“Have I told you lately how wonderful you are?” I whisper as my insides go all mushy.
He smiles and kisses me, which is the perfect answer.
I won’t go into detail about what happens next, but suffice it to say I will never view my kitchen in quite the same way again. I’m not sure whether it was the noise or the actions that ran her off, but during our interlude Miss Priss disappeared to parts unknown.
Once Carson restores his appearance to that presentable for an officer of the law and I finally find my undies, we decide to make use of the afternoon by looking over the bank records. While math is not my long suit and I approach my own bank statements with dread and loathing, I don’t want to be left out of this particular investigation. Carson hands me the January to May records, and he takes the ones that brought us up to two days ago, the night before Miz Waddy disappeared.
When my eyes start to cross, I decide it’s time for a coffee break. I stretch, fill my cup, and cross to the window that looks out on my street. The sight I behold makes me choke and call Carson over.
Louise Opperman, she of Christmas program fame, holds a baseball bat in her right hand and a dustpan in her left. She is stalking something across her front yard and heading toward me. I’d tell you what she’s after, but the object of her hunt is invisible.
“She do that often?” Carson inquires.
I shake my head. Louise is A Lady, proper enough never to wear panty hose with open-toed shoes, and she wouldn’t be caught dead in white between Labor Day and Memorial Day. Watching her stoop down and swat with her bat and then scoop up nothing ensures something strange is going on here on my street. Actually, in my whole town.
“Think I should go out there?”
Yeah, he probably should. And he should also probably carry a syringe full of sleepy juice and a strait jacket. I toy with the idea of calling the ER and telling them to ready a third bed in the psych ward before deciding it’s best to give Dwaine that pleasure. First though, I need to go see if I’m missing something from my window viewing post.
Carson follows me onto the porch; he doesn’t seem happy when I tell him to stay until I holler for him. He doesn’t understand that underneath her bossy, know-everything exterior, Louise is a delicate flower who needs careful handling.
She shrieks at the top of her lungs as I step off the sidewalk. “For God’s sake, girl, don’t let them get that close to you!”
I stop stock-still and take inventory. All I see is the asphalt beneath my feet and Louise’s poised bat as she hurdles toward me. I stay immobile as she swings the bat, lets out a triumphant grunt, and picks up the invisible maimed—or possibly dead—thing. She hoists the dustpan as if it’s heavy, and her face has a sheen of perspiration. She’s been working hard at the ridding the world of these whatevers.
“Can I see?” When I lean close, she pulls back.
“Tessa, you careless girl,” she scolds. “What if one of them is just playing dead? Do you want their teeth sinking into your flesh?”
“Uhh, those are pretty big rats.”
“Rats.” Disdain drips from Louise’s words. “Those are vampire titmice from hell. If I don’t get them all now, the whole town will be infested.”
I turn and with my back to Louise, use my fingers to signal 911 at Carson. He taps the side of his jacket covering his gun and I nod. I hope that means he’s calling the Fortuna P.D. and not asking if I’d like to take a concealed carry gun course.
In order to keep Louise somewhat confined, I suggest that I drive the creatures from one end of the street and let Carson take the other. I suspect our neighbors are gawking from their own windows as Carson and I make shooing motions and Louise keeps swinging that bat. When she calls out that the dustpan is full, Carson runs around the side of her house and hurries back, rolling the city trash container before him.
Ever the gentleman, he takes the dustpan from Louise and dumps its nonexistent load into the trash bin. He even suggests that her arms must be tired and he’d be happy to take over the killing from her.
“Nonsense,” she snaps. “As my late William always said, the only way to make sure something is done right is to do it yourself. You just make sure none of them get in my pansies. They’re the devil on pansies, those vampire titmice.”
