by Amy Metz
“The curtains.” She stared at the house, perplexed.
“What about the curtains?” Jack followed her up the front walk, confused.
“They’re closed. I never close those curtains.” Tess’s face was full of worry.
“Are you sure?” Jack asked, as Tess unlocked the front door.
“Of course I’m sure. Don’t you think I would know if I closed my curtains or not?”
“Okay, okay, simmer down. Let me go in and look around first. Stay here on the porch.”
She started to follow him inside, but he held up one finger and said, “Stay.”
“I am not a dog, Jack. I can go in my own house if I want to.”
Jack went in first, but Tess followed him, gasping when she saw the living room. Suddenly there was a noise in the kitchen, and Jack went down the hall in a flash. By the time Tess stumbled into the kitchen it was empty with the back door wide open. She looked around the room, thinking how she had left it in perfect order. Turning in a circle, rooted to one spot, she looked in horror at the destruction. Drawers were pulled out and overturned, cabinets were wide open, papers that had been stashed in a drawer were all over the floor, along with utensils, measuring cups, ice cream scoops, tea towels . . . practically everything in her kitchen was now on the floor. Jack came in through the back door, breathing hard. He bent at the waist and rested his hands just above his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“Jack, what in the world…”
“Tess, I saw a flash of somethin', or someone, I guess, but he got away. He's long gone into the woods now. We need to call Chief Price. He doesn’t have a large police force, but maybe they can fan out and try to catch the guy.” While he was calling the police chief, Tess went to the other rooms of the house. Every one of them was in total destruction; even the mattresses were overturned. She stood in the doorway of her bedroom in shock at what had happened to her little haven, when Jack came up behind her.
“Is anything missin’?”
“How would I know?” she answered faintly. “How could I possibly tell in this mess?”
She bent down to pick up some of the clothes on the floor, but Jack stopped her.
“Tess, don’t touch anything until John Ed Price gets here. He needs to see everything exactly the way we found it.”
“Who would do this?” Tess asked weakly. “I thought Goose Pimple Junction was a quiet, crime-free town. That was one of the reasons I chose it.”
“Goose Pimple Junction is a quiet, crime-free town. I can’t remember the last time we had a robbery.”
“I need air.” Tess headed for the front porch. She sat—stunned—until the police arrived. The chief came himself and sent some of his officers into the woods in search of the intruder, but an hour later they came back empty-handed.
“Sorry, Chief. We gave it our best shot. Didn’t find nothin’ but squirrels and birds out there. We’ll go back out if y’ont us to, but I don’t see much point. That cat's long gone now.”
Tess leaned toward Jack and said out of the corner of her mouth, “Yont?”
Jack whispered back, “If you want.”
“Ah,” Tess nodded her head. “I didn’t realize I’d need a translator when I moved here.”
“Stick with me, kid.” Jack winked at her.
Several hours later, the police had gone, and Jack had helped Tess put most everything back in order. She was sprawled in a chair; he across the couch. “I don’t get it. Nothing seems to be missing. Who would do this? What were they after?”
“I wish I knew. Whatever it was, I don’t think you have to worry about them comin’ back. They got to every room in the house. I think we came in right at the tail-end of their spree.”
“That’s what’s so strange. Nothing seems to be missing,” she said. “And it’s so scary, too.” She shivered. “What if I’d have come home alone? Anything might have happened. I am so grateful to you, Jack.”
“Yeah? How grateful?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.
“Want to order a pizza?” Tess asked, ignoring the innuendo.
“If that’s the best you can do,” he sighed, dramatically. “See? I told you that you’d be havin’ me to dinner.”
Later, as they ate, Tess asked, “So why isn’t your speech as Southernfied as some of the other locals? I mean, you have an accent, but it’s not as thick as most of the others in town. You’ve lived in the south all your life, haven’t you?”
“Southernfied? Could I find that word in the dictionary?”
“You know what I mean,” Tess said around a mouthful of pizza. She hadn’t been hungry until she smelled the pizza. Then she became ravenous.
“Well I reckon…” Jack suddenly had a thick southern accent. “…ahem . . . I reckon that I can tolk Southern if I wont. But my mama wasn’t from the south and she raised sand every time my brother’s and my speech started slantin’ too much that way.”
“Raised sand?”
“You never heard of that expression? It means kickin’ up a fuss. I think it comes from animals pawing at the ground, kickin’ up dust or sand when they’re upset about somethin’.”
“So you’re fluent in Southern, but you don’t speak it?”
“I guess you could say that. Although I do lapse into it every now and again.” Jack paused for a minute. He could still see the worry on Tess’s face. “Tess, are you okay?”
She nodded her head, looking down at the glass of Coke in her hand and poking at the ice with her finger. “Yes. It’s just different being on my own. I’ve never really worried about my safety before. Someone’s always been there to take care of me. I like my independence, but it does have its downside too. It’s weird thinking about some stranger’s hands being all over my things. It’s unsettling,” she said, feeling a bit embarrassed.
“Sure it is. You don’t have to feel bad about feelin’ that way. I could stay tonight if you want.” Tess’s eyes shot up to him, and he quickly added, “On the couch, of course. On the couch.” He pushed his palms out toward her, in a gesture meant to stop her from thinking the worst.
