by Lesley Kagen
I don’t want to go with her. I need to keep looking for my leather-like, but I also don’t want her telling Grampa that I don’t have enough sense to get out of the rain. So given no choice, I call, "C’mon outta there, Keep,” and the three of us take off.
“Have you by any chance seen my briefcase? It’s black. Leather-like,” I huff out when Miss Jessie tosses me a tan towel from outta the mudroom off the porch. “I put it in those bushes outside the barn when I came to pick up the egg order and now I can’t find it.”
“Ya already asked me that, hon,” she says, easing into the back of her rocker in sort of a pooped-out way. “Ya sure it was those bushes you left it in? Tim Ray trimmed that side of the barn yesterday and didn’t say a thing about findin’ your briefcase.”
Lord.
Of course you understand by now how deadly important that briefcase is to me at this point in my investigation. Looks like my next order of business will be locating that scannel Sneaky Tim Ray to negotiate a ransom. I feel like I ate a whole loaf of greasy bread.
“Blot your hair,” Miss Jessie tells me, demonstrating on Keeper.
What a sweet and helpful woman. I can’t hardly spend any time with her without thinking what a nice wedded couple she and Grampa would make. Besides all the other things they enjoy doin’ together, like their bird-watching and square dancing, Charles Michael Murphy, hailing from Abilene, Texas, knows the front end from the back end of a horse so would be a real help around the farm. Sadly, I believe I know exactly why he doesn’t go full bore on romancing her. He yearns for Gramma Kitty some. “Do you ever miss your dead husband?” I ask her.
“Whatever brought that up?” she says, frowning.
Tilting forward in my chair to run the towel down my dripping legs, I get a view of the hayloft. Up against the crackling sky, Sneaky Tim Ray is leaning against the half-open doors, dangling my briefcase from his putrid fingertips.
“Look! There he is,” I yell, pointing.
Miss Jessie rocks forward, but by the time she gets the right angle, Sneaky Tim Ray’s already backed up into the shadows. On her rock back, she shoots me one of those looks she gives a horse when she’s checking its trot for lameness. “You all right, Gib?”
I pounce to my feet. “No, I am not! Tim Ray’s up in the loft with my briefcase.” (I never call him Sneaky to her face. Even though she’s not fond of him, he’s still her kin.) “I’m goin’ up there.”
“You can forget that. You’ll get soaked worse than you already are. Catch your death of cold. Your grampa wouldn’t like that,” she says, nurse-like ’cause she used to be a practical one up in Louisville before she got married to her dead husband.
“We really oughta close those loft doors. Ya don’t want your hay to get wet,” I urge, still raring to go.
“The rain’s not comin’ from that direction. The hay’ll be fine.” When she pats my chair, I reluctantly sit down on the edge because I also don’t want her telling Grampa I forgot my manners. I’ll bide my time, my eyes locked on the loft. According to The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation: The Stakeout: Patience is a virtue when an operative is observing a suspect. One must remain alert and ready.
When he shows himself again, I’ll be quick.
“What was your husband’s name again?” I ask, refusing to blink.
“Har—”
Sneaky Tim Ray scutters back into view.
“There!”
By the time she’s tilted up next to me, he’s vanished again. That tricky butthole.
Miss Jessie gives me another diagnosing look and says, “That reminds me, speaking of the dearly departed, I was pickin’ up some pies this mornin’ down at the diner and Miss Florida told me that you told her that ya found Buster Malloy dead. Is that right?”
“No, ma’am. Why would I tell her that?”
“Look at me, Gib.”
This reporter does not take her eyes off the loft.
“You tellin’ me the truth?” Miss Jessie asks, getting me by the chin.
“Cross my heart,” I say, even though I am lying. I don’t want her to know about dead Mr. Buster Malloy because she could tell Grampa, who would immediately put the kibosh on my investigation, and where would that leave my mama? I’ll tell ya where. Knowing for all eternity that I might never get Right again. I’d rather be planning my own funeral than let that happen.
“Ya positive ya didn’t tell Florida you found Buster dead?” Miss Jessie asks.
“A hundred percent,” I say, pulling out of her grasp. Sneaky Tim Ray has not reappeared. I know what he wants. He wants me to lie down in the hay with him and lift up my shirt and won’t give me back my briefcase until I do.
