2 Fog Over Finny's Nose

by Dana Mentink

  They arrived to find a fire blazing and people either running or clumped together in shocked groups. Jack made Ruth promise to stay out of the way of anything flaming and strode off toward the chaos.

  The small trailer was burning fiercely, the flames licking at the striped awning. The interior was a swirl of fire and heavy smoke, punctuated by loud cracks and whooshing noises. A man in baggy clothes with a bandanna wrapped around his head squirted a lackluster stream of foam on the blaze with a fire extinguisher.

  Seconds later a woman ran up to the trailer. She clutched a quilted robe around her tall frame. “Oh no, Rocky. Your trailer. Is anyone inside? Are you hurt?”

  “No,” he snarled, continuing to wave the extin- guisher in erratic arcs in front of him, wiping at the sweat on his stubbled face. “Go back to your trailer. I’ll come and get you when it’s over.”

  Several men ran up to assist Rocky. They all wore green bandannas. The other fair vendors just watched the melee; some drank coffee, one ate a hot dog, and two still clutched their playing cards in front of them.

  Jack worked to keep the bystanders back a safe distance from the fire. The trailer door next to him opened. Bing Mitchell stood there wearing a blue sweat suit. His feet were bare, and even his toes looked well muscled. He surveyed the scene with amusement.

  “Hey there, Detective. Did you come for the campfire? This town is definitely a hot spot. I just can’t get over it.” His face glowed oddly in the moonlight. “What is that idiot doing?”

  “Which idiot?”

  “Rocky Bippo, the idiot with the fire extinguisher. And his sister, the dog lady. She’s nuttier than he is. They’re into some gang that goes around wreaking havoc on the general population. What is it about those two? Trouble follows them everywhere.”

  Before Jack could follow up on the strange comments, a fire engine careened into the area and disgorged several young volunteers who leaped off the rig with undisguised exuberance. The two seasoned firefighters exited the vehicle in a more sedate manner. One of them was the chief of the Finny Fire Department, Ernie Gonzalez.

  “Hey, Jack,” Ernie said as the others donned hel- mets and unrolled hose. “Nice little bonfire.” A lush mustache draped over his plump cheeks. “What do you make of it?”

  A deafening blast followed by a rocketing arc of fire caused them all to duck.

  Jack straightened up tentatively. “Propane tank?”

  Ernie guffawed. “You’re getting good, J.D. Maybe there’s hope for you yet. Let’s get some wet stuff on the red stuff and we’ll debrief in a while.” He turned his attention to the blaze. “Now get everybody out of the way,” he said over his shoulder.

  Jack followed directions as he moved back and persuaded Rocky Bippo to follow him. Ruth hurried over.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Jack pierced Rocky with a steady gaze.

  Rocky shook his head. His long hair flowed out of the bottom of his bandanna like an oil slick. “I don’t know. I was reading in my trailer, and all of a sudden I heard a sound. Like a hissing or something. I was just opening the front door to check it out when—boom—the trailer tank exploded. Pretty soon the whole side of the trailer was on fire. I grabbed an extinguisher out of the truck and tried to put it out. A couple of the guys ran to get theirs, too, but it was too big by then. Then the other tanks went up.”

  “Were they your tanks?”

  “Yeah. I use them to make the mushrooms.”

  Jack blinked, nodding to Mary Dirisi as she arrived on the scene.

  Rocky tore his gaze from the fire. “I heat up PVC pipe with a propane torch. When it starts to burn, you can shape it and it gets stippled and discolored. Looks just like mushrooms. I sell them as garden art.”

  “Have you had any problems with the tanks before?”

  “No. They’re just small handheld jobs. I’ve never had a lick of trouble.” He caught sight of Bing standing with his arms folded watching the blaze. “Never trouble with the tanks, anyway.”

  Evelyn Bippo was dressed in jeans and a worn T-shirt when she ran up to her brother. “Rocky, I can’t find Edmund. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  Jack put a hand on his radio. “Who’s Edmund?”

  Rocky sighed. “Don’t worry, Detective. He’s a dog. A crazy beagle.” He turned to Evelyn. “Is everybody else accounted for?”

