Ransom of Brownie

by Bevill, C. L.

  She didn’t move.

  “Miz Tayla?” he asked a little louder.

  Tayla suddenly snorted and rolled over, followed by more snoring.

  “Well, okay then,” Brownie said. It was time to put the Oreos out on a plate. Then he was going to get going with more Taco Bell Fire Sauce packets, more duct tape, a whistle, Sharpies, and coffee cups. Then he was going to go outside and play just like Miz Tayla wanted him to do.

  Com-pac-tor.

  * * *

  Bubba had exhausted all of the places that might sell regular athletic shoes. Consequently, he sat on a bench and thought about his options. Then a County Sheriff’s Bronco pulled up on the street beside him. Willodean got out and somewhere a comet’s beautiful tail became illuminated by the heat of a distant star’s rays.

  She sat beside him and took his hand. “I heard about the Feds turning tail,” she said.

  “Brownie posted on Facebook,” Bubba said. Apparently everyone but him posted on Facebook. He wasn’t exactly sure what the point of Facebook was. “Do you post on Facebook?” he asked Willodean.

  She nodded guiltily. “It’s better than calling all of my relatives. I take photos with my Droid and upload them.”

  Bubba nodded. She had taken photos of him with her Droid. “Am I on there?”

  “A few,” she said tentatively. “It never occurred to me to ask if you’d mind. I forget that you don’t really get into some of that stuff.”

  He held up the athletic shoe in the bag. “I figure that the kidnapper is from around here. I reckon I could track him down ifin I could hit all the shoe stores, but they don’t carry this kind.”

  Willodean took the bag and examined the shoe. “It’s a knockoff Nike,” she said. “We confiscated a load of these three months ago. Steve Simms stopped an eighteen-wheeler south of town because his DOT numbers were short a digit. The back was full of shoes, purses, and electronic stuff. All fakity-fake-fake.”

  “These?” Bubba said. He pointed.

  “We had a class on fake goods.” She smiled brightly at Bubba, and his heart did a little skip. Oh, those wonderful lips. He didn’t think he would ever get tired of those. “The stitching is cheap and crooked. The shoes look like they’ve been dyed with crappy paint mixed with water. The shoe laces will dissolve in a heavy rain. I mean, no one with a brain would ever buy them as anything but a chintzy knockoff.”

  “That one did okay when Bogie was chewing on it,” Bubba said.

  Willodean shrugged. “Maybe they should make dog toys instead of smuggling knockoffs across the border. It would probably pay more.”

  “What happened to all the stuff?”

  “Normally we have to destroy it,” Willodean said thoughtfully. “The real companies don’t want knockoffs running around. But when it comes to shoes which people need no matter whose logo is on the sides, they’re a little more generous. We gave the entire lot to the Salvation Army, Goodwill, and two thrift stores.”

  “Beg pardon, but you dint think of that before?” Bubba smiled at Willodean to soften the question.

  “Sorry Bubba, I’m not omnipotent,” she said and punched him in the shoulder. “Almost omnipotent. I missed that one when I was looking at it before. Frankly, I thought it was one of yours.”

  “Right,” Bubba said. “Precious has brought back bits and pieces before and most of them belong to folks wandering over the property looking for the crazy colonel’s gold. There’s a pile of clothing and shoes in one of the sheds. I almost expect some of them people to come and ask for them back. Or to sue us.”

  “Okay, let’s go talk to the stores where the shoes went,” Willodean said. “You want to go together or split up?”

  Bubba sighed. Oh, he wanted to go with Willodean, of course, but Brownie’s state of affairs was more urgent. “Why don’t you take a photo of the shoe with your Droid and you go to Salvation Army and Goodwill. I’ll take them other two. I reckon it’s probably that one on Main Street and the other one by the manure factory.”

  “That other thrift store closed down last year,” Willodean agreed. “Kiss me, big fella?”

  And since Bubba was nothing but a gentleman, he was forced to oblige.

  When Willodean got off the bench, her knees were shaking, and she flapped her hand in front of her face.

  * * *

  By the time Laz and Tom returned from running junkyard errands hither and yon, Brownie had organized and arranged and MIG welded and played with Oscar. Brownie was ready for a break.

  A prank break, that is, he thought.

