Short & Tall Tales in Goose Pimple Junction

by Amy Metz

  Johnny emailed the picture on Pickle’s phone to himself, then printed it out, and gave it to Bernadette to copy, distribute, and post online.

  As he walked Pickle to the door with his hand on the boy’s shoulder, he said, “I meant what I said. You should give law enforcement some serious thought.”

  “Yessir.”

  Nodding to the teenager’s T-shirt, Johnny stage-whispered, “Looks like you already have the right diet.”

  When Pickle walked into the bookstore to report for work, Martha Maye held out her arm. “Step back, Jack.”

  Pickle looked to his left and right and then behind him. “Ma’am? It’s me, Pickle, not Jack.”

  Martha Maye’s scowl turned to a smile. “I know, darlin’. But I do not want to see or hear about anything having to do with donuts. Honey Winchester’s offered to be my personal slave driver, I mean trainer, and she made me swear off anything that tastes good.”

  “Well, I can’t change my name, but I can go and change shirts if you want.” Pickle scratched his head.

  “No, Pickle.” Martha Maye laughed. “I’m just funning you. I’m going to have to learn something called willpower. Even if it kills me trying.”

  He nodded but still looked confused. Tess saved him.

  “What’s Honey got you doing, Martha Maye?”

  “Oh, Lord. She’s drawn up an exercise plan that calls for activities I can do at home, and which are nothing short of torture, plus something called jogging. I told her I’d start at walking real fast and see how it goes from there.”

  “I can tell you’re losing weight already.”

  “Really?” Her face lit up. “Oh, I hope so. I’d hate to think all this misery is for nothing.”

  “So . . . have you seen Johnny lately?” Tess smiled widely.

  Martha Maye blushed and smiled back. “Yes. His first assignment as chief is to find Aunt Imy.” She looked over her shoulder to make sure nobody was listening. “I’d never seen him out of his trooper uniform before, except for the other day when he had on a suit for the interview.” Martha Maye leaned toward Tess. “Which he filled out quite nicely, I might add.” She giggled. “Now that he’s chief, he wears regular clothes and that cute baseball cap with GPJPD Chief on it.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “My, that man knows how to wear a pair of jeans.”

  “Martha Maye, you tickle me.” Tess gave her a one-arm hug.

  “I know, I know, you think I’m a fool to be thinking about another man, so soon after the . . . ” she searched for a word, “ . . . wretched misfortune with he-who-is-dead-to-me.” She sighed heavily. “My taste in men is sorely wanting. And I know I must come across as unfeeling, seeing how Aunt Imy’s missing and all. But a girl can dream.”

  “I know you’re worried sick about your aunt, just as all of us are. But worrying isn’t going to find her. I think it’s good you have something to take your mind off the situation. Johnny seems like a catch, Martha Maye. Just go slow, and you’ll be all right.”

  “The only thing slow about me is my metabolism. But I’ll try. Just yank a knot in my head if you see me going all man crazy. Okay?”

  Tess smiled at her friend and squeezed her arm. “Will do, Martha Maye. Will do.”

  The bell at the front door tinkled, and Hank Beanblossom came in.

  “Officer Beanblossom, it’s a pleasure to see you. Doing some shopping today?” Tess asked.

  He pulled a folded piece of paper from his front pocket. “Naw, just here to pass the news and show y’all a picture of a suspect we want to talk to.” He handed the picture to Tess, and Martha Maye scrunched in close to look too. “He’s passing himself off as the chief and writing all kinds of bogus tickets. We thought folks were going to gather pitchforks and storm town hall there for a while. Then we figured it out — thanks to the Culpeppers — ” he glanced and nodded to Pickle “— that the man’s an impostor. We don’t have a name on him yet. Just want y’all to help spread the word and keep your eye out for him.”

  “Land’s sakes,” Martha Maye shook her head, “he doesn’t look like a criminal. What’s wrong with people anyhow?”

  “Don’t rightly know, Martha Maye. It takes all kinds, doesn’t it?”

  Officers Northington and Woodson walked the suspect into the police station and took him immediately to Johnny’s office.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hale.” As Chester sat in the chair in front of the desk, Johnny came around the front of it and propped a hip on the corner, looking down at the man.

