2 Fog Over Finny's Nose

by Dana Mentink

  “Have you heard anything about a gang?”

  “No.” He closed the oven door with a bang. “Only what Alva has been going on about. Of course, I’ve been preoccupied thinking about Bobby.”

  She smiled. He was so excited that his niece was coming to visit. It had been all he could talk about recently.

  The bell over the door tinkled as Detective Jack Denny entered.

  “Morning, Monk. Hello, Ruth,” Jack said before plopping into a scarred wooden chair. His face was stained with fatigue, and there was a sprinkling of dark stubble on his chin.

  “Long day?” she asked.

  “Uh–huh, and it’s not over yet.”

  Ruth wanted to tell Jack about what she had overheard in the trailer before Ed’s death, but she didn’t want to be a gossip. It’s not gossip, she reminded herself, when a murder is involved. Perhaps Candace had already told him. No, she didn’t think that was likely. She decided she would tell the detective. She was ready to grill him right then about any further developments relating to the balloon crash, but the exhaustion on his face took the wind out of her nosey sails.

  He looked as tired as she felt.

  Aside from Ed’s horrible death, another kernel of unease settled into her stomach, refusing to be dislodged. The feeling, Ruth was forced to acknowledge, was jealousy, pure and simple. She had spent a restless night contemplating the sudden arrival of Dimple’s long-absent mother. The most irritating thing about Meg Sooner was that she appeared to be a genuinely nice person, from the few bits she’d gleaned from Dimple since the woman arrived. The feelings that rose in her own heart were far from nice. Those “deeds of the flesh” seemed to unroll in her mind, starting with jealousy and working through strife, disputes, and the illustrious envy.

  The Post-it in her pocket bore her scribbled reminder: Fruit of the Spirit.

  Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Goodness. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control. Since Meg had showed up, Ruth didn’t feel as though she was bear- ing much fruit at all, especially in the kindness and goodness department. She pushed the image of the small, well-manicured woman out of her mind.

  “I’ve always maintained these long days would be so much easier for people if they didn’t start so early,” she said.

  “Amen to that,” Jack said. “It doesn’t help that the coffee machine at the station is on the fritz again. I’m beginning to think the thing goes out every time someone sneezes.”

  “Well, if you don’t want any latte, frappe, mocha thingy, I can help you with that,” she said, grabbing a styrofoam cup. “I only know how to pour it straight from the pot.”

  “Perfect. Straight from the pot, to go, please.”

  Monk called over her shoulder, “How about a side of banana muffin? I made some fresh this morning. There are still a few left, I think.”

  Jack closed his eyes. “Coffee and carbohydrates. Sounds like a balanced meal to me. You don’t have a pound of sausage to round it out, do you?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Ruth laughed as she prepared his order. “Paul and Cootchie had a blast last week. The birds are still lying around the yard this morning, too pooped to function.”

  “I hope he didn’t hurt any of them.”

  “You know very well my birds are the toughest pets on the block.” She poured out some steaming coffee. “All the neighborhood dogs and cats are petrified of them.”

  “Yes.” Jack’s brown eyes sparkled. “I remember hav- ing a knock-down-drag-out with one of them on your front lawn. I’m still not sure which one of us won.”

  Jack and Ruth had become friends after the sudden death of his young wife, Lacey. Following the tragedy, his two-year-old son had become selectively mute, refusing to communicate with anyone except their wild, rambunctious dog Mr. Boo Boo. Somehow Paul made a sort of connection with Ruth’s flock of gulls that had begun to draw him out of his shell. Paul was not verbose by any means, but at the age of four, he was beginning to string a few words together. Either Jack or Louella, Paul’s nanny, brought Paul by as often as possible to play with the birds and with Cootchie Dent. What with a yard full of gimpy birds, vats full of worms, and a little girl to play with, the Budge backyard was better than Disneyland.

  As Jack inhaled coffee vapors, Monk finished unloading the last of his deliveries.

  “Wonderful. She’s here,” he said, glancing out the window. “I wanted both of you to meet my niece. She’s going to be helping me out for a while until these two weeks of Fog Festival stuff are over.” He held the door open for a tiny dark-haired woman.

