Gemini Cricket
04-27-2006, 09:57 AM
moleHILL MOUntain (A mystery)
by: GC
Part 2
--------------------------
April 27, 2006
To the Kids at
The Lounge of Tomorrow
The Innernet, USA
Good Afternoon Everyone,
It's been almost two weeks since Easter and I haven't finished writing all of my thank you cards for all the Easter presents I have received. Geneva Stebbins, head of MoleHill Mountain’s Women’s League and Town Picnic Coordination Brigade, had her cards finished Easter night. All she did the other day was brag about how she had finished and how proud of herself she was. Well, kittens, how proud should someone be after writing two cards? One present was from her husband, too.
Picky went overboard this year with my gifts. He cleaned out my online wish list. Some say I’m spoiled, I say I’m deserving.
Now where was I? Oh yes, Yvonne Lungriese-Carstens. Yvonne lives in a big house on the east side of town. You know, where us rich folk live. She lives with her husband Nestor Carstens. Nestor is MoleHill Mountain’s mayor. Nestor beat Picky in the mayoral elections three years ago. By a hair, might I add. Old "Two Gifts" Geneva Stebbins counted the ballots being that she claims to be the most impartial person in town. That means that no one likes her, but we’ll keep that to ourselves. Picky lost by a six votes. And who do you think were the last ones to vote that afternoon? Uh huh. The Brafton Family. Clefus and Veranda Brafton. Four of their ten kids are old enough to vote. They voted for Nestor. I guarantee it, God as my witness. Those traitors.
The other day, our town’s postmistress, Erica Buell, called me. ‘Someone’s got a big package today.’ She tells me.
Now I knew she wasn’t talking about any of the men in this town, so I deciphered that she must be talking about a parcel. She told me it was for Yvonne. (Now the thing you need to know about Yvonne is that she insists that you pronounce her name ‘YUH-VONN.’ Strange, no? She also insists that people call her First Lady, but I’ll be a candy bar at a Weight Watchers convention before I call her First Lady.)
Naturally, I put my hand embroidered ‘Back in Five Minutes’ sign up in my window and crossed the street to meet with Erica. And there it was. It was a styrofoam container like the ones we sell at Picky Pickens’ Grocery and Feed Store all wrapped up in duct tape. The name ‘Yvonne Lungriese-Carstens’ was written across it in fat marsh pen. It was heavy, we shook it. What’s more, it smelled funny. Like meat gone bad.
‘It stinks.’ Erica said.
‘I wonder if she’s been ordering meat through the mail again.’ I wondered.
‘Could be. Box is different from the last time she ordered them Filet Mignons.’ Erica said steaming open a letter that I knew she would fill me in on later.
‘Have you told her it’s here?’ I asked her.
‘No.’ Erica smiled.
‘Don’t.’ I said. ‘Let Eulele handle this.’
I hurried across the street and called my son, Rory, down from his room so he could watch the front counter for me. I then put on my hat and headed down Main Street to the Mayor’s Manor House and Bait Shoppe.
The Mayor’s Manor House was built right near MoleHill Fishing Pond. The town’s very first mayor loved fishing and therefore needed to have his house next to the fishing hole. So they built it there. Before it was finished being built, the mayor died of scarlet fever. His widow kept the Bait Shoppe opened in his honor. Now as tradition, the Mayor’s wife always runs the Bait Shoppe for the town. It’s quite an honor.
I waited until Yvonne had struck up a conversation with a customer before I walked into the shop. One must always make an entrance and everything must stop for a lady of my stature. If nothing’s happening, you’re just walking in. If you break up a goings on, that’s an entrance.
‘Good day, Yvonne!’ I blurted.
Yvonne was helping Old Man Mercer select lures. Yvonne, as always, looked as if she had just took a ride in the clothes dryer. She was all faded, wrinkled and mussed up, and I’ll even wager she had a sock stuck to her somewhere. Needless to say, she was not of First Lady stature in the least, not like me anyway.
‘Be right with you, Mrs. Pickens.’ She said. Yvonne always sounded like she had just finished releasing a series of burps.
Old Man Mercer walked by me smelling like a sardine that forgot to wear deodorant. He then greeted me in the Old Man Mercer way. You’d think I would be used to by now but it seems to always take me by surprise. I mean, how does one prepare herself for a pinch on the rump? I let out a yelp. In a demure way, of course.
‘Yes, Mrs. Pickens?’ She asked. Yvonne Lungriese-Carstens used to be really pretty. But sadly, she’s had lots of facelifts. So many, in fact, that I’d say she’s practically had a total head replacement. One shouldn’t look like they were pressing their face against an arm’s length of plastic wrap.
‘I was just at the Post Office and to my surprise I saw that there was a package for you, M’dear.’ I said.
‘Really?’ Yvonne said. ‘I wonder what it could be?’
‘Erica asked that you pick it up right away. There’s something rank within.’ I told her. ‘Maybe a new type of bait?’
‘Hmm.’ Yvonne scratched her cheek. Not too hard, I thought. It might just come off.
Yvonne walked me as far as the Post Office and I headed off to the Bed & Breakfast. I stood at the window watching her struggle with her package as she trounced back to the Bait Shoppe.
She nearly woke the dead when she got back to the shop. A scream so loud it rattled my fillings.