  “Mind telling me why I’m here?” Chester’s scowl didn’t deter Johnny.

  “You’re here because you checked Ima Jean Moxley out of the hospital, and not only that, you did it on a pretty tall tale.”

  Chester sat stone-faced, so Johnny continued.

  “She hasn’t been seen since, which makes you the last person to have seen her before she disappeared. I’m liking you pretty good for a count of kidnapping, sir.”

  This time Johnny waited out Chester’s silence.

  Finally, Chester spoke. “I only did what Ima Jean asked me to do. She said her busybody sister would smother her with care. She begged me to take her out of there.”

  Johnny unwrapped a stick of gum and stuck it in his mouth, all the while staring at Chester. “Is that right?”

  “It most certainly is.” Chester sat up straight, jutted his chin, and puffed out his chest.

  “Then you won’t mind taking me to her and letting me check out your little story.”

  “I most certainly do mind. I won’t break her confidence. She wants to convalesce in peace and quiet, and that’s exactly what I’m going to give her.”

  “Are you her lawyer?”

  Chester shrugged. “No. I am not.”

  “Are you her doctor?”

  Chester frowned. “No.”

  “Then I don’t see a problem breaking a confidence in the name of allowing the law to be certain of Ms. Moxley’s well-being. We’ll talk to her, and if everything is as you say it is, we’ll leave her be.”

  “I’m sorry, Chief. I won’t do it.” He folded his arms and looked as if he were pouting.

  Johnny stood up and reached for the handcuffs on his belt. “Then I’m afraid you’re under arrest for kidnapping and impeding an investigation.”

  “Now hold on just a galldern minute.” Chester held his hands out. “Maybe we can work something out.”

  “Yeah? Like what?” Johnny loomed over him.

  “Suppose I call Ms. Moxley and let you talk to her? She can assure you of her safety and happiness, and I can be on my way.”

  Johnny looked doubtful, but acquiesced. “I suppose that’s a start.” He watched as Chester took out his cell phone and punched in some numbers.

  “Ima Jean, it’s me, Chester. Yeah, yeah, I know. I got waylaid a bit. Listen, I’m over to the Goose Pimple Junction Police Station. Yes, you heard me right. They snatched me up and forced me to come over here. They’re accusing me of kidnapping you. No, I’m not kidding. Chief Butterfield would like to talk to you and hear for hisself that you’re safe and sound. Mmm hmmm. Okay. I’ll put him on.”

  Johnny took the phone from Chester, taking note of the number on the screen. “Ms. Moxley? Yes, this is Chief Butterfield. How are you feeling, ma’am?” The voice on the other end of the phone was weak but sure. Johnny listened for a bit. “I’m glad to hear that, ma’am. Can you tell me where you are?” Johnny kept his eyes on Chester as he listened.

  “Yes, I expect you are in a bed, but do you know whose house you’re in?” Johnny stood up and went around to his desk. He took a pen and began scribbling notes.

  “Mizz Moxley, I apologize for waking you from a sound sleep — ” Johnny held the phone from his ear, and a raised voice spilled out.

  “Yes, ma’am. But your sister is mighty worried. Yes, ma’am, I do know that milk does a body good.”

  Chester coughed into his hand to try to hide a smile, but Johnny saw it.

  “Yes, but ‘you
’re soaking in it’ doesn’t tell me where you are, ma’am. It just tells me you like Palmolive dish soap. It would be extremely helpful, ma’am, if you could tell me your whereab — ” Johnny pinched his nose, momentarily closing his eyes against the frustration of the round and round conversation.

  “We’ll confirm and then leave you be. Yes, ma’am. But I’m afraid I — ” Johnny stopped talking. There was no use in continuing. There was no longer anyone on the other end of the line. Johnny held the phone in the air. “She hung up.”

  “I done told you she didn’t want to be disturbed. Maybe now you’ll believe me.” Chester snatched back the phone.

  “She didn’t exactly sound all right to me. She sounded very confused and a little dotty.”