I am beyond thrilled when a cruiser stops at the intersection by me, a delight increased only when a second cruiser blocks the street at Carson’s end. Dwaine steps out of the far car and with slow and methodical steps, approaches the deranged Louise. Luther climbs out of the cruiser by me. He and my beloved situate themselves so they can do a takedown if Louise makes a break for it. Dwaine, who hates to run, speaks to her for a moment. I am confused when he begins to walk away and startled when he shouts, “The damned thing’s got me!”
Screaming “Die, die, die,” Louise rushes toward him with her bat in bashing position. Before she can lower it toward the neck Dwaine’s clutching, Carson grabs the bat by the fat end, and Luther catches Louise as she stumbles backward. Fat sobs erupt as she struggles to get free, a battle that ends with Luther’s face scratched in five places where her nails got him, a set of plastic ties on her chubby wrists, and Dwaine swearing as he tries to shove her into his cruiser. That reminds me of the scene at the parsonage, and once he’s slammed the door and trapped her inside, I ask about the pastor.
“He’s pretty satisfied, I think.” Dwaine leans against the cruiser’s fender, ignoring the shouts and bangs from inside. “Confided that he’s meant to be there, saving the souls of the Jezebels who took away his Bible and his belt. The emergency room doc gave him a shot before they took him to the fourth floor, so I imagine he’s pretty docile by now.”
Luther limps over to join us. Turns out that Louise got a few good kicks in before she was finally subdued.
“What the hell’s wrong with this town?” he demands to know. “Just last weekend we had the fall festival without a single problem and three days later, we’re up to our ass in crazy. Maybe somebody ought to check the water.”
I’ve seen Luther in many a mood—mad, sarcastic, occasionally cheerful. But I’ve never seen him this discouraged. One look at the chief’s face and I see that he’s pretty down, too. Carson, however, simply looks thoughtful. That’s because he gets to live in a city that has ballet and orchestras, and nobody would ever dream of starting an Organic Agriculture and Archery Guild.
He suggests that Luther haul Louise off to join her BFF Florine at the hospital and pulls the chief to the side for a confab. They look serious as they talk, making me wonder if they’re about to declare this an epidemic and call in the CDC. Maybe we’ll be all over the news with the Fortuna Malady, like those places with the monkey pox and Legionnaire’s Disease. The powers that be at WFRT would be thrilled to finally originate a huge story instead of getting it off the wire service feed.
I dream of that cute TV doctor coming to Fortuna to film a piece and agreeing to be interviewed on my news show. I can do legitimate journalism. I proved that when the librarian embezzled the fine money and had to pay back the whole sixty-four dollars or spend three weeks picking up litter off the roadsides.
My heart leaps when Dwaine waves me over. Here it comes, my big break. I take a deep breath and prepare myself.
“Carson says you’ve got fresh coffee,” he says. “Any chance I can get a cup?”
My ego deflates like a helium balloon at a frigid holiday parade. Get coffee, I mutter to myself as I head for the house. Want a leftover doughnut, too?
As it turns out, the timing is impeccable. My cell phone is chiming and the caller is still there when I dig the phone from my purse and offer a breathless hello.
The voice on the other end is thick and stilted. My breath catches as I realize this could well be the kidnapper of Miz Waddy using me as an intermediary because he’s learned I have her cat. Turns out, though, to be the bank branch manager.
“Thimon told me he that down wif you an that OBI,” he says in a painful manner that cau
ses me to remember he’s just had oral surgery.
“Yes, we sat down with Simon,” I agree.
“I thot you might wanna look at the thecond account Mith Waddy hath.”
Two accounts at the Merchants and Miners?
“I can gib you the records eben though she took mooth of the money out lath week.”
My mind flits through the possible reasons Miz Waddy would have cleaned out an account. The two most obvious are plastic surgery or blackmail, and she doesn’t strike me as the type to care about perfect boobs or nose straightening. Which leaves one good option.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “If you could have those records ready, I’ll be right down for them.”
“I can only releath theb to a cop.”
“We,” I hasten to reply. “We’ll be right down to get them.”
