Corpse in the Crop Circle - North Dakota #4

The truth is out there . . . along with a killer.

When Thea Olson stumbles upon a murder in the middle of a crop circle, all eyes turn skyward. Rumors of UFOs, unexplained lights, and little green men spread through Why, North Dakota, faster than prairie wildfire.

As suspicion falls on someone Thea knows, she's determined to uncover the truth. With help from her grandmother, library director Hudson Carter, and Edgar—the magical chameleon with a sarcastic streak—Thea digs into a mystery filled with secrets, suspects, and unexpected twists.

Meanwhile, amateur sleuth Mollie McGhie is in town to help establish a local chapter of her alien investigation organization. She came to meet with fellow UFO enthusiasts, not investigate a murder. But she’s about to witness one of the strangest cases the town has ever seen.

As conspiracy theories swirl and small-town gossip reaches a fever pitch, Thea must separate fact from fiction before the truth disappears without a trace.

Can Thea solve the case before the murderer vanishes into thin air, or will this mystery remain as puzzling as the crop circle itself?

Corpse in the Crop Circle is the fourth installment in the North Dakota Library Mystery series. Full of humor, heart, and a hint of the supernatural, it’s the perfect pick for fans of small-town sleuthing and quirky characters.

Chapter 1 - Really Weird Oatmeal

There’s something magical about the last week of September in my hometown of Why, North Dakota. Fall has officially started, bringing crisp, cool weather calling out for cozy socks, boots, my favorite sweaters, and …

Whoa, wait a minute. Did the term “magical” just come out of my mouth? Good grief, or “uff da” as we Norwegian-Americans say.
Magic and I do not get along. It certainly doesn’t deserve a place in my vocabulary. I don’t like to think about it or talk about it. Not that I believe in magic, mind you. There’s a rational explanation for everything.

Well, almost everything.

You see, there’s this incredibly obnoxious chameleon named Edgar who lives in my local library. “Snarky” should be his middle name because everything that comes out of his mouth is downright rude. Not that anyone else would know that, because I’m the only one who can see or hear him. Lucky me.

Edgar is pretty darn hard to explain rationally. He claims his presence in my life is because of magical forces. Well, I say, if magic brought him here, magic can send him right back to where he came from–New York City. Goodness knows, we’d both be happier. All that ill-mannered chameleon does is complain about being forced to live in North Dakota.

Your hot dogs suck compared to the ones in the Big Apple. Living in a small town is so boring. It’s too cold here in the winter. Blah, blah, blah.

Well, believe me, dude, I don’t want you here any more than you want to be here. But until I can figure out a magical trick to make you go poof, we’re stuck with one another.
My grandmother thinks I should embrace the mystical ways of the library my family built in the 1800s. “The library sent you a guide for a reason,” she constantly tells me. “Just like it did with me, and my mother, and her mother before her. You don’t have to understand why Edgar was assigned to be your guide. You simply have to trust that the library knows what’s best.”

“Watch where you’re going,” a burly man snapped at me, interrupting my thoughts about our local library and its annoying resident reptile.

I rubbed my shoulder where the man had barreled into me, then glared at his retreating back as he hustled down the sidewalk running along this side of Main Street. The empty sidewalk. No one was there at the time. He could have easily stepped around me.

After watching Mr. Grumpy Pants walk into our local bookstore, the Bookish Nook, I turned and continued on my way to Swede’s Norwegian Diner to meet my grandparents for breakfast. Being half-Swedish and half-Norwegian, Swede was big on fusion food. Some of it was pretty good, like his Swedish meatball ramen. Other concoctions were best avoided. If you see Mongolian fish fingers on the menu, run.

“There you are, Thea. I was getting worried,” my grandmother said as I slid into the booth opposite her and Grandpa.

“It’s exactly nine o’clock.” I pointed at the clock hanging over the cash register. “I’m right on time.” Despite my brave facade, I knew my response wouldn’t pass muster. In the Olson family, unless you’re ten minutes early, you’re late. And even then, you’re barely on time.

“Humph.” Grandma adjusted the floral silk scarf around her neck, then patted the back of my hand. “Never trust a clock unless you’ve set it yourself.”

Norma bustled past, carrying a tray with dirty dishes. “Coffee coming up,” she said over her shoulder.

My grandmother cleared her throat, then called out, “Make mine an herbal tea.”

The red-haired waitress skidded to a stop. Turning around, she said, “Did you say tea?”

“Yes,” my grandmother said briskly as a hush descended on the diner.

