voice. Many of the hunters ended their search patterns back in their own rooms or cabins.

Marie Fontaine was a small boned, Caucasian female: five four, about one hundred fifteen, cornflower blue eyes, thin lips, prematurely silver hair, and approximately fifty-six. After making her own search, she said, Marsha, we will look again in the morning.

Marie called, Louisa, come here please. Louisa’s thickly soled shoes padded softly across the lodge-pine floor. She wore a gold badge with her name etched on it, pinned to the left shoulder of her pale blue uniform.

Yes, ma’am.

When you clean later today, I want you to pay special attention to the lobby. Marsha has lost her gold fountain pen. I would like you to look for it.

Yes, ma’am.

I noticed that Louisa didn’t look at Marie as Marie spoke to her. She continued to look down at the laces on her shoes. Only the top of her black hair pulled back into a tight bun was visible. From my past experiences, people who were less than honest always refused to look me in the eye.

Marie didn’t say more, and Louisa hurried back down a hallway.

*

The cabin I’d been assigned was about one hundred yards from the main lodge. It was a small cedar clapped building with patches of moss growing on its shake roof. The wood had weathered to a dark coffee brown color. A screened door protected the wide plank door from bugs and allowed for the circulation of air if I chose not to use the window air conditioner. I was unsure if Aidan had followed me to Colorado, until he saw that I had chosen a plain, rustic, outside cabin and not one of the rooms inside of the main lodge. He tended to appear with scents of cleaning supplies. I smelled chlorine bleach. We had a royal fight and the smell increased to assault me.

I am not sleeping in there. There has to be spiders, bugs, snakes and rats. Cabins are nasty things. You can’t be serious about me staying in there for the weekend. I can’t stand dust and spider webs.

I was unsure whether Uncle Aidan was passing a clue to me in his usual oblique way or whether he was just grousing about my choice.

Unlocking the door, I could tell by the increasing smell of chlorine bleach that my uncle was peering over my shoulder, scrutinizing the inside of the room. Look, Uncle Aidan, it’s clean. There’s no dust, no spider webs, and no snakes. This place is already filled with the aroma of Pine-Sol. That should make you feel right at home. Even the bed linens are clean and smell freshly washed. If you don’t like the cabin and don’t think it’s clean enough for you, you can climb a tree and spend the night in a squirrel’s nest for all I care.

I won’t repeat what my uncle answered.

*

It must have been the freshness of the mountain air that woke me so early. I looked out onto the small lake in front of my cabin in time to see the view just before the sun rose. Thin wisps of fog embroidered intricate patterns over the surface of the water. I stepped outside of my cabin onto the tiny, cedar stoop. The atmosphere was thin at that altitude, but the air tasted fresh and delicious.

As I stood on the postage-stamp porch, a fish rose to disturb the smooth surface of the lake and vanished with a swirl. In the distance, a bull elk bugled. The echo resounded over the placid water from a dark stand of pines on the far shore. The sum of it all was so overwhelmingly beautiful, that it actually brought a lump to my throat. Even a hardened Pittsburgh cop could be touched by the beauty of nature.

I hiked back to the lodge along the narrow, stone pathway. The lawn sloped down from the left to the lake. A low rock wall was the only railing to my right. Thick plantings of ivy covered the top of the wall, draping down over the sides. Limbs from cedar and pine