Downhome Crazy

by Cammie Eicher

  Hanging back as Dwaine and Carson approach the scene of the chaos with due diligence, I realize I’m not the only onlooker. The mail carrier’s stopped his little truck to watch the action, and a lady with blue hair and a dachshund on a leash leans on the fence next to him. I nod and offer a smile. I am, after all, the reporter for WFRT and must be friendly at all times.

  The amenities over, I turn my attention to the hollering ex, trying to make out what she’s saying. It has something to do with Tony’s parentage, his personage, and what’s going to happen to his man parts if he does anything to her BooBoo Bear.

  I’m quite glad to learn the bear is hers. Not, of course, that a grown man isn’t allowed to have a five-foot teddy if he wants. It just conflicts with the macho image Tony tends to project. And it also keeps me from wondering squeamishly why a grown man would want a big, fluffy bear as company. Ooh, I am so not going there.

  The two officers of the law exchange glances which I interpret as uncertainty as to whether this is typical Tony behavior or another outbreak of Fortuna Malady. My personal feeling is if they wait a while, things will sort themselves out. Either Mr. Washed Up Star and his ex will settle things or one of them will begin to demonstrate behavior like Louise’s. For all I know, some of those vampire titmice from hell escaped down here.

  “You never really loved me!” The words explode from Tony. If he’s acting, I’ve gained a new appreciation for his talent. If he’s not, I’m ducking behind something before that shotgun goes off. “All you care about is this…this…yard sale reject.”

  Whoa, are those fighting words. Ms. Ex launches herself toward Tony. I’m relatively sure the intent is to deprive him of his boxers before poor BooBoo Bear can be deprived of her (his?) fluffy forehead. She dives up the steps and begins yanking on a hem. Tony, showing unexpected modesty, turns to avoid a de-pantsing and ends up whapping his ex against the head with the shotgun.

  Dwaine flies into action, crouching as low as his beer belly lets him and screaming, “Arlington, drop the gun!”

  Carson shoves me behind the nearest bush and draws his own weapon. I watch in horrified fascination as the three men and their three guns face each other. Not even a dachshund yip breaks the tension. Anticipating a standoff that ends badly, I send a mental “I love you” to Carson and start yanking at my cuticles, my fallback stress action at moments like this. I feel like I’m trapped in a not-so-great TV crime show as Carson adjusts his stance beside Dwaine. A bubbling scream builds in my throat, but I choke it back. Everything will be all right. Carson will be all right. Even BooBoo Bear will survive.

  A wild female shriek erupts and it’s on. Ms. Ex rolls toward the steps, Tony’s boxers still in hand. BooBoo Bear flies over the railing as a half-naked Tony tries to swipe his boxers. The shotgun hits the porch floor, and we all duck as buckshot scatters. Carson rushes toward the enraged couple while Dwaine stands where he is, laughing his considerable-sized rear end off.

  I can’t help it. My suppressed scream now erupts as a series of chuckles, which soon become flat-out hilarity. I collapse against the bushes, roaring at the normally suave and sorta sexy Tony Arlington grabbing the bear to cover his family jewels and ducking as his ex rains girly slaps on his chest and shoulders. See, this is why I should be in television. This stuff does not translate to my listeners the same way as a piece of video does to viewers.

  And I seriously expect it to be on the local TV station tonight. Both the mailman and the doggie’s mama have their cell phones trained on the action.

  “You okay?” Carson offers a hand to help me up. Dwaine is holding the warring parties at arm’s length, one to his left and the other at his right. BooBoo’s bow is off-kilter and all that white fur now wears a tinge of porch dust. Dwaine’s negotiating attempts work since Ms. Ex huffs away with BooBoo while Tony covers up what none of us wanted to see anyway.

  “Chief says this is normal stuff for them.” Carson leads me toward the cruiser and away from Tony’s hopping attempts to redress. He’s so sweet, trying to keep me out of the embarrassment zone. I remind myself to show him the tinglers included in that pack ‘o condoms Mom left as a thank you.

  He leads me past the cruiser, away from the eyes of the mailman and his cohort and behind a stand of tall firs. He pulls me close and kisses me in a way that makes me wonder how many of those tinglers we’ll go through tonight.