I mean, I’d scream too if someone had mailed me a human head in a styrofoam cooler.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Eulele Pickens
Picky Pickens' Bed & Breakfast and Wedding Gazebo
MoleHill Mountain
by: GC
Part 2
--------------------------
April 27, 2006
To the Kids at
The Lounge of Tomorrow
The Innernet, USA
Good Afternoon Everyone,
It's been almost two weeks since Easter and I haven't finished writing all of my thank you cards for all the Easter presents I have received. Geneva Stebbins, head of MoleHill Mountain’s Women’s League and Town Picnic Coordination Brigade, had her cards finished Easter night. All she did the other day was brag about how she had finished and how proud of herself she was. Well, kittens, how proud should someone be after writing two cards? One present was from her husband, too.
Picky went overboard this year with my gifts. He cleaned out my online wish list. Some say I’m spoiled, I say I’m deserving.
Now where was I? Oh yes, Yvonne Lungriese-Carstens. Yvonne lives in a big house on the east side of town. You know, where us rich folk live. She lives with her husband Nestor Carstens. Nestor is MoleHill Mountain’s mayor. Nestor beat Picky in the mayoral elections three years ago. By a hair, might I add. Old "Two Gifts" Geneva Stebbins counted the ballots being that she claims to be the most impartial person in town. That means that no one likes her, but we’ll keep that to ourselves. Picky lost by a six votes. And who do you think were the last ones to vote that afternoon? Uh huh. The Brafton Family. Clefus and Veranda Brafton. Four of their ten kids are old enough to vote. They voted for Nestor. I guarantee it, God as my witness. Those traitors.
The other day, our town’s postmistress, Erica Buell, called me. ‘Someone’s got a big package today.’ She tells me.
Now I knew she wasn’t talking about any of the men in this town, so I deciphered that she must be talking about a parcel. She told me it was for Yvonne. (Now the thing you need to know about Yvonne is that she insists that you pronounce her name ‘YUH-VONN.’ Strange, no? She also insists that people call her First Lady, but I’ll be a candy bar at a Weight Watchers convention before I call her First Lady.)
Naturally, I put my hand embroidered ‘Back in Five Minutes’ sign up in my window and crossed the street to meet with Erica. And there it was. It was a styrofoam container like the ones we sell at Picky Pickens’ Grocery and Feed Store all wrapped up in duct tape. The name ‘Yvonne Lungriese-Carstens’ was written across it in fat marsh pen. It was heavy, we shook it. What’s more, it smelled funny. Like meat gone bad.
‘It stinks.’ Erica said.
‘I wonder if she’s been ordering meat through the mail again.’ I wondered.
‘Could be. Box is different from the last time she ordered them Filet Mignons.’ Erica said steaming open a letter that I knew she would fill me in on later.
‘Have you told her it’s here?’ I asked her.
‘No.’ Erica smiled.
‘Don’t.’ I said. ‘Let Eulele handle this.’
I hurried across the street and called my son, Rory, down from his room so he could watch the front counter for me. I then put on my hat and headed down Main Street to the Mayor’s Manor House and Bait Shoppe.
The Mayor’s Manor House was built right near MoleHill Fishing Pond. The town’s very first mayor loved fishing and therefore needed to have his house next to the fishing hole. So they built it there. Before it was finished being built, the mayor died of scarlet fever. His widow kept the Bait Shoppe opened in his honor. Now as tradition, the Mayor’s wife always runs the Bait Shoppe for the town. It’s quite an honor.
I waited until Yvonne had struck up a conversation with a customer before I walked into the shop. One must always make an entrance and everything must stop for a lady of my stature. If nothing’s happening, you’re just walking in. If you break up a goings on, that’s an entrance.
‘Good day, Yvonne!’ I blurted.
Yvonne was helping Old Man Mercer select lures. Yvonne, as always, looked as if she had just took a ride in the clothes dryer. She was all faded, wrinkled and mussed up, and I’ll even wager she had a sock stuck to her somewhere. Needless to say, she was not of First Lady stature in the least, not like me anyway.
‘Be right with you, Mrs. Pickens.’ She said. Yvonne always sounded like she had just finished releasing a series of burps.
Old Man Mercer walked by me smelling like a sardine that forgot to wear deodorant. He then greeted me in the Old Man Mercer way. You’d think I would be used to by now but it seems to always take me by surprise. I mean, how does one prepare herself for a pinch on the rump? I let out a yelp. In a demure way, of course.
‘Yes, Mrs. Pickens?’ She asked. Yvonne Lungriese-Carstens used to be really pretty. But sadly, she’s had lots of facelifts. So many, in fact, that I’d say she’s practically had a total head replacement. One shouldn’t look like they were pressing their face against an arm’s length of plastic wrap.
‘I was just at the Post Office and to my surprise I saw that there was a package for you, M’dear.’ I said.
‘Really?’ Yvonne said. ‘I wonder what it could be?’
‘Erica asked that you pick it up right away. There’s something rank within.’ I told her. ‘Maybe a new type of bait?’
‘Hmm.’ Yvonne scratched her cheek. Not too hard, I thought. It might just come off.
Yvonne walked me as far as the Post Office and I headed off to the Bed & Breakfast. I stood at the window watching her struggle with her package as she trounced back to the Bait Shoppe.
She nearly woke the dead when she got back to the shop. A scream so loud it rattled my fillings.
I mean, I’d scream too if someone had mailed me a human head in a styrofoam cooler.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Eulele Pickens
Picky Pickens' Bed & Breakfast and Wedding Gazebo
MoleHill Mountain