  “Yeah, she sounds that way, but believe me, she’s right as rain.”

  “I’m afraid I still need to verify with my own two eyes. Why don’t I drive you home now, Mr. Hale.” Johnny hadn’t said it as a question, but Chester took it as one.

  “No, thank you, Chief. I’ll call for a ride back. Tomorrow, if Ms. Moxley is still speaking to me, I’ll bring her to the station for you to see with your own two eyes.” His tone was mocking.

  Johnny would have liked to slap the smirk off the man’s face. Instead, he insisted the man bring in Ima Jean today, bid him good day, and stepped out into the hall, pulling with him Northington and Woodson, who had been standing in the doorway during the interview.

  Watching Chester walk down the hallway, he told the men in a low voice, “I want y’all to follow him. Don’t let him see you, but don’t let him out of your sight. I’m afraid he won’t go to her if he knows we’re following him. I’ll get Judge Woosley over in Butler County to sign a warrant to search the house. Only problem is, I don’t know if he’s got her at his place or somewhere else, so once y’all see where he goes, call it in. When I talk to the sheriff over there to alert them that you might need assistance, I’ll ask if one of their men can bring the warrant to you. Y’all just keep your eyes on the suspect.”

  “Yessir, Chief. We’re on it.” The officers hurried down the hall and out the back door to get their car in place for the tail.

  A lie doesn’t care who tells it. It will jump out of anybody’s mouth.

  ~Chester Hale

  Johnny pushed away from his computer ten minutes after Chester left his office. It appeared that the number Chester had dialed was a throwaway. He swiped his hand over his face and stood. He went down the hall and around the corner and told Bernadette he was going out for a bit. Then he drove to Louetta’s house.

  Martha Maye came to the door in shorts and a T-shirt, wiping sweat from her red face.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Heavens no. You saved me. Now I can take a break. Honey Winchester’s going to drive me to drink with the exercise regime she’s got me on.” Johnny took off his cap as he entered the house, trying hard not to stare at Martha Maye’s legs. Now his face was the red one when he saw Louetta rushing toward him, her ample hips moving up and down as she walked.

  “Did you find her? Tell me you found her.” The worried expression on her face nearly broke his heart.

  He took her by the elbow and led her to a chair. She listened intently while he related the events of the day. He finished up with, “But I feel pretty confident that she’s all right, Lou. She didn’t sound distressed, just a bit confused. She even got a little mad at me for disturbing her nap. She didn’t sound like a woman in an adverse situation.”

  Martha Maye put her arm around her mother’s shoulders.

  “What exactly did she say, Johnny? Tell me word for word.” Lou absentmindedly patted her daughter’s hand.

  Johnny related the conversation to her.

  She shook her head defiantly. “Then that couldn’t have been my sister. She would never in a million years talk to anyone, let alone a chief of police, in such a manner. And I know for a fact she would never hang up on anybody. She’s far too well-bred for that kind of behavior.”

  “Well, she did just have a stroke.”

  “Nope. Not a million years, would she, Martha Maye?”

  Martha Maye shook her head. “I can’t see her acting the fool like that.”

  Johnny puffed out his cheeks and thought a minute. “Tell me, Lou, I never spoke with your sister. Does she have sort of a nasally voice?”

  Louetta looked like she’d just been poked with a hot iron. “Heavens no. Imy has a soft, gentle voice. The voice of a southern lady.”

  Johnny closed his eyes and looked at the ceiling. “I’d be willing to bet that old Chester Hale pulled a fast one over on me.” He hung his head. “I should have known. Dadblast it, I blew it.”

  Gravel popped under the cruiser as it pulled out behind a gold Chrysler convertible, driven by a woman, with Chester as a passenger. Northington kept a respectable distance but had to increase his speed to keep the convertible in view. “She’s flying like a bat outta hell,” Woodson said.

  They drove out of downtown Goose Pimple Junction and followed the car onto the freeway. The car exceeded the speed limit, but Hank stayed six cars back. They were discussing whether they should pull her over for speeding when they entered the next county.

  “Too late now.” Northington banged the steering wheel with his hand. “We lost jurisdiction. We woulda blown our cover anyway.”

