Downhome Crazy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

  Also Available from Resplendence Publishing

  www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Downhome Crazy

  By Cammie Eicher

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Downhome Crazy

  Copyright © 2013 Cammie Eicher

  Edited by Andrea Grimm and Venus Cahill

  Cover Art by Kendra Egert

  Published by Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  2665 N Atlantic Avenue, #349

  Daytona Beach, FL 32118

  Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-627-1

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Electronic Release: January 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  To my radio writer friends Mistie S., Mark J. (and my Mark and Sara), and all those other radio folks who have made my life more interesting over the years.

  Chapter One

  “Tessa, spawn of the devil on line two!”

  A call from Eugene Forrester was so not the way I wanted to start any day, let alone the Monday after the Fabulous Fortuna Fall Festival, the biggest—and possibly only—activity of the Fortuna Merchants Association. “Fabulous” might be stretching the description a bit. But as the one and only news hound at WFRT, I was expected by the entire listening audience to tell all.

  Eugene Forrester is, to put it politely, a trifle odd. He’s been described by some folks as everything from “marching to a different drummer” to “every town has to have a weirdo, right?”

  Personally, I think Eugene is okay. Or rather Big E, as he prefers to be called these days. I try to remember that. But I’m pretty sure that at fifteen, he’s going to change his name back as soon as his last pair of droop-off-his-ass pants wears out and he realizes he’s about five years behind the trend. I cross my fingers and hope he simply wants to get my take on the fried fish eating contest, which was won for the seventh time by Maudie Beltz, the spinster school teacher.

  I pick up the phone and say hello.

  I am so not prepared for what he says back.

  “Miss McDonald,” he says—Eugene has that southern polite thing going on, “I think my mother’s gone bat-shit crazy.”

  I’d seen the illustrious Florine Forrester on Saturday, working in the Organic Agriculture and Archery Guild booth. She’d seemed fit as a fiddle and perfectly normal to me. She was dressed like an old-timey farm wife but with a plastic apple with an arrow through it tied to her head. She’d been passing out samples of her homemade bread covered with homemade apple butter, created from apples with nary a chemical near them.

  I politely declined. I haven’t been big on apples since I got into those green ones when I was a kid and so regretted it a few hours later. I did accept a small cup of cider and halfway agreed to serve as a judge at the association’s annual Yuletide Fruitcake Bake-off. The winner receives a hundred dollar savings bond and has her recipe printed in the local newspapers. The judges get two-for-one coupons for that buffet place out on the Interstate.

  “Exactly what do you mean, crazy?” I quiz.

  Eugene sighs. “You know how my mom plays the organ at church?”

  Ah, yes, I did indeed. What Florine may lack in talent she makes up in enthusiasm. Her feet dance from foot pedal to foot pedal, her body shimmying back and forth as she adds Jerry Lee Lewis-style punch to “Bringing in the Sheaves”. And every time she hits those chimes, every non-churchgoer within six blocks gets blasted out of bed through sheer volume of sound. When the choir’s in full voice, and Florine’s at her best, the resulting sound is completely unforgettable—and not necessarily in a good way.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, with some hesitation. If Eugene is about to tell me his mother is having a fling with the good Rev. Humphrey Hayslinger, who’s eighty if he’s a day, I’m not sure I want to hear about it.

  “Come to choir practice tonight. You’ll see what I mean.”

  I find myself agreeing to be at the First Church of Love’s Devotion at 7 p.m. to sit in on the group’s rehearsal for its annual Christmas cantata. It is written and directed as always by Florine and Louise Opperman, also known behind their backs as the “twits times two”. Not that there is anything wrong with their brains nor do they lack the necessary social graces. They share a common trait: Whatever enters their minds comes straight on out their mouths. It took Rev. Hayslinger a good three weeks to appease the communion committee after Louise announced, loud enough for everyone to hear, that she’d toss an extra twenty in the offering plate if that’s what it took to get some decent grape juice.

  After I hang up, I realize Florine is about the right age to be undergoing the life-changing experience of the change of life. She’s fifty-something, with a head of hair that would be all gray if she wasn’t a regular at the Curl Up and Dye on Main Street. Not that I know that much about menopause, only what the women’s magazines shout from their covers. But I do know Florine’s in the forefront of healthy eating in the greater Fortuna area, which might be her way of attempting to stall her matronly years.

  Or it could be her way of trying to trim down her Eugene. He goes a good 250, I’d say. And that would be all right if he was taller than five foot six, or if his weight came from muscles built in the school weight room. Yeah, the chain on that wallet that hooks from his belt to his back pocket probably adds a few ounces, as do the piercings in his ears and eyebrows. But he’s always been what my grandmother called “a fleshy boy,” which may explain why he wears all black. Nah, I think he’s trying to be goth and gangsta, which is quite a look for beautiful Fortuna.

