Downhome Crazy

by Cammie Eicher

  “Hey, Lois Lane, come in for a cold one?” He waves me over as he shouts loud enough for the television watchers to look up.

  “Came to talk to you.”

  The chief leans to the left and sees Carson behind me. He says something to the boys and comes over to join us.

  “So what’s going on?” If it weren’t for the aroma of beer wafting from him as he spoke, no one would have a clue he’d been imbibing.

  “We found a note from Miss Peytona,” Carson says loud enough for Dwaine to hear, but no one else. “And Tessa has a theory on what’s happened to your townspeople.”

  “No shit?” Dwaine looks from one of us to the other. “Want to go outside and talk about it?”

  We agree.

  I rub my arms to keep warm as we stand in the chilly lot while Carson gives his briefing. The chief reacts with the same mixture of surprise and disbelief I had on hearing about Miz Waddy’s abrupt departure. He also mutters a very Dwaine-like, “I’ll be frogged” when I tell him about my bad bread theory.

  “But how can eating something cause all those different reactions?” he asks.

  I give him the condensed version, explaining that the nervous system is affected. Some people have hallucinations, other have the sense of burning in their limbs, and others experience a distorted reality. He nods as he listens, although I have the sense he’s going to check it out on the Internet as soon as he gets close to a computer. He did tell me to do some sleuthing, though, so he shouldn’t be all-that surprised I came up with something.

  We go our separate ways after agreeing to meet at the police station at nine. Carson suggested eight, but I have no intention of being left out. I promise not to say anything to Marc until after a plan of action has been drawn up. After all, someone still has to confirm my theory, and Miz Waddy’s lawyer needs to be brought up to date as well.

  I am dead tired by the time we finally slide into bed. Carson opens his arms for me to curl against him, which I do with great pleasure. He gives me a sweet kiss before saying, “Sleep well, babe.” I close my eyes and sink into the dark oblivion of sleep without hesitation. Nothing like good food and a successful day of investigating to wear a girl out.

  Chapter Seven

  I wake sprawled across both the bed and Carson, who is squeezed into a small space near the headboard. Miss Priss glares at me from the bedside table, which reinforces my determination to see her happily off to someone new. Or unhappily. Just so she’s gone.

  “I think you should keep her.” Carson’s voice breaks the quiet.

  “Call Dwaine. You’ve gone off the deep end,” I answer.

  His chuckle rumbles under my ear. I shift to give him more room and settle against him once more. Waking up with him is so nice. Maybe even nicer than going to sleep with him. But not better than laughing over doughnuts or the dishes.

  “But I still kinda like you,” I say. “Even if you do have a weak spot for insidious monsters.”

  “Well, I love you,” Carson says. “Just as you are.”

  My heart soars. This is the first declaration of love that hasn’t accompanied either lovemaking or a reunion. I immediately return the sentiment, which leads to some heavy moments until the alarm clock begins to shrill. While I’d like to throw the thing against the wall and keep doing what I’m doing with Carson, we both have obligations. Among them is our morning meeting with the chief, and I for one intend to be sharp and organized for that confab.

  After Carson promises to pick up tonight where we left off, I beat him to the shower and get ready for the day. He hands me a travel mug of coffee, as I head for the door, and kisses me goodbye after saying he’ll see me at the police station. Even the coffee does nothing to warm me during the short drive to WFRT. My old truck takes an eternity to start throwing out heat, so I’m as cold when I step out of it as when I got in.

  Marc’s not in his office, which I take for a good sign. I can’t bring myself to lie, but I have been known to fudge the truth. Keeping our discoveries from my boss will require every bit of self-discipline I have, since he’s pretty good at making me feel guilty. With any luck, I’ll be out of here before he comes in. That would so simplify things.

