I recently attended the Killer Nashville Conference.

Before you get your Stay-Fresh-Zipper-Lock all off track, it wasn’t a conference on killing people.  Not technically.  It’s a mystery writers conference and every time I leave town I have my own mysteries to solve.

This time it was a missing Crockpot.  Chief started by texting me:

                “I can’t find the Crockpot.”

                “Have you looked in the medicine cabinet?”

                “Let me check…..Not there.”

                “Try under our bed.”

                “Ok…..Not there either.”

                “Hmmmmm, how about that wicker basket that holds your Home Decorating magazines?”

                “I ordered those for YOU.  And it’s not there either.”

                “Well, try the kitchen, bottom cabinet to the left of the stove, top shelf.”

                “Oh, there it is!”

                “Really?  I was just tossin’ a penny in the fountain with that guess!”

Learning to solve missing kitchen appliance mysteries wasn’t the only thing I got from the conference. They also threw in my writer crush—Graham Brown.

Ain’t he purty?!

Chief wasn’t thrilled so he sent this email to Cousin Troublemaker who lives in the Nashville area.

Hey Cuz, 

I should let ya know that you were a topic of a discussion today, just in case the authorities come visitin’.   

You see, it all started when my wife became this high–pollutin’–artsy–fartsy–writer–type.  

• She first started as a “Free”lance writer for newspapers (I emphasize the free ‘cause these papers don’t pay her near enough to buy my beer.) 
• She then got her blog article cherry-picked for Freshly Pressed. I went to the dry cleaner, but didn’t see her blog anywhere so I’m not sure what got pressed!
• Then she got news that her short story will be published in the world’s largest woman’s magazine next month.  I guarontee that I will be buying a lot of those National Enquirer’s so she has plenty of copies to send her friends. 

Now she’s at some sort of writer’s convention.  Sounds scandalous to me, but she says it’s “enhancin’ her career”, and that it ain’t no communist get-together or Democratic political convention.  But she’s all amiss over some Teddy Graham Cracker fella who is lecturin’.  I think she got the vapors just thinking about being in the same room with him!  

So, like a good husband, I checked in on her. She told me this Teddy Graham Cracker fella was: 

“sittin two rows behind me right now.  I think he’s following me after I went to his session”

So I sent her my plan of action:

‘Zzchk….Come in Cuz Trublmaker, this here is the Grand Potn’tate…’ 

‘Zzchk…go ahead Potn’tate… ‘ 

‘Zzchk…yer target is two rows behind mah wife.  You got a green light for dah killin of that thar womanizer…over. . . ‘ 

KABOOOM! 

‘Zzchk…MISSION ACCOMPLISHED…headed home 4 a beer…CUZ TRUBLMAKER OVER N OUT…. ‘

Then I told her:

                “There, there honey.  He won’t be afollowin’ you no more.”

Grand Potn’tate

Oddly, I never saw Graham again.  Maybe I should check with his agent and while I’m at it, pitch my idea for a new mystery series:

“Redneck Ray”

One coon dog’s mission to hunt down Tennessee’s toothless killers

I smell Poli-Grip!

© 2012 CThacker