  “You worry me to death, woman,” he said after we broke apart.

  “Hey, I behaved myself.” My protest falls on deaf ears.

  “What were you thinking, out there in the open like that? The way that idiot was swinging the shotgun, I thought you’d get hit for sure.”

  “What can I say? I live a charmed life.” I rise on my toes to coax another kiss from Carson, but he sets me away.

  “Usually this place is like a nursery school, but something weird is going on now,” he says, his face serious. “People going nuts, an old lady disappearing into thin air… I want you to do what I say or you’re staying home.”

  I try to explain that as a journalist, danger is in my blood. Risk is to me what a pipe wrench is to a plumber, the tool that keeps me at the top of my game. I remind him this is my town, after all, and the good listeners of WFRT’s daily news expect me to bring both the large and small happenings of the town to their ears.

  Carson responds by reminding me I nearly got killed the last time I got involved with danger. Yeah, he does have a point. But my old boyfriend’s nutso mother is living in a barred ten by ten cell at the state pen for women.

  “I didn’t die then and I won’t now,” I assure him. “My fault then was in having sex with a handsome cop on a magic fingers bed.”

  “And it was great.” A smile curves Carson’s lips. Quite the romantic, my sweetie. He’s already reserved the room in that Clovette motel for our one-year anniversary celebration. He tried to reserve a table at the Fork and Spoon, the long-time favorite of Clovette’s gourmet Diners, but the place doesn’t take them. I’m quite surprised, given the demand for their homemade mac and cheese and breaded tomatoes.

  I’m giving thanks for the memories because Carson forgets I didn’t agree to stay home when the police scanner beckons. He’d only seen Fortuna on weekends and during crises, so he doesn’t realize a chance like this only comes once a year if I’m lucky. And I am so tired of reporting on the theft of flowers from the local cemetery or vandalism to the family of plaster deer that reside in the city park.

  The last almost-big story I thought I had was when I drove to work and was aghast to see white paint all over the side of one wall at our brick city hall. I gave the morning farm report with only half a mind; the rest was on how righteous it was going to be to disclose the graffiti vandals right here in our own town. Unfortunately, by the time I got back to city hall to talk to the mayor, ladders were in place. That’s when I realized this was the mural the art students from the high school were painting to fund their annual trip to help create floats at the Rose Parade.

  I’m used to the mural by now. I suppose when strangers come to town, they’re a little taken aback by a huge flying fish, the emblem of our school athletic teams, grinning at them in neon orange. If the background had been left white, the effect wouldn’t be quite as startling. But considering that it’s neon blue, supposedly to represent the nearby river, with eye-popping pink catfish dancing around in the background, it is indeed a sight to behold.

  By the time we corner the house, Dwaine has everything under control. Tony, thank goodness, has his bottom half covered again and his ex is clutching BooBoo to her breast and cooing like a dove. I assume Tony is giving his side of the story because his arms are flailing, and he keeps shooting angry glares at BooBoo’s mama.

  “All good here?” Carson calls and Dwaine nods. Rather than wait for a ride home in the cruiser, we begin to walk.

  Carson takes my hand, and we stroll along without speaking. The peace is so welcome after the events of the day. I suspect Carson shares my feelings
because every so often he gives my hand a squeeze, which I interpret as “I still love you even though everyone around you is nuts.”

  That peaceful feeling slips away as we walk past Miz Waddy’s empty shop. It’s only been two days, but it seems as if the place is already losing the feeling it’s always had. Seeing the quiet shop makes me think of Miss Priss, who is stuck with me as much as I’m stuck with her. And thinking of Miss Priss makes me think of Eugene, who I still think would be more trouble than the cat.

  “What’s wrong?” Carson asks as I slow.

  “They wouldn’t kill Miz Waddy, would they?”

  “Who?”

  “The people who took her.” Seriously, sometimes that man can be so dense.

  “We don’t know yet that anyone took her.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake.” I drop Carson’s hand and plant my hands on my hips. “Her family were practically founding fathers of Fortuna, she’s involved in everything and besides, she wouldn’t have left her makeup behind if it was voluntary.”

