Downhome Crazy Read online

  He was a lumberjack, a stonemason, a purveyor of moonshine, and an itinerant preacher, although not all at the same time. Tagging at his heels, Annalee learned to cut lumber, lay bricks, swear like a sailor, and pray like a nun. When she took a husband at the tender age of forty-one, no one expected her to reproduce. Yet, she popped out a son whom they named Ambrose after a dog Annalee once had and that son wound up married to Florine.

  Although Annalee’s husband is in the great beyond, she still lives in the small cottage she laid the foundation for the week before her wedding. The ceilings are low and the windows are few, but it’s a sturdy place she reigns over as if it were Buckingham Palace.

  “Your grandmother just likes things a certain way,” I say, defending the woman who once called the radio station to ask why we never played Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby in our top twenty countdown.

  “She’s nuts.” Eugene sounded morose again. “I know she’s not the only person to ask her visitors to take off their shoes at the door, but I’ve never heard of anyone else providing a bowl of water and homemade soap to scrub their feet before they come in.”

  Okay, maybe Annalee goes a little overboard on the cleanliness thing. And cementing her entire front yard to keep cats from digging is a little strange, too.

  “Your mother is going to be fine,” I say with all the conviction I can fake. “She’s stressed out from the festival and the choir program, that’s all.”

  Fortuna being not the largest of towns, we are at Miz Waddy’s shop before I finish those last words. I park down the street, hoping that if Dwaine happens to cruise by he won’t know where I am. I take a small LED flashlight from my glove compartment and turn to Eugene.

  “Stay in this car,” I warn him. “Or I’ll call the chief and you will end up in foster care as an incorrigible youth.”

  “I’m going in with you.” Eugene opens his door and steps out. The car goes up about three inches.

  “Because,” he continues as I also get out of the car, “if the dudes who stole Miss Peytona are still around, I’ll be here to defend you.”

  I have news for Eugene. If there’s any living creature in that place besides Miss Priss, I’ll set a new record for the fastest runner in Fortuna. Still, I can see how he believes he’s needed, and I do hate to crush his spirit, especially with his mother in her current condition.

  We stroll down the sidewalk as if out for an evening constitutional. When we near the dry goods store, I angle over, try the doorknob and walk right in when it gives. Flicking on my flashlight, I aim it toward the floor so it can’t be seen by anyone passing by.

  The Peytonas have had a store of some kind in the same location since Fortuna first came into being in the late nineteenth century, or so the official tour brochure for the town claims. The local woman’s club also serves as the welcoming committee, and the two most agile of its gray-haired members took me on a walking tour my first day on the job.

  According to the one who achieved the decibel level of a lawn mower because she’s deaf, Waddell Peytona had a general store and dentist office here for twenty years. After he went to join the angels, Waddell Peytona the second kept the store and declined to yank teeth, adding a post office instead. Future Waddell Peytonas changed the inventory, but kept the name, which is why Wadelline Peytona’s dry goods store has a weathered wooden tooth hanging over the front door and a painted advertisement for chewing tobacco fading on the side of the building.

  Beside me, Eugene gives a gasp and jumps as my flashlight flickers across something gray and moving fast. I grab his arm and whisper what I hope is a reassuring, “It’s just her cat.” Now I don’t know that it’s Miss Priss, mind you, but I’m pretty sure our covert operation is blown if I tell Eugene it’s one of those big river rats that sometimes come up through an uncovered drain. That’s one of the drawbacks of living along the flowing Ohio, I learned on moving to Fortuna, but folks here think the river view is pretty enough to make up for foot-long rodents.

  The blade of light we’re following falls on a little of this and a little of that blocking the ends of the aisles. Moving into one of the aforesaid aisles, I discover nothing but bolts and bolts of fabric. Most of the rows are the same, except for the one that holds skeins and skeins of yarn. If this place is still as well-stocked when the apocalypse comes, I want to be stranded here. Surely Miz Waddy has her upstairs apartment fully stocked with canned goods and jars of peanut butter; she seems the practical sort. And with all this fabric, I could have a new outfit everyday while the other survivors wander around in rags.

  Note to self: Learn to sew before the apocalypse.

