Tuesday, November 12th
A Brownie’s Got To Do
What a Brownie’s Got To Do
“I’ll go and kill them clerks,” Laz rumbled. He paused to pour milk straight from the carton into his savaged throat.
“You cain’t,” Tom protested. “Them folks will remember you. They’ll remember what we bought. I know we usually get a lot of food, but this is a LOT of food, and then ifin the Feds come, they’ll ask, ‘Why did you buy so much food at Taco Bell, Mr. Bledsoe and Mr. Berryhill?’ Then they’ll ask, ‘Did you need to feed a hungry ten-year-old boy?’ It’ll be suspicious!”
Laz finished the carton of milk and shook it for a few extra drops. “I’ll get them later, those rotten apple-eating pinheads,” he remonstrated sourly. Finally, he looked at Brownie. “Good tacos, boy? They dint put something in them?”
Brownie shoved the last of the taco into his mouth. “Nope,” came out as “Nhhup.”
Laz glanced at Tom. “You used our last names, cotton brains. Now the kid knows them.”
“Nhhup,” Brownie said. He held up another taco. He was digging into Tom’s pile of tacos, and Tom wasn’t noticing.
Tom sat back down at the table and helped himself to the remainder of the food, reaching over to snag some of Laz’s food. Laz returned without Tom noticing, and when Tom reached for one of Laz’s cinnamon twists, Laz stabbed him in the hand with a spork.
Tom howled and Brownie giggled.
Laz said, “I guess you should be glad it wasn’t a real fork.”
Tom shook his hand in the air and got up with a scowl on his face. “I got to brush my teeth. Hey, what about the boy’s teeth?”
“Ma got a big pack from Sam’s Club. We’ll have extra toothbrushes until Armageddon,” Laz said. “Boy, you’ll go back in that room and stay there while we’re not here.”
Tom walked perkily down the hall and disappeared into the bathroom.
Brownie nodded while he crossed the fingers on the hand under the table. In actuality, he crossed the little and ring fingers together and the middle and index fingers together just to be certain. Then he crooked his thumb just in case. He finished his tacos and snagged some of Laz’s cinnamon twists when the other man went to get a bottle of Gatorade from the refrigerator. He also brought one to Brownie, saying, “You’re a good kid. Most children wouldn’t take to being kidnapped. Just you wait. Tonight we’ll make s’mores in the microwave and watch a good movie. You ever see Die Hard?”
Brownie swallowed the cinnamon twist in his mouth and shook his head.
“I think it’s rated R, but it’s on TBS so they bleeped all that stuff out.”
Tom came back from the bathroom and said, “Mrrgllefurth.”
“What’s that, T-uh-T?”
He held up the tube of toothpaste. “Mrrgllefurth mmoo-paaa.”
“I cain’t understand you,” Laz said. “You ain’t been chewing again? That stuff ain’t good for you and I heard tell it makes you less of a man.”
Tom took a deep breath and said slowly, with great slurring, “I think there’s something wrong with the toothpaste.” However it sounded more like, “My min mere mumin mongh meeh ma mmoo-paa.”
Laz took the tube and examined it. He opened the cap and winced. “Smells like the stuff Ma uses to numb her teeth when they act up.”
“I cain’t feel my mouth,” Tom complained, “and I got to deal with three pick-ups on the south side of Pegram County.” But it sounded like, “My can fuh my mow ann my guh dah deah mit meee eeck-uts uh muh owt eyduh uh eegrah ownnee.”
Laz sighed dramatically. “I’ll do it. I’ll leave the van and take the pickup.” He carefully took the plate of Volcanic Nachos and carried it with him, tucking the bottle of Gatorade under an arm. “You watch the kid.”
Tom and Brownie watched Laz leave, and they heard a truck start up. “He’s going to work?” Brownie asked.
“Muh-huh,” Tom said. Then he said something and the translation was “I was goin’ to talk to a girl named Mylene over to their office. She’s awfully purty for a tap-dancing, blue rhinoceros.” (The last part Brownie added on in his head because it sort of sounded like it, although he was almost certain Tom hadn’t meant that at all.)
Brownie was curious how long the Anbesol would last. Who knew that an over-the-counter medication would work so well? Furthermore, it made him wonder what else he could use it on.
