by Amy Metz
“Why thank you, Caledonia. How lovely of you to say. My mama used to say good looks won’t put food on the table, but she also said to always look your best; it’s just plain politeness.”
Caledonia laughed. “You have a smart mama. Have you been to Miss Penny’s shop yet?”
“No, not yet.” She tried to inch away, but the woman wouldn’t stop talking to her.
“Well, I’d love to show it to you. Maybe we could go sometime.”
“Oh, I don’t know how long . . . ” Wynona was astonished how Caledonia worked it so that before she could stop it, they’d set a date for eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.
Caledonia invited Paprika to join them. She begged off, explaining she’d have to work.
Just then, Penny and her husband walked up. “Speak of the devil,” Caledonia said, then realized how it sounded and quickly added, “We were just talking about your dress shop.”
“How lovely.” Penny’s tone was ice. “Caledonia, you . . .”
Before she could finish her sentence, Paprika blurted out, “Well I’ll be dipped in bacon fat.” Everyone stared at her. “That’s uncanny. Not only do Cal and Penny resemble each other, their husbands dress the same way from head to foot.”
Philetus was across the room, but when he saw all the eyes in that little group aimed at him, he walked over. Like Penny’s husband, Oren, he was wearing a white Polo shirt. Their starched shorts were different colors, but very similar in style, and they both were sockless with penny loafers holding shiny new pennies in the middle of the shoes.
“You’re right, Paprika. That is unreal. Y’all aren’t related, are you?” Martha Maye asked, joining them.
“No. Not even close,” Penny huffed. She pulled on her husband’s hand and led him quickly away.
Caledonia turned to her friend. “Spice Girl, how could you? You know how much I despise being compared to Bad Penny.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Paprika slapped her palms against her cheeks. “It’s just with all y’all standing there, and then Penny’s husband, Oren, being nearly identically dressed like Phil, it just came out. I really am sorry.”
“Okay.” Caledonia nodded. “I just don’t see why people think we look alike.”
“I guess it’s more your build and coloring. If it makes you feel any better, you’re way, way prettier than Penny.”
“And don’t forget younger.” Caledonia gave a curt smile.
Hank soon found Trixie and stuck to her like flypaper, not letting her out of his sight for the rest of the night despite her protestations. “I really should get going now,” she kept telling him. He just smiled and introduced her to somebody else.
By nine o’clock, the crowd had cleared out—along with most of the food—and only Tess’s closest friends were left in the store. And Wynona.
Louetta took Tess by the elbow and sat her down in the comfy chair by the fireplace—the one that was used for author readings. Tess looked to Jack to see if he knew what was going on, but he just shrugged, giving her a fortifying grin. Everyone stopped talking and gathered around when Louetta clapped her hands together.
“Tessie didn’t know what she was getting herself into when she moved south. Lord knows, not all Southerners talk like we do, and us natives don’t think much about it, but I know Tess had some culture shock when she came here. Now that she’s been in town for a year, I think she’s probably pretty proficient in Southern speak, in particular Goose Pimple speak, ‘cause like I said, we are not your normal Southerners. Lawzee, somebody ought to write a book about us.” She inclined her head toward Jack and said, “Jackson, we’ll talk later.” Everyone laughed. “But I digress. Now, Tess has to pass the test before I can give her the PPP Award.”
“The PPP Award?” Martha Maye looked confused. “What’s that?”
“I just told you. The Probably Pretty Proficient Award.” Louetta waved off the groans and continued. “Okay, Tessie, here’s your first question. Ready?”
Tess nodded reluctantly. “As I’ll ever be.”
“All righty. I want you to translate: ‘Let’s skwinta the diner.’“
“Easy. Let’s go into the diner.”
“Yeah, let’s!” Slick called out from the back.
Louetta shot him a look. “How about this one, Tess: what would you do with bob war?”
“That’s simple. I’d make a barbwire fence.” Tess heard someone say, “Atta girl,” and applause broke out.