  She nodded, tears filling her eyes. “Just Edmund. I think the explosions scared him and he jumped over the enclosure.” The fingernail she pressed to her lips was bitten to the quick. The firelight accentuated the creases in her forehead and cast eerie shadows on her face.

  Rocky hugged her tightly and walked her away to a quiet corner, offering consolation as he went. “It’s okay, Ev. We’ll find him.”

  A sweaty Chief Gonzalez approached.

  “Hey, Ruth. Those wigglers you got me really did the trick. I caught a ten-pound trout that was a thing of beauty.”

  “I’m glad, Ernie.”

  “Me, too. The wife’s always on me about spending a whole day catching nothing but a cold.” He snorted. “Okay, Jack. Here’s the deal. Someone set fire to the stack of newspapers under the trailer’s propane tank.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m a stud,” Ernie answered. He held up a half-melted lighter. “And we found this a few yards away in the grass.”

  With a grin, Jack scribbled notes on a pad. “Uh- huh. That’s what set the trailer on fire?”

  “Yup. The fire caused the propane to expand until the release valve failed and then—kablam.” He jerked his meaty thumbs toward the night sky. “That set the smaller tanks off, too.”

  “Does anybody know where this guy belongs?” Mary stood with a shivering dog cradled in her arms. The animal was panting heavily, leaving rivulets of drool on her pants.

  Evelyn appeared at her elbow. “It’s Edmund. He’s mine.” She gently took the dog and inspected him. The worry in her eyes turned to profound relief. “Where did you find him, Officer?”

  “I was getting out of my car and he practically knocked me over.” She looked fondly at the dog. “He didn’t want to come at first, but I persuaded him with some peanut butter crackers I had with me.”

  “Is he okay, Evelyn?” Ruth asked.

  She nodded as she massaged the dog behind his ears. “I think so. Just scared mostly. He’s not used to being on his own. I only got him a few months ago.”

  “She runs a dog adoption service,” Ruth said.

  “Really?” Mary’s eyebrows lifted. “So this guy needs a home?”

  Evelyn, Rocky, and Ruth all nodded vigorously. Jack looked on in amusement.

  “Maybe it’s meant to be. When I’m done here, you can tell me more about Edmund,” she said. “I’ve been thinking I need a dog in my life.”

  “Come over to my trailer. I’ve got his history, at least as much as we know.”

  “I certainly don’t want this fire scene to get in the way of a good matchmaking session,” Jack said, “but would you mind getting some statements, Mary?”

  “Sure thing, boss. I’ll come by your trailer later,” she said to Evelyn, giving Edmund a final pat.

  Rocky lingered behind, his eyes narrowed. He seemed to come to some internal decision. “I’m going to give Ev a hand. I’ll be at her trailer if you need me.”

  Jack nodded as Rocky walked away.

  “I’m going to be here awhile, Ruth. Let me arrange a ride for you back to Dimple’s. Tell her I’ll be by for Paul as soon as I can.”

  “Okay, though I know Cootchie will be thrilled to tuck him into her trundle bed. Poor kid, he’ll be eating soybeans for breakfast.”

  Chapter Eight

  The contestants in the Fog Festival cook-off were serious about their endeavors. Ruth picked up on the vibes even before she began taking pictures of the cooking enthusiasts packed into the courtyard of the Finny Hotel. It was the only weekday event. The dishes would be prepared and judged that evening, and the prizes awarded on the last day
of the festival. Ruth thought it ironic that the big payola for first prize was an overnight stay at a bed-and-breakfast in neighboring Half Moon Bay. Second prize was a free ticket to the church spaghetti feed and a new spatula.

  Outside of the cooking chaos, a giant white tent trembled in the cool breeze. It had been erected in a vacant lot to accommodate the Fog Festival staff and visitors. A half dozen people bustled back and forth from the tent, staggering under the weight of produce crates. Others sat on picnic benches outside soaking up the newly arrived sunshine. The scent of cypress and woody azalea mingled with aromas of garlic and tangy feta. A slight smell of smoke still hung in the air from the fire the previous evening.

  Ruth saw the Sassie sisters, Lena and Anne, hud- dling in conference over a steaming pot of split pea soup, wearing matching green shirts almost the same color as their entry. Several people Ruth did not know tended their portable ovens and microwaves. A smoked salmon contingent poked at their specimen with all the precision of a neurosurgery team.