The look Dwaine shoots me when I finally deliver his coffee cements the decision I made while pouring it. I’m keeping this two-account thing strictly between Carson and me. Blackmail is so out of the local police’s league that I’m doing them a favor by not mentioning it. Besides, they have their hands full of wigged-out Fortunians at the moment.
Dwaine downs his coffee and says a curt goodbye. I make sure to smile in return and wave enthusiastically as he leaves. Carson watches with a grin.
“Back to the grind,” he says, taking my hand as we start across the street.
“Not quite. There’s another set of bank records.”
Carson stops and stares. “Another set?”
I nod. “Turns out Miz Waddy had two accounts, one of which took a big hit last week.”
* * * *
Follow the money is one of those things they do on TV crime dramas, but it’s not nearly as easy as it sounds. I get my highlighters out once we return with the new account statements and start looking for anything out of the ordinary. Carson must be more experienced with forensic accounting than me because his pages flip over a lot faster.
“Did this Peytona woman inherit stocks and bonds, anything like that?” Carson’s looking at me like he thinks I know. Prying into other people’s business isn’t my thing…okay, it is if they break the law, but otherwise I adopt a “don’t ask, don’t care” policy.
“Know anybody that might?” he says into the silence.
“Her attorney.”
Carson leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair. I barely notice that little gesture because I’m fixated on the sleek body under his white shirt. He’s taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, which is one of his sexiest looks in my book.
My smile begins when he asks if I have a local phone book and becomes a full grin when he explains he needs my help in calling the local lawyers to see if we can find hers.
“Alfred Grimstead, two doors down from the dollar store.”
Carson frowns. “You know who her attorney is?”
“Everyone over the age of fifty uses Grimstead. Those under fifty use Louise Habbard, who just happens to be his niece. Her office is also two doors from the dollar store.”
“That’s your logic?”
I nod. “This is my town. Trust me. If I’m wrong, you can decide how to punish me.”
Carson lifts his eyebrows and gives me a mock evil grin. “Oh, you don’t know how much I hope you’re completely off the mark.”’
Unfortunately, I’m right. Grimstead’s secretary tells us to come on down, that he’s due back from court in about twenty minutes. I plug my cell phone into the charger under the dash of Carson’s vehicle and am relieved it doesn’t ring from the time we leave my house until we find a parking place just down the street from the attorney’s place. I don’t know which I dread most, an SOS from Eugene or a call from Luther telling us about the latest local lunatic.
“Nice digs,” Carson offers in a sarcastic whisper as we top the stairs and step into Grimstead’s office. I sincerely hope the rent is cheap because the carpet’s got to be twenty years old, the furniture is early attic, and there’s a suspicious floor creak as we walk to the receptionist’s desk. Actually, secretary and sole employee’s desk, it turns out. She smiles before motioning toward a couple of faded velvet chairs.
“Mr. Grimstead is in,” she said, “and looking forward to meeting you. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
Apparently, lawyer time is like hospital time and “a few minutes” means whenever your name is called. I’d flipped through all the hunting magazines and was starting in on the fishing ones when the secretary announced, “Mr. Grimstead will see you now. Please follow me.”
Carson straightens his tie and squares his shoulders as he falls in behind her. Normally he’s a gentleman who has me go first, but since an official police presence is required, I figure maximum invisibility is good. When he suddenly stops, I bump into him with a small “oof,” which shoots my shadow theory. Neither of us realized that “follow me” actually meant, “here, I’ll open his office door.” Turns out that Grimstead’s desk backs onto the same wall as the secretary’s, except in another, only slightly larger room.
“Carson Hayes, Ohio Bureau of Investigation.” Carson offers his hand and a business card. I sink into the chair in the corner as the two men do the pleased-to-meet-you dance. One thing I learned long ago was that intimidation is a handy talent when dealing with attorneys, and I can’t even get Miss Priss to respect me.
As I expected, the conversation is formal. Carson asks a question; Grimstead dances away from it. The only interruption is when the secretary walks through the room with a middle-aged couple behind her and shows them through a door at the far side. That, I assume, is Louise’s office. Either that or it’s the bathroom and this is one of those couples that do everything together.
