“The goat worries me,” Fidgety said with a new smirk and a twitch in his right thumb. “How about we go through the restaurant and out the kitchen doors?”
Push had come to shove, or, as Grandmama Ardwyn O’ Conner Firth used to say in Glasgow, It’s time to pull the wool out from under these feckers.
“No, we’ll protect you from the goat. No worries, gents.”
Shark Eyes gestured toward the hall to the back. “Mind if I take a piss in the indoor toilet, first?”
“We’re closed for the evening. Sorry.”
“What happened to Southern hospitality?”
“I’m Scottish. So feck off.”
Fidgety’s face went dark. He took a step forward, flexing his shoulders. He was as tall as me with more muscle, and he did a good job of turning his nervous tics into menace. “Tallulah MacBride and her kid are here. We know it, and you know it, too. If you don’t want the police involved, you’ll hand her over.”
Shark Eyes moved in on me, too. “There’s a warrant for her arrest on assault charges. If the cops come, she’s going to jail. But if she cooperates with us, we’ll just escort her back to New York and let the lawyers handle it.”
“Ah. Violent, is she? If I was you, I’d call the sheriff to come tase her and her child to boot. But Sheriff Whittlespoon is up in New York with the owner of this fine establishment. His wife. Besides, I’m pretty sure he’d tell you to get the feck out, too.”
Fidgety took a swing at me. I was a boxer at university; nearly made the Scottish Olympic team. So I dodged pretty well and tapped him on the jaw. He fell backward and nearly knocked Shark Eyes down.
Shark Eyes pulled out a pistol.
I lunged for it. The loudest blam in five counties clubbed my eardrums. A ceiling fan exploded over Fidgety and Shark Eyes. Bits of brass and shredded wood rained down on them. Shark Eyes and Fidgety covered their heads and began backing toward the doors.
My ears ringing like mad, I turned around to see who’d gone all Annie Oakley on the three of us.
Cleo stood in the hallway to the kitchen, her favorite double-barreled shotgun to her shoulder. She sighted down the barrel with a Clint Eastwood squint. She was ready to aim lower the next time.
“Jesus loves you,” she said to Fidgety and Shark Eyes. “But I’ll shoot your peckers off.”
Hiding in the Privy of Fine Art
“WHAT WAS THAT?” Eve asked sleepily, sitting on the closed lid of a commode with strange blue trout painted all over it. Teasel stood beside her, eating a roll of toilet paper.
A gun shot. I slid a hand into the pocket of my pink hoodie with the cupcake embroidered on the back. My fingers closed around the Glock. “Oh, it’s probably just a tree falling over. One of those big trees that shade the parking lot. Trees make a lot of noise when they go boom.”
She yawned and rubbed her eyes. I stared at my stark-white face in the mirror of an old medicine chest surrounded by a mural of shiny rocks in the pattern of an arch. A Noah’s Ark of folk-art animals roamed the toilet’s beadboard ceiling and old plank walls.
“Gobble, gobble!” Eve laughed, reaching out to stroke one of the purple turkeys that lived in the walls of the commode nook.
I’d spent our time in the Privy braiding my hair in a fuzzy plait so she’d think I was calm. My ears strained. All that stood between us and capture was a creaky wooden door on which a herd of bright orange and green deer galloped into a giant setting sun rimmed in vintage beer-bottle tops.
Ninety degrees from the sun’s apex (at Pabst Blue Ribbon) and five inches to the right of Schlitz, a frail metal hook latched the door to an eye bolt that wobbled when I poked it.
“Go hide in The Privy of Fine Art,” Bubba had directed. “Last place anyone would look.”
Unless the goons Mark sent were art critics.
Feet crunched on the gravel path outside. Multiple sets of feet. Feet moving fast. I faced the door, slipping the gun out. It was small enough to palm in my hand, hiding it from Eve. “Stay right here on the bathroom seat behind Mommy, okay?”
She stared at the door. “Somebody must need to go potty really bad!”
Tap tap tap. The door shivered, and so did I. “Come out, lady-girls,” Doug called. “Staying in there too long will give a person bad gas and strange dreams.”