Louetta waved her hands in the air to quiet everyone down. “All right, y’all. Define this, Tess: ‘sump’n teet.’“
“Something to eat.”
“Suppose I said Pickle was the sinner of the basketball team. Am I implying he needs to go to church more often?”
“No, ma’am. You’re saying he’s the center on the team.”
“Lightning round.” Lou shuffled through some cards. “Translate sumose.”
“Some of those.”
“Utcha doon.”
“Whatcha doing?”
“What do you do with a flosswater?”
“Swat flies, of course.”
“Wongo.”
“Do you want to go.”
“Yonto.”
“Do you want to.”
“Impa tickler.”
“In particular.”
Jack cheered. “Woohoo, Tess!” Everyone broke out in cheers and applause, and Jack jumped up to give Tess a kiss.
Lou pulled out a handmade award from behind the counter. She had attached a small Ball canning jar to the rim of a glass candlestick and a label on the jar said, “PROBABLY PRETTY PROFICIENT.” She handed the “award” to Tess. “I hereby declare that you are probably pretty proficient in Goose Pimplese.”
Carolyn Jane called out, “People who think an accent makes you stupid are the ones who aren’t too bright.”
“Here, here, Carolyn Jane.” The crowd applauded.
Wearing a grim expression, Officer Velveeta Witherspoon, obviously on duty and looking stern, pushed through the bookstore door and scanned the crowd. When she spotted Johnny, she went straight to him and said, “Chief, I hate to disrupt the frivolity, but I think you should see this.”
Mama always said . . . You want clear water, go to the head of the stream.
Johnny made for the door while listening to Velveeta’s report.
“Chief, I’ve been out here taking statements and writing down names of victims, their make of car, all that stuff. I waited as long as I could to interrupt the party, but some of these folks wanna go home.”
Johnny stopped abruptly. “Victims? We got a fatality?”
“No, sir, nothing like that.” She held the door open for him.
Johnny was apprehensive as he followed Velveeta outside, wondering what in the world could be so bad that she’d pull him out of the party. He saw a group of people milling about on the sidewalk. She led him down the block, but he wasn’t seeing anything amiss.
“Officer Witherspoon, I’m having difficulty seeing what’s so gallderned important.”
The parking spaces were diagonal, so it wasn’t until she took him past the first car that he finally saw the problem. They walked down the sidewalk, inspecting all the cars parked at the curb, and he got a fuller picture.
“Well I’ll be John Brown.”
Velveeta’s head snapped around. “Who?”
Johnny ignored her question and paced the block surveying the damage. Everyone in the bookstore spilled out onto the sidewalk to see what had gotten Velveeta so riled up.
A black Chevy Suburban had a neon yellow smiley face; the whole side of a red VW Beetle was painted in black polka dots; a blue Ford Taurus had yellow stripes down the side; the mark of Zorro graced a maroon Honda Civic; a green Ford pickup truck had a peace sign on the door; an offensive word was scribbled on the side of a gold Buick . . . the damage went on and on. The vandal had spray-painted a total of twelve vehicles.
“How could someone have gotten away with this?” Velveeta w
ondered aloud, quickening her step to keep up with Johnny, who was surveying the damage at a brisk pace.
“Practically the whole town was in the bookstore for a few hours. Those who weren’t there were at home in front of their TV sets with the AC going.” He crouched down on his ankles and inspected one car up close. “It wouldn’t be hard for a person—or persons—to hide if he heard someone coming and then resume his work once they’d gone. Most folks would have come from the bookstore, and it would be easy to hide on the side of or behind one of these cars. He could have had a partner who was a lookout. As long as nobody got in the car he was working on or the one next to it, he kept hidden.”
“But surely someone would have seen him. I’ve been all over the town square though, and I can’t find a soul who did.”
“I was serious when I said practically the whole town was in the bookstore. Who called this in?”
