Downhome Crazy

by Cammie Eicher

  “I’m running over to the Peytona place with Luther to grab the cat’s food,” he says. “The chief thinks we should look for hidden bank books, things like that while we’re there. I guess the place has a basement, too, so we’re going to check for the bike. Just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t worry.”

  His thoughtfulness warms the very cockles of my heart. I revise dinner plans. There’s time to thaw a couple of chicken breasts and make a real meal instead whatever I can scrounge up. Although if I show him I can actually cook, poor Carson may have a heart attack right on the spot.

  “Need anything?” he asks.

  “Nah, we’re good.” The microwave dings just as he answers with a “see ya”, which means Luther must be beside him. His usual farewell is “Love ya, babe,” which he probably doesn’t want getting around.

  With a little extra time, I head back out as soon as Miss Priss hits her bowl. I drive straight to the Grab ‘N Go to buy the best of their limited selection of wine, a loaf of bread, and a couple of the roses from the counter. The total is less than ten bucks, which tells you something about the quality of their offerings.

  By the time Carson makes his appearance, I have the chicken in the oven baking in mushroom soup, Brussels sprouts in their final stage of preparation, and am buttering the bread with the intent of making it into garlic toast. My poor darling looks exhausted. He tucks the bag of Miss Priss’s food into the refrigerator and comes over for a welcome home kiss.

  “Smells good,” he says, his arms still around me.

  “Air freshener or food?” I ask.

  “You.” He nuzzles my neck. “Missed you today.”

  I hold my breath, hoping he wouldn’t ask about my perfume. The shameful truth is my personal scent is a combination of spray-on clothing wrinkle releaser and coconut conditioner. But if my darling thinks it’s sexy, that’s okay with me. I still change the conversation.

  “Find anything interesting?” I ask.

  Carson moves away to lean against the table. Watching me as I dish food onto plates, he tells me not only was there no bike in Miz Waddy’s basement, there were no hidden safes or secret documents. I give him a quick rundown on my not-so-edifying meetings with the various doctors and then by mutual agreement, we decide to leave work behind for the rest of the evening.

  While I know normal people eat at a table, I’ve always preferred to curl up on something comfy rather than sit on a hard wooden chair. So we take our usual places on the couch, and I bask in glory as Carson praises my cooking. I intend to keep secret that my culinary skills extend to three entrees and the world’s best mint chocolate chip cookies.

  Although I’m supposed to be forgetting about Miz Waddy and the unfortunate Fortunians, my brain doesn’t seem to understand. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a connection between the events. Could Miz Waddy have gone bonkers and just taken off? But if she did, how did she get to all those places where her credit card was being used?

  I long to talk it over with Carson, but my poor darling looks tired. I don’t think it’s the investigation that’s getting to him, but cooperating with the chief and Luther. Dwaine has a way about him that can be wearing. I can’t imagine what it’s like to come from a well-organized, by-the-book agency to good old Fortuna P.D.

  Despite my orders to my mind to shut it down, I have trouble concentrating on the quiz show playing on the screen in front of me. Carson’s in his element, yelling out the answers before the contestant, which makes me glad I decided to keep my mouth shut. By the time a crime drama comes on, I’ve managed to switch from reporter to girlfriend mode and snuggle up with Carson. He reaches over and pulls a fuzzy throw from the floor to cover our laps. Between pure exhaustion and body heat, I drift off to sleep with my head against Carson’s chest.

  I wake with a start, caught in that foggy zone that makes me wonder if I’m still dreaming. Carson’s “Good nap?” helps me remember it’s real, he’s here, and all is good. I touch the corners of my mouth, hoping I didn’t drool on him, before I lift my face toward his for a kiss. Pretty soon we’re necking on the couch like a sixteen-year-old with his first girlfriend, and Carson suggests we move to the bedroom. That turns out to be an excellent idea. I’m revitalized and Carson is motivated to make me happy, so the evening ends in an explosion of oohs and oh-oh-ohs and the two of us going to sleep in each other’s arms.

  The next morning, over frozen waffles, we discuss my various ideas.