  Southern Ohio can be chilly in October, and if I remember right, the Rev. Hayslinger keeps the air conditioning high in warm weather and the heat low in cool weather. I suspect that at times like this, when it’s in between seasons, the thermostat is set on neutral. I sling on my faithful red hoodie with the station’s call letters on the back and headed for the church. When I first came to town, the local history guru made a point of cornering me anywhere he could to give me the low-down on Fortuna’s past. One interesting thing I learned was that there used to be four churches in town. When they built a new one out of town that had rock music on Sunday morning and bingo every Tuesday and Friday, attendance fell off for all four of the old churches.

  When it was down to the old faithfuls, the pastors started leaving. A committee of folks from all the churches got together and decided it made sense to join forces. They wrangled about the names for a while and decided that Third Presbyterian Second Methodist St. Paul’s Episcopal Church of the Saints was a bit too long for a sign out front. So they argued a bit, voted, and discovered that First Church of Love’s Devotion ticked off the fewest big tithers.

  I walk into the sanctuary a few minutes before seven in time to catch Florine and the good Rev. Hayslinger standing toe-to-toe, voices raised as they argue. Louise clucks around them like the ref at a prizefight, peering at each one in turn and begging them to stop. Several choir members have thei
r cell phones up and recording; anything I missed will be available via the Internet tonight.

  The Rev. Hayslinger’s only child, the plump Penelope, adds to the frenzy by calling in a voice so high every dog in the neighborhood goes on alert. “Daddy, Daddy! Your blood pressure!”

  Eugene has the good sense to stay out of swinging distance. Florine has a strong arm from all that bow pulling, and I suspect he’s in no mood to take an accidental right hook.

  I’m trying to decide whether to attempt to calm the situation or call 911 to put paramedics on alert when Fortuna’s longtime police chief, Dwaine Portman, stomps up the aisle. His face is bright red and his eyebrows nearly touch from the deepest frown I’ve ever seen on him. He is definitely not happy. I’m not sure whether it’s because he’s upset by the situation or because he’s missing reruns of his beloved “Matlock”.

  “What the…dickens is going on here?”

  The mid-sentence pause is so the chief can find a word suitable to be uttered in church. I’m pleased to see he found one, since he is so fond of the h-e-double hockey sticks word. Unfortunately, he’s being ignored. When he pulls out his gun, I duck behind the baptismal font. But instead of a well-placed shot, the chief turns the butt of his pistol into a noisemaker, slamming it against the back of the nearest pew.

  Silence falls. Well, except for the good reverend. I realize he’s forgotten his hearing aids again, which means he hasn’t heard a word Florine said.

  That is probably a good thing, since Florine doesn’t seem to be settling down. She plants her fists on her hips and turns to glare at Dwaine.

  “I said, what’s going on here?” His face is even redder. I suspect the choir is getting ready to use their cell phones to report that the chief lies twitching on the sanctuary floor from a stroke.

  Florine points a finger at Rev. Hayslinger and yells, “He insulted my directorial abilities.”

  “I did no such thing, young lady. I simply said that if this year’s program is going to be another overinflated kindergarten operetta, maybe I should frame my homily in Dr. Seuss rhymes.”

  “That’s it!” Florine heads for the reverend. Dwaine puts her in a headlock before she can get the best of the preacher and shouts to me, “Call one of my boys!”

  He doesn’t mean his sons, who are probably so involved in a gross video game they’d never hear the phone ring. He means his deputies.

  Penelope barges into the fray once more. “Don’t you dare speak like that to my father!” She is only inches from Florine, wiggling her scolding finger.

  Her bravery is due to the chief’s one-handed hold on the squirming madwoman as he uses the other hand to hit the shortcut number to his office. He is reduced to barely holding her in a bear hug by the time a siren sounds outside the church and his chief officer Luther Gross comes marching in. Luther nods at me as he rushes to help the now-panting chief.

  There was a time when the man had a crush on me. Trust me, the crush didn’t work the other way. In fact, I would have remained blissfully unaware of Luther’s feelings for me if my darling Carson hadn’t told me.

  That’s Lt. Carson Hayes, still of the Ohio Bureau of Investigation. His plans a mere six months ago were to tender his resignation from that prestigious agency and sign on with the county sheriff’s department as an investigator. Unfortunately, the tax dollars have been pinched so hard both the OBI and the sheriff’s office have been forced into hiring freezes. So Carson still lives in big-city Columbus, and I remain one of Fortuna’s spinsters.

  My mother, the perennial Pollyanna, believes it’s a good thing Carson and I only cohabitate on the weekends. Actually, she doesn’t know that we cohabitate but the multi-pack of condoms she left in the bathroom the last time she visited makes me think she has a suspicion. My mother can not only take life’s lemons and make lemonade, she can stand watching a tornado and say, “Look, honey—the barn and all the cows are gone, but now we have a wonderful place to build that tennis court you wanted.”

  My mother may have a point. About Carson and me, not about the tornado, although I wouldn’t mind a tennis court. Or maybe an in-ground swimming pool. I do have a tendency to rush into things headlong and regret them, like buying a mini-goat to chow down my backyard.