  Both Laz and Tom eyed Brownie with all of the alacrity of an herbivore looking at a much larger predator in its immediate vicinity. Brownie knew that meant they had been discussing him with each other. Comparing notes. The cat was out of the bag. A whole clowder of cats was out of the bag.

  Brownie sat at the red-lined aluminum table and sipped another Yoo-hoo thoughtfully provided by Tayla. Laz’s mother was sitting next to him, drinking more tea and gazing at the Oreos sitting on a decorative plate. “That was nice of you,” she said, and it took Laz a moment to realize his mother was addressing him.

  “What’s that?”

  “Putting these Oreos out,” she said. “I’ll tell you what.”

  “What?” Brownie asked.

  “I just tole you,” Tayla chortled. “Dang, I am feeling better. I’m beginning to think I should have stayed in Houston and got a shot in my tuckus there, but I was itching everywhere, and I do mean everywhere.” Brownie saw Laz shudder at the thought of everywhere, but Tayla was already moving ahead with, “Who’d a thought jumbo shrimp would do that to a God-fearing soul?”

  “My Uncle Otis is allergic to water,” Brownie added helpfully.

  Tayla made a noise and reached for the Oreos. Then she pulled her hand back. Brownie smiled and pushed the plate toward her. “I cain’t imagine being allergic to water,” she said. Her fingers tickled the air over the cookies.

  “It’s very rare. He can only drink distilled water, and he has to stay inside all the time. He lives in Virginia and doesn’t go out except in wintertime when he can’t sweat. He has a disability, too.” Brownie pushed the plate a little closer.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t,” she said, and her shoulders slumped a tad. One finger nearly touched a cookie when Laz abruptly jerked the whole plate away.

  “Sorry, Ma,” he said as he took the plate. “I should have remembered you’re trying to diet.”

  “I’ll take one,” Tom said and snagged an Oreo before Laz could say anything.

  “Did I tell you about my prize-winning latch hook with the puppies, kittens, and rainbows?” Tayla asked Brownie. She thought about it. “Was that the one with the clown in the back? I don’t recollect.”

  Brownie nodded. “You did, but please tell me again.” His eyes flicked to Tom as he put the whole Oreo in his mouth. Behind Tayla’s back, Laz shrugged and unceremoniously dumped the whole plate in the garbage. Laz stuck his tongue out at Brownie and then he got another package out and replaced the cookies. He glanced triumphantly at Brownie and then looked at Tom.

  Tom chewed once, twice, and then swallowed. He smiled and reached for another cookie.

  “The coloring is very important,” Tayla was saying.

  Tom tossed the Oreo in the air and caught it in his mouth.

  “Length of the yarn determines the depth of the piece,” Tayla continued on.

  “Uh-huh,” Brownie said seriously.

  Tom didn’t bother with the second chew. He only chewed once before he began to choke.

  Tayla glanced at Tom. “You choking, boy?”

  Tom gulped and made a face. He shook his head. He went to the sink and drank from the faucet. Then he spit everything out in the sink.

  “Toothpaste!” he said. “It had…uh…” he looked over his shoulder at Tayla. “Uh, it went down the wrong pipe, I reckon. Sorry, ma’am.”

  Tayla frowned. “Maybe them cookies are bad. You should toss them ifin they are.”


  Laz dumped the plate’s contents into the garbage. “I guess they’ve bin in the cupboard for a few months.”

  Tayla continued her story to Brownie. Brownie heard Tom whisper, “That was toothpaste in between the cookie halves.”

  “What was that?” Tayla asked.

  “Nothing, ma’am,” Tom said.

  “Could have been worse,” Laz said darkly. “It could have been more Anbesol.”

  Chapter 10

  Thursday, November 14th

  Brownie on a Mission

  and

  Bubba Gets Investimagating

  Bubba’s eyes threatened to cross.

  The thrift shop he had stopped at belonged to the Dogley Institute of Mental Well-Being. It was a typical thrift shop with secondhand goods laid out for the average consumer to find a deal. Clothes were hung from rods or folded on shelves. Handwritten signs announced their designation and sizes. (T-shirts – Large, Jeans – XX Large, for example. Someone had creatively crossed out the r in T-shirts to add to folks’ shopping experiences.) There was a bunch of pressed-wood furniture in the form of nightstands, bookshelves, and dressers. There were paintings, blenders, and a microwave that looked to be the first of its kind ever invented.