So far Carson’s managed to uncover zip from old Grimstead. Nada. Nil. All he’s learned is that Miz Waddy owns her store/living quarters outright, an inheritance from her father. That there is a provision in her will to hire a caretaker for the place as long as Miss Priss lives, in case Miz Waddy kicks off first. And that the suddenly departed Miz Waddy didn’t trust banks and had moved money from place to place in the past.
Darling Carson looks discouraged as we go back down the steps and to his car. He had high hopes, I’m sure, of tying the withdrawals to an anticipated ransom demand. Alas, the missing money might show up in another bank. But who knows where?
“She travel much?” Carson asks as we head back toward my house.
“A little,” I say. “She’d close the shop twice a year when she went to buyer’s conventions. In Atlanta, I think. Someplace in the south anyway. And she closed up two weekends a year when she traveled with her old sorority sisters.”
Carson perks up. “And you know that how?”
I ignore the poor grammar and say, “She talked about those trips when she came back. If she caught you, it would take forever before you could get away. She loved to show the photos on her phone and talk about the food. No matter where they went, she was all about the food.”
“Oh.” The one-syllable answer isn’t so much dismissive as thoughtful. I remain silent as we pull up in front of the police station. I most certainly don’t want to interfere with any brainstorm he might be having.
Dwaine is, as usual, ensconced in his office. The newspaper is folded open to the puzzle, which is half-done. That and the way he motions for us to wait while he gets more coffee makes me believe this hasn’t been the most productive day for the chief. I wonder if the hospital pays the department for bringing in the crazies—sort of a piece-rate referral fee. Or maybe they build up credit, so if old Luther gets a dog bite on duty, the P.D. gets a discount on treatment.
My mind wanders as Carson and the chief drop into cop talk. I wonder how Miss Priss is doing and if she’s the kind of cat to indulge in random destruction when she gets upset. I rather like my living room curtains and my kitchen tablecloth as they are. Claw holes would do nothing to enhance their beauty.
Maybe she’s a climber
and not a clawer. I suppress a shudder as I imagine going home to find the shower curtain yanked off the rings, the open box of laundry detergent spilled on its descent from the top of the washer to floor, or all my knick-knacks reduced to shards.
The shrill ring of a phone makes me jump. Pulled back to the moment at hand, I watch Dwaine’s face develop a scowl as he offers succinct, one-word answers like “damn” and “no!” to whoever’s on the other end. He slams the receiver down, shoves back his chair, and says to Carson, “We got another one.”
I’m assuming he means a newly nutty Fortunian and not a second disappearing shopkeeper. I hop in the back seat of the cruiser as the two men take the front. Dwaine slaps on the siren and blue lights, and we head toward the edge of town. He makes a sharp left at the last street before the incorporation sign and stands on the brakes in front of Tony Arlington’s house.
Tony is as close to a celebrity as we have in Fortuna. Back in the ‘90s, he starred in a series of TV commercials and seems to believe he’s still the teen heartthrob he was then. His singing voice isn’t bad, so he occasionally gets booked into one of the hotel lounges in the region around us, plus he can be counted on to show up for ribbon cuttings and parades. Mostly, I think, he lives off his inheritance. His late and frugal father made a nice living as the only septic service guy in town, and Tony’s an only child. Common belief is that after his mother remarried to a gynecologist and moved to Miami, Dad’s money all went to Tony.
Like I said, Tony embraces his celebrity status. So I am more than a trifle surprised to see him in his boxers and undershirt on the porch. Not only is he woefully underdressed for an October day, he’s holding what appears to be a shotgun to a large teddy bear’s head. Standing a few yards away and screaming like a fishwife is his ex-wife, who didn’t do too well in the divorce. I say that because he still lives in his father’s rather palatial home, and she resides in a 35-footer over in the trailer park.
Downhome Crazy Page 5