  Royland Lemmon wheeled a squeaky dolly in front of him. It was so loaded with crates of arugula and radicchio that only his head was visible over the top. Squealing to a stop, he pushed back his worn cowboy hat with a thumb.

  “Ruth,” he said as his face crumpled into wrinkles. “It’s nice to see you.” His chipped front tooth lent him a comical look.

  “It’s nice to see you, too. Are you supplying the greens today?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve got six more crates of goodness in the truck. Fresh picked this morning.” His brown eyes shone with pride. “You want a bunch to take with you?”

  “I’d love a bunch,” she said, taking the greens from his calloused hands. She buried her face in the tender green leaves and inhaled a lungful of spicy contentment. “Monk can make an amazing salad with this.”

  “My pleasure. I know you both appreciate my greens. Say, have you seen my son around here anywhere? I need him to help me unload these crates.” Royland shook his head. “He’s always off somewhere.”

  “He told me about his truffle business. What an interesting idea.”

  The man shook his head again. “Is that what it is now? Truffles? I thought he was still in the ergonomic bicycle seat racket. It’s always something new.”

  Royland gazed off toward the coastline and sighed. “He’s desperate to escape the life I’ve made here. Ever since his mother divorced me when he was twelve. The kids in school have always been rough on him, too.” His shoulders sagged. “He just can’t wait to get away from here. And me.”

  “I’m sorry, Royland. I do know how it feels.” She thought about her own son who had moved to a different coast to get away. Then she caught sight of Hugh. “Oh, he’s over there, talking to the balloon man, Bing. I’m on my way to that side; I’ll tell him you need his help at the truck.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You enjoy that arugula now.”

  “I certainly will.” She made her way past the clam chowder team to the two men. They were deep in conversation. Hugh’s young face was rapt with interest.

  “I’ll bet you’ve been all over. How long have you been in the business?” she heard Hugh ask.

  “Forever, it seems like. I know everything there is to know about it.” Bing slouched against a freezer. “Ballooning has been around for generations. Many people don’t know that the Japanese actually used balloons as makeshift bombs to terrorize our mainland during the war.”

  “No way.” Hugh stared at his companion.

  “It’s absolutely true. They called them Fugo bal- loons.” Bing scanned the crowd as he talked. “The Japs made crude balloons, just rubberized silk envelopes really, and filled them with hydrogen. They launched them into the Gulf Stream and let the air currents take them across the Pacific to the United States.”

  “Awesome. Did any of them make it?”

  “Not many. Most didn’t survive the weather. The Fugos only killed one person, a woman picnicking with her kids in Maryland.”

  “Unbelievable,” Hugh said, his Adam’s apple bobbing excitedly. “All that work and it didn’t even make a difference.”

  It made quite a difference to the woman in Maryland, Ruth thought. Out loud she said, “Hi, Hugh. Hello, Bing.”

  Bing dazzled her with a perfect smile. “Hello, Mrs. Budge. How are the Fog Festival preparations getting on?”

  “Fairly well, I’d say. Hugh, your father needs help unloading the truck.”

  Hugh nodded, consulting a watch bristling with knobs and dials. “Okay. I’ll see you around, Bing. Is Dimple here yet, Ruth? I’ve got something for her.”

  “I think she said she’d be here around ten.” He nodded again. “See you later.”

  “I understand you’re in the bait business,” Bing said. “I’d love to get some fishing in while I’m here.”

  “Come on by. I can supply all the bait you could ever need. I live in a cottage down below. Just follow the squawking bird sounds.”

  Ruth said good-bye and continued working her way through the room. Several contest officials were roaming around making notes on clipboards. It seemed that Maude didn’t have to twist any arms to round up judges. Officer Katz looked thrilled to be wearing a Fog Cook-off Judge T-shirt as he poked his nose into various bubbling pots. Ruth snapped a shot of him frowning at the clipboard.

  “Hello, Nate. How did you get roped into judging?”

  “Oh, I volunteered when Mrs. Stone said you needed another judge. What could be a better job than judging a food contest?” He inhaled. “Do you smell that? I can’t figure out what it is, but it smells awesome.”

