Murder Grins and Bears It

What The Critics Are
Saying

"Laugh-out-loud funny." -
Crimespree

"Gertie is a lot like Evanovich's
Granny Mazur, but with more freedom to misbehave." -
Deadly
Pleasures

"Gertie Johnson...steals the show.
She's one heroine you can really cheer for." -
Steve Hamilton
, Edgar Award winning
author of
A Cold Day in Paradise

"A delightful new series by Deb
Baker...For fans of Janet Evanovich, imagine Granma Mazur with
orange hair and a shotgun." -
Green Bay
Press Gazette

"A hoot with a heart." -
Cozy Library

****

Murder Grins and Bears
It

by

Deb Baker

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Deb Baker at Smashwords

Murder Grins and Bears It

Copyright © 2010 by Deb Baker

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this
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only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own
copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

****

Murder Grins and Bears
It

****

Chapter 1

I wasn’t surprised when they hauled the
first human body out of the backwoods on Monday, day three of the
season.

That’s bear hunting season, and although it
starts in September in the Michigan Upper Peninsula, hunters were
scampering around in the woods long before that, setting bait piles
and hoping for one good illegal shot. Once they had the official
go-ahead to start blasting, nothing could hold them back.

As usual I wasn’t around when the body was
discovered in mid-morning. Remembering back, I think I heard the
shot first thing this morning.

I missed the action because I was busy
stealing my grandson’s car. His white Ford Escort had a stick shift
and an extra pedal on the floor, which threw me for a loop since
I’ve only been driving a few months and had been teaching myself on
a vehicle with an automatic transmission. But my behind-the-wheel
practice had been on hold ever since I totaled my truck.

My best friend, Cora Mae, was sitting in the
passenger seat of the Escort while I tried to keep it running, but
it hopped around the yard like a jackrabbit. That’s when I heard
the shot. At the time, though, I thought it was the car backfiring
or maybe the gears grinding.

My name is Gertie Johnson and I’m a recent
widow. Cora Mae says I shouldn’t tell people that, because two
years have passed since Barney died, but I say I’ll stop when I’m
good and ready. Cora Mae says sixty-six years old is too young to
lose interest in life. She’s the expert since she buried three
husbands.

I have to admit, the police scanner she gave
me last year sure helped put the pink back in my cheeks.

Listening to my scanner is better than
watching soap operas because it’s real life and I know most of the
names coming across the air waves. I’m right in the thick of
things, where I like to be, and that’s why I was stealing the
car.

It’s all part of my plans for my new
detective business.

Little Donny, my Milwaukee grandson, arrived
late last night clutching the bear hunting license he’d won in the
Michigan bear lottery. He was driving his old Ford Escort with a
bad muffler, so he woke up everybody in Stonely coming into town,
including me.

Before Cora Mae came over Carl Anderson
showed up at my house bright and early for a quick cup of coffee.
He was headed into the woods to hunt.

I needed transportation today, so I
formulated my travel plans right on the spot.

Though it would appear simple to have Little
Donny drive me, I learned the hard way that life is easier when
family members aren’t involved in every little thing I do. They
tend to accidentally botch my plans or they misunderstand my
intentions and get all bent out of shape trying to stop me.

Like the time Blaze thought I’d lost my
savings and tried to prove in a court of law that I was incompetent
to manage my own affairs. He came out of that one looking really
bad. Or the time Little Donny blew my cover when I was on a
surveillance mission. It just doesn’t pay to confide in family.

Things would have been simpler still if I
hadn’t totaled the truck Barney left me or if Cora Mae would take
up driving. I’m sick and tired of begging rides and explaining my
business to everyone, especially Blaze, my interfering son, who
also happens to be the local sheriff.

Blaze and I have always butted heads. I’m a
go-getter and he’s a sit-downer, and that bothers him more than it
does me. Plus, he still gets worked up about his name. His sisters,
Heather and Star, don’t mind being named for the horses I never
had. They think it’s cute and so do I.

For some reason Blaze doesn’t agree.

I started a fresh pot of coffee and had Carl
help me haul Little Donny out of bed, which isn’t the easiest thing
in the world, considering Little Donny must weigh a good two
hundred and eighty pounds and hauling is really what we had to do.
A beached whale would have been easier to tackle.

It’s a good think Carl is big and burly, but
most of the Swedes around here are. On the other hand, I’m about
five foot two, or used to be before I started getting old. But I’m
stronger than I look.

Nineteen-year-olds are like growing babies,
testing the world and making all kinds of mistakes. And Little
Donny would sleep till noon if I let him. Last night he could
hardly wait for morning to get into the woods and do some hunting.
This morning, all he cared about was whatever dream put that silly
smile on his face right before we woke him up.

After Carl and I prodded and poked him, he
opened one eye, held his arm up to check the time on his watch, and
groaned. “It’s only five-thirty, Granny. Leave me alone.”

“
You’re in Michigan now,
not Milwaukee,” I reminded him. “It’s six-thirty here and half the
day’s gone.” I pulled the pillow out from under him. His head
bounced a few times, then he flipped onto his right side and closed
his eyes.

When I realized he wasn’t going to
cooperate, I dug under the covers at the foot of the bed and hauled
one beefy leg over the side. Carl helped me finish rolling him out.
We dragged him to the kitchen table in his boxer underwear with the
pictures of footballs on them and started pumping coffee into
him.

