I am happy to announce that Beetles in the Boxcar
is available in book and kindle forms from Amazon.
Here is a little peek into my latest mystery.
Beetles in the Boxcar
A Josephine Stuart Mystery
by Joyce Oroz
The snow-capped
Sierra Mountains had become a faraway blur as my mud-spattered pickup bounced
along Highway 41 to the beat of, “She Loves Me, Yah, Yah, Yah.” Riding shotgun
was my Aunt Clara, who didn’t care for music by the Beatles or commercials and
frequently turned the dial. Protesting would not have helped. Aunt Clara had a
mind of her own, not to mention a stubborn streak that stretched all the way
from her home in Oakhurst to mine in
Aromas, from one side of California to the
other.
We had been on the
road heading west for less than half an hour when she suddenly demanded I stop
at a restroom. We had already passed Coarsegold. Why didn’t she say something
then? I knew why she had her sweatpants in a twist. It was because she had to
leave home in a hurry with me instead of her own daughter. Candy was on a
cruise in the Bahamas with her third husband, Marty, celebrating their first
year of marriage.
“Can you wait till
we get to Madera?”
“No,” she snapped,
fanning herself with a ropy freckled hand. A minute later she asked to be
forgiven for her impatience.
“Not a problem,
Auntie. I’m sorry things aren’t going well.”
“Never mind that, Josephine.
Get me to a restroom—a bush—something!”
“All I see are
orchards and that shack up ahead. Must be a fruit stand.”
“Pull over,” she
pointed to the one-room shack surrounded on three sides by bare fruit
trees. Brakes squealed as we jerked to a
stop in front of “Facelli’s Fresh Fruit,” boarded up and deserted for the
winter. Clara jumped out of the truck wearing a gray sweat suit and clear
plastic rain boots. She plowed through the mud, ducked behind the old shed and
minutes later returned with a better disposition. “Thank you, dear,” she said
as she hoisted herself into the cab.
The turnoff to
Highway 145 caught my eye just in time. We had about ten more miles to Madera
and then another 120 miles to my home in Aromas, positioned just one hill shy
of a perfect view of the Pacific Ocean.
“Goodness, now
Felix has to go!” Aunt Clara pulled a scrawny yellow cat out of her over-sized
knitting bag. “When he squirms around like that, it’s time.”
I pulled off the
road onto an unpaved shoulder near a double set of railroad tracks paralleling
the highway. The pickup idled as Clara cuddled the old cat, climbed out of the
truck and set the animal on the ground. Felix jumped a foot into the air when a
semi roared by, giving my truck a good shake. Aunt Clara held him close for a
moment and they tried again.
Fortunately, Felix
was able to complete his mission before a freight train appeared in my rear
view mirror. We traveled alongside the train most of the way to Chowchilla
where we stopped for a fast food lunch. My aunt and I ended up with mustard
stains down our fronts. Travel was like that, or maybe it was just us. After
all, we were not neat little girly girls … or queen bees like Mom. It was
astonishing to me that Mom was Aunt Clara’s older sister. Clara was a fanatic
when it came to mucking around in her extensive flower and vegetable gardens,
while Mom babied a couple rose bushes and belonged to the Senior Garden Club.
Mom was active, kept her hair styled and knew how to dress for every occasion.
She owned the latest in hiking boots, wetsuits, tennis togs and a red sari,
while Aunt Clara’s socks didn’t match and her white hair billowed.
Aunt Clara and I
had the same wavy, shoulder-length hair, except mine was still auburn with a
white hair creeping in now and then, which I would immediately yank out.
Clara’s green eyes were twenty-five years older than mine but still had plenty
of sparkle.
“You’re awfully
quiet, dear,” Aunt Clara said, as we roared up Pacheco Pass.
“I was wondering
what it was like for you growing up with my mother.”
“Kind of like it
is now. She was so busy with all her friends and activities. Couldn’t slow down
if she tried. I wasn’t like Leola. I was quiet, always had my nose in a book
and not very good at making friends. Leola used to haul me around to parties
and football games; but it took years for me to come out of my shell, marry
Roger and ‘find my voice’ in the world.” I figured she was talking about her
poetry—the published ones in particular.
“Aunt Clara, I’m
glad you’re going to stay with me, so don’t get me wrong but why did you have
to leave in such a hurry? The mudslide only affected the backyard.”
“Josephine, you remember the Bass Lake fire
last summer in the mountains behind my house?” I nodded, remembering the scary
images shown on the news. “When the trees are gone, there’s nothing to hold the
earth in place. It’s November and we’ve only had two rains. The mud is already
at my back door. A construction crew is coming next week with tractors and
such, and they’ll scoop out the mud and build a retaining wall. That is, if
they’re allowed into the area. Cross your fingers it will be enough to hold
back disaster.” Clara stared at her muddy boots while she stroked Felix.
“Besides, my neighbors and I were told to evacuate.”
“How long will the work take if the crew is
allowed into the neighborhood?”
“Depends on the weather. Our winters are
colder and wetter than yours.”
Aromas had gone
six months without rain, which was typical, and then it poured on all the
little trick-or-treat goblins and witches. Clara stopped turning the radio dial
when she heard classical music and left it alone for almost an hour. Conversation
was minimal until an advertisement for termite abatement flashed over the air
waves. She quickly snapped it off.
“Don’t you just
hate commercials?”
“Ah, yeah. Auntie,
I’m afraid I won’t have much time to spend with you after my new job starts
Monday.”
“That’s OK, dear.
We can spend Saturday and Sunday together,” she smiled as she dropped Felix
back into her knitting bag. “What is your new Wild Bush job? Painting, I
presume.”
“Yes, my Wildbrush
Mural Company is scheduled to paint murals in the new Watsonville library.
We’re doing a thirty-foot mural in the children’s story room and another one on
the rounded entry wall.”
“Won’t you be a
distraction to the folks in the library?”
“Only if we don’t finish before December 15th,
when the new building opens to the public. We have exactly five weeks to paint two large
murals depicting changes in California over the last three hundred years. I’ve
researched the subject and my sketches got us a decent contract.”
“Do you still have
people working for you? Alice and the college boy—what’s his name?”
“Yes, Alicia and
Kyle are still working for me. They’re wonderful. Alicia lives in Watsonville,
about ten miles from my house. Kyle lives about a half hour away in Santa
Cruz.” I smiled, picturing Kyle, the tall, skinny redhead decorated with
tattoos and piercings.
“That’s a gas station up ahead. Pull over,”
Clara said. As soon as the wheels stopped, she jumped out. I waited for my
turn, standing outside the restroom door, shivering in the weak afternoon sun.
I figured we would have to stop at least one more time for poor old Felix and
maybe another for Clara.
In spite of all of
Aunt Clara’s pit stops, we made it to my house in time for me to search the
fridge for an evening meal. Clara had settled herself on the sofa and seemed
happy to be eating dinner in front of the TV.
Solow, my dear
basset hound with a backside the size and shape of my coffee table, barked at
Clara’s knitting bag. She pulled the old cat out and placed him on my new
tasseled throw pillow, a froufrou fiftieth birthday present from Mom and Dad.
“Does he chase cats?” she asked.
“Do bears live in
the woods?” Clara smiled. I told her about Fluffy, David’s cat next door, and
how Solow loved to chase her. “She always runs circles around him,” I said,
watching Clara’s eyes light up when I mentioned David.
“How is Mr. Galaz,
dear?” She must have heard about him through the Leola grapevine.
“David’s fine … very fine, actually.” My cheeks
felt hot as Clara gave me a knowing smile.