  Jack knocked his cup of coffee onto the floor. He stood up, a dark patch of coffee soaked into the knee of his pants.

  Monk planted a kiss on the woman’s cheek and enveloped her in a smothering hug. “This is my favorite niece, Bobby Walker.”

  “I’m your only niece, Uncle Monk.”

  “No matter. You’d be my favorite even if I had a passel of them. I’d like you to meet Ruth, my amazing wife and the woman who is keeping me afloat.”

  Ruth clasped Bobby’s hands in her own. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.”

  “And you, Ruth.” Bobby smiled back.

  “And this fella with the coffee all over himself is Jack Denny, one of Finny’s finest,” Monk finished.

  The woman turned her curious black gaze on him. Jack recovered himself enough to reply. “Actually, we almost met before.”

  Bobby tilted her head. “We did?”

  “Yes. I was at a place up the coast, Wings and Things. You were there waiting for someone, I think, and a fellow with a cowboy hat wanted to get chummy.”

  She thought for a minute. “Oh, right. I was waiting for this big lug, as a matter of fact.” She stabbed a thumb at Monk.

  Monk frowned. “That’s the day my van had a flat. I couldn’t reach you on your cell. I must have called fifty times and it said ‘not in service.’ ” His eyes rounded in horror. “Did some guy harass you?”

  “I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about,” Jack said. “The lady seems to be able to handle herself.”

  “I’m a park ranger, and I’ve driven a school bus in east LA, among other things. I’m pretty hard to scare. I don’t remember noticing you. Oh, wait a minute. Were you watching a man play darts? A guy who couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn?”

  “That would be my buddy Nate Katz. His incompetence with darts is legendary.” He took some paper napkins from the counter and knelt to mop up the spilled coffee. “Are you vacationing here?”

  “Sort of an imposed one. The park service is insisting we take our vacation days whether we like it or not. It seemed like a good time to hit the beach. Besides, I love the coast this time of year. Lots of fog and everything coming back to life.”

  “Where are you staying?” Jack asked.

  “At the hotel. Uncle Monk wanted me to stay at the cottage, but three’s a crowd.”

  The front doorbell tinkled, and a crowd of work- men came in. They were noisily discussing the plans to tape off a field for festival parking purposes. Bobby laughed, taking an apron from a peg on the wall. “So much for vacation. Okay, Mrs. Budge, you’d better show me the ropes posthaste.”

  “Please call me Ruth,” she said.

  Jack grabbed his refilled cup, thanked Ruth, and left the store.

  Bobby joined Ruth behind the counter and readied the insulated cups while Ruth patiently explained to the customers why they couldn’t have their gourmet coffee concoctions.

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t have anything that requires steamed milk or organic tea leaves. We’ve just got coffee, decaf, and coffee, caf. Oh, and there’s cream and sugar, if you like.”

  A young man was the last in line. He wore a green bandanna and baggy brown trousers that ended before they could provide any warmth to his ankles. A slender braided ponytail snaked down his back. “So I can’t get a chai tea here?” A coiled silver ring winked on the finger he used to shove thick glasses farther up his nose.

/>   “No, but you can have a chocolate dipped éclair that will really toot your horn,” Ruth suggested.

  “Does it have animal products in it?”

  “Uh, well, eggs, butter, and milk, among other things. No lard, right, honey?”

  Monk nodded at her over his steaming pot of what would become soup.

  “Are the eggs from free-range chickens?”

  “They’re from Tookie Newman’s farm,” Monk called out. “They’ve got a chicken coop, but most of the time he just chases them all over creation when they squeeze through the fencing. Does that count as free range?”

  “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll just have some hot water and a tea bag,” he said. “Here’s my mug.” He slid a dented tin cup across the counter.

  Bobby shot him a raised eyebrow.

  “I’m not into polluting the earth with polystyrene,” he said.

  “Okay,” Ruth said as she gingerly filled the cup with hot water while Bobby grabbed a tea bag. “Are you in town for the Fog Festival?”

