After being notified by the local police that a body had been found at the swimming dam, W Spade et al, jumped into the El Camino and headed East. We catch up with them heading back.

Lav: How come I always have to ride in the middle? We need a four-door car.

MG: Would you rather ride in the back with the dead guy?

Lav: Hey Uncle W, how did you know there were two dead guys at the swimming dam? The police said there was only one who met his surprise.

W: They said demise, but I guess he probably was surprised when he got snuffed out by a boat paddle. That was the guy the police found. I haven’t figured out who turned this guy’s lights out yet…or how!

MG: There’s something fishy about this whole thing. You’re not even supposed to have a boat on this dam. It’s for swimming. Why would someone bring a boat out here and whack a guy with an oar?

W: You’re pretty sharp, MG, like your dad. You’re right…something is fishy. Plus the guy in back smells like seaweed. I wonder if he was fishing off the dock before the killer killed him?

MG: My question is why do we have him in our car? Why didn’t we just hand his body over to the cops. They already have the other one. I mean, if you already have one dead guy, what’s one more?

W: There is something I need to tell you et al…I knew both of the dead guys when they were still alive. In fact, I could be courting danger myself. I think I’ll pull my new cigar out and chew on it for a while. I’m feeling kind of jittery.

Lav: Hey Uncle W. where’d you get that new cigar? You said you only had one and you hadn’t lit it for ten years. It smelled like it, too.

W: Well, aren’t you a couple of smart cookies. I’m beginning to think you know too much. Maybe I should have Friday shut you in the laundry room while I get myself out of some hot water.

Lav and MG: Please no! Not the laundry room. Are the motel towels in there? Would we have to wash and fold all those towels? We can’t even put bleach in the water. If the towels look too nice, the tourists steal them. (MG’s parents own a motel and she and all her cousins have worked there at some point for $1 an hour plus a cinnamon roll.)

W: Well, okay. I’m going to stop by there, anyway. We need to put this guy on ice until I can figure out what to do. Is that ice machine still in the basement? If not, we’ll have to squeeze him into the pop machine.

So W Spade et al go back to the basement where they catch Friday napping. She wakes up when she hears them come in.

Friday: I’m still on across the pond time, she lies. You’ve had two phone calls, Mr. Spade. Both callers said I don’t think you know who you really are. They sounded sinister and smelled like seaweed.

Anybody pick up on that? Last I knew, you couldn’t smell someone over the phone. What is Friday’s deal? And why do all these clicks keep calling to tell us W is someone else?

Wow…this is deep…

People may not remember exactly what you did, or what you said, but they will always remember how you made them feel.

…Maya Angelou

I want to share this news with all of my wonderful friends and family who have been my loyal support system these past few months.

Yesterday, the doctor said he wants me to heal until the end of the summer before any further surgery. At that time, they will re-cision (take a very small section of what’s left on the left, to biopsy). If it shows zero cancer cells, which they believe will be the case, they will do a little reconstruction surgery and I’ll be done. I have started the pill form of cancer medication and there are no plans for chemo or radiation, just a ton of check-ups.

I don’t have the words to express how grateful I am. I’ve seen so much suffering, but I’ve seen some awesome miracles, too.

Here is what I’ve learned…The prayers make the difference in both cases.

But…Dollie is depressed. When are they coming?

I have to say thank you for the milkshakes, cards, yummy meals, fun little gifts, wonderful visits, flowers, emails, phone calls, and the help of my family and amazing church family. Kip even colored my roots. What a guy!

I love and appreciate you all more than you could ever know, and you are always in my prayers.

Love,

Mary

W Spade et al and crew cut out early on Friday since they hadn’t secured any new clients and nothing really criminal happens on the weekends in Murdo. Besides, the new assistant, Friday, wasn’t starting until Monday.

On Monday, things began to change. You could feel it in the air. Northeaster, is the only word I can think of to describe how the breeze suddenly changed direction.

It was one of those times when you remember exactly where you were and what you were doing the moment you heard the news.

W, et al, and Friday were hanging out in the basement drinking coffee when they heard a strange sound. It was almost a full minute before Friday realized it was her phone ringing.