“Thanks, it’s nice of you to offer, but I need to stand on my own two feet. I need to be able to take care of myself. I’ll be fine. I’ll turn on the television for company.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with askin’ friends for a little help now and then. You don’t have to do this alone.”
“But I need to, Jack,” she said firmly.
“Maybe you should get a dog.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“That depends on the question.”
“Why don’t you close your curtains? When we got home tonight you knew somethin’ was wrong because the curtains were closed. You never close them?”
“I won’t say never, but practically never. I like bright, natural sunlight. I can’t stand dark rooms, especially in the daytime. And even at night I feel closed in with the curtains drawn.”
“Tess, if you had come home alone, tell me you wouldn’t have gone into the house alone.”
“I wouldn’t have gone into the house alone,” she recited.
“Do you mean that?”
“Probably. I’m not that crazy.”
“Just promise me if anything like this ever happens again you’ll call me or John Ed and wait for us. Don’t do anything stupid in the name of bein’ brave and independent.”
Later, as Tess got ready for bed, the key fell out of her pocket. She had taken it with her, intending to show it to Lou and maybe Jack, but Lou didn’t seem interested, and then she forgot all about it. She put it on her key ring, hoping Lou was right about it being a good luck charm. She went to bed with her television and a light turned on in every room.
* * *
“I told you to do some SNOOPIN’, not destructin’,” a voice boomed over the receiver. “Shoot . . . if you had bird brains you'd fly backwards.”
“Well shucks, boss, I thought you wanted to find somet
hin’, not diddle around.”
“If I wanna diddle around, I’ll diddle AROUND,” he yelled into the phone. “It’s my gallderned money. All you did was draw attention. You didn’t find a thing or accomplish anything. Slow and steady, do you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear ya. You wanna diddle around. But like ya said, it’s yer money. I just thought you wanted that key she found.”
“You know what? I do want that key. Find it, galldernit. I want you to stay on Ms. Tess Tremaine like mud on a pig. I wanna know about every new little home improvement she makes, even if it's only a new toilet paper hanger. But listen and listen good. You can't make it look like we want the key. It has to look like she lost it. Gad night a livin' you're ignert. From now on, you keep drinkin’, and I’ll keep thinkin’.”
Get Your Straw Out of My Kool-Aid
over to: preposition oh-ver too at
She was over to the diner.
[ 1932 ]
One week after three witnesses identified Rod Pierce as one of the bank robbers, he was in court. Unlike the last time Nate Hunter, John Hobb, and Mrs. Maggard had seen Pierce, he was now dressed neatly in a suit and tie in the courtroom. His hair was clean and combed, face soft as a baby’s bottom, and false teeth in place.
John Hobb did a double take as he stepped up to be sworn in for testimony. He was asked, “Is this one of the men you saw rob the First National Bank of Goose Pimple Junction, on March 9, 1932?”
Hobb stared at Pierce. He didn’t look exactly like the man he’d seen twice before, but even with his improved looks and seated behind a table, John was absolutely positive. “Yes, it is,” he replied.
“Can you tell the court what happened that day?”
John’s voice was clear and strong. “Mr. Pierce and two associates entered the bank. While one of them stayed as a lookout at the door, Mr. Pierce and another man brandished firearms, and demanded the clerks fill their pillow cases with the money from the cash drawers and the vault. Then they forced our clerk, Nate Hunter, to go with them, and they went runnin’ down the street like scalded cats.”
As John left the witness stand, he recognized a face in the back row. He went straight to Chief Preston, seated in the third row, sat down next to him, and whispered in his ear.
Next on the stand was Nate Hunter. After being asked if the defendant was one of the men who robbed the bank on March ninth, he replied, “Yes, it is.” He went on to corroborate John Hobb’s account of the robbery.
When Tallulah took the stand, she was nervous but sure of herself.
“Is this the man you saw brandish a gun on March ninth and rob the First National Bank?”
“It shore is.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He stood right in front of me and said they were robbin’ us. I remember Mr. Pierce said I looked as nervous as a sinner in a cyclone.” A tittering went through the courtroom from a few of the people in the audience. “As God is my witness, he's the one,” she said, pointing at Pierce.
“Thank you, Mrs. Maggard.”
The defense attorney stood and said, “Your honor, I have one witness today.”
“Call ‘em,” the judge said.
“I call Calista Castle to the stand.”
While the gaudily-dressed woman sashayed her way to the front of the courtroom, Chief Preston made his way to the back of the room.
When the witness was sworn in and seated, she was asked her address.
“I reside at 511 North Peachtree Way.” She started to sit back in her chair, then leaned forward again, and added, “That’s in Henclip.”
“Your Honor, for the record, let me state that Henclip is approximately 129 miles from Goose Pimple Junction,” the attorney said.
“So noted,” the judge replied.
“And were you in Henclip on March ninth of this year?” he asked her.
“Yes, I was,” she answered, smacking her gum loudly.
“Who were you with on that day in Henclip?”
“I was with Roddy Pierce.” Whispers spread through the courtroom.