  He counted out a handful of coins. “Sure am. I’m one of the vendors, art and crystals, mostly. My name’s Rocky Bippo.” Ruth noticed a heavy silver chain looped around his neck under his smock.

  “Fantastic,” Ruth said, marveling that the festival was attracting exotic people from all over, people who drank chai tea and traveled.

  “Have you gone to many festivals this year?”

  “Yeah, this is our fifth this season. See ya around.” Rocky took his tea and left.

  Bobby picked up a box of chocolates lying on the counter behind the cash register. “Afternoon snack?” she asked, smiling.

  Ruth chuckled. “Though I have been known to consider chocolate a meal unto itself, this is actually to serve as someone’s salary. Have you met Alva Hernandez?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you will, if you stay for any length of time. He’s the town newspaper boy. He’s helping me exercise my birds the days I’m working a long shift here.”

  Bobby nodded. “Actually, Uncle Monk told me about the birds. And the worms.” She added slyly, “He told me about you, too. I’ve never heard him sound so happy.”

  Ruth blushed. “Oh, well, anyway, Alva lives with Mrs. Hodges.”

  Bobby looked confused. “Why doesn’t he live with his parents?”

  “His parents? Oh, Alva is eighty-five years old. I forgot to mention he’s the only senior citizen newspaper boy in Finny. He lives with Mrs. Hodges in exchange for fixing anything electrical. He’s a genius that way. His family used to own the Pistol Bang Mushroom Farm.” She restacked a pile of paper napkins. “Alva doesn’t have much use for money, but he has a completely insatiable sweet tooth. He drives a hard bargain, too. This week it was a box of soft-centered chocolates, no nuts, no caramels.”

  Bobby laughed and looked out the front window. “Uh, Ruth? I think that might be your bird sitter running up the sidewalk right now.”

  Sure enough, Alva was racing along the walkway holding on to his baseball cap, with a cluster of honking birds at his heels.

  “Incoming!” he shouted as the swarm of birds overtook him, careening in round-eyed terror to escape two dogs slobbering on their flippered heels.

  Running along behind them was a gangly woman holding their unattached leashes in one hand and desperately trying to grab the slowest dog’s collar with the other. “Stop, Maxie!” she panted, frantically shaking strands of silvering hair out of her face.

  Bobby and Ruth ran out of Monk’s Coffee and Catering trailing behind the leash lady, looking, Ruth imagined, like the parade of characters from some Brothers Grimm fable.

  They all came to a confused stop at the fenced back lot of Luis Puzan’s grocery store. All of the birds except Rutherford managed to squeeze under the chain link fence, leaving their feathered companion attempting to squeeze his wide bottom underneath the rail to join them.

  Alva clung to the fence about three feet above the sidewalk, looking down anxiously on the two dogs that growled below him. His denim-covered seat hovered a fraction above the dental range of the snarling animals.

  The lady stopped. She spoke in hushed tones to the dogs. Deftly she clipped the leash onto the wiry- haired one and edged her way toward the enormous white dog who was inching up to Rutherford, teeth bared.

  Ruth reached out to stop the dog, fearing that Rutherford would have a complete cardiac incident any second.

  “Stop!” the woman hissed. “Don’t touch him.” Her pale eyes glittered with unguarded emotion.

  Ruth backed up.

  The woman continued to talk soothingly to the dog. She touched him gently on the rear end and worked her way upward until she snapped the leash on his collar. The huge creature turned to face the woman and buried his bony head between her knees, whimpering.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said, straightening and turning to Ruth. “I didn’t mean to yell at you. Peanut has been through a lot, and he has to be handled carefully. I was just getting them out of their crate when the birds went by, and they took off before I could leash them.”

  Ruth nodded, her heart still pounding. She picked Rutherford up and handed him to Bobby. “Alva, are you okay? I think you can come down now.”

  The man grinned and hunkered down from the fence. “What a thing. I haven’t moved that fast since old Pauley’s bull took a liking to me.”

  She helped him climb down from the fence. “I am Ruth, and this is Alva Hernandez and Bobby Walker. Alva was walking my birds for me. None of them can fly, so they have to have their daily gadabout.”