  However, there were also…loonies, which was the reason his eyes threatened to cross.

  “Bubba!” someone bellowed next to his ear. Bubba winced. He turned to look and found Jesus Christ. (He had never really lost Jesus, but in this case, he wasn’t thinking about the holy being.) This particular Jesus was a man in his late thirties or early forties. He was balding and tended toward wearing sheets. Bubba didn’t know the size of the sheet and frankly wouldn’t have cared if he did know, but Jesus did employ a belt around his middle that kept everything mostly decent unless there was a strong crosswind.

  Bubba had first met Jesus when he was a patient at the Dogley Institute which had employed a mainstreaming program for the patients. In fact, Jesus had been one of Nancy Musgrave’s group of patients, and he had been present when Brownie had shocked her into unconsciousness with his homemade Taser. He might have even giggled when Brownie did it, but Bubba didn’t really remember that part.

  “I have praaayed for you,” Jesus said loudly into Bubba’s ears. Jesus also talked like a rabid evangelist in a tent revival the Sunday morning after Prohibition had been repealed. “I have taaalked to my Faaather much on the subjeeect of Bubba Snooody. Faaather, I said, heeelp him fiiind his waaay away frooom all theeese dead bodieees. So I saaayeth.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” Bubba said politely. He didn’t actually know if Jesus could talk to God, but in case he could, it was better to be courteous.

  “Thou warped, clapper-clawed maltworm!” someone else pronounced imperiously. Bubba moved his head and saw another person in her thirties or forties standing nearby with her hands full of wrinkled clothing. She was mousy looking with graying brown hair and wore three sweaters.

  “Miz Thelda,” Bubba said. He had probably been insulted, but it didn’t really sting much. Thelda was another one of Nancy’s patients. He didn’t know what was wrong with her (or if there was, in fact, anything wrong), but she nearly always spoke in Shakespearean insults.

  “Saucy lout,” Thelda said immediately as if calling Bubba by name.

  Bubba looked around the thrift shop. It wasn’t huge, but there were already a number of customers thumbing through the contents, looking to find a long-hidden copy of the Declaration of Independence in a cheap frame or possibly the oldest pair of Levi’s in existence.

  Thelda began to refold a stack of T-shirts.

  “Shoes?” Bubba asked.

  “I dooon’t wear them,” Jesus said. “The Looord has deciiided that I shaaall waaalk the Earth as I was maaade. I did haaave some Aaair Jordans, but I gaaave them tooo Lloyd Goshorn.”

  “You’re wearing a sheet, Jesus,” Bubba said. “I don’t reckon you came out with a sheet.” He thought about it. “Er,” he added, “or popped into existence with a sheet, that is.” He frowned because his brain was making him think thoughts that plainly confused him. “Unlessin’ that’s what God wanted to happen.”

  Jesus glanced at the cash register. A young redheaded woman stood there with a bright smile on her face as she observed their interaction. She looked familiar to Bubba, and he finally realized that she was a receptionist from the Dogley Institute. Clearly, she had been promoted or possibly demoted or conceivably, had been volunteered to man the thrift shop.

  “Well, hey there,” she said to Bubba. Her tone was exuberantly sunny. “Jesus won’t harm you. He just likes to spread the gospel. And can’t we all use a little gospel?”

  “My gooospel,” Jesus corrected.

  “Well, shore, your gospel. If it isn’t your gospel, then whose is it?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Maaatthew, John, Paaaul,” Jesus answered promptly. “Maaary had some too, but I thiiink it got looost in the Deeead Sea. You wooouldn’t believe whaaat Mary had tooo say abooout shoes. Aaand also persooonal hygiene.”

  “Oh my gosh,” the redhead said. “Jesus, bless your heart, aren’t you just a little golden ray of sunshine today?”

  Jesus shrugged. He whispered to Bubba, “I aaam, actually.”

  “Shoes,” Bubba said again. He held up the bag with the chewed shoe.

  “We don’t buy things,” the redhead said. It finally occurred to Bubba that he knew her name, too. It was Cybil. Involuntarily a trailing name popped into his head, and Bubba was almost instantly ashamed of himself. Cybil the Chipper Chipmunk. She might chew off your finger, but she’ll be happy when she does it. Stop that, Bubba.