“Rose Olson, drinking tea instead of coffee? And herbal tea at that. Well, this must be the biggest news in Why, North Dakota since, well . . .” Norma set her tray down on our table, then scratched her head. “Well, since that guy died in Thor’s barn.”

My grandfather looked up at the mention of his name, shrugged, then went back to studying the classified ads for tractor parts in the newspaper. Despite being retired, Grandpa still enjoyed tinkering with his farm equipment. He was determined to win first place in next month’s tractor parade and pageant.

Grandma pressed her lips together, clearly not pleased with the attention. “Don’t you have customers, dear?”

“Nah, they can wait,” Norma said, snapping her gum. “So what’s up with the tea?”

“Do you smell smoke?” Grandma tilted her head toward the kitchen.

“Smoke. Good try.” Norma shook her head. “Now out with it. Coffee practically runs through your veins. What’s with the switch to tea?”

“Really, dear, I’m not kidding. There’s—”

“Oh, I get it.” Norma chuckled and wagged a finger at my grandmother. “You’re not really Rose Olson, are you? Aliens abducted the real Rose and replaced her with a replica, thinking we’d be fooled. But that tea thing slipped you up, didn’t it?”

“Norma, get in here,” Swede bellowed through the kitchen’s serving hatch.

“I’m with a customer, hon,” she said without turning around. Lowering her voice, she confided, “Sorry, you’ll have to excuse him. We’re still in the newlywed phase. He can’t stand to be apart from me for more than a few minutes.”

Swede uttered a few curses, then he poked his head through the kitchen’s swinging door. “Darn it, woman, where’d you hide the fire extinguisher?”

“Fire extinguisher?” Norma’s jaw went slack. She whirled around and darted across the diner, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.

My eyes widened. “Is there really a fire?”

My grandfather looked up from his newspaper and sniffed the air. “Burnt bacon.”

“That’s what I thought at first,” my grandmother said. “But it has undertones of tomatoes and something else I can’t place my finger on. Oats maybe?”

“Oats? Tomatoes? How can you be so calm about this?” I grabbed my purse and stood up. “If the kitchen is on fire, we should get out of here.”

An elderly woman sitting across from us gasped. “Did she say fire?”

The other customers in the diner who hadn’t seemed to notice when Swede originally barked at Norma about the missing fire extinguisher now perked up. Panic ensued.

“Make your way to the emergency exit, people,” a man said, giving off flight attendant vibes as he motioned to the door with his arms.

Norma burst out of the kitchen, waving a dishtowel in her hands. “Calm down, everyone. There’s no fire. Swede had a teeny-tiny accident with a blowtorch. But everything’s fine now.” When people continued to rush toward the door, Norma raised her voice, “Coffee is on the house.”

“Free coffee?” someone asked.

“How about free muffins?” a man called out.

“Don’t push your luck, Bob.” Norma shooed everyone back to their spots. After everyone had settled back down, she returned to our table carrying a tray. “So, little change to today’s specials. The Bloody Mary oatmeal crème brûlée breakfast bowl is off the menu.”

“I knew I smelled tomatoes,” my grandmother said.

I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not sure Bloody Marys and oatmeal go together.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it.” Norma set down three mugs on the table, then nudged one toward my grandmother. “That one’s for you. Chamomile mint. Be back for your order in a minute.”

After stirring a generous amount of cream into my coffee, I took an appreciative sip. Pulling a menu toward me, I watched as my grandmother blew on her tea to cool it down. “So what’s really going on?” I asked her. “I’ve seen you drink tea occasionally, but never in the morning. And certainly not herbal tea.”

“Why is everyone making such a big deal about a cup of tea? Is there anything wrong with wanting to try something new?”

“Well, as long as that something new isn’t Swede’s Bloody Mary oatmeal crème brûlée oatmeal, then no.” I furrowed my brow. “Wait a minute. You had a doctor’s appointment last week. Did he tell you to cut back on caffeine?”

Before Grandma could reply, Betty Alvarez marched up to our table, clutching a rolled-up piece of orange paper in her hand. “Rose Olson, there you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking all over town for you.”

Recently retired from working as a teller at the credit union, Betty was known for her no-nonsense attitude, with a dress style to match. Her graying hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she had on her usual uniform of black polyester pants, white blouse, and sensible shoes. The only jewelry she wore was a pair of pearl stud earrings, which she had inherited from her great-aunt.

My grandmother wore a pleasant smile on her face, one that came with years of practice dealing with difficult patrons when she was the director of our local library. If you didn’t know better, you would think she was delighted to see Betty.