“Nobody. I was cruising by and saw it. I was on the scene when the first victim returned to his car. I’ve been spouting the same spiel to each one. As soon as I’d get done telling one person, another would come along, and then another, and another—” puffed Velveeta.
“I get it, Officer.”
“That’s another reason I waited to come get you. I was too busy telling folks to stay put on the sidewalk, and no, they couldn’t take their cars, and blah blah blah.”
With hands on his hips, Johnny shook his head and pursed his lips, a sour expression on his face. “Officer, who’s on duty tonight? Northington? Woodson?”
“Yessir.”
“Get them over here and y’all take pictures and get fingerprints from every inch of every car.” He began walking again, headed for the crowd of people on the sidewalk. Velveeta scurried after him.
“Uh, sir, excuse me, but those cars are bound to have a lot of fingerprints. Doesn’t mean they belong to the miscreant.”
Johnny stopped walking and whirled around, addressing Velveeta. “No, but if the same set of prints are on each car, we’ll have a pretty durn good lead, don’tcha think?”
She scratched her head and looked sheepish. “I guess so.”
“Count me in, too, Chief.” Hank walked up behind Johnny.
“I ‘preshade that, Officer. I really do. You’re a good man.”
“I got an idea who did this.”
“You and me both. But let’s don’t go pointing fingers until we have a whole hand.”
The next morning Hank knocked on Johnny’s door as he entered his office. “Nothing on the prints, Chief. So we’re dealing with someone savvy enough to know to wear gloves.”
Johnny raised his head from the papers he was reading. “Looks like it. But I don’t reckon you’d have to touch a car to spray-paint it.”
Hank stopped in front of the desk and nodded at the papers Johnny was holding. “Whatcha got there?”
Johnny held up the papers and then released them, letting them fall on his desk. “The report on that vic over in Atlanta.” He shook his head. “Don’t read that after you’ve had a meal. Some gruesome stuff was done to that poor man.”
“Who was he?”
“Some publisher, although it looks like just a small fry. Man alive, he got carved up into several fries.” Johnny laughed and slapped his thigh then sobered. “Sheriff over there said he’d gone by several different names; seems like he was a small-time con artist preying on innocent people.”
“Maybe one of his vics did him in then.”
“Doubtful anyone who isn’t a pro actually did the deed, but they coulda hired someone to do it.”
“Any leads on the perpetrator?” Hank glanced down at the papers and quickly looked away.
“Negative. Like I said, they think it was a professional job, although the part that was done with the knives was pretty messy. Seems like a pro would have been more precise. Either way, I doubt they’ll ever find him.”
“What did they send it here for? Someone like a professional hit man come into town, he’d stick out like a sore thumb. We’d nab him right away.”
“True enough. I guess they sent it to all police departments within a certain radius of Atlanta.” Johnny picked up the papers again. “I didn’t know the vic, but I sure feel sorry for what he went through. By the time death came, I’ll bet he was begging for the end.” He chuckled. “Get it? The end?”
Hank groaned. “Yeah, I get it. A publisher who wanted the end. Clever.”
“I’ll have to remember to tell that one to Jack.”
“Some folks just aren’t hooked up right, you know?”
“You see that every now and then in this kind of work,” Johnny said in mock seriousness.
“I know one man who’s pretty happy this morning.” Hank hitched up his pants.
“Who’s that?” It came out like, “Whoozat?”
“Clem Fowler, over at the car shop. He’s had a sudden spike in business.”
“I’ll say. Those twelve vehicles will keep him out of trouble for a while.”
Johnny leaned back in his chair and propped his hands behind his head. “So what’s the story with your date last night?”
Hank could feel his face heat up and was embarrassed by it. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. “Oh, her. She’s just here for a few days. Disappeared last night during all the commotion. I just wanted to show her some Goose Pimple hospitality and whatnot.”
Johnny raised his eyebrows. “And whatnot?”