“All day?”
“Why, yes.”
The county attorney took over questioning and asked the witness, “What time were you with Rod Pierce on March ninth, Miss Castle?”
She looked confused. “I disremember.”
“Well, do you remember what you and Rod Pierce did on that day?”
Her eyes shot to Pierce, who stared back blankly. She nervously touched her neck, then smoothed her dress down on her lap. Finally, she said, “We went on a picnic.”
“Miss Castle, let me refresh your memory,” the attorney said, stepping out from behind the table and walking toward her. “On March eighth of this year, we had a snowstorm here in Goose Pimple Junction. Do you expect us to believe the very next day, only 129 miles away, you went on a picnic?”
She looked nervously from Pierce to the county attorney. “Well . . . well, I think so.”
As soon as it was announced that Pierce would be held over for trial, court was adjourned, and Bug Preston stepped forward and approached Brick Lynch, who was seated in the back of the courtroom.
“Brick Lynch, you’re under arrest for armed robbery.”
“Jest couldn't mind your own bidness, could ya, Hobb? Yew gonna believe his lies?” Brick spit out as he was being handcuffed. The deadly cold look Brick shot at John sent a shiver up his spine.
The chief led Lynch past Hobb and whispered, “Don’t worry, John. You have a reputation around town as being an honest, fine upstanding member of the community. Everyone knows you are as good as your word, and would not wrongly accuse an innocent man. Stick to yer guns, buddy.”
[ June 2010 ]
The day after the break-in, Tess woke up early again, got dressed, forced down a muffin and juice, and went outside to cut some of her hydrangeas to take to the bookstore. She bent over, trying to cut one last stem from the bottom of the bush.
“Wow. Now that's a view,” she heard someone say.
Startled, she shot up, whirled around, and saw Jack. “Excuse me?”
“The flowers . . . they’re beautiful,” Jack said, grinning like a possum in a persimmon tree, and motioning to the flower-laden bush.
“Oh . . . thanks.” She recovered from the surprise and noticed he was holding a bunch of sunflowers in his hand.
“Yours are lovely, as well.”
He held them out to her. “Special delivery.”
“What’s this for?” A big smile spread across her face.
“Well, you had quite a scare yesterday. I wanted to give you some cheer.”
“Oh, thank you, Jack. They look like a bouquet of smiles. That’s very kind of you. Would you like to come in?” She motioned toward the house as she started toward it. “I’m heading over to report for my second day of work, but you can help me put these in water first,” she said, leading him to the kitchen.
“How ‘bout you put them in water, and I’ll watch. Then I’d be pleased to walk you to work, Ms. Tess.” He and his exaggerated southern accent followed her into the house. She shook her head at him and his dialect and got a vase from the cabinet.
He leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest, watching as she cut the stems under water and put the flowers in the vase.
Feeling self-conscious, she said the first thing that came to mind. “You know, my ex-husband used to quote, somebody—I can’t remember who. He said he ‘liked children too, but he didn’t go around chopping their heads off and sticking them in vases around his house.’ I, for one, think flowers belong in and outside of the house. Thank you, again, Jack.”
He watched her for a moment and finally said, “What a desolate place would be a world without a flower. It would be a face without a smile, a feast without a welcome. Are not flowers the stars of the earth, and are not our stars the flowers of the heavens?’”
“Wow. I love that. Who said it?”
“A.J. Balfour. Don’t ask me who he is or how
I remember it, I just do,” he laughed, giving her a smile that rattled her.
She set the vase down a little too forcefully in the center of her small kitchen table and stood back to admire the flowers, telling herself she was immune to Jack's smile.
“I love sunflowers. They’re one of my favorite flowers. That was so nice of you. And totally unnecessary.”
“Are you doing all right this morning?” His expression changed to one of concern.
“Yes, I’m fine. I slept like a baby.” She made an attempt at a confident smile. “Well . . . “ she said, clearing her throat. “ . . . are you ready?”
As she locked the front door, he said, “I thought you weren’t goin’ to let Lou work you too hard. Here you are heading off to work again, first thing in the morning, two days in a row.”
“Lou’s trying to catch up with all the work that’s backed up since her former employee left, so I offered to help out. I don’t mind. Yesterday was fun. I met a lot of people.” They stepped out onto the tree-lined sidewalk and started toward town in an amiable silence.
Finally Jack spoke. “So, Tess Tremaine, what’s your story?”
“Mister, my story is longer and stronger than you have time for,” she said lightly, although she was totally serious.
“Oooooh, a mystery, I like mysteries.”
“Yes, I know. After all, you are a mystery writer. Unfortunately, my story isn’t a mystery, it’s just a mess.” She made a show of looking at the flower garden in the yard they were passing. She was uncomfortable talking about herself.
“Ah, a woman with baggage.”
“Baggage out the wazoo, mister.”
“Wazoo. Define that term please.”
“Oh, don’t get cute with me. You tell me your story.”
“You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine,” he said in a Grocho Marx imitation.
“Uh, I believe the saying is show. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
“Okay, we can do that too, if you want.” Their eyes met, and he held them, giving her a challenging smile.