My breath gushed in relief. I flipped the hook and flung the door open. Doug, Cleo, Bubba, Arnold, Jenny, Danielle and Brittany gazed back at me. Their arsenal included shotguns, rifles, handguns, and a hatchet. Doug was the only one not armed. Or maybe he was, only in a different way. I noticed the paper towel wrapped around his right hand. Blood stained it. My heart swelled. He fought for us?
His attention went to the Glock. Everyone else craned their heads to look, too. Cleo went “Hummph,” in surprise.
“Was there some kind of . . . issue?” I asked Doug. Please don’t say anything scary in front of Eve.
“Not a bit. Tagger came wandering about, looking for more Monkey Poop, and Cleo scared him off with her shotgun.”
“She shooted Tagger?” Eve wailed.
He leaned aside to smile down at her. “No worries, sweetheart. Not a hair was harmed on Tagger’s furry black head.”
“I promise, Hon,” Cleo said. The shotgun propped on her shoulder bore a small brass plaque on its gleaming wooden stock. Pray For Peace, it said.
Pray I don’t end up in pieces, I thought. If she’s still determined to get rid of me.
“This settles it,” Bubba announced, grinning at me. “Tal’s hidin’ in the Privy and packin’ heat. She’s a Whittlespoon cousin, for sure.”
Chapter Three
Later that night, in Free Wheeler
FIDGETY AND Shark Eyes were now tracking Eve and me to the Knoxville, Tennessee headquarters of the Cluck Burgers fast food chain. Fifty-five stores are scattered throughout the southeast, mostly in markets where they don’t have to compete with the king of chicken burgers, Chick-fil-A.
Doug and Bubba discovered a tracking device stuck to the bottom of my Bronco. Bubba handed it to Arnold. Arnold’s mother, Tiffany Darleen “Booty” Davis, drives a tractor-trailer for Cluck Burgers. He rushed home and gave the device to her before she left on her two a.m. schedule.
“Oh, hell yeah, I’ll take care of this New World Order gadget,” Booty said. She’s a survivalist, a lifetime NRA member, president of the Jefferson County Tea Party, and a forum moderator at the Tin Foil Hatters blog, where the motto is: We’re not paranoid. We’re para-prepared. Once in Knoxville, she’d hand the tracker to a fellow driver. By tomorrow afternoon, Eve and I would be delivering frozen cluck patties to Louisville, Kentucky.
In the meantime, I accepted Doug’s invitation to stay at his house for the night. Just one night, then I’d come up with Step Two of my haphazard non-plan. He described a comfortable guest bedroom—Eve and I would share it. No strings attached. I relaxed just enough to believe him. He continued to fill my mental aromatherapy channel with Scotch and cinnamon. Mark had inspired no scent at all. That should have warned me.
Besides, if Doug proved unworthy of my fledgling trust, I had my pistol.
Now we were in the middle of nowhere, heading toward his home in a deserted “bicycle village” that had once been known as Free Wheeler. No one would find us there, he promised. For sure. Not without a trail of bread crumbs and a satellite. How much time did I have before Mark’s repo men caught up with us again?
“This is where the original road starts,” Doug said loudly. Tree branches tickled the windshield. We had forded two shallow creeks, gone up and down hills, and now what had been little better than a hunting trail suddenly turned into a bumpy obstacle course. “O’r the years since Free Wheeler became a ghost town, the pavement’s crumbled quite a bit,” Doug went on. “In places it’s gotten right down to the cobblestone layer un
derneath. That part dates to about nineteen twenty, when young Arlo Claptraddle started building his fey dream of a bicycle wonderland.”
“Arlo Claptraddle? That can’t be his real name.”
“Likely not. He loved theatrics. Quite a showman, they say. Some called him ‘the Walt Disney of bicycles.’ Whoever he really was, he had a passion for his work, and he followed his heart. That’s what drew me to the place. I like to be certain of what I want and who I am.” He cut his eyes at me when he said that.
The truck lurched over a hummock of cracked pavement. Eve squealed and laughed. We all bounced. “So you took the road less paved?”
Doug grinned and went on, “They say he built the first section of this lane with his own two hands. Up yon you’ll be seeing a replica of the Welcome sign he put in. Pike Whittlespoon has some old photos that Grandpa Whittlespoon took. I created a new sign by copying the one in his pictures.”
He was practically shouting as the rumbling and bouncing grew worse.
Eve went, “Ah ah ah ah ah, oh oh oh oh, buh buh buh buh . . .”
