Doggone Ugly Creek

by Cheryel Hutton

  A little after four, I rose and pulled out my laptop. If I couldn’t sleep, at least maybe I could make some progress on my latest manuscript.

  ****

  By nine, I was dressed in black jeans, comfortable black ballet flats, and a cute sea-green short-sleeved blouse that went well with my red hair. I hoped I looked like a reasonable facsimile of a reporter as I walked into the downtown office of the twice-weekly Ugly Creek Gazette.

  The place opened off Market Street, near the corner of Main where the courthouse was located. The inside walls were painted beige, but were almost completely papered with front pages from years of the little newspaper. I could have happily spent the next few days perusing the headlines and reading the articles.

  A long table ran almost the entire left wall, and along the right were three basic wooden desks. Papers were strewn over all three desks, along with empty coffee mugs and various papers, writing implements, desktop computers a few years old, and rectangular cleared spaces the size of laptops. Nobody currently sat at any of them. Toward the back, an open door likely led to the editor’s office.

  A tall man, high cheekbones, salt-and-pepper hair, and a few wrinkles to complete the distinguished face came out that door to greet me. “Good morning, Ms. Carpenter, I’m Fred Costa. It’s good to have you with us.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  His smile of welcome seemed sincere, but there was a glimmer of concern in his brown eyes. “I have a job for you.”

  Oh boy. “What sort of job?”

  “Animal Services is gearing up to remove a hoard of cats from an old woman’s home. I want you and a photographer to head over there and see if you can’t get a human angle on the raid. Miz Funderburk is an odd one but if you can convince her to talk to you it should be an interesting story.”

  I wondered if I was being suckered into a crazy story as a test, when I remembered how small Ugly Creek was. This kind of event was newsworthy when nothing major was happening. Which was probably most of the time.

  “No problem.”

  The concern in his eyes vanished. “Good, there’s your photographer now.”

  I turned and Ace Ellison’s gaze met mine. Perfect. Absolutely freaking perfect.

  A smirk twitched at his lips. “We can take my car.”

  When pigs went snorkeling. “I’ll meet you there.”

  I spun and headed out the door and into the sweet “candy blue” Ford Focus I’d saved for three years to pay cash for so I could stay out of debt. I dug around in my purse and twiddled my toes until Ace disappeared down the road. Then I called Mr. Costa to get the address. I expected irritation from my boss, but what I got sounded a lot like amusement.

  That Ace dude was going to drive me totally avocadoes—or maybe even kumquats.

  Five minutes later I pulled in behind Ace’s big, dark gray, what was that thing? I squinted in the sunlight to see the little silver letters on the back. Xterra. Why in the world would a single man in his twenties need a vehicle that big? Was he compensating for something? Hmm, made sense to me.

  As soon as I parked, he popped out of his behemoth—okay, maybe it wasn’t that big—and was beside my car before I could get out.

  “What took you so long?”

  “I did my nails.”

  He rolled his eyes and tipped his head toward the rough looking two-story house. The paint was peeling, the porch sagged, and the roof probably let in half the rain that fell on it.

  “This is the place,” Ace said, and headed toward said place.

  I groaned. “Figures.”

  I caught up with him about the time he reached the porch, just before he knocked. I’d have been happy to stand back and wait for the animal shelter people, but I wasn’t about to let the likes of Ace Ellison outdo me. I carefully climbed the squeaky steps, and got to Ace just as an elderly woman pulled open the door. The odor of cat urine and decay billowed over us, and it took an effort to keep my breakfast where it belonged.

  “Can I help you?”

  The voice had an edge that told me she’d love to help us go away.

  I put on my best smile and held out my hand. “Miz Funderburk, my name is Shay Carpenter. I’m a reporter for the Ugly Creek Gazette. Would it be okay if I asked you some questions?”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at me.

  “This is about my cats, isn’t it? Nobody’s taking my babies from me.”