Tom asked something else, and Brownie had to think about it before he was able to translate it as, “Would you like to learn how to pick pockets, boy?”
“Shore,” Brownie said. There were always important life lessons in daily activities. That’s what Scout Leader Marlon Tarterhouse always said just before something bad happened and sometimes after something bad happened. Then Papa Derryberry, who had been a career marine, had always said, “If it moves, salute it, if it doesn’t move, pick it up, and if you can’t pick it up, paint it.” Brownie didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he was sure that it was applicable. It just had to be.
* * *
“Have you heard from the kidnappers?” Special Agent Monday asked in a severe tone.
Miz Demetrice shook her head.
They were all sitting at the big dining room table. Agents Monday and Hornbuckle had taken over half of the table as their impromptu field office. They had a special machine hooked to the land line. They had headphones and a folio of folders. They had notebooks and a pencil sharpener shaped like a maneki-neko. It was a Japanese good luck cat with a waving hand. One inserted the pencil into its head and turned the waving hand to sharpen it. Monday had used it twice already, and Bubba was waiting with bated breath for the OCD-inspired third time. Hornbuckle was filing her fingernails, but she had only done it once and was still doing it.
“Do you know anyone who would want to kidnap the child?” Monday asked.
Bubba looked to see if the special agent was following a list because his intonation was so starkly monotone. It sounded like he had a little card that he extracted from behind his badge that he would read from. Instead, the man was looking at each of the Snoddys in turn, gauging their reactions. Miz Adelia had fled to the kitchen, probably to hide the special jar of “tea” she had in there. Big Joe had sighed and left for Pegramville saying he needed to go solve “real” crimes there. Sheriff John was playing with the silver on the side board. Willodean had returned and was eying the two special agents with no little amount of disdain.
Miz Demetrice shook her head. Then she added, “For money, that is.”
“What’s that?” Monday asked.
“Well, Brownie has a tendency to make enemies,” Miz Demetrice said carefully. “Matt Lauer, for example. I don’t reckon a famous fella like that would come to Pegram County to kidnap a ten-year-old child, but I would take a gander at his whereabouts.”
“He’s in New Zealand,” Hornbuckle said without looking away from her nails. “I watched the Today show this morning. ‘Where In The world is Matt Lauer’ is this week.”
“I reckon ya’ll can cross him off,” Miz Demetrice said.
Matt Lauer could have hired someone to do it, Bubba thought but didn’t dare say it. He relented. Naw, Matt Lauer wouldn’t do that.
Monday flipped a page of his notebook. “And other enemies?”
“Nancy Musgrave the Christmas Killer and her brother R-r-robert, uh, what was his name?”
“Morgan Newbrough,” Bubba said helpfully.
Monday checked a lone official-looking page sitting next to his notebook. “Right, Morgan Newbrough and Nancy Musgrave are both still in jail, waiting for their trials.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Monday stared intently at Miz Demetrice and then consulted his notes. Then he dragged a yellow file folder over to him. He flipped it open. “You people have been busy here,” he commented.
Miz Demetrice arched an eyebrow, and Bubba shifted in his chair. His mother didn’t really care for federal officials in any format. Special Agents Monday and Hornbuc
kle weren’t endearing themselves to her. Monday was taking his time in cross-examining them as if they were suspects, and Hornbuckle was taking her time in making sure her manicure was immaculate.
“First, there were the murders of Melissa Dearman and Neal Ledbetter,” Monday said.
“That was Lurlene Grady, er, I mean Donna Hyatt of Spokane, Washington,” Miz Demetrice said. She smoothed her white hair back. “She was caught confessing on digital.”
“Uh-huh,” Monday said. “She’s still locked up waiting on a trial. That’s taking a lot of time.” He flipped some pages and hummed for a moment. “Then there were the murders of Steve Killebrew, Beatrice Smothermon, and the real Robert Daughtry. That segment also included the attempted murder of John Headrick—” Sheriff John’s head came up, and he absently fingered the rope scar at his neck “—and several others in the family, as well as some patients from a local mental institute.”
“It was a busy week,” Miz Demetrice interjected.
“Which culminated in the apprehension of the alleged murderer by none other than Rumford Samuel Snoddy, Junior AKA Brownie.”