  “You know, coincidences happen,” Carson reminds me. “A lot of strangers came into town for the festival. Bad guys like apple fritters and cotton candy, too, you know. Best guess right now is that she was targeted during the festival and taken for whatever reason. If she was seen taking the proceeds from the various merchants, that might have been enough.”

  The very thought saddens me. Poor Miz Waddy, the first to offer help to anyone and everyone, getting snatched for her very goodness. Even though I know everything is being done that can be, I still want her back in town, caring for her own cat and yakking about her next trip with friends.

  * * * *

  Like it or not, I’m going to have to spend today at WFRT. Marc has been ultra-patient, but my listeners deserve something good. So after kissing Carson goodbye, I fire up the truck and head out.

  Between the 8 a.m. and noon news, I drop by the high school to tape a sound bite from the principal about how much the band will be missed at this week’s football game. I am amazed how he can express his sorrow with a straight face, considering he was the one who addressed the school board with a plea to keep the band from performing in public. I suppose it’s like gossiping about someone until they die then acting like you’ve lost your very best friend.

  I spot Eugene in the hall as I go to leave and wave. He makes a beeline for me. I wait patiently as he dodges groups of students. I think he’s attempting to smile, which has to be hard for him. Perpetual apathy is his usual attitude.

  “My mom’s coming home this afternoon.”

  “Great!” I muster up every bit of enthusiasm I can. “You must be excited.”

  “Yeah. Her too.”

  I sense some reservation. Of course, if I watched my mother go bananas, I’d probably be concerned about quality one-on-one time, too. So I do something truly stupid.

  “Why don’t the two of you come to dinner tonight?” I ask. “We can have a little homecoming celebration.”

  “Yeah. Sure. What time?”

  “Uh, six.” I am already wondering what possessed me, but it’s too late to take back the invitation.

  I start to call Carson as soon as I’m out of the school before deciding that might not be a great idea. Breaking news like the Forresters sitting down to dine with us is best done in person. I turn and pass the police station, but his SUV’s not there. Sighing, I go back to WFRT and the recording booth.

  Marc gives me a thumbs up as I finish the noon report. I sketch him a salute, glad to still be in his good graces. I retreat to my desk and begin to think.

  My assignment per Carson was to concentrate on what’s driving the townsfolk crazy. I review my notes. I must have missed something.

  That second look assures me I haven’t. There has to be a common factor. Has to be.

  I flip back to the notes from my talk with the first doc. Starting with Florine’s arrival, the hospital had been on top of everything. So if there was something linking them all, it happened before the problems at choir practice and was still out there.

  Carson’s comments about strangers at the festival come back to me. I realize crazy isn’t contagious, but could all those different Fortunians have come in contact with something that affected them emotionally?

  “Back in a bit,” I call to the front desk girl as I leave. I need to talk to Lovenna DeBeouf. She has the number one job at the festival, keeping a list of vendors, entertainment, and special activities. Maybe she’d be willing to share her lists.

  Lovenna DeBeouf is a high-sounding name, but Lovenna i
s anything but snobby. Like Miz Waddy, she has roots in this town that go generations deep. Her family has a far more checkered past however. Her great-great-grandfather was the town marshal; his son skipped town before being tried for cattle theft. Her grandmother was Fortuna’s first lady school superintendent; her grandfather made bathtub gin during Prohibition. Lovenna swings toward the better side of the family, although she’s been known to let her hair down from time to time.

  She’s also beating off Mother Time with a stick. Her hair is platinum blonde, she freely admits to a few tucks and nips, and her wardrobe comes from the teeny-bopper stores at the mall. The pampered darling wife of the local veterinarian and a good twenty years younger, she is dressed today in low-rise jeans, a clinging sweater, and fur boots that go nearly to her knees. Her cheekbones are highlighted with a shimmery blush, and skillfully applied eye shadow and mascara give her the eyes of a super model. I try not to stare, but I would so like to know if the rumors about her having permanent eyeliner are right.