Friday: W Spade et al, Private Investigators …this is Friday. No, dear, my name is Friday. Today is Monday. What can we do for you? We solve, dissolve, and resolve your problems.

Friday: I see… What did him in? Uh, let me see if W is free. He’s our Head and Neck Murder Manager.

W: W Spade at your service. Please fill me in on the gruesome details.

It seemed like forever before W hung up the phone. His face was as white as Friday’s hair in a Saturday snowstorm.

W: The police got a call about a guy floating on his back at the swimming dam. Apparently, he had met his demise.

Lav: He must have tried to do a back flip off that rickety dock.

W: No Lav…he was murdered.

Lav: Oooh..Do you mean someone rubbed him out?

MG: Who was he?

W: Anybody know a guy by the name of Rick Click, aka Slick Rick Click…?

You could hear et al suck in air. Yesterday’s mysterious caller and the dead guy Clicked.

W: Grab the keys to the El Camino et al. Friday, hold down the fort. We have to get to the dam before…before…

MG: Before what, Dad? MG is watching W closely for clues, but all she sees is his stupid hat.

Then she looks again. He has a brand new cigar in his shirt pocket… and it’s still in the wrapper…things are getting interesting…

I didn’t see one brown, chewed-up stub around, or even an ashtray to explain the unmistakable odor of a stale cigar. It’s funny that would be the first thing I would notice as I entered the cold, damp, basement. As my eyes began to adjust to the darkness and I took a few more tentative steps inside, I became aware of a few other things. There was a large metal desk that hadn’t seen a dust cloth since Custer’s Last Stand, which was the name on the huge picture hanging on the wall behind the desk.

At first, I thought the basement was empty, but then I saw him sitting there.

He looked like a middle aged guy sitting in a dirty office chair with his feet propped up on the filthy desk, so I surmised that’s what he was. Without being too obvious, I tried to count the holes in the soles of the well-worn shoes. “I have boots to wear when I work,” he says rather nonchalantly. He’s also sporting a brown felt hat that’s actually in pretty good shape. He reaches for a small fan and shuts it off. On one of the blades is the answer to my burning question. A stale cigar.

“I haven’t actually lit this cigar in ten years, so I try to offset the stale smell with the fan, which I turn on between non-smokes,” he tells me in the way of an explanation.

I’d heard the empty rooms in this basement had once been a showplace, but that must have been a legend that had taken on a life of it’s own… unless a washer, dryer, and a metal filing cabinet suggest showplace to you. I heard the town was taking donations to bury the basement just to get rid of the smell. Too bad…I rather like the smell of a bad cigar.

He finally saw me standing there. He didn’t seem surprised, “You look like your mother,” he said. “But you have your mother’s eyes.” (Huh?) “Life was hard back then. You and I had to really work to find time to spend together.”

He went on…and on..

“I tried to teach you how to drive, and you drove us straight into the ditch. Some farmer had to haul us out. I made you take the hunter’s safety course. I thought it was the right thing to do, but hunting wasn’t your thing. Your brother was a good shot. What were you good at…anything? I looked for some natural talent, but other than seeing you dancing to Lawrence Welk in front of the TV, nothing really sticks out in my mind.”

“You were a gymnast without a gym,” He said. “A professional ice skater without the cool skates… a country western singer who could only play two chords on the guitar, not to mention a voice that could make a snake cry…. and who could forget, a Queen without a Court!

“Whatever happened to that cousin, Lav, who loved my cooking? Does she still wash dishes for a good meal? I always thought that was the funniest thing. I could use every dish we had in the house to cook Sunday dinner, and she would happily clean the whole mess up just to eat my fried chicken.

“Murdo had everything you needed, didn’t it?” He said rather wistfully. “You just had to pretend a lot.”

“Dad?” I asked.” Do you always do all of the talking? Because if you do, this story isn’t going to work for me.”

“You can’t begin to fathom my disappointment,” he said. “I was looking forward to being a gumboot. Murdo needs a good William Spade.”

“They’re called gumshoes, Dad.”

“I prefer detective, like the old days. Let’s dig up a cold case and solve it like they did on Gunsmoke. I’m sure there’s something going on south of 16. We’ll get your cousin to drive. Wait, let me get my work boots. These gumshoes stick to the floor.”