  “I’m Evelyn Bippo. I’m with the Dog House group. We’re showing our adoptable dogs at the Fog Festival.” There was a faded Dog House logo on the front of her stained sweatshirt.

  “Bippo? I think we just met another Bippo,” Bobby added.

  “Rocky? He’s my brother; he’s a vendor. Actually, we just finished the Sand and Surf festival down south. There are three or four of the vendors that travel together year-round. I’m always looking for a gathering to show the dogs, so I go to as many as I can.”

  Bobby looked at the dog, who continued to cower between Evelyn’s legs. “What’s his story?”

  Evelyn shook her head. “Peanut is a wonderful, gentle dog,” she said, a sharp edge in her voice. “He was adopted by a terrible jerk who tried to make him a guard dog by beating and starving him. Now he’s completely broken, and he only listens to me.”

  Bobby’s eyes filled with anger. “That’s awful.”

  “Yes, it is. Just look at his ears.” She widened her legs slightly so they could see the pink stumpy edges where the ears should have been. “The awful man thought since Peanut is part pit bull, he would look fiercer with cropped ears. Whoever did it nearly chopped them off.”

  Ruth felt sickened.

  “I’m sorry,” Evelyn said. “I am really not the militant type, but I just can’t believe someone could do that to a gentle boy like Peanut.”

  She scratched her nose with a long, calloused finger. “Anyway, I am really sorry my dogs gave you a fright.” She nodded apologetically to Alva. “And are your birds okay?” she asked Ruth.

  “They seem to be fine, just winded.” Rutherford had recovered enough to poke through Bobby’s apron pockets.

  “Okay. Well, I’d better get these guys back to camp. It was nice to meet you. I’ll see you again, I’m sure.”

  They watched Evelyn gently lead the dogs away. Peanut stayed so close to her leg that she stumbled every few feet.

  “Well, sweet cheeks,” Alva said to Ruth, “I’m afraid this adventure is gonna cost you. Next week, I’m raising my fees to fudge.”

  Ruth stopped on her way to Royland’s, the package of worm castings tucked under one arm and a bucket of her finest wigglers clasped in her cold fingers. The empty lot where Ed Honeysill died was quiet in the predusk. The hot air balloons were packed away except for the one taken as evidence. The rest had vanished along with the fog. In their place was a towe
ring stack of Coastal Comets in street clothes, practicing for their performance that would commence in the morning. Canvas-covered booths lined the rectangular field, sporting signs advertising various culinary delights, from fried artichoke hearts to falafel. The scent of popcorn lingered in the air. It seemed incomprehensible that a man had plunged to his death in that very field. A few stragglers were milling about, bags clutched in their hands, and there was still a line at the baked potato booth.

  Ruth plodded along past the swaying tower of Coastal Comets until she noticed Maude in the far corner of the field, banging hard on a black metal box.

  Alva stood next to the woman, a purple container in his hands. “Yer just going to bust it,” he said.

  “Give me the fog juice, you old geezer,” Maude snapped.

  Ruth approached reluctantly. “What in the world are you two up to?”

  “Hi, Ruth,” Alva said as he wiped his nose with a piece of fabric that looked suspiciously like a necktie. “I was on my way to the bakery to see if they got any leftovers when this nutzo started banging on that thing. She’s going to bust it.”

  “What is it?” Ruth asked before Maude could explode.

  “It’s a fog machine, for your information. I’ve just got to put in the juice and it will work perfectly. I’m testing it out for tomorrow.”

  “A fog machine?” Ruth was incredulous. “Maude, why do we need a fog machine? This is Finny, remember?”

  “Our naturally occurring variety is a little sparse, if you haven’t noticed. The rotten stuff has been thick as pea soup the entire week, and now it has deserted us in our hour of need. I want to make sure this thing works. It will enhance the atmosphere,” she said, pouring liquid into a spout. “Where are you going? The crowds might pick up any minute now.”

  “I think it’s pretty much done for the day, Maude, but in any case I’ve just got to run a quick errand. I’ll be around if you need me.” Ruth watched in wonder as Maude connected the machine to an extension cord and pressed the button.

  Nothing happened.

  Maude rattled the cord.

  Still nothing.