  Her nostrils were working overtime trying not to let the amazing scents distract her mental processes. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out. See you later.”

  Her heart quickened when she caught sight of her husband behind his cooking station.

  “Hello, honey,” Monk bellowed. He left his spot behind the portable stove and planted a big kiss on her lips. “I’ve missed you today.”

  She melted into his embrace. “I’ve missed you, too.” Looking over his shoulder, she added, “I didn’t know you had decided on a recipe.”

  “You betcha. Are you here to get a shot of the winning dish?” He grinned. “Then come on over and take a look.”

  “A little confident, aren’t we? What are you cooking?”

  “It’s truffled new potatoes. Very simple recipe, but guaranteed to knock you into another dimension.” His close-cropped gray hair was stippled with sweat, and his face shone with enthusiasm.

  It pleased her to watch him cook. She found it amazing that such huge, calloused hands could hold the kitchen instruments so delicately, like a jeweler setting precious stones. But he was a man full of surprising contradictions.

  “Do you mind if I taste?”

  “Nah, go right ahead. Those are the very best French black truffles. They oughta be, for what I paid for them.”

  Ruth looked at the pot and then back at her husband. “Black truffles?”

  She flashed back to the boxful that Hugh had shown her at the park, and their conversation about the price they brought. They were so strange and exotic. Ed Honeysill would have enjoyed this, she thought with a pang. “Where did you get them?”

  “From Hugh. He got them for me at a discount, if you can call one hundred fifty dollars a discount. I don’t usually cook with truffles, so the price kind of hit me by surprise. I figured it would be a shoo-in recipe for the contest.”

  Ruth shook her head and sipped the spoonful. It was indeed scrumptious. “Are you looking to win that trip to Half Moon Bay?” she asked.

  “Sure. But only if my lovely bride goes with me.”

  She smiled and busied herself with her camera, wondering when the thrill of being adored by this wonderful man would wear off. God loved her without a doubt to have blessed her with two amazing husbands in one lifetime.

  “Did Hugh tell you who his source is?”

  “No. Trade secret, I think.”

&nb
sp; Ruth caught sight of Dimple lugging a crate of luminous mushrooms to the supply table in the back of the room.

  “Gotta go, Monk. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Dimple heaved her box onto the table and stood there. Her fingers absently stroked the smooth mushroom caps.

  Ruth hesitated. “Are you okay?”

  She looked up, unfocused for a moment. “Oh, Ruth. Hello. I am okay, just thinking. It’s so strange, having her back.”

  “Your mother?” she asked gently.

  “Yes. For so many years I imagined where she was, what she looked like.” Dimple thought for a moment. “I thought she would be taller.”

  Ruth smiled. “Did she say anything—about why she came back, I mean?”

  “She said she wrote me several notes over the years, saying she regretted leaving me, and that she tried to keep in touch with calls, but Daddy threw away the cards and wouldn’t allow me to talk to her.”

  Ruth could easily see that happening with a hardened man like Buster.

  “Then she found out that I had a baby. She said she booked a flight twice to come and see me but each time she canceled.” Dimple took a soft bristled brush from her pocket and gently whisked it over the mushroom caps. “Fear drains the vigor of intention.”

  “Uh, yes. I am sure that’s true.”

  “She had the car accident, and it changed her priorities, she said.”

  “Does your mother—” Ruth stopped. “Is she going to stay in Finny?”

  “I don’t think so. She has a beautiful house in Arizona and a husband who dotes on her, she says. Not like Daddy at all. I just think she wants to get to know me, us.”

  Ruth felt guilty for the relief that flooded through her. The woman was going home! Ruth refocused her thoughts. “How are you feeling about it all? About your mother coming back?”

  Dimple gathered her long hair into a bundle, loosely braiding it, and draped it over one shoulder. “I am not sure. It is so strange to have a mother again, after being an orphan for so long.”

  Ruth knew that Buster had all but washed his hands of his daughter when she became pregnant, leaving her, for all intents and purposes, parentless. “I’m no expert or anything, but I’m sure it’s just fine to feel confused and unsure. It may take some time for you two to get acquainted again.” She was pleased with her advice. Sometimes spending an afternoon watching Oprah paid off.