  “This place is spooky.” Eugene’s voice is higher pitched than I’ve heard it before and now it’s him gripping my arm. “Think maybe somebody hacked her up and stuffed her down the well out back?”

  I bring my light up so I can see his pasty face. He really does look scared.

  “The well out back is a fake,” I explain. “Back before you were born—heck, before I was born—people built those wooden wishing wells as a lawn decoration. There’s not enough room in that bucket to stuff Miss Priss, let alone Miz Waddy.”

  Most wishing wells are long gone from the not-so-luxurious lawns of Fortuna, replaced by families of lawn gnomes or those fire pots. Miz Waddy keeps hers in perfect condition, probably because one of the Peytonas who came before her built it. I swear I saw her varnishing the little wooden staves with a toothbrush last summer.

  Eugene’s being spooked makes me see weird things in the shadows my flashlight doesn’t reach. We retrace our steps, taking care not to disturb anything. We’re two steps from my car when I see one of Fortuna’s finest pulling up in a cruiser. Luther, I’m pretty sure. I suspect that after dealing with the church ladies, Dwaine is headed for the Tip ‘Em Inn for a couple of drinks.

  I know we’re spotted because the blue lights start twirling. That confirms my belief it’s Luther. He loves that light bar.

  He strides toward us, hands on his utility belt like our faces grace the most-wanted posters down at the post office. I keep hoping Luther will find a nice girl and settle down. I can see him dropping the kiddies off at Grandma’s before he and Mrs. Luther go to bingo night at the VFW hall and then stop by the Tip ‘Em to round off date night.

  “Not surprised to see you here.” He tries for a gruff, you’re-in-trouble tone, but it comes out a lot like his gimme-a-cheeseburger tone.

  “I was worried about Miss Priss,” I lie. “You know how I love animals.”

  “Uh-huh.” Luther was around during the months after I inherited Precious, the ugliest dog God ever graced the earth with. He doesn’t know that the ghost of one of my ex-boyfriends was attached, or that in her way, Precious really was…precious. “Then you won’t mind taking her in until we find Miz Waddy. Chief wants to send her to the pound.”

  Dang. One tiny fib and here I am, trapped into kitty sitting.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Eugene cuts in.

  “Uhhh.” Not a brilliant response from Luther, but I understand. He was probably trying to figure out if Eugene meant shelter and feed or was using the phrase “take care of her” in the vernacular of a hit man. Or maybe he figured Eugene would make poor Miss Priss a midnight sacrifice.

  “I love cats.” Eugene’s voice is earnest. “If my mother wasn’t allergic, I’d have a dozen of them.”

  As Eugene waxes on about how regal cats are and what great companions they make, I can almost hear Luther’s mind at work. Like maybe he’s beginning to realize that just because Eugene is different, it doesn’t mean he is evil. Or even bad enough to step on a crack and break his mother’s back.

  “Uh, your mother’s allergy?” I finally cut in.

  “Oh.” Eugene’s face falls. Then it brightens and he says, “Maybe we could both stay at your house.”

  Panic rises swiftly and fills every fiber of my being. I could maybe handle Eugene or the cat, but not both of them. Okay, if I’m being honest here, I don’t t
hink I could handle a teenager even on a temporary basis. Or afford to feed a healthy growing boy like good old Big E. I doubt if he’d settle for a bowl of kitty kibbles twice a day.

  “I’ll take the cat; you go home and keep an eye on your mother.” I put as much authority as I can muster into what I hope sounds like an order.

  “Breaker, breaker here,” Luther interrupts, leading me to wonder what old TV show he’d been watching. “The alto section decided it would be best if Florine had a nice little rest away from the stress she’s been under lately. At the moment she’s secured in a room at the motel out on the Interstate.”

  “The one with the game room and the pool?” Eugene sounds like a bitter six-year-old.

  “The preacher’s offered you a spare room in the parsonage,” Luther says. “He’s a fine man and his girl Penelope makes some mighty tasty pie.”

  Eugene doesn’t answer right away. He’s busy with his cell phone, wandering off to carry on a conversation. Upon his return, he announces he’s spending the night at this grandmother’s.