“Aw, shucks, Chief, you know it’s slim pickings around here when it comes to eligible—and palatable—women.”
“What about Araminta Lee?”
Hank let out a half-laugh. “She’s stuck up higher than a light pole.” He sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk. “She’s not conceited, she’s convinced.”
“What’s she got to be convinced about?”
“Sure enough.” Hank rubbed the back of his neck.
Johnny drummed his fingers on his desk. “Well how about Nellie Baker? She works up at the school. Martha Maye could introduce you.”
“Nellie Baker?” Hank grimaced. “Nellie Baker has all the personality of linoleum. You ever try to carry on a conversation with her?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Johnny stroked his chin and looked out the window. “Well, there’s always Honey Winchester. She never met a man she didn’t like.”
“Thanks. That’s high praise. She and Lolly are spending time together now anyway.”
“You can only do one thing then.”
“What’s that?”
“Convince the fair Trixie—what did you say her last name was?”
Hank looked dumbfounded. “Huh.” He scratched his head. “I didn’t. I don’t know her last name.”
“Well, convince Trixie What’s-her-name to stay in town. You like her, right?”
“Yeah, but how am I gonna do that?”
“Introduce her around. She makes some friends, maybe she won’t want to leave. In addition to wooing her with your manly charm.”
“I don’t know, Chief.” Hank regarded Johnny skeptically. “People don’t just up and move.”
“Give her a reason. Tell you what do; let’s all go out for supper tomorrow night. You and Trixie, Jack and Tess, and Martha Maye and me. No pressure, just a good night out with friends. What do you say?”
Hank’s face brightened. “I say it’s worth a try. But a dinner date on a Tuesday?”
“Sure. You can’t ask her for tonight. That would be two nights in a row, and you’d look desperate. Gotta play it a little cool, dude. But you don’t want to wait too long either.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I’ll call Jack, Tess, and Martha Maye and set it up.”
Hank started out the door and then turned around and said, “There’s something about her that just makes me want to know more.”
“Man, you’re ate up, aren’t you?”
Bernadette’s voice rang out. “Chief, Pickle Culpepper is on line one.”
Johnny picked up the phone and punched the line, raising a finger in the air to signal Hank to stick around a minute. He put the call on speaker.
“Sir, I wasn’t gonna say anything, but Mama said I had to,” Pickle’s voice wavered.
“Go on.” Johnny and Hank exchanged looks.
“I, uh, sir, do I really have to? I don’t know much of anything—”
“Pickle, your mama must think you know something. What’s it hurt to tell me and let me be the judge?”
“I thought you were the police chief.”
Johnny used his forefinger and thumb to pinch the corners of his eyes. He tried to keep his voice calm. “Let me decide, Pickle. I am the police chief. And you have something you need to get off your chest, don’tcha?”
“Well . . . Maybe. I don’t know—”
“Pickle,” Johnny said sternly, “talk to me.”
“Well, I didn’t see him exactly, but I suspect who spray-painted those cars.”
Johnny sat up. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“‘Cause like I said, I didn’t see him do the deed, and it’s his word against mine. He’s a mean son of a . . .well, he and I don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on things. Plus he’s got a reputation at school.”
“What kind of reputation?”
“One that says he’s nasty as a hair shirt. I’d just as soon not tangle with him.”
“You gonna give me a name?”
There was silence, but Johnny waited him out. “Well, sir, I think Jimmy Dean did it.”
“The kid with the prosthesis? The one folks call peg leg?” Johnny’s voice went up in disbelief.
“Yep. One and the same. He likes to play the poor pitiful victim around you adults. Around us kids, he’s a bully. I’ve even seen him take off his leg and swing it at kids. Then he hops around on one leg like a crazy person, waving his leg in the air like a bat or something.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. I saw him throw something into the trash and walked over to see what it was. I’s just curious, you know. And guess what I found?”
“Spray paint.”