“Didn’t you see the Today show?” Miz Demetrice asked sarcastically. “You must be the only other one who didn’t.”
Hornbuckle chuckled. “The tasing wasn’t the best part. The best part was when Ann Curry said, ‘Don’t tase me, bro.’ I nearly—” she cut herself off when she saw the look on Monday’s face.
“Then, there was the kidnapping of a sheriff’s deputy,” Monday went on. He flipped through another page. Willodean sighed loudly. “That was associated with several minor crimes in the greater Dallas/Fort Worth area. Whatever did you do with the boot?”
“My truck wasn’t parked illegally,” Bubba protested. “And I already paid for the dadgummed thing.”
Monday spared Bubba a brief concise look. He flipped a few more pages without looking away from Bubba’s face. Bubba wondered how he could do that. If he wasn’t looking at the pages, how could he tell what page he was on?
“And last of all, we have the decades-old murders of Mary Posey, a judge’s wife, and Notary Public Myrtle Cratelayer, which was connected to the more recent murder of Justin Thyme, who was notably unemployed at the time of the…Pegramville Murder Mystery Festival.” Monday glanced at Hornbuckle. “Was this on the Today show?”
“I don’t think Matt Lauer wanted to do anymore on Pegramville. Good Morning America did a segment, though,” Hornbuckle said helpfully. “Rumford wasn’t involved in that one.”
“You should prolly call him Brownie,” Bubba said, getting tired of the Mutt and Jeff routine. “He doesn’t really like his given name.”
More pages flipped. “His father and mother are currently in Louisiana.” Monday wasn’t exactly asking but Miz Demetrice bit.
“Brownie’s mother is pregnant and on doctor’s orders for bed rest,” she said calmly. Bubba wasn’t fooled. Miz Demetrice was running out of patience. “Which is why we explained to you that we needed to keep this on the down low. We don’t want Virtna losing her mind, having some kind of brain embolism, and shooting that baby out of her womb like it was on a water slide at Six Flags.”
“Is there any chance that the parents came and took Brownie back without letting you know?” Monday asked. “Perhaps Rumford Samual Snoddy, Senior, feels that he is owed some of the Snoddy monies.”
Miz Demetrice snorted. She looked at Bubba and snorted again. Then Bubba chuckled. The chuckles dissolved into helpless laughter. Miz Demetrice was wiping tears away from the corners of her eyes when Miz Adelia stuck her head inside to see what was happening. The special agents stared at the two Snoddys as if they had never seen something so odd.
When Miz Demetrice finally recovered, she said, “Leaving Brownie here is like a vacation to Fudge and Virtna. They wouldn’t dare interrupt that.” She heaved a sigh. “In the second place, there are no Snoddy monies. The only thing left is some investments from a store that was sold in the sixties, or was it the fifties? We allow tourists to tromp through the house several times a year and that brings in some revenues. We’ve rented the front out for weddings. For some perverse reason, ‘Southern’ weddings are gaining in notoriety. Brides want to be photographed twirling their big hoop skirts down the grand staircase a la Scarlett O’Hara. They want the big shot of the whole wedding party in front of the mansion.” She shrugged. “Peeling paint and leaning columns and all.”
“You don’t have a million dollars,” Monday stated.
“Colonel Nathanial Snoddy did not bring any gold home after the War of Northern Aggression ended,” Miz Demetrice said unequivocally as if she was reading from a card she kept in her wallet. “He brought home a venereal disease, which he likely had before he left for the war. He buried a wagon full of iron on the grounds and whispered about all his hidden gold to every two-bitted floozy within a hundred miles, who then passed along the information to every able-bodied man with a shovel. It’s been nothing but a headache ever since.”
“Didn’t stop you from sharing it with People Magazine,” Bubba muttered, and Miz Demetrice’s head swiveled like it wasn’t attached to her spine.
“Shut it, boy,” his mother said.
“And that was why Donna Hyatt —” Monday stopped to look at his notes “— of Spokane, Washington, came up with her scheme to gain unfettered access to the Snoddy Estate.”
“Could have saved her a lot of jail time,” Bubba said, “ifin she had just asked.”
“Cain’t we be doing something more productive?” Miz Demetrice asked. “This is all ancient history.”
“Not so much if the kidnapper is going on the same information,” Monday said.