Curled up beside her on the seat, Teasel went, “Bahba bahba bahba bah.”
I clutched my seatbelt. “Are we in Oz yet? Are we still in North Carolina? Are we traveling back in time?”
Doug laughed—a deep, rich, wonderful sound. “Free Wheeler’s just ’round the side of this mountain. We’re nearly home.” He said home as if it was our home, too. “There’s the Welcome sign, see?” He pointed as the headlights illuminated a small clearing in the forest.
Two handsome stone pillars rose on either side of the narrow concrete and stone lane. Atop them, bridging the way, a banner-shaped metal sign blazed with cheerful paint colors and vintage lettering. The effect reminded me of classic circus posters and carnival advertisements. Below a detailed painting of a Victorian couple riding a two-seater bicycle, the text read:
Greetings! Welcome to the glorious village of Free Wheeler, North Carolina!
Home of the Clapper Bicycle Emporium!
Magical motion machines are brought to life here!
Take your dreams for a spin!
Arlo Claptraddle, proprietor, fantasist, inventor, ad hoc mayor
A welcome committee of animals appeared along the fences and in the lane. A dozen dogs, a few cats, two small pigs, several llamas, ducks, chicken, a pair of geese, and a great horned owl who landed atop a fence post, looking wise.
“Doctor Doolittle lives here!” Eve said. “Look, Mommy! A big doll house!”
An alley of replica Victorian streetlamps led us forward; the clearing expanded into a small pasture rimmed in white fences. A floodlight illuminated a large barn with stone sides and a shingled roof. A grove of enormous oak trees made a wide semi-circle at the edge of deep forest. The gentle folds of the mountains’ skirts created knolls and hollows. A pretty creek trickled beneath us as we drove over a wooden bridge.
Nestled in a shady hollow was, indeed, a life-size dollhouse, complete with a turret, gingerbread trim, stained glass transoms over the windows, and a long veranda.
“She’s a pretty old lady, is she not?” Doug said. “I’ve spent three years restoring the darlin’, per Tom Mitternich’s architectural notes and Jay Wakefield’s budget. ’Twas Arlo’s house. Another few minutes up the lane and you’ll see the old bicycle factory and shops he built for his community of employees. I’ll show you in the daylight, if you’ve a mind to take a look.”
“Yes!” I said eagerly, and he smiled.
Bonding in the barn
IT WAS THREE A.M. Eve slept soundly in a plain but comfortable guest room. Teasel curled up atop the blanket at her feet, as if he were a dog. He dozed and snored.
“Is that you?” Doug asked from the shadows of his barn. He was feeding Zanadu, a race horse he’d rescued, and Pammy, a Shetland pony missing one ear.
I stepped into the light of the barn’s central hall, carrying a bucket. “Yep.”
“You’re a farm girl?”
“Sort of. I was raised by people who had a small ranch.”
“And where would that have been?”
I chewed my tongue. Careful. “I appreciate your help, I really do. But tomorrow, Eve and I will be leaving. It really is best I don’t say more than that.”
He hung up the feed bucket. “Suit yourself.”
“I’ve fed all the other animals. Found the goat food, goose food, dog food, and the cat food. Wasn’t sure what to feed the owl. He doesn’t seem to be hungry, anyway. Doesn’t give a hoot.”
Doug smiled. “He’s was brought to me as a chick with a broken wing. I rehabbed him and turned him loose. He just comes back to visit.” He shook the last grains from a bucket of feed into the trough shared by Zanadu and Pammy. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do. Reimbursement for your hospitality.”
“Here’s the thing, though.” He ruffled Zanadu and Pammy’s forelocks as they dug their noses into the grain. “The spirit of the Cove, which includes this forgotten community here, is about togetherness and graciousness and acceptance. It’s no’ about paybacks.” He paused, frowning gently. “It’s about sharing the good and the bad. It’s about kindness.”
My throat locked with emotion. “I’ve got cookies baking in your oven,” I said, and disappeared into the night.
Trouble in California
FOUR A.M. A pan of from-scratch oatmeal cookies sat on the stove top in his cozy kitchen. Me? Nibbling my fingernails. Wide awake. Wired.