“His name was Harry,” she says, settling back again.
“Whose name was Harry?”
“My husband’s. You remember him, don’t you? He and your grampa were the ones that taught ya to ride when you were just a bit of a thing.”
Harry? Doesn’t ring a bell, but I say, “He was such a nice man, Miss Jessie. A real nice Harry.” I spring outta my chair even though I can tell it’s important to her that we sit and remember him together. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but, well, the rain is letting up some and I got a fish to fry.
“Life sure is peculiar, ain’t it,” she says. “The way a warm body is keepin’ you close, takin’ care of you and then just like that.” She snaps her fingers. “You’re one instead of two.”
Or one instead of three.
Memories are washing across Miss Jessie’s face. What a comfort that must be, to recollect whatever you want, whenever you want. To wade right into those good old days. When there was a mama and daddy. And a me that is no more. When . . . for crissakes. What a complete dope I am. Why in the world did I bring up her dead husband when the purpose of this whole conversation was to glue Grampa and her together in a love collage?
“Ya know how ya been askin’ me to help you move some of that hay from the loft down to the feed room?” I switch subjects, hoping she’ll do the same. “Now would be a real good time for me to do that for ya.”
“What?” she answers.
“I said, I’ll move that hay outta the loft for you today.”
“Oh. Well, thanks for the offer, but that’s a job for two and I gotta get into town. I’m on the food committee for Cray Ridge Days and we got our final meetin’ this afternoon,” she says, setting Keeper down. "C’mon, I’ll give you a ride back to the diner.”
Crap on a cracker. I can’t say, Don’t trouble yourself, I’m looking forward to walking back through this hellacious storm. No. Miss Jessie’s a sharp cookie. That would make her suspicious as hell. I look back up at the loft. There he is. Giving me one of those movie-star smiles of his. Those pictures of Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee sitting in their car in front of the pumps are in that briefcase. And, more important, the ones of Buster Malloy dead on the beach are in there, too. The leather-like is locked so Sneaky Tim Ray can’t get at them unless he breaks it open. But I’m pretty certain that’s not what he wants to get into.
“Gosh, I just remembered something,” I say, walking beside Miss Jessie on the way to her truck. “I told Peaches I’d give her a bath.”
“Ya sure you wanna do that today?”
“Ya know how I get when I set a plan, Miss Jessie. Ya know what a goddamn terrier I can be.”
“Matter of fact, I do,” she says, giving me a caring look that ends by her hooking my bangs over my ear. “All right, I guess that donkey could use a rinse off. She’s one of ’em that broke through that fencin’ today and she’s caked up good. Use the soap in my trunk.” Once she gets herself situated behind the wheel, she turns to me and says in her most full-hearted way, “Life has a short wick, Gib. Burn bright whenever you can, hear?”
“I will, Miss Jessie. I promise.” I am struggling to hold myself back from smothering that adorable face of hers in kisses. She’s so nice. Sorta innocent. I don’t believe there’s any point to snuffing out all that
goodness by telling her that I don’t believe anything that I’m about to do with her rotten cousin by marriage would be considered enlightening, here, there, or anywhere.
An Eye for an Eye
Yesterday after we left Tanner Farm, Keeper and me took a stroll over to Candy World. Loretta wasn’t there. Probably busy rolling around in salted peanuts and sticky caramel with Reverend Jack. But Sue Pie, her help, sold me a bag. I think my mama musta been fond of chocolate-covered cherries, too, since almost every time I eat one, that picture of her and me down at the lake catching pollywogs drifts into my mind. Reverend Jack has told me that when things like that happen, when a smell or a sound or a taste makes something rise up familiar in your head, that is called—a cents memory. He says that’s a good sign. I have to agree with him. My brain feels as shiny as a brand-new silver dollar.
I also dropped my roll of film at Bob’s Drug Emporium and told Bob that it was a RUSH job. He said that he wasn’t so busy and that I could have the pictures back today because he develops them himself in a closet at the back of the store. I sure am glad to have my black leather-like back.
