Tru and Nelle

by G. Neri

  Queenie growled.

  Truman thought Boss almost cracked a smile. “Lucky for you, I don’t hit girls. ’Cept for that twerp there,” he said, pointing at Truman, who flinched.

  A couple of old spinsters on their way to the market walked past the lot and gasped at the sight before them.

  Boss threw up his hands. He’d had enough. “You’re both losers,” he said to Truman and Nelle as he stomped off. Queenie gave chase until Boss almost kicked him. “And your stupid dog is too.”

  “Takes one to know one!” said Nelle. She realized the spinsters were still staring at her, muttering something about Nelle not being ladylike.

  She ignored them and ran to Truman, who was still sprawled on the dirt. She knelt by him to help him sit up.

  “What took you so long?” Truman whimpered.

  Queenie came bounding up to Truman, licking his hand. “Queenie found me and I knew something was wrong,” Nelle said. Nelle wiped the tears from Truman’s eyes. “Look at you, such a mess, ” she said. “I knew I shouldn’ta let you go alone.”

  Truman stared at his ripped deerstalker cap. “My cap.” He sighed.

  “We can fix it,” she said quietly. “Sook’ll sew it right up and make it good as new, you’ll see. But from now on, we work as a team, okay?”

  Truman nodded. Queenie barked happily. “Where’s Big Boy?” He sniffled.

  “Jenny spotted us as we went looking for Billy Eugene. One of her workers was feeling sick so she asked Big Boy to help out at the store.”

  “Some detectives we turned out to be,” he muttered.

  “Don’t be a dope, Truman. Sherlock got into plenty of scrapes. Only difference was, he always had Watson by his side.” She tried to wipe the red dirt from his face but only managed to smear it more.

  Then she started laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” said Truman.

  She rubbed the dirt over the rest of his face. “You look like an Indian!” she exclaimed.

  His eyes suddenly lit up. “Cherokee or Sioux?”

  She squinted at him. “Shawnee,” she said and knew that was the right choice. She gave Truman a hand up and they limped into the tall grasses, playing cowboy and Indian with a wolf dog for the rest of the afternoon.

  For now, the mystery could wait.

  19

  Playing Hooky

  The next morning, Truman woke up sore and feeling pretty sorry for himself. He told Sook he was in no mood for school. Instead, he curled up in bed with Queenie.

  Good ol’ Sook. She brought him cups of his favorite chicory-flavored coffee, even though Jenny always scolded her for it: “You keep feeding him that and he’ll never get any taller!”

  Sook may have had a headful of thinning gray hair but she acted like a child around Truman. She listened to every word about his encounter with Boss and how he’d managed to escape. As usual, he embellished the truth. In his version, Queenie grabbed the brute’s leg while he used his judo techniques and head-ramming maneuver to outwit the monster.

  “Now you’re just lying, Truman!” she said.

  “I swear it, Sook. Isn’t that right, Queenie?” Queenie barked yes.

  Sook brought him leftovers from early breakfast, as he called it. Sook and Little Bit’s elaborate breakfasts were a wonder any time of day: ham and eggs, pancakes, and pork chops (when times were good) or sowbelly with crowder peas, catfish, or squirrel (when times were bad), along with the usual grits and gravy, butter beans, sweet corn, collards, jam and biscuits, and boiled okra. Truman liked to tilt his head back and let the slimy vegetable slide down his throat.

  “Now let’s see if ol’ Sook can fix that cap of yours. But I still don’t understand why it has two bills instead of one,” she said as she wandered off.

  Truman was starting to feel better when he heard a knock on his window. It was Nelle, waving a copy of another Sherlock Holmes mystery, The Adventure of the Stockbroker’s Clerk.

  He opened the window and was surprised by the crisp autumn air. “Brrr. And why aren’t you in school, missy?” asked Truman, delighted to