  “Tessa, darling, do come in.” Lovenna motions me into a living room with white carpet, black sofas, and glass-topped tables. I hesitate, wondering if I should offer to take off my shoes. I step gingerly to the nearest sofa and settle back.

  She hands me a neon green plastic folder. “I wasn’t sure what you needed, so I printed off the committee membership list, vendors for the last three years, contact information for the musicians, and an alphabetical listing of festival volunteers.”

  Lovenna picks up a hot pink folder and leafs through it. “I have the background checks from the sheriff’s department on volunteers and committee members,” she says. “I probably better hang onto those, but I can assure you everyone passed with flying colors. If any of these people have committed a crime, it wasn’t in Ohio.”

  “Um, thanks.” I’m sort of at a loss for words. I consider myself fairly organized, but compared to Lovenna, I’m a giddy fly-by-night.

  “I thought you might find photos from this year’s festival helpful.” Lovenna hands me a CD neatly labeled with my name. “I’ve identified as many people as I know, but there are always some people from other places.”

  Jumping up, she claps her hands and says, “Now that that’s done, we can visit. I have sweet tea, cola, root beer, orange and apple juice, and coffee, of course. Would you like a drink?”

  Taught always to be polite, I accept the offer of coffee.

  “Wonderful.” I swear Lovenna twitches with delight. “Do you use creamer?”

  At my nod, she begins to tick choices off on her fingers. “I’m a little low right now, but I think I have French vanilla, Irish crème, caramel, white chocolate frappe, and of course, the autumn flavors. Gingerbread, pumpkin spice, and oh, what is that other one?”

  I blurt out “Gingerbread” before she can dash to the kitchen to scope out the forgotten flavor. I begin leafing through the folder she’s given me as she toddles off on the high-heeled boots to fulfill her duties as hostess. I discover that not only has she given me oodles of names, she’s used a blue highlighter to denote the over-sixty-fivers and pink to indicate volunteers under the age of eighteen.

  “Here we are!” Lovenna makes the bright announcement as she carries in a tray with two deep green mugs and what I take for cookies, but eventually realize are scones. I realize that because she tells me. She also rattles off the recipe in case I’d like to make them myself.

  “Maybe your friend would appreciate some home-baked scones,” she says with a wink and a tiny shrug of her shoulders. Either she has a nervous tic or she’s being cute. It’s a little discomforting no matter which.

  As we sip, we chat about how wonderful last weekend’s festival was although, like Lovenna, I believe the trio of harmonica players was a trifle disappointing.

  “I do hate to criticize, but the harmony was ever so slightly off,” she comments.

  Lovenna DeBouef must have the kindest soul in all of Fortuna. I’d be more apt to describe them as somewhere between really bad and totally awful. At times during their half-hour performance, I wondered if they were even all on the same song. The skinny man with the biggest harmonica was apparently the star of the show, even though he stopped every couple measures to cough. The woman in the back, who I suspect is his wife, dropped her notes to call out, “You okay there?” each time.

  The other guy kept time with his foot. That would have been okay if the sole of his shoe hadn’t been loosening up. The darn thing flapped in two-four time in a pattern that turned out to be near hypnotic.

  “Really, I need to go,” I say when Lovenna offers me a second cup. I steel myself against the guilt when disappointment coats her features. I hate letting people down, but duty calls in the form of Eugene and his mom.

  With limited knowledge of what teenagers like and limited opportunities to find anything but the basics here in Fortuna, I decide on pasta. Boil some water, heat up some sauce…easy peasy.

  Or so it would have been if the convenience store had anything resembling pasta sauce in stock. I scope the place and finally wind up with tater tots, a couple cans of baked beans, and four hot dogs from the roller food station. Hey, I never promised fine cuisine. Beanie-weenies and tater tots done right can be fine company food.

  To make amends for the simple menu, I dig through the kitchen drawers until I find a tablecloth that’s not completely wrinkled. I sling it on, decide it wouldn’t kill me to use real plates instead of foam ones, and bring a candle from the living room to serve as a centerpiece.

  Miss Priss watches me from slitted eyes. I tell her she is not getting her meal early.