  “I need to know ifin you sold this shoe to someone,” Bubba said with a great deal more patience than he actually felt.

  “We don’t sell single shoes, silly,” Cybil said. She suddenly rubbed her cheek with one finger. “Even that one-legged man from Tyler wanted both shoes. He put the second one on his fake foot.”

  “Leeet me touch the shoooe,” Jesus said helpfully. “I wiiill tell yooou all.” He clamped his hand on the bag, and his entire body vibrated.

  “I don’t suppose David Beathard is around, I mean, Bad Black Dog McGee, or is he back to being The Purple Singapore Sling?” Bubba asked hopefully. David Beathard was another one of Nancy’s patients, but he had been singularly helpful to Bubba whether or not he was dressed all in purple or was swinging a cutlass or was psychoanalyzing other patients.

  “David went to visit his daughter,” Cybil said merrily. She clapped her hands together in joy. “It’s so nice when they do that. His daughter came and saw his graphology business and saw how he was dressed and decided he needed to visit her family for a bit.” Her shoulders went up and down. “I just love family events! She brought snickerdoodles to all the other patients. I love snickerdoodles. She makes hella good snickerdoodles.” She clapped her hand over her mouth suddenly. “Pardon my French.”

  “This shoooe has been a viiictim of Pontius Pilate aaand Ramses II,” Jesus said and let it go as if it were a serpent with an apple. “Seeee the saliiiva?”

  “That was a dog,” Bubba said to Jesus. “Cybil, do ya’ll have shoes here?”

  “Of course we do, you big goofy gary,” Cybil said. “They’re in the back on a table.”

  Bubba went to the back and avoided three people who decided there must be a sale on shoes since he was interested. He didn’t see anything like what he was looking for, but he needed to be certain. He returned to Cybil. He held up the shoe and attempted his best Joe Friday. “Did the po-lice give you shoes like this one?”

  Cybil focused on the knockoff. “It doesn’t exactly look like it came out of the shop,” she said, “but the sheriff’s department did bring some shoes by. We don’t sell ones that looked all chewed up, you know. People buy all sorts of things but not ones dripping with drool, funny goober.” She smiled brightly as if that would take the burn out of her words.

  “And?”

  “There was only one pair with green stripes,�
�� she said. She leaned closer. “It could have been one of those.”

  “Who bought that pair?”

  Cybil frowned. Then she perked up again. Bubba suspected she was on some kind of amphetamine and probably a buttload of coffee. “You dexter-fakester,” she said. “You ought to know. Miz Demetrice came in the same day and bought all of those knockoffs. Bless her heart, every last one.”

  Bubba said a very bad word, and Cybil’s mouth opened in shock.

  * * *

  Laz and Tom stood at the entrance to Laz’s bedroom and stared upward, not daring to enter. It was a small bedroom. All the bedrooms in the trailer home were small except the master, which was located at the end of the home. In this case, small was probably better.

  “How did he do that?” Tom asked with no little amount of awe.

  “Well, I kin see how he did my slippers,” Laz said, “but I ain’t rightly shore how he duct taped the bed to the ceiling. Look, he even did the electrical cords for the lamps.”

  “And the trash basket, too. He used all of your ma’s best duct tapes, even the one with the peace signs,” Tom said. “When Miz Tayla finds out that her duct tape is all gone, she’s goin’ to be upset.”

  “Did the kid do this to your bedroom?”

  “No, but I think I’d rather have the duct tape,” Tom replied nervously. “I’m afraid to go in my room.”

  Brownie listened from the other bedroom. He could also hear Tayla humming something in the kitchen while she made herself a snack. He thumbed through a copy of Modern Latch Hook in Today’s World and considered how he was progressing.

  “I’m afraid to touch anything,” Laz admitted. “In fact, I gotta go to the bathroom. My stomach’s doin’ the loop-de-loop of loop-de-loops. Every time I hear a creak, I think the po-lice are comin’ to knock down the door with a SWAT team.”

  “Yeah, well, that reminds me,” Tom said hesitantly, “not only do I got blue pee, but I got…I got…”

  “What?”

  “Green poop,” Tom said. “Did that kid poison us?”