  Ace stepped around me and positioned himself closer to the woman. “We don’t want to take your cats. Actually, we’d like to tell your side of the story.”

  She still had an expression of distrust, but she seemed to be less ready to slam the door in our faces.

  “My side?”

  “Yes,” I jumped in, shoving the irritating man aside as I did. “We’re interested in your love for animals.”

  Miz Funderburk’s eyes glistened and her chin trembled. “My cats aren’t animals to me, they’re my children.”

  From the smells coming from the house, she didn’t treat her “children” very well. Apparently trying to escape, three of those kitty kids shoved past her and out onto the porch. An orange tabby and an extremely skinny black-and-white cat rushed toward the end of the porch. Gracefully, they jumped off into the yard. The smaller cat, gray or maybe even white, I couldn’t tell, rubbed against my legs. The little thing’s fur was matted and nasty. It was all I could do not to gag at the thought of what the cat was depositing on my new black jeans. At least I hadn’t worn a skirt.

  “How adorable,” I managed. It would be if it wasn’t covered in trash.

  The woman smiled. “He’s a cutie.”

  There was a sound from the road and I glanced over my shoulder to check it out. I barely caught a glimpse of the animal control vehicle when Miz Funderburk screamed.

  I looked, and she was shaking her fists at us. “You lying scum. You’re in with them! You aren’t taking my babies!” She moved to slam the door.

  Ace had his body in the way and his foot against the door. “We have nothing to do with them. We want to tell your story.”

  “I don’t believe you.” She shoved at Ace, and he stumbled back. The door slammed shut so hard the floorboards of the porch vibrated.

  The cat at my feet shot off the porch and disappeared. I turned to see two guys coming from the animal control truck. I wanted to be anywhere but there when they tried to make her open that door. There’s no way they could force her, right? At least not without police and some sort of official order.

  A red convertible with its top down swung around the animal control vehicle and came to a screeching stop. A woman dressed in a gray business suit and beat-up athletic shoes slid out of the car and marched across the yard. She gave us a smoldering glare as she went to the door and knocked. “Mom, open the door.”

  “Go away!”

  “Mom.” There was pain in the new arrival’s voice. “Please, I only want to help you.”

  “Taking my babies isn’t helping me.”

  Two police cars, one local Ugly Creek and one county sheriff, pulled off the road. The two uniformed policemen got out of their cruisers and headed toward the house. The two men from the animal shelter, each carrying two portable cages, joined them.

  “We’d better get out of the way.”

  Ace grabbed my arm and tugged.

  My first instinct was to resist, but then I considered just how packed the porch was about to be. Not to mention what was about to happen.

  We barely got down the steps before the group reached us. The cops continued up the steps, but one of the animal shelter dudes stepped directly in front of Ace.

  “I’m watching you, Ellison.” Loathing dripped from the man’s words.

  Ace met the man’s gaze. “I’m well aware, Vanetti.”

  Vanetti glared for a moment longer, then rejoined his fellow animal shelter dude who was pointedly ignoring his buddy and Ace.

  The animal guys went up the steps, taking a position to the side and near the cops. The porc
h wasn’t small, still the five of them created a formidable mass in front of the door. I cringed at the thought of what was going through the mind of the woman inside. In the piece for the paper, I planned to try to capture what had to be a feeling of panic and betrayal. I had seen so many TV news shows about animal hoarders and thought how wonderful it was when the authorities stepped in to rescue the poor creatures, but I’d never, ever thought about the toll that rescue took on the hoarder herself.

  As I considered my new insight, I saw the daughter put a key in the lock and shove the door inward. The effort was stopped by something, or someone, from the inside of the house blocking the door.

  “Let me in, Mom,” the daughter said.

  “You’re not taking my babies,” Miz Funderburk told her.

  “Mom, please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

  I watched the unfolding scene with mounting horror. This would not end well, and I was bound by contract to report what happened.