Doug munched cookies and prepared something he called “gourmet late-night snacks.” I sat at the aged wooden table in the kitchen’s breakfast nook, beneath the soft light of a hanging lamp he’d made from a rusty bicycle wheel. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was a mix of rundown areas and handsomely restored ones, of vintage charm and modern gizmos. He had a Keurig and a juicer but also an aluminum bread box and an old potbellied heater outfitted with gas jets. Around a dual-tub sink with brass fixtures were tall wooden cabinets. He’d restored the kitchen’s counters to the sheen of the original wood. I dug my bare toes into a thickly braided rug on the wood floor. I loved the kitchen. I loved the house, messy and half-fixed, smelling of animals and bachelorhood. House’s have psychic aromas just like people. This one made me think of apple cider and roasting coffee beans.
“May I borrow a phone?” I asked Doug. “Mine is in my Bronco.” The Bronco was hidden inside the loading area of Whittlespoon Feed and Seed.
“Surely.” As he moved about his kitchen, he handed me the cell phone from a back pocket of his khakis. The phone’s heavy-duty rubber case was missing one corner and had a toothy set of scrape marks on the back. “It’s a tough trooper, that one. Saved me from an angry mare with sharp chompers.”
I tried not to dart a look at his handsome rump. A Scottish brogue is charming enough by itself. He combined it with rugged good looks, a deep baritone, and a colorful way with words. It should be classified as a controlled substance. I began typing a text to Gabby. I felt him watching me. I owed him less secrecy and more explanations.
SAFE FOR 2 NITE. AT DELTA’S. BORROWED A PHONE. LUV TO U. U OK?
It was one a.m. in L.A. Gabby would be at work—a side job as a caterer, scraping together money to pay her legal bills. I didn’t expect her to answer. She’d be in the middle of dishing out late-night hors d’ouevres and her special relishes.
LAY LOW!!!
Came the immediate reply.
E7 IS SNOOPING. I AM DODGING THEM. THEY WANT TO KNOW IF U R MARK’S BABY MAMA.
Clammy chills skittered across my forehead. My stomach rolled. I typed shakily,
UNDERSTOOD. CALL U 2MORROW. LUV. BYE
She came right back with:
TXT GUS SOON. HE HASN’T HEARD FROM U. HE IS GETTING WORRIED. CAN’T KEEP THIS SECRET MUCH LONGER. LV U, G’NITE<
br />
My fingers shaking more, I typed:
WILL DO. LV U 2.
She and I texted Gus almost every day. We also sent him weekly care packages. We never skipped a mailing. I’d have to come up with something tomorrow.
I STARED INTO space while taking a deep breath to settle my stomach. “E7” was short for “Entertainment 7,” one of the most aggressive celebrity gossip sites. Tiny stars shot across my vision.
“Here, now, don’t faint on my table,” Doug said. He strode to my side with a dark bottle in his hand, flipping the porcelain swing cap off its perch. “My home brew. Best beer around. Let’s get some color into your face. Want to talk about it?”
Quick shake. No. I wrapped my fingers around the fat, warm bottle and took a long swig. Smooth, oak-flavored, and probably way above the standard alcohol content in American beers. It hit my stomach like a hot tonic. The stars faded. I felt the warmth rush upwards.
“There’s some pink!” Doug said. He hurried back to the kitchen counter then returned with bowls of chips, salsa out of a grocery jar, and gooey cheese spread. “Sorry. I’m no’ much of a cook. Besides, you need something in your stomach as quick as can be, besides that beer.”
“Thank you.” I took another swig. “Innis & Gunn. That’s what this reminds me of.” I hoped to veer away from discussing what had just happened.
“A woman who knows her Scottish-made brews!” He fetched several more beers, placed them between us, and sat down across from me. “I age mine in used whiskey barrels bought from the Jack Daniels distillery in Tennessee. Gives it the oak taste with a bit of charcoal.”
“My brother makes beer. He’d love this.”
“Ah hah. She has a brother. Now we’re getting somewhere. Was that himself you were texting? Is everything all right?”
My stomach clenched again. I finished the beer, set it aside, and opened another one. After a long swallow I confirmed that the alcohol content in each of Doug’s beers could match a James Bond double martini. I felt both shaken and stirred. I set the bottle down hard and looked at Doug. “Are you hoping to get me drunk so I’ll talk?”
The Biscuit Witch Page 6