  “You’re sure this is what you want to do?” Luther asks. “Penelope has a coconut cream pie she made today, and she’ll cut us each a piece when we get there.”

  Ah, the plot thins. Luther’s sudden concern over the weird kid makes sense at last. And while I normally choose any solution that involves pie, I certainly understand what Eugene’s thinking: The crazy you know is always more comfortable than the crazy you don’t. Not that I’m saying Penelope’s less than perfectly sane. It’s simply that sometimes her actions and words might confuse you on that particular matter.

  “I’ll run along home then,” I say, edging toward my car. “I’m sure I can get the whole story from the chief in the morning. Gotta be up bright and early, you know.”

  “Stop right there.” An unusual note of authority rings in Luther’s words, and I realize he must have seen me coming from Miz Waddy’s store. Us. Eugene’s not built for stealth. I seriously do not want to sit in the county jail on a charge of tampering with evidence, so I prepare to grovel.

  “Or maybe I should take Eugene to his grandmother’s first.” I make an impatient gesture toward good old Big E, who takes the hint and nods.

  “I’ll make sure the boy is taken care of before I go tell Penelope her fine offer was unnecessary. Just need to lock up Miz Waddy’s place first. What I’d like you to do is call your…Lt. Hayes.” Luther’s cheeks carry a blush, and I realize he almost used the word “boyfriend.” That makes me a little more sympathetic to the man than usual.

  “Thanks for being there tonight,” I say. “I know it means a lot to Eugene and all those church folks to have someone like you on the job.”

  Luther’s blush deepens.

  “I’ll be glad to call and see if Carson can come down,” I quickly add. “As a consultant, of course. I know you and the chief could handle this fine if it weren’t for the other things going on.”

  Luther casts a glance at Eugene, who is leaning against his cruiser and texting, and replies in a near whisper, “If the ladies down at the church weren’t going cuckoo, you mean. Something bad happens down there, the chief will be out on his hinny as quick as the church board can get to the mayor.”

  Indeed, Luther has summed the situation up in his usual succinct style. The two most important institutions in town are the bank and the church, both of which have spotless reputations. The slightest hint of scandal and not only would the Rev. Hayslinger be ousted from the parsonage, but the whole choir could find itself singing in someone else’s sanctuary. I managed not to get dragged into the disagreement over the new hymnals last year, but I’ve heard the council president tossed the offending suggested songbook with its bright yellow cover toward the council secretary with a suggestion as to where he could put that “mustard-colored piece of doodoo.”

  In Fortuna, those are fighting words. I suspect poor Dwaine had quite a time that evening, too.

  I pat Luther’s shoulder in a sympathetic gesture and wave goodbye to Eugene, who looks up from his phone long enough to give me a nod. I’ve only gone a few steps when Luther says, “Hold up. You forgot the cat.”

  In deference to Eugene’s youth, I swallow the words I’d so love to let loose. Dang it, I had offered to take care of Miss Priss, which makes me wonder about my own sanity.

  Eugene and I watch as Luther walks into the dry goods store and the lights go on. We exchange glances as a dark shadow bobs and weaves until finally, Luther walks back to us carrying a loudly yowling basket.

  “Here.” He shoves the basket at me, suggesting that I keep one hand on the lid as I drive home. The snarling that replaces the yowls makes me wonder if it’s illegal to transport a domestic cat in the trunk of a twelve-year-old sedan. Or deposit a yowling feline in the night drop of city hall, which is conveniently connected to the police department and good old Dwaine.

  * * * *

  “Eat.” I drop down on all fours and stare a glaring Miss Priss in her rheumy eyes. I’ve sacrificed a can of tuna, the last bit of milk in the house, and now a can of chicken noodle soup in an attempt to get her to accept something as supper.

  The care and feeding of cats is something I have absolutely no experience in. “Pets” in our house during my growing up years were loosely defined as the tropical fish in a tank in Dad’s den and the pair of lovebirds my mother kept for a friend for about six months. My attempts to get a kitten or puppy always resulted in a parental reminder that I couldn’t even grow a Chia pet, so maybe I ought to consider donating to the ASPCA instead.