“The story still runs around,” Bubba said. “Folks still digging holes out on the property. A week don’t go by that some fool with a metal detector isn’t out there shoveling out something. Last month two fellas from the University of Texas got treed by an alligator. Ifin I hadn’t gone down there to find out what was riling up my dog, they would have died of dehydration. It’s my belief that that gator got a taste of that university meat and was stalking them about. In any case, there ain’t no money. Ain’t no gold. I wish to God there was, so we could cash it in and have the rest of them idjits stop their tomfoolery.” Bubba thought about it. “Prolly wouldn’t stop. They’d think there was more hidden out there. Prolly make it worse.”
“So the kidnapper thinks that the Snoddys have this money,” Monday said. “We’ll attempt to find the child before the ransom demand is made, of course, but if that doesn’t happen, what will you do about the money?”
Bubba glanced at Miz Demetrice. Miz Demetrice shrugged. “Barter, I reckon. After spending a little time with Brownie, they ain’t goin’ to want him anymore. In fact, I suspect…”
* * *
Laz returned a little while later to find a man’s jacket on a dressmaker’s dummy standing in the middle of the living room. Tom was directing Brownie in the fine art of pocket pickafacation. Laz barely covered his face with his ball cap before Brownie glanced in his direction.
“You got to move like the wind,” Tom said to Brownie. Tom still had a slur in his voice because his mouth was still numb. “Be the wallet in the pocket with the $100 you need to pay off Fat Vinnie at Grubbo’s for that vig that’s terr’ble overpriced. Feel the wallet and the crinkled up twenty dollar bills all up in there. Smell the wallet. Well, mebe not smell the wallet.”
Brownie reached into the pocket and a bell rang. Tinkle-tinkle.
Laz peered over the top of the baseball cap to see that Tom had attached little silver jingle bells by safety pins to each of the jacket’s pockets. “That’s my best Sunday-go-to-church jacket. I went to Mammaw’s third weddin’ in that,” Laz grumbled. “Also to court. That dadburned lawyer said it would go better ifin I wore something spiffy but it dint.”
“Ain’t hurting it,” Tom said. A tiny amount of drool ran down the side of his mouth, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. “Brownie,” he ad
ded, “be as silent as an old man’s farts and as deadly as an old man’s farts after he’s eaten beans with broccoli.”
Brownie concentrated on the next pocket. He couldn’t imagine getting his hand in the pocket without ringing the bell and the dressmaker’s dummy wasn’t even moving. How would it work on a person who was moving, breathing, and looking at you?
“You’re teaching the kid to be a criminal?” Laz asked, trying to put the pantyhose back on his head while he held the ball cap over his face. He needed three hands.
“You said to watch him,” Tom said. “Ain’t nothing on but talk shows this time of day. And Jeopardy. I hate Jeopardy. I cain’t get none of them questions right until I Google them. I mean, who knows that sh-uh-stuff? At least I kin get some of the Wheel of Fortune puzzles right…sometimes.”
“I done the pick-ups and drop-offs of them car parts,” Laz said. “Mylene said to say hey.” He finally turned away and dropped the hat so he could use both hands on the pantyhose. “I figure we’ll call the Snoddys in the morning. Give them some time to stew over it, to really miss the kid.”
Tom froze for a minute. He angled his head, holding up a hand to cup over his ear. “Did ya’ll hear something? It sounded like po-lice helicopters. Jesus, you know I cain’t be goin’ back to jail. I don’t know how you talked me into this.”
Both Laz and Brownie cocked their heads. Finally, Laz said, “Ain’t nothing. Don’t get paranoid on me, T-uh-T.”
“You know the kid heard our last names,” Tom said.
“And whose fault is that?” Laz demanded.
“Mine, I reckon.” Tom glanced at Brownie. “He seems like a good joe. Look at him.”
Laz looked, and Brownie snapped the fingers of his left hand while he reached into a pocket with his right. He retrieved a pack of gum without ringing the bell.
“Ta-da,” Brownie trilled, holding the gum up like a prize. He did a warbling hoot just like the Sand People in Star Wars. (Episode IV: A New Hope, of course.)
“He’s a natural,” Tom said. “He won’t tell on us, right Brownie.”
Ransom of Brownie Page 5