  “You wouldn’t let anybody take away your children.” Miz Funderburk’s voice was getting higher pitched by the moment.

  “They aren’t your children, Mom. They’re animals.”

  “You don’t understand. Go away!”

  “Mom, the neighbors have complained. You could lose your house. Please don’t force me to do this.”

  “I’m not forcing you to do anything. I’m fine here; Ugly Creek takes care of its own. Go on back home and take care of your own damn business.” The door slammed, and I heard the lock click.

  The daughter stood with her hands on the door, her head down, her shoulders slumped. “Mom.”

  The anger in that one word sent chills down my spine.

  “This is embarrassing, Mom. Open the door.”

  Embarrassing? I could think of a lot of words to describe the situation; embarrassing wasn’t one of them.

  One of the cops took the key from the daughter’s hand, and she turned away as the police forced the door in. I could see Miz Funderburk struggling hard to keep the men out, but she didn’t stand a chance.

  I stood there, a captive observer, while a woman wailed and begged the four men not to take her babies. I’m not the crying type, but I admit to shedding tears as I watched the horrible battle of wills. Miz Funderburk’s daughter had taken refuge in her car, where she leaned against the steering wheel. If this was hard for me, I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for a daughter. I don’t think I would have been strong enough to do what she did.

  On the other hand, I do know I would have had more compassion for my mother. For that matter, where had that daughter been all the time this hoarding was going on? Why hadn’t she been there helping her mother and letting her know she was loved?

  The police held Miz Funderburk out in the front yard. It took one man holding each arm, as she begged and kicked and wrenched trying to free herself.

  I saw flashes of light from inside the dark house, flashes I figured were from the camera I’d seen around the less obnoxious animal control officer’s neck. They were documenting what they found, I realized. Made sense. They would have to explain in court why they’d done what they did. Which was to break a woman’s heart.

  Then the two men started bringing carriers out of the house and Miz Funderburk screamed. If there hadn’t been some small movement within the carriers, I’d have thought the cats were dead. As they passed us I got a whiff of the most horrible, nauseating smell I’d ever encountered. They brought out some black plastic garbage bags also, which had to be cats that were dead. Both men were wearing thick gloves and white paper face masks.

  One of the cops found Miz Funderburk a chair, and she settled down to a heart-wrenching wail, which I tried hard to ignore as more and more carriers and bags came out. I edged closer to the porch, and caught a glimpse of the inside of the house. I couldn’t see much, but it looked like boxes were stacked as high as I could see.

  Curious, I boldly moved even closer, and while animal control wasn’t looking, I went up the steps and across the porch. The closer I got to the open door, the stronger the smell became. It was the same cat urine and decay as before, but stronger—much stronger. I forced back the gag and stepped into the house.

  It was impossible to see more than a foot or so. Boxes, furniture, papers, clothing, and junk were piled higher than my head. There was only a small opening through the stuff, just enough for one person to slide through.

  “You just had to see for yourself, didn’t you?”

  I gasped, which I immediately regretted when the stench burned my lungs. The Vanetti dude stood behind me.

  “I’m a reporter,” I told him. “I need to see what’s going on in order to report.”

  “Have at it.” He tossed me a paper mask attached to an elastic band, pulled his own up from where it hung around his neck to cover his mouth and nose, then shoved past me through the narrow passage leading farther into the house.

  I edged through the pile of everything imaginable behind the man. Houseflies swarmed the place, and the smell was all but overwhelming, but I forced back my reaction and kept on going. I may not exactly be a reporter, but I am a writer, and we are a curious bunch.

  The stench worsened as I moved through the maze of garbage. The piles weren’t so high in places, and I managed to see across the tops of some. Unfolding through the rooms of what had once been a magnificent home was a landscape of newspapers, boxes of all shapes and sizes, furniture stacked on top of furniture, and garbage of all shapes and colors. It looked like a landfill. Smelled like one too.