  My luck holds. The lights are still off in his small office when I leave the recording booth and whiz past the front-desk person with a breezy “Back later.” I don’t see the need for excess information, especially when the one monitoring our comings and goings is also the biggest gossip in the office. I’m sure she’ll invent some destination if Marc asks where I am. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  I stop for two cups of convenience store coffee before joining Carson and the chief. Luther’s also been brought in, I see as I enter the conference room. When Dwaine tells me to shut the door behind me, I know this is truly confidential. I didn’t even know the door worked until now.

  Carson explains things to Luther, who makes neat notes on a yellow legal pad. His hand shakes slightly as he writes. I figure either he’s wired from too much cop shop coffee, or he’s really excited. Either way, he’s in his full glory right now.

  “Checked it out last night,” the chief says when Carson finishes. “That ergot thing. Sounds like you might be right.”

  That’s as close to a compliment as Dwaine ever gives. Maybe I should ask Luther to take a picture with that smart phone of his, so I can remember this day forever. Or maybe he could write up a gift certificate that gives me credit against the next thing I do that makes Dwaine threaten to ban me from the P.D. forever.

  “I’ve got a call in to the lead doctor right now,” he continues. “Don’t know for sure how you check for it, but those people ought to.”

  He turns to Luther who flips to a clean yellow page. He barks out his number one’s assignment for the day, which is to go house to house throughout Fortuna to seize as evidence any of the bread sold by the guild. Although I’m pretty sure it’s only the rye bread we have to worry about, I won’t contradict Dwaine in front of his officer. Besides, as Carson reminded me last night, it’s only a theory so far.

  After Luther leaves to search out the dastardly dough, the rest of us head down the street to the offices of Alfred Grimstead, Esq. Carson and I tackle the stairs first as a courtesy to Dwaine. The man’s fondness for beer and pizza has added a few pounds since he left the academy, and vertical surfaces are not his friend. Once in the reception, we pretend not to hear his heavy breathing. The man is allowed his dignity, after all.

  Wonder of wonders, the attorney sees us immediately. I’m pretty sure it’s because Dwaine is there. I don’t think it’s so much his position as chief, but because Grimstead wants to get us in and out before Dwaine collapses of a heart attack. His face is still rosy from exertion as he seats himself closest to the desk.

  He hands the older man a copy of Miz Waddy’s note. The original has been marked as evidence, put into a plastic bag, and resides in a locked closet beside the chief’s office. Grimstead clearly recognizes his client’s writing because he reads all the way through before looking at us and saying, “Well.”

  That’s it. One single word, which pretty much sums up the way we all feel. Discovering the note should have answered our questions, but there is still a sense of something missing. The attorney asks a few questions that sharpen our focus. We take that focus with us as we resume our labors in the conference room.

  “How did she leave town without her car?” Dwaine muses.

  “Moped.”

  The guys look at me.

  “Seriously. She says something in her letter about starting a new life. No offense, but you guys don’t think like women. If I were building a new life somewhere else, I’d change my hair and the way I dress. New make-up, even new perfume. Walking out on her old life meant leaving all the old behind.”

  “Good point,” Dwaine says. “Still I can’t see her going up to New York and then over to Michigan on a moped.”

  “Maybe just her credit card went,” Carson interjects. “She says she’s honed
her poker skills, which means she’s probably made a few friends. One of them could have met her, given her a car, and taken her card to throw us off the track.”

  We fall silent, mulling the possibilities. I don’t see Miz Waddy as cunning and conniving, but I didn’t see her as an embezzler either. Or is she just a plain old thief? I don’t know the legal definition for the crime when you’re cooking the books for someone who hasn’t employed you. Unless allowing her to handle their money for years was the same as the shopkeepers giving her consent. My brain begins to ache so I stop thinking and start listening.

  “We’ll get the answers when you get her back,” Dwaine tells Carson. “I’d like to sit in on that interview if you don’t mind.”

  “Me?” Carson sounds surprised. “You want me to take over this case?”