“Looks like you found me,” Grandma said.

“Have you seen this flyer?” Betty unrolled the paper and slammed it down on the table.

“Careful, Betty,” my grandmother said. “You almost spilled my tea.”

“What is it?” I asked.

Betty tapped her finger on the flyer. “Go on, Rose, read it out loud.”

“If I must.” My grandmother pulled her reading glasses out of her purse, then picked up the flyer. “Calling all believers—”

“Hey, is that one of those revival meetings?” the man at the table across from us asked.

“It is most certainly not a revival meeting.” Betty motioned for my grandmother to continue reading.

Grandma took a sip of her tea before continuing, “Join us at the library on Thursday for the inaugural meeting of the Western North Dakota FAROUT chapter.”

The man scoffed. “Sounds like some hippie nonsense.”

“Tell them what FAROUT stands for,” Betty urged. “It’s at the bottom of the flyer.”

Grandma gave Betty a look, then adjusted her reading glasses. “Hmm. That’s an interesting acronym. It stands for the Federation for Alien Research, Outreach, and UFO Tracking.”

“Aliens? Really?” I said, reaching for the flyer.

“Why are you letting them meet at the library?” Betty demanded.

“I’m not in charge of the library,” my grandmother said sternly. “I’m retired, remember? Hudson Carter is the new library director.”

Betty scoffed. “He’s too young to be the director of anything, let alone our library.”

“Hudson is in his thirties,” I pointed out.

“Exactly,” Betty retorted. “But of course you would come to his defense, seeing as the two of you are courting.”

I felt my face grow warm. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Hudson and I had been dating for several months, but it still wasn’t something I felt comfortable talking about. There were a lot of great things about living in a small town. Knowing everyone gossiped about who was “courting” wasn’t one of them.
Betty reached into the tote bag she was carrying and tossed a bunch of crumpled flyers onto the table. “I’ve spent all morning going around town pulling these down. You’ve got to do something about this. UFOs have no place at our library.”

My grandmother sighed. “Betty, the meeting rooms at the library are available for everyone. You don’t get to decide who can use them. If you don’t want to go to a meeting about UFOs, then don’t. It’s that simple.”

“But people believing in aliens and wasting their time meeting about it–complete nonsense," Betty spluttered. “Besides, think of the damage it will do to our town’s reputation.”

Personally, I wasn’t sure if aliens existed or not. If they did, it seemed like our planet wouldn’t be high on their travel itinerary, and North Dakota even less so. But if folks wanted to get together to talk about UFOs, that was their business.

I glanced over at my grandfather, surprised to see him reading one of the flyers Betty had dumped on the table. “Thinking of going?” I joked.

He folded the flyer up, then tucked it into the pocket on his overall bibs. “Yep.”

My jaw dropped. My grandfather wanting to go to the FAROUT meeting? That blew my mind. Then I thought about it. The man did have a giant ball of twine in his barn, after all. What’s one more quirky pursuit?

Grandma scooped up the flyers and handed them back to Betty. “I suggest you put these back up,” she said firmly. Once Betty stormed off in a huff, my grandmother waved Norma over.

“Ready to order breakfast?” Norma pulled out her order pad.

We all played it safe, selecting pancakes and bacon.

“Can you get me a cup of coffee, too, please?” my grandmother asked.

“I knew that tea wouldn’t last,” Norma said with a smirk.

Grandma shook her head. “That Betty drives people to drink.”

“Coffee, in your case.” I nudged the pitcher of cream over to her side of the table.

My grandfather got up from the table. Never one for having long, chatty conversations, he simply said, “Be back.”

“Where are you going, Thor?” Grandma asked. After my grandfather pointed out the window of the diner, she nodded. “Gotcha. Wiggles Waggles.”

“Are the dogs out of treats?” I asked. Now that I was living on my own, I didn’t get to see Loki and Bjorn, my grandfather’s Pomeranians, much anymore. While I loved my new digs, I missed having the furry little fiends running around.

“He’s been buying them costumes,” my grandmother confided in me.

“I see. Getting ready for Halloween. Well, it’s the one day of the year that we can all dress up as something silly.”

She chuckled. “Oh, no. This is an everyday thing. Yesterday, they were dressed up as pirates. Today it’s bumblebees. Want to see some photos?”

While my grandmother pulled the pictures up on her phone, I glanced out the window, then gasped. The burly guy who had nearly knocked me down earlier this morning was standing outside the diner, arguing with a man wearing a blue flannel shirt. The next thing I knew, the burly guy charged the other man, driving him straight toward us.