  “Her makeup?” Carson asks with a baffled guy look on his face.

  “She just got her fall set.”

  He still looks confused, so I have to explain. You’d think at his age he would already know that women in small towns—and cities, too, for all I know—change makeup with the seasons. Here in Fortuna, where there’s no handy cosmetics counter, everyone goes to everyone else’s beauty parties. In the privacy of a living room with a dozen or so other eager women, we have our color checked and try all the new products. Then we order the kits that have the perfect makeup to get us to the next season.

  He pretty much gets it then, except for the color thing. His eyes glaze over when I tell him that I’m a summer, which means I need coral lipsticks and makeup with a pink undertone, but that Miz Waddy is a definite autumn. See, there’s another thing about men. They truly believe women live to listen to a forty-five-minute dissection of some stupid play in some stupid football game because we’re so good at faking it. You’d think they’d figure out to mimic interest for ten minutes or so when a woman talks about a dress hem or makeup undertone.

  “I still don’t understand,” Carson says as we begin to walk away. He immediately interrupts as I try to tell him once again why I’m a spring and Miz Waddy is an autumn.

  “I meant why it matters about the makeup. She can buy more.”

  I stand and stare at him, aghast. “You have no idea how expensive that stuff is or that we have to compliment the refreshments that are served afterwards. This isn’t a simple purchase, Carson. It’s an investment. Like your black suits. Would you run away and leave your suits behind?”

  The man wisely leaves well enough alone. We begin to talk about the bank records we’ve been poring over and where Miz Waddy was getting the money she moved from bank to bank. I must admit I’m woefully behind on town gossip when I can’t answer even the simplest of Carson’s questions. I don’t know if she has a gambling addiction, sends money to causes that e-mail her begging for help, or supports a starving child in Africa. I have no earthly idea whether she is hiding money from the IRS, keeping it as a nest egg in case the store fails, or has an heir somewhere with access to her regular bank records.

  I am impressed, though, with how Carson’s mind works. I’d never, ever cheat on him because he’s my honey boo and we’ll be together forever and ever. But if I was tempted, I’d make sure to cover my tracks darn well. I never want to be facing the business end of his gun like poor Tony was a little while ago.

  We turn the corner onto my street and my spirits lift. We are so, so close to my little cottage, a much-needed refuge from the world. My spirits sink when I see the unmistakable figure of Eugene on my front steps.

  Chapter Four

  “Thought you had marching band practice after school,” I greet him.

  He nods. “Did. It’s over.”

  “Did you come to visit Miss Priss?” I ask, so hoping that is it.

  “I’m worried about my mom. I wondered if you could take me to see her.” He gives me a puppy dog look that makes me regret what I’m about to say. I turn it over to Carson.

  “You two talk and I’ll throw supper together,” I say, squeezing past Eugene and into the house.

  Carson leans against the porch column and breaks the news to Eugene that his mother’s not in a department that encourages visitors. I figure he can do the guy-to-guy thing. He’ll be gentle explaining that Florine’s going to spend the next two and a half days “resting”. I’m not sure Carson will fill him in on the fact her rest will be induced with calming drugs and that before she comes back home, she’ll have spent quality time with the hospital psychiatrist.

  Miss Priss looks thoroughly pissed as I walk into the kitchen. She’s sitting on the counter, where I expressly forbade her to be, glaring at her empty dish on the floor. I glance at the clock. It’s a little after six, which isn’t that late for a meal. Not for humans anyway.

  I take one of the plastic containers from the fridge, nuke it, and scoop it into Miss Priss’s feeding dish. After spending a goodly amount of time sniffing and staring at my offering, she finally deigns to eat it. That is until she smells bacon frying.

  My intent is to make BLTCP’s for Carson, Eugene, and me. For those of you who’ve never enjoyed one, that’s bacon, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and pickle. Those ingredients make for a tasty, tangy sandwich, which I will serve with a side of store-bought macaroni salad. Bacon, it seems, is Miss Priss’s turn on, to quote that venerable magazine Playboy. The aroma brings her winding around my ankles, and when I fail to toss some to her, a rather severe nip on the left one. The wafting scent apparently reaches the porch because Carson and Eugene come into the kitchen together.