  Precious wasn’t too hard to care for since Bobby, my ghost in residence last year, knew all about what she did and didn’t like. After all, Precious had been his mother’s dog for years before he became ectoplasm, and I figure he hung around his mom’s place before they both came to stay with me.

  Alas, translators who speak both English and feline are in short supply in Fortuna. My understanding was that cats are low-maintenance. Give ‘em a litter box, toss some kitty chow in a bowl, and the job was done. I’d stopped at the farm and feed store and bought both litter and chow, neither of which suited the finicky feline. Hence, the succession of items from the cupboard, which were way far from doing the trick.

  “Fine then, starve to death.” I stand on two legs, like the superior being I am, and vow to ignore Miss Priss until Miz Waddy comes back or hell freezes over, whichever comes first. Making a point not to look her way, I pull the last of yesterday’s leftover baked steak from the fridge, pop it in the microwave, and wait the requisite minutes until the ding. Sliding the meat onto a plate, I add a handful of potato chips and head for the couch and TV. Yeah, it’s ten at night, but when you’re a news reporter you get used to odd meals at odd times.

  “Muwhp.”

  The weird sound comes from over my left shoulder, where Miss Priss has settled in. She gazes at my plate with the lustful stare of a knickknack collector at a twenty-family yard sale. I ignore her, just as I vowed.

  The next “muwhp” is louder and accompanied by a claw delicately sunk through my t-shirt and into my flesh. Miss Priss takes advantage of my shock and pain to launch herself at my lap, snag the steak, and tear toward the kitchen. I am left with a scattering of chips on the couch and the undeniable knowledge that I have once again doomed myself to becoming a creature’s servant.

  Miss Priss hisses as I walk into the kitchen. I give her a wide berth as I search for a substitute supper. The quest is interrupted by the ring of my cell phone. I dive for the blamed thing, which has buried itself under a couch pillow, because that ring tone is reserved for my beloved.

  That’s right. Whenever Carson calls, my phone chimes the Beer Barrel Polka. Not that he’s particular fond of beer or even knows how to polka, but because one of our first almost dates was at this charming German restaurant. Okay, it wasn’t that charming. And someone was after me there. But doggone it, I want my memories anyway.

  “Hi, babe,” he answers my hello with that warm, sexy
voice of his, and I get a little melty inside. “Miss me?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Every minute you’re not with me.”

  “But you didn’t call at the precise time my favorite sci-fi show comes on to say you can’t live without me.”

  He’s right. I don’t call during his sci-fi show; he doesn’t call during my reality shows that has all those hunks in skimpy duds on the island.

  “It’s Luther,” I begin. Before I can complete the sentence, a chuckle comes from way up in Columbus, Ohio.

  “If you’re calling to let me know you’re eloping with Officer Gross, you’d better tell me where you’re registered,” Carson says. “Otherwise I’m assuming the gun department at Wal-Mart.”

  “Ha, ha.” I push the syllables out fast so he can’t interrupt easily. “Luther is requesting your assistance here in Fortuna.”

  “Another body?” I can see Carson sitting forward on his couch, elbows on his knees and all cop-like.

  “Missing, but not dead as far as I know. Miz Waddy who has the dry good store seems to have disappeared.”

  “The one with the gray bun, glasses on a chain, and the killer cat from hell?”

  “Yeah. And about the cat…”

  Silence, but not the good kind. As the moment lengthens, I anticipate his next question.

  “It’s there with you, isn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t let it catch my scent. It already hates me.”

  That reporter instinct in me is pushing hard against the gooey part of me that’s Carson’s lovey-dovey. Trying for an offhand approach, I say, “I didn’t realize you knew Miz Waddy.”

  “Barely acquainted,” Carson hastens to say, as if I might be jealous of a bird-legged sixty-something, who everyone knows has a crush on the postmaster.

  “But acquainted.”

  “I met her when I first came to Fortuna. You know, the dead wife of your first boyfriend.”

  Ah, yes, I remember it well. Good times, good times. Sort of. I met Carson, I fell in love with him when he complimented my appetite, and we had glorious times back in my old hometown of Clovette. I mean if you ignore the being threatened, being shot at, and the mixed pain and pride when poor Precious took the bullet for me and went on to the great beyond.