  “Yeah, but we’d have the woman’s name.” Woodson craned his neck to see around a pickup truck directly in front of them. “No matter. I have the license plate number. We’ll find out who she is. But keep following and we may do one better than that.”

  When Northington didn’t answer, Woodson added, “We may find Ms. Moxley.”

  “Well duh. Nothing gets lost on you, does it?”

  “Aw, hush up,” Woodson grumbled.

  The road had narrowed from a four-lane divided highway to a two-lane road. The pickup truck in front of the officers slowed to make a left turn, and a tractor-trailer a little farther up pulled onto the road into the cruiser’s lane.

  “Hold up.” Woodson rolled his window down and pulled himself halfway out of the car so he could see past the tractor-trailer. He pushed back inside the car and just about bounced out of his seat. “She’s braking. The brake lights are coming on. Get up there, fast!”

  “What do you think I’m trying to do? I can’t get around this tractor.” They were driving about 20 mph with Woodson on the edge of his seat. He kept squirming and bouncing, as if it would help move the vehicle faster. They turned onto the next road, and finally, they saw a flash of gold.

  “There they are!” They entered a neighborhood with ranch-style houses built in the ‘60s. After the woman and Chester turned into one of the driveways, Northington pulled over a few houses away and reached for the radio.

  “Base to unit six. You there, Bernie?”

  “I’m here, Vic.”

  “We’re at 1811 Walker Street.”

  “10-4, Vic.” She came back in a few seconds. “I show that house belongs to one Betty Ann Holdaway. The chief says hold your position. A unit from Butler County will meet you there directly.”

  “Roger that.”

  When you do a job, be proud enough to put your name on it.

  ~Officer Northington

  Northington, Woodson, and Beanblossom stood on the front porch, and Woodson rang the bell. A woman who looked to be in her sixties opened the door. She had bleached-blonde teased hair, a skirt too short for a woman of that age, and a blouse that had too many buttons undone. She was chewing gum like a cow chewing cud.

  “Yeah?” was her greeting.

  “Ma’am, we have a warrant to search the premises. May we come in?”

  “What for?”

  “It’s all here in the warrant.” Northington pushed past the woman, and the two officers followed him inside the house.

  They walked past Chester in the hallway. With a smug look on his face, he said, “You’re wasting your time. She ain’t here, boys.”


  Northington barked, “Woodson, you take the basement; Beanblossom, you take the attic. I’ll check the bedrooms.”

  When they’d searched the house and had seen no sign of Ima Jean, they met back in the living room where they suddenly realized Betty Ann and Chester were no longer in the house.

  Hank Beanblossom’s phone rang the very instant Northington said, “I’ll be a son of a biscuit,” and Woodson ran out the front door.

  Hank got off the phone as Woodson was coming back inside the house. “That was the chief. He says he got hornswoggled. Said the woman he talked to on the phone back at the house wasn’t no Ima Jean Moxley.”

  Woodson shook his head. “Well, he’s not the only one to get hornswoggled today. They done skipped out on us. The car’s clean gone.”

  Chester was sitting at Ima Jean’s bedside when she awoke. Her eyes darted around the room. “Where am I?”

  “Why you’re convalescing with me, pumpkin. Looka here,” he picked up a bowl of applesauce, “try some of this.” He spooned some into her mouth.

  “Less filling. Tastes great.” She smacked her lips.

  “Imy, you’re a kook, you know that?” He helped her sit up slightly and then placed a tray with a turkey TV dinner and a bowl of applesauce on top of her lap.

  “Tinkle,” she said.

  He helped her up, but she stopped when she saw a woman standing in the room.

  “Who’re you?”

  “This is your nurse, hon. This is . . . um . . . ”

  The woman cut in. “I’m Betty. Here, let me help you to the bathroom.”

  When she stepped back into the room, Chester said, “See? I told you that script I gave you was accurate.”

  “You were right. She’s a kook. But why’d I have to say all that? Why couldn’t I justa sounded confused?”

  “‘Cause her sister heard her talking that commercial talk in the hospital. We gotta keep up the pretense.”