  Dwaine folds his hands over his ample tummy and gives a big grin. “Now we both know I have a little department and while they’re fine boys, their detecting skills aren’t that great,” he says. “And since the Ohio Bureau of Investigation’s already in on this, I think jurisdiction should remain with you. We country boys can’t hold a candle to you, you know.”

  Carson studies Dwaine before he answers. “Since the crime involves a considerable amount of money, and she apparently crossed state lines, I believe jurisdiction probably lies on the federal level. Why don’t you call the FBI and ask them to come in on this? I’ll be glad to turn over my files.”

  Dwaine throws his head back and laughs, his tummy shaking like the proverbial bowl of jelly. I am perfectly aware that he’ll never call the FBI.

  “Tell you what,” Dwaine says. “I’ll call a meeting for this afternoon with the folks she ‘helped’. If they want to press charges, we’ll talk about this again. If not, well…”

  Carson nods and once again a backroom deal has been struck. I might consider it a miscarriage of justice if I didn’t know the folks of Fortuna so well. The shopkeepers will take the loss, which they don’t seem to have missed, in order to keep anyone from knowing Miz Waddy pulled one over on them. And without their cooperation, the case will fall apart. Her own solution, reimbursing people from the sale of what she left behind, sounds like what’s going to happen. And should, if the Peytona family’s good reputation is to live on.

  The discussion is interrupted by Dwaine’s cell phone. It becomes quickly obvious the doctor’s returning his call. I listen to the story of the organic guild and homemade bread one more time. Dwaine ends the conversation by telling the doctor to call him in the morning with the results. My respect for the chief goes up a notch. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who can get a doctor to call him rather than the other way around.

  I walk out of the police station with my own copy of Miz Waddy’s note and Dwaine’s assurance that he’ll call as soon as the doctor tells him anything. Carson and I split ways. He’s going to have that belt on the SUV checked out before he joins Dwaine and Luther for the business owners’ meeting. I feel a responsibility to do at least some of the work I’m being paid for.

  I find a pink missed call slip in my box when I enter the station. Penelope Hayslinger needs me to call her. I count back the days and realize her father is probably coming home today.

  He is, although that’s not why she called me. Being around Eugene has convinced her she has a talent for working with troubled youth, and she wants to know if I can help her form an after-school group to keep them on the straight and narrow. Considering that “troubled” in Fortuna means a kid who refuses to accompany his mother to the grocery store or work on the family car with his father, she may have a problem finding members for her group. But never one to discourage a doer of good deeds, I assure her I’ll announce it on the air when she gets everything ready to go.

  I ask her one question before she hangs up. “Penelope,” I say, “does your father eat rye bread?”

  “Only what Florine drops off,” she says. “She comes by once a week like clockwork with a loaf of rye for Daddy and sourdough for me.”

  “Does he have any left?”

  “Oh, no. Daddy gobbled it right up this time. Said it was best she’s ever made.”

  One down. No, two. Florine bragged on her own rye bread last night. But why hadn’t Eugene been affected?

  I am waiting outside the high school when it lets out. I wave when I spot Eugene. He lumbers over and says, “Hey, Miss McDonald.”

  I hey him back and pose the big question. “Do you eat the bread your mother makes?”

  He stares aghast at me. “No way. I buy that soft white bread. My mom’s bread is so hard you can break a tooth eating toast.”

  I am a little surprised when he declines my offer of a ride home. But when he joins the line waiting for the bus to come back for the kids, I see why. A slightly chubby girl with straight black hair, black leather skirt, and a jacket with skull and crossbones on the back gives a little wave as he approaches. True love, I hope, is about to flourish. And no one deserves it more than Eugene.

  My own true love is at my house when I get there. The sight of his small carry-on bag sitting by the door saddens me. And disappoints me, too. After all, he promised a night of bliss.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere yet.” He answers before I can ask. I look at the bag.

  “Your cat has piss-poor manners,” he says. “Emphasis on the piss.”