  I long for Carson and his calm ways as Florine lets out a huge sob and falls backward onto the carpeted floor. Well, most of her falls backwards. Luther manages to keep hold of an arm and Dwaine grabs a shoulder, and I’ll be darned if it doesn’t look like they’re getting ready to dress her out like a six-point buck. The thought of anyone field-dressing Eugene’s mom makes me want to giggle. I try to cover it up by faking a coughing spell. Apparently, my attempt is successful because I suddenly find Louise pounding on my back and shouting, “Cough it up! You’re not dying on my watch.”

  The pummeling is interrupted by the Rev. Hayslinger’s loud command of “Let us pray,” at which everyone drops their heads and folds their hands. All but Dwaine and Luther, that is. They just bow their heads and keep their hold on Florine, who is going to have one dilly of a headache if she keeps hanging that way.

  “Told you she was bat-shit crazy.” Eugene’s voice after the “amen” is low and despondent.

  “She’s just high-strung.” I try to console him, and my grandma’s phrase is the first to pop into my mind. I’m not sure what “high-strung” means, but it seems as good a way as any to describe Florine at the moment.

  “I’m calling the ambulance.” The pronouncement from the chief is immediately rebuffed by the woman of the moment.

  “Do that and I’ll sue you.” The threat would have been a little more, well, threatening if Florine’s face wasn’t muffled by the carpet. “And I’ll tell the city council you manhandled me like a sack of potatoes, right here in the good Lord’s own house.”

  Luther lets go first. Dwaine kinda eases Florine up on her feet and leads her to a pew. I expect Eugene to rush over and comfort his mama, but he makes the universal sign of crazy—his index finger making loops at his temple. Louise dashes over and pulls her friend against her bodice, cooing to her like she might a lost puppy.

  With the noise abated, Luther makes a dramatic announcement. “Someone,” he says in an excited yet stern voice, “has stolen Miz Waddy!”

  The babble begins again, a chorus of “What did you say?” and “Miz Waddy at the dry goods store?”

  “Enough!” The chief uses his big boy voice for the second time in ten minutes. His hand rests on the butt of his gun, and I can tell by the way he shifts from one foot to the other he is dying to use it. He motions Luther over to the side. I sidle over as the two men huddle by the pulpit. I am a news hound by profession, and I have a right to know details. Or so I tell myself as I plain-old eavesdrop.

  Those whispered details are chilling. Miz Waddy’s car is parked where it always is, by the no-parking sign above the hydrant in front of her shop. The door is closed, but unlocked, and Miss Priss, her old and grumpy cat, nearly shredded the hem of Luther’s standard issue police pants when he walked in to investigate. Everyone in Fortuna knows how Miz Waddy dotes on that cat. She’d never leave her behind.

  Over by the organ, the fine-voiced ladies of Fortuna huddle together, greatly resembling a herd of cows in fall-hued polyester. With its high pitch, Penelope’s voice tends to carry, and I catch a few words as I sidle back away from the chief.

  “We women better lock our doors and stock up on pepper spray,” she orders, “before the devil plunks himself down in the mayor’s chair.”

  I’m not quite sure what she is trying to say, but that’s not unusual. Penelope has a large vocabulary and tons of the local vernacular, yet she does tend to lump odd images together. Like her favorite “It’s better to fry like a frog than sink in a lily pond.” Personally, I think if I were a frog, I’d rather drown in pond water than hot butter with a nice flavoring of seasoned pepper and paprika.

  Being a news reporter, I decide it’s important to check out the scene for myself. I am, of c
ourse, torn about leaving the church. Calm appears to prevail, but it could just be the eye of the storm. Another furor might wash across the place at any moment.

  I know that any choir member will be happy to fill me in on any improper proceedings, and it’s not going to be long before Luther admits he didn’t lock up Miz Waddy’s shop because he’s frequently forgetful. That will send Dwaine, hopping mad, over to the dry goods store. While Dwaine and I have a good relationship, I’m pretty sure he’s not going to invite me in for a look-see.

  I realize as I sneak toward the side door that Eugene is sneaking with me. Well, sneaking as best an overweight adolescent in baggy trousers and chained wallet can. I hold the door for him; he shuts it quietly behind us. I nod when he asks if he can ride along with me.

  He doesn’t want to inspect the rows of calico and zippers to see if any are missing. I know that. What he wants, I’m pretty sure, is to get my opinion of his mother’s mental stability. Or, given those moments at the church, her instability.

  “Do the kids of crazy people have to go to foster care?” he asks, attempting a casual tone.

  I maintain the same “doesn’t matter” attitude as I answer. “Only if they’re otherwise without family,” I assure him. “You have your grandmother.”

  He gives me one of those withering stares that teenagers seem to gain with puberty. “You know she’s bat-shit crazy, too, right?”

  I wouldn’t describe Annalee Forrester, his late father’s mother, quite that way. She is unique. Some might say in a good way; others might disagree. Annalee is from the old school in which kids learned about life from their parents. Unfortunately, Annalee’s mother was a space cadet, or so I’ve been told, who loved her child deeply, but understood the practice of rearing a child only in the abstract. The care and nurturing of little Annalee fell to her father, who is still known for his various talents twenty years after his death.