After making our usual morning stop at Land of a Hundred Wonders to help Miss Lydia with her hives (honey is an important ingredient in many of her miraculous potions, particularly the one she makes to treat shingles), I’m back doing my job at Top O’ the Mornin’, lapping that creamy cherry center out of the waxy dark chocolate and gloating like crazy over the new headline I’ve just written in my blue spiral:
Buster Malloy Found Dead on
Browntown Beach!
My ears are still ringing from the row Janice and Clever had out back of the diner just moments ago. It went something like this:
“Goddamn it, Carol. When ya gonna learn life ain’t always about you. I got needs too, ya know,” Janice yowled.
Clever catted back, “What ya mean, life ain’t always about me? When has it ever been about me?” and her hair was all crazy-looking, too. “It’s been ’bout you, Mama. Ya don’t care a whit ’bout me. All ya care about is gettin’ a bottle and a man to keep ya—”
That’s when Janice hauled back her ropey arm and slapped Clever straight across the face so hard that the yellow rose flew outta her hair smack dab into a puddle. And Janice probably woulda hit her like that again if I hadn’t yelled, “Charlie, come quick,” and he hadn’t come running through the back door, and seeing what was going on, said, “That’s about enough of that.” Clever waited ’til Grampa got a good hold of her mama and then she hawked and spit at Janice’s white waitress shoes, picked up the rose and stuck it back into her hair, mud and all, and went running off into the woods with one of Miss Florida’s chiffon pies tucked under her arm.
So, that’s what’s been going on around here. Sorry. Nothing else much new to report.
HA! HA! HA!
You think I’ve forgotten that I left you hanging in suspense after Miss Jessie left for her Cray Ridge Days meeting and I slunk over to the barn to negotiate the return of my briefcase with Sneaky Tim Ray, don’t you?
Well, I haven’t. Not by a long shot!
(I’m proud to report that my sense of humor may be reassembling itself. To quote the Jokes-A-Million book: Doing the unexpected is important in the funny business.)
Sooo . . . let me get ya caught up.
This is what happened yesterday right after I waved good-bye to Miss Jessie, who was on her way to the Cray Ridge Days refreshment meeting.
Keeper and me hurried up to the barn, and without further ado headed toward the narrow stairs to the hayloft with a lot of Trepidation: Trembling fright.
Teddy Smith was sweeping the barn aisle at the time, moving a piece of straw from one corner of his mouth to the other, concentrating with all he had. I am in general much more acquainted with him than I am with his brother since Teddy is over at the Land of a Hundred Wonders so much of the time helping out Miss Lydia with this and that. He was there this morning, in fact, same time I was.
Vern called over from the work sink, “Hep you with something, Gibber?”
I was about about to say, No, thank you, but then from outta nowhere this plan came to me . . . just about blinded me, that’s how bright it was.
“Ya need somethin’ outta the loft?” Vern asked, as I was placing my foot on the bottom step.
I most certainly did. Because nobody, I mean NOT ONE BODY, is gonna stop me from writing that story about Mr. Buster. And that includes Sneaky Tim Ray Holloway. So I arranged my brilliant plan in my mind and a bothered look on my face when I answered him, “Sneaky Tim Ray’s up top. He had some real bad things to say about Miss Florida yesterday and I’m fixin’ to have a few words with him to set him straight.”
Vern stopped rinsing the bucket he was holding and said, “What ’zactly that uselessness Holloway have to say?”
Winging it, I said, “Ah . . . he told me with a lot of digust in his voice that Miss Florida smelled like . . . like . . . a chicken coop.”
On hearing that, Teddy leaned his broom against a stall door, brushed his hands down the front of his work pants, and headed up the loft staircase with jackhammer feet. I could smell his mad comin’ off him. Almost see it in waves.
“Don’t kill him,” Vern warned, because his brother is the classic example of still waters run . . . waters still run . . . Teddy’s the strong, silent type.
“Long as you’re up there, would you mind terribly retrievin’ my briefcase?” I called after him. “Sneaky Tim Ray stole it off me.”
Even though he didn’t say, I sure will, Gibber, I knew Teddy heard me by the way the muscles in his back got even bulgier.
“All right then,” I said, pleased as punch with my little plan. “Need some help, Vern?”
Turning the water back on full force, he said, “A body could always use a little help.”
