Undercover Nudist -e

Undercover Nudist

by Byron and Kay McAllister

Set in 1964, this is the story of world-famous sleuth Tim Rinnissen’s first introduction to detective work. The crime, five years’ old, is an old-fashioned bludgeoning, with traces of attempted poisoning, corruption of officialdom, and an introduction to investigation sponsored by a couple of nudists, locally famous for their gourmet cooking. Tim’s youth and inexperience lead him into trouble, but the nudes rescue him by solving the crime-- feeding him a Malaysian dinner as they analyze how they did it.

ISBN 1-50431-151-X Mystery-Suspense

Cover Art by Maggie Dix

Also available in RTF and HTML formats.



Unexpected Errand

The “Old Boy Network” looks bad to outsiders, but to those who benefit from it, it’s one of the wonders of the world. Tim’s uncle’s friend, the car rental manager, knew Ned was reliable enough—and had enough money—that letting Tim borrow a car wasn’t a financial risk. What he didn’t mention—and Tim’s uncle didn’t reveal this, either, until several years later—was that no company rules were broken, since the pricey ($2,368 FOB Detroit, but at that time it was a lot of money) little red Ford Mustang convertible “rented” to Tim actually belonged to the agent himself. Tim might have guessed, since he wasn’t asked to sign anything, but of course, with no experience in such matters, he didn’t. He set off happily toward Dotney, the only town on the road between Billings and Motherlode itself.

He drove the whole trip with the Mustang’s top down. Chilly, but he loved it, and as the day gradually warmed, he zipped along, as happy as a clam-and-a-half, gradually reddening from the sun and the wind.

To Midwesterners the scenery along that road appears to be desert. To a Westerner, it just looks like a piece of—oh, maybe central Wyoming. White, sandy soil, if you can call it soil, in which nothing grows but sagebrush. The distant hills show occasional spots of dark scrub juniper. Beyond the hills, one imagines a lot more of the same.

The road he was driving crossed a number of enormous culverts. Tim couldn’t recall ever seeing a rainstorm in Motherlode, nor even any clear indication that rain ever happened there. As he realized the significance of the culverts, he remembered, too, that Motherlode, like most parts of Montana, rarely gets as much as 20 inches of rain in a year—even though “unusual” weather may occasionally produce spring floods.

Flattened fauna—mostly jackrabbits—spattered the wide-shouldered road all the way to Dotney. Since Tim neither met nor passed—nor was passed by—even one car that fine Monday morning, he wondered how the body count of small animals could be so high. He attributed a substantial decrease in the number of rabbit corpses as the road narrowed after Dotney to traffic’s having to slow almost to the legal maximum as the road entered the foothills and began to twist and turn. Not that Montanans have ever been much concerned with speed limits.

As he drew alongside the familiar streambed of Dry Flats Creek, Tim noticed a trickle of water. Did water flow there at the end of every May, he wondered, or had this year started out strangely wet? Only decades later did he learn that it was neither the usual thing, nor particularly unusual. It just happens sometimes. Spring moisture varies tremendously, all over the state.

He drove past an ancient barn, its roof swaybacked, its yard clogged with many years’ worth of thistles. Ruined sheds; an uninviting, gaping old house. “Somebody must have tried to ranch here,” he muttered. The ruins made clear that the attempt had failed.

The road swung to the right, to the left again, and crossed a little rise. Suddenly the narrow basin that holds the town of Motherlode came into view. Tim had always loved being in the town, but until then had never thought of it as beautiful to look at. Today it seemed just as picturesque as his mother had always claimed. He felt he was finally seeing it through her eyes.

Tim had been instructed to call Uncle Ned as soon as he reached town. However, he was carrying very little money. (“Uncle Ned will provide. You don’t need to take chances on having your pocket picked.”) Thus, the only food he’d had up to then had been what the motel called “Free Continental Breakfast,” something of an innovation back then. In order not to take unfair advantage of the management, he’d eaten very lightly—in his own estimation. Four Danish, a couple of doughnuts, a single cup of coffee, and three glasses of orange juice. Now his stomach mentioned that it was nearly eleven, that he did have a little money, that he might or might not get fed if he headed immediately into the canyon toward Oak Grove, and that his uncle wouldn’t know what time he got into town anyway. Therefore, it would be okay to get a meal.

His conscience maintained a discreet silence, even when he stopped near the entrance to the Elkhorn Hotel.

Exactly four vehicles had been parked in that block of Main Street, all directly in front of the hotel. Characteristically, Tim didn’t notice what make they were. He pulled the Mustang into one of the seven remaining empty slots, put the top up, and locked its doors. Unnecessary, in Motherlode, he thought, but the agent had warned him not to take chances.

The hotel restaurant calls itself “The Miners’ Lunch,” and its open doors showed it was ready for business—though Tim had clearly arrived before the crowd. He asked whether he could still get breakfast, and found he could.

“Lucky me,” he said.