  “Not my cat,” I correct before adding, “you poor thing.”

  “Luckily it was on the outside and only soaked in a little. I scrubbed and sprayed with that disinfectant stuff of yours so I hope I salvaged it.”

  “You can put a claim against Miz Waddy’s holdings,” I suggest. “Just add your name to the list.”

  Carson confirms what I believed. None of the shopkeepers want to find Miz Waddy, let alone press charges.

  “They are some real free thinkers,” he says. “They voted to make her shop into a tourist center since it’s one of the oldest buildings in town. Turns out there are a number of quilters, too. They asked to take the fabric and make it into quilts. I guess it makes sense. Those quilts will be worth a whole lot more than a pile of cloth.”

  “You know, I’ve become a free thinker since I moved here, too,” I say. “As in instead of breakfast in bed, I think dinner in bed would be delightful.”

  “You do, huh?” Carson yanks off his tie and moves closer. He wraps his arms around my waist and says, “I must agree.”

  “Great minds think alike,” I say.

  “This great mind thought ahead. A pizza from Antonio’s should be here any minute.”

  “I’ve never eaten pizza in bed.”

  “Me either.” Carson kisses the tip of my nose. “I’m always up for new experiences, though.”

  The doorbell rings before I can inquire as to what other new experiences he has in mind. He tips the delivery guy and shuts the door. True to his word, he carries the pizza straight into the bedroom. I don’t bother heating Miss Priss’s food tonight. She’ll eat it or she won’t, and I’ve got a pizza cooling in the bedroom. And a man heating up.

  That pizza is stone cold by the time we finally get around to it. Decadent is the word that pops into my mind as I loll naked against the pillow, nibbling off the slice Carson offers to me. He’s found the partial bottle of wine in the fridge and brought it in to complete the feast. Pepperoni pizza and chardonnay in plastic cups might not be everyone’s extravaganza, but I consider it fabulous.

  “You most definitely do not need Mrs. Meriweather’s remedy,” I say. “Quite the opposite, I’d say.”

  “Aw shucks,” he says in fake humility, ducking his head, “you say the purtiest things.”

  I laugh and he kisses me. And keeps kissing me. Food is forgotten as he demonstrates a few more of his considerable talents until I explode in a most delightful way, screaming out his name.

  * * * *

  There is no morning delight because Dwaine calls before we wake up. I struggle into consciousness at the sound of Carson’s voice, sleep-rough
ened yet very much his cop tone. I run my hand down his spine and smile at the way his naked body shivers. He reaches back to grab me and gets something besides the arm I think he was aiming for. I squeak in surprise; amusement colors his voice as he continues to talk to Dwaine. Oh, yes, he can be a very naughty boy.

  The alarm rings before Carson hangs up. I lay across him to slam it off. Big mistake. His hand comes down on my butt in a gentle spanking. I bite my lip to keep from squealing again and wiggle free. Carson’s on his back, showing his full fine self, and I leave the room to keep from attacking him.

  I let him shower first. Listening to the water run, I realize he’ll be heading back to Columbus soon. There’s still one workday left after all. And having spent most of the week here, I’m pretty sure he needs to tend to things back home over the weekend.

  Tears moisten my eyes. I blink hard, hating that simply thinking of being separated can make me cry. We are two mature, independent adults who have something great. That should be enough. That is enough. I’d rather have scattered moments with Carson than everyday togetherness with someone like, say, Luther. I stop the tears long enough to greet him with a kiss and head into the bathroom for my own shower. I cry as the water runs over me. When I’m all cried out, I dress and go find Carson.

  To my surprise, my darling is in jeans and a sweater. For the ride, I remind myself. He does have an agency car to turn in and reports to file. Besides, Friday may be casual days at the OBI, too.

  “Your cupboard is bare,” he says.

  I nod.

  “Give me a list and I’ll get the shopping done while you’re at work.”

  My spirits lift. Does this mean…?