“I’d have to agree with you,” I said, and picked up a rough brush from the shelf above the work sink.
That’s right about when the storm, not entirely satisfied with the job it’d done earlier, decided to give it another shot. Hard rain on a tin roof makes Billy ascared because it reminds him of gunfire, but to me, that tat . . . tat . . . tat . . . was real soothing, especially since it was harmonizing with the shud . . . shud . . . shud from above that could only mean one thing. Teddy Smith had gone back to his sweeping. Only this time it was the hayloft floor and he was using Sneaky Tim Ray Holloway instead of a broom.
Don’t think a girl could ask for sweeter sounds.
After it got all still up top, Teddy sauntered down the steps looking refreshed and swinging my briefcase like he just got back from a job in a Louisville office. Normally, if a colored man beat up on a white man, there would be quite a to-do around here. But when it came to Holloway, thank goodness, nobody seemed to care who whacked him around. (Since Teddy only uses his high C voice once in a blue moon, I knew I could count on him NOT to inform Sneaky Tim Ray it was me who told him that Miss Florida was coop-smelling.)
When all was said and done, the Smiths were kind enough to drop me off back in town.
“Thanks for the ride,” I told ’em, slamming the Chevy door behind me.
And they musta really liked the gold stars I gave them because they gifted me something in return. Teddy tossed it to me through the truck window, and Vern said, “Think of it as a souvenir,” and tuba-laughed. “An eye-catchin’ one.”
Other than forgetting to pick up Clever’s belongin’s bag, which I promised Miss Florida I would do today, I consider it one heck of a successful afternoon.
So here we are back at the diner, in case you’ve forgotten. (Awful feelin’, ain’t it?)
“Gibby?” Grampa calls from behind the cash register. Top O’ the Mornin’ is closing-time empty ’cept for me and him and Miss Florida, who is done folding her apron square.
“Charlie?” How relieved I am that he’s called me Gibby instead of Gibson. His mad at me from going to Browntown the other night must be wearing down some.
�
��Frank Bailey told me the perch are bitin’ off Witch Point,” he says, counting coin.
“That right?” I say, not looking up from my blue spiral. I don’t want to break the mood.
Miss Florida calls from the back hall, “See y’all tomorrow. God willin’ and the creek don’ rise.”
“Stay dry,” I shout.
“So?” Grampa says, emptying the till into his bucket.
“I’d love to go fishin’ with you, but I can’t today. I gotta get busy investigating the death of ...” That was a close call. "... the death of . . . ah . . . Miz Titwilliger’s cat.”
He’s coming to sit down in the booth across from me. Uncapping his black pen so he can jot down the egg order. “What happened to Miz Titwilliger’s cat?”
(Damn, he’s cagey.)
“Ahhh . . . not sure. That’s why I gotta get over there to interview her ASAP.”
Sliding over the napkin that he wrote 3 doz on, he says, “First things first,” and tips his cowboy fishing hat back hard enough to make the lures jangle. “I believe we have a paper to look over.”
Grampa never lets the Gazette get typed up and run off by Miss Ruth over at the library until he checks it over. To make sure I haven’t spelled something incorrectly or written about a subject that might get me in a heap of trouble, like it did with that picture I printed of bare-butted Janice Lever doing something she shouldn’ta with Gus the handyman last year.
Grampa reads aloud from theLove, Love Me Do column: “There’s word in town that Reverend Jack, the Lord’s help, and Loretta Boyd, owner of Candy World, are sweet on each other.” Giving me an almost apple-puckerin’ smile, he says, “Good,” and flips to the front of the paper to read the lead story, the Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee one. All of a sudden Grampa doesn’t look so amused.
“Ya gotta stop describin’ Hundred Wonders like it’s some sorta miracle place. Folks are gonna get the wrong idea,” he says, testy.
“I’ve seen things up there that you wouldn’t believe,” I protest. My feelings get hurt that he never takes me at my word. Miss Lydia tells me it’s because Grampa got wore down after Gramma died, and when a short while later my mama died, and then when I almost died, his faith just eroded away. “Land of a Hundred Wonders is a miracle place. Miss Lydia does all sorts of heavenly things for folks who—”