  “Get…her,” I hiss as Miss Priss targets my right ankle.

  The cat snarls as Carson makes a swipe at her, but he’s not one to be deterred. He grabs the kitchen towel off of the oven handle and throws it around her, effectively trapping her claws. Holding her at arm’s length to avoid the nipping teeth, he takes her away. I hear the slam of a door and realize he’s shut her in the bathroom. His early training with aggressive felines has paid off.

  “You’re bleeding,” Eugene points out as Carson rejoins us. I glance at my ankle. She did indeed get me good, but I’m pretty sure I won’t swoon from blood loss before the sandwiches are done.

  “I’ll live.” I run some cold water onto a paper towel and hold it against the bite. It stings a little, but the bleeding is staunched.

  Carson’s been in my home often enough to know where everything is kept. While I wash my hands in the kitchen sink and internally debate the wisdom of braving Miss Priss to get the antibiotic cream, he sets the table and puts the strips of bacon on a paper towel-covered plate. The rest of the sandwich fixings take only a few minutes with the two of us working together, and then we’re sitting down with Eugene to our simple meal.

  “Are you sure they don’t put kids in foster care if their moms are nuts?” This time his question has a huge underlying note of pathos. I realize he’s trying to work me, so he doesn’t have to spend another night with his brick-laying, swearing, praying grandmother. He should have known better. I’m tough as nails.

  And also too poor to keep feeding a teenager. I do have enough sympathy to give him my sandwich and double up on the macaroni salad. He is a growing boy, after all, even though he probably doesn’t need to keep on growing.

  Carson once again explains that Eugene’s mom will be home in a couple of days, and it’s probably good that he’s with his grandmother to keep her company. Obviously, their front porch chat didn’t delve into the possibility that Florine’s residency might be lengthened if she continues to dance, sing, and indulge in whatever habits she’s developed since I saw her last. Of course, my handsome man does tend to be an optimist. I remember early on in our relationship when he actually believed that if he applied ordinary police procedures, he’d get the right results.

  Of course, that was befo
re he’d spent much time in Fortuna.

  Carson suggests he go with me when I get ready to run Eugene home. I lag back as the two of them head for Carson’s vehicle to let Miss Priss out of the bathroom. I open the door and take a cautious step in. She’s curled up in my sink and shoots me a scathing look when I dare suggest she leave her comfy nest and go eat.

  Knowing what’s best for me, I back away and join the guys. I’m hoping that after we drop Eugene off, my sweetums and I can go someplace quiet for an ice cream sundae. A few scoops of vanilla ice cream in a tall glass, topped with caramel syrup, nuts, and whipped cream, would go a long way toward making up for the day I’ve just been through.

  We are so in sync that as soon as Eugene waves goodbye, Carson suggests we go back to the motel restaurant, the best place in town for desserts. I think he wants a reward for surviving the last few hours, too, and he loves the sugar cream pie in that place.

  Unfortunately, two Fortuna cruisers sit in the restaurant parking lot. Since there are only three cruisers in the fleet, and the third one has a big dent in the fender, I know what’s going on. The second shift officer is driving El Dente on patrol while Dwaine and Luther are here to sit down with Carson.

  My fantasies of cooing over cobbler dissipate. Resigning myself to being yet again the third wheel—well, fourth in this case I guess—I step through the door when Carson opens it for me and head for the booth where the local gunslingers are ensconced. Imagine my surprise when my doodlebug grabs my elbow and leads me toward a booth on the other side, far away from them.

  My heart soars. We are so simpatico that he understands I’ve had about as much of Dwaine as I can take in one day and am pretty close to hitting my Luther maximum as well. But my elation dims a bit when he whispers in my ear, “Order me a slice of lemon meringue and coffee. I’ll be right back.”

  My hope is that he needs the little detective’s room. But no, he goes straight over to the chief and Luther and sits down. My ire begins to simmer. This protective streak of his is beginning to get under my skin. I have a job to do, and doggone it I intend to do it.