  The men were doing something to one side, and I craned my neck to see. Then I wished I’d have let my writer self stay curious. They were scooping up the body of a cat, long dead, covered with maggots. Okay, curiosity satisfied. I was quite done, thank you.

  Rushing was impossible back through the walls of junk. I tried not to breathe and just keep moving while not touching anything. Even with the paper mask, the smell was awful. It seemed to take forever to retrace the few feet I’d come. I was beginning to think I was actually lost in the maze, and the thought of being trapped in there made my stomach churn again.

  I moved around an old, cabinet-style television stacked high with a huge box filled with dolls and plastic containers of something brown and nasty that might have started life as fruits or vegetables. There was clothing, empty milk cartons, frozen food boxes, and things I couldn’t begin to identify stacked on top of each other and reaching the ceiling. I thought I recognized some of the stuff as cups and plates, and hung onto that thought as I pushed myself through the next few steps.

  There it was. The open door standing before me like the sought-after treasure it was. I swallowed hard and carefully moved closer and closer to the way out.

  Once free, I rushed across the porch, stumbled down the front steps, and ran several feet from the house. With one hand, I braced myself against a beautiful walnut tree, its solid hulk supporting my weak and trembling body, its rough bark firm and comforting against my hand. By some miracle I didn’t vomit, though it wasn’t through my body’s lack of trying.

  “Here, this will help your stomach.”

  I looked at Ace, surprised he was beside me, surprised at the cellophane wrapped pink pill, and stunned at the caring in his voice.

  “Thank you,” I managed. With trembling fingers, I opened the package and shoved the medicine in my mouth.

  “You’re the reporter, it’s your call, but this is going to take hours. We probably have all the info we’re going to get.”

  “You’re saying we should leave?”

  Ace shrugged. “Like I said, it’s up to you, but I think the party’s over.”

  “You’ve been to a lot of animal hoarder things?”

  “A few.”

  Something in his voice, something deep and painful, had me looking at his face. His eyes were dark and haunted, and I could see fine lines at the corners. Lines he was far too young to have.

  “Are they always this bad?” I wasn
’t sure I wanted to know.

  “Usually they’re worse.” He turned and strode back toward the front of the house.

  He was right; we had what we came for. I headed the way he’d gone, giving him a “let’s go” motion as I passed. The relief in his eyes was evident.

  I headed home toward a two-hour shower, the face of poor Miz Funderburk haunting me the whole way.

  Chapter 3

  I woke the next morning to the blessed sound of quiet. Terri had listened and remembered. Let me tell you, I was amazed. I’d have to do something nice for her.

  Jeans and a T-shirt, five minutes in the bathroom, and I was ready to take on the day. At least I hoped I was. Yesterday’s cat lady adventure had shaken me more than I wanted to admit.

  The remains of Terri’s morning cup of tea were on the counter by the sink. She loves the stuff, but I need something with more caffeine or I won’t make it to lunch. So I put on a pot of coffee.

  I had my head in the fridge, reaching for my yummy hazelnut coffee creamer, when I heard the doggy door open. I straightened up to find Terri standing naked two feet from me.

  “It’s great outside,” she said, as she pushed me aside in order to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

  I was used to Terri’s complete lack of modesty, but I doubted I’d ever be comfortable with it. Not to mention the slight lingering scent of dog always weirded me out. “Thanks for being quiet this morning.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  I sipped at my coffee, while Terri pulled out bread, mustard, and lunch meat. “Want a sandwich?”

  “Too early.”

  “It’s almost eleven.” The look on her face was one of total confusion.

  “I was up late last night.”

  She shrugged as if the whole idea was foreign to her. “We’ve been invited to a barbeque tonight.”

  I carefully swallowed the hot liquid in my mouth. “A what?”

  “Barbeque. Cookout. The thing where meat is cooked over hot coals.”

  I chose to ignore her bait. “We haven’t lived here a week yet, how did we manage to get invited to anything?”