Tune in for the first episode of the new show, Riveting Crime Stoppers as they flush out the perps who give us a bad rep and keep Murdo from getting the big stores like they have in Pierre.

But first…anyone for a Rhubarb Shake?

It’s only  been a few days since I was walking through a car lot looking for the car I had rented to take me to the hotel down the street. I was already irritated, because I could have easily walked there in less than five minutes. Someone else would have had to grab my light, carefully packed nylon duffel bag, but we could have easily made it… that is, if I hadn’t dropped my overstuffed purse with the zipper that won’t quite zip, and hadn’t tripped two very nice ladies and a the  guy who was walking too closely behind them.

Have you ever seen the domino effect in action? It doesn’t look quite as cool getting up as it does going down. It took me five minutes to explain that it wasn’t the guy’s fault that the light turned  and we only had six more seconds to get across the street.

I hate that moment of decision when the blinking light says,” You don’t have time to make it, lady….5,4,3,2. The cars are turning into your lane now and your moment of decisiveness has passed. People that need to be someplace are fuming.

I returned the truck the next day. The gas tank was empty and one of the, “Objects may be closer than they appear,” signs was stuck onto one of the tire rims. It only took me seven minutes to get back to the car lot. The traffic was rather light. One set of keys is missing, but they have insurance for all of that, right?

I’m sort of glad I rented that truck. All of my luggage fit just fine and the truck matched the only traffic light that counts.

Grandma and Grandpa Sanderson’s house had a small front room, a long dining room with a buckled linoleum floor. Grandma and Grandpa’s room was off that room. There was a bathroom off the kitchen, Billy’s room, which was also off the kitchen, a washroom behind the kitchen, and a back door that faced the crawdad pond. I remember sitting on the steps outside the back door and to my right there were several rhubarb plants. I tried to eat one once and it was the sourest thing I ever put in my mouth. The only other thing I remember about Grandma’s rhubarb was seeing it simmer at the back of the stove in a big pot of water. Grandma always had either plums or rhubarb simmering on the back of the stove. I remember eating it once in a while, but not in the quantities Grandma kept it stocked. Now that I think about it, Grandma was either extremely constipated, or she just really liked stewed fruit.

I don’t remember rhubarb pie being served. Grandma usually made cherry pie. I don’t remember eating much of anything made with rhubarb, yet to this day, I love it all… Jam, cobbler, pie, cake, coffee cake, syrup, or anything else made from rhubarb.I have recently become acquainted with rhubarb shakes, and they are something to wrap your lips around and enjoy every slow- churned bite.My cousin, Lav and I discovered them in the summer of 2016 at a little diner across from the Harold Thune Auditorium. Now we will never be able to go back to any other flavor. We are lost to the uniqueness of rhubarb.We talked everyone we were slightly acquainted with into buying us a Rhubarb Shake at the diner. We didn’t even stop to consider that other local establishments might offer them. We went directly to the source of our first head freeze each time we had the opportunity. I have never seen a Rhubarb Shake since… except the following summer when I convinced Teresa Palmer to buy me one.

I honestly think that Murdo could become known as the home of the Rhubarb Shake. People are less enamored now with the hot beef sandwiches and cherry pie you can get at Wall Drug. The summers are hot, and cooler fare is needed. You could keep overhead way down if you leave the cherry off the top, which ruins the flavor anyway…And best of all!!! You can bring back the Frosty Freeze. Every ice cream place in town gets a cut as long as they keep the standards up. Just think of it.

Murdo, South Dakota….The home of the Rhubarb Shake. Dare I suggest a sign out west of town?

We’ll have fly-ins and carnivals, Rhubarb Rodeos an of course…

A Rhubarb Queen

Or Thirty

(I will later write the Murdo Girl stories in book format, but they won’t be published on the blog. Several Murdoites would like to have them published together. You’re all the best!)

Anyway…It’s (almost) time for a new generation of idea people and I think there’s a future in Rhubarb…does the diner have a juke box?

Saw Rubarb Ann. Thought I’d take a stand..Bababababran..Betty Sue wouldn’t do…you get it!!