  “Be grateful you’ve got a roof over your head,” I mutter more to myself than her. “Servant to a cat. Yeah, right.”

  Realizing I’m in great danger of becoming one of those people who talk to themselves, I snap on the TV and find a music channel. Country tunes fill the house and before I know it, Carson’s walking in the door.

  “Hi, babe.” He greets me without a kiss, probably since I’m chopping the hot dogs into tiny slices with a wide-bladed knife.

  Given that I’m no picture of grace, he may figure if he gets too close he may lose a toe. When he raises an eyebrow at the decked-out table, I hurry to explain my impromptu invitation. He takes it well, as in he doesn’t begin to cuss and stomp out of the house or curl in a ball in the middle of the floor.

  After a moment, he says, “You know this might be a good idea.”

  “Because Eugene needs a strong male influence?” I ask as I add the weenies to the beanies.

  “Mrs. Forrester was the first one to be affected. Talking to her one-on-one isn’t a bad idea, and she’s more apt to kick back with me if we’re in a casual setting.”

  Oh, getting Florine to talk is never a problem. But I decide to let Carson find that out for himself.

  He goes off to do something less cop-like while I check the tater tots. I am aiming for the perfect golden brown, rather than my usual crispy brown-heading-to-black result. They’ve achieved that perfection by the time the front doorbell rings. I pull them out as I listen to Carson greet Eugene again and introduce himself to Florine. He politely refrains from mentioning her frenetic dance in the motel parking lot, although I bet that’s the first thing he thinks about.

  I greet her as if I hadn’t been trapped in her breakdown. If her memory of those hours is fuzzy, I don’t want to sharpen it. I simply want to smile and nod as Carson puts the probe on her. Really, I want to roll back a few hours and retract my invitation. Another evening snoozing on Carson’s lap would be sooo much better.

  Too late for regrets. I invite the two Forresters to take a seat and scoop the beanie stuff into my nicest bowl and push the tater tots into my second nicest bowl. As I set the second bowl down, I suddenly remember a half bag of lettuce mix in the crisper drawer. I discreetly check it out; it has an hour or so left. I fill another bowl, drag out the half-bottles of low-fat ranch and sundried tomato vinegar something, and present the salad with a flouris
h.

  Florine claps her hands. Her abundant enthusiasm makes me wonder if she was expecting a higher level of cuisine. I pretend she’s sincere and take my own seat.

  Dinner conversation is easy to maintain. I ask one question, “When did you get home?” and Florine is off and running. Between bites, she enlightens us on the appalling lack of privacy she has so recently endured, the blandness of hospital food, and how humiliating it was to be forced to sit in group sessions with the good Rev. Hayslinger.

  “Three days and he couldn’t bring himself to apologize,” she said, fists clutching her fork and spoon. “Sat there ranting and raving about the itch to move and the need to save the world, but couldn’t summon up a simple I’m sorry. Thank goodness my choir members at the church saw how he treated me. I’m sure that everyone in the congregation knows the truth by now.”

  I err on the side of wisdom and keep my mouth shut. My academy-trained darling steps in to offer sympathy. He manages to get about a dozen words in before Florine starts again, this time about whether she should let Louise continue as her co-director.

  “I’ve always been a little concerned about her mental well-being,” Florine says as Eugene rolls his eyes. “But she is the only second soprano in the choir, and she adds so much to the harmonies. I fear what might happen if she starts screaming about those whatevers at the pageant.”

  “Vampire titmice,” I say automatically.

  “From hell,” Carson adds.

  Eugene discreetly twirls a finger by his temple, and I hide a smile.

  “I wonder what set her off,” Carson says as he takes a second helping of tater tots. “Do you think she got heat stroke at the festival?”

  “Fff. Like Louise would work hard enough to get any kind of stroke. She was supposed to be manning the archery and organic agriculture booth with me all day Saturday, but did she? No. She was so worried about someone seeing her gray roots she was three hours late. Personally, I think there’s too much red in her new color, but do think she’ll listen?”

  “Maybe she got a bad deep-fried pickle,” Eugene suggests.