Little Donny and Carl had done some deer
hunting together last fall, and even though Carl’s closer to my age
than my grandson’s, they became fast friends. They stayed friends
even after Little Donny loaded a buck into Carl’s brand new station
wagon and then discovered it wasn’t dead. The inside of Carl’s
wagon was shredded like coleslaw by the time he got the buck out,
and Little Donny didn’t look so good either.

But Carl didn’t hold it against Little
Donny. It takes a lot to ruffle Carl’s feathers. Which reminded me
of chicken fat.

I took a two-pound coffee can from the
refrigerator and placed it on the table. “Here’s the can of chicken
grease you wanted,” I said.

Carl opened the lid and poked the congealed
chicken fat with one finger. “It’s hard as a rock,” he said. “Why’d
you store it in the fridge?” He handed it back. “Put it on the
stove burner for a few minutes to soften it up, but don’t let it
get too hot. Don’t want to burn myself.”

I fired up the gas and moved the can to the
burner.

“
I’m finally gonna get my
bear this year, Gertie.” Carl poured more coffee and leaned back so
the front legs of the chair were off the floor, which drives me
crazy. Teetering like that was nothing but a fall waiting to
happen, and it had happened plenty over the years. You think they’d
learn.

“
Bears love chickens,” he
continued. “I know that because every time they’ve raided my
garbage, it’s right after we had chicken for supper and had throwed
away the bones.”

“
They sure do love
chicken,” I agreed. “They love pigs, too. Remember the time Old Ben
tried to raise pigs?”

Carl laughed so hard he began to snort.

Old Ben had bought six little piglets in
Escanaba, and before the end of the month none were left. Pigs and
chickens are considered bear snacks and don’t last long in the
Upper Peninsula, or the U.P. as we call it.

Little Donny had one eye open after his
first cup of coffee. I poured him another.

“
There’s an orange shirt in
the closet for you,” I said. “Go put it on.”

Little Donny grumbled off to the bedroom,
clutching his coffee cup, his hair standing up straight on one side
of his head like he’d ironed it that way.

“
Lick your hair down while
you’re at it,” I called after him. “And hurry.” I had to get him
out of my way before I could put my plan in motion.

“
Gonna smear that chicken
grease all over myself.” Carl had a smug look on his face like he
was Einstein discussing an important new relativity theory. “That
way when I move around from bait pile to bait pile they’ll pick up
my scent and follow me right over. Don’t tell nobody. It’s my
secret ingredient.”

That’s got to be the dumbest idea Carl’s had
in a long time, but I didn’t say so. The Finns and Swedes are
dominant in this part of the U.P., and after you live with them for
a while you notice they’re a proud bunch. You don’t call them dumb
right to their faces. You wait until they actually do the dumb
thing, then you tell everybody in town and they help you rub it in
forever.

Carl’s as Swedish as it gets, so he’s done
his own share of teasing.

Instead I tried to direct him away from his
dumb strategy. “I think there’s some bear magnet spray that Barney
used to use. You can spray some of that on the ground. Barney swore
by it.”

Carl shook his head. “I tried that spray and
it didn’t work. This is my own special formula, and once I prove
how good it works, I’m gonna sell it out of the trunk of my car
next year and get rich. Just you wait and see.”

“
Hope you’ve got your rifle
scope sighted in,” I said. “You don’t want to miss when that bear
hurtles at you, because you get only one shot. Miss and you’re bear
lunch.”

Carl rose from the table, stirred the
chicken grease with a spoon, and turned off the burner. “I’m bow
and arrow hunting. Got myself some new arrows, ends are sharp like
razor blades.”

I gaped in astonishment. Anyone who smears
chicken grease all over himself and goes bear hunting with a bow
and arrow is plain stupid or has a death wish.

During gun season for bears there’s no law
against bow and arrow hunting like there is during deer hunting
season, but there should be. Whoever made up the bear rules must
have been pounding back shots of brandy while he wrote them.
Besides, bow and arrow hunters are exempt from the hunter orange
rule, and they run around out in the brush in camouflage. Even
though there isn’t as much traffic in the woods as during deer
season, I think it’s always risky to be out in camo with rifles
going off.

Carl had a lot going against him. If he
survived the bear mistaking him for lunch, someone with a firearm
would finish him off. The best thing that could have happened to
Carl would have been losing the bear lottery in June.

“
Why don’t you wait till
archery season to play with your bow and arrow?”

“
That’s three weeks away.
All the bears will be shot up by then.”

“
Better take Little Donny
along with his rifle for backup,” I suggested, implementing my plan
to get Little Donny out of the way.

“
Sure. He already knows
that I get first shot with my arrow. If I miss, then he gets a
go-around.”

Little Donny shuffled out of the bedroom
wearing the orange shirt I’d bought for him on sale in Escanaba.
I’d bought the same for myself plus a pair of orange suspender
pants and a new pair of running shoes. Not that I run anywhere
these days. They’re just comfortable, and they put a little forward
spring in my step.

Although a lot of women in this part of. the
country hunt, I don’t, but I still need orange clothes for
traipsing around in the woods. Those hunters shoot at anything that
moves.

“
You don’t have time for
breakfast,” I said to Little Donny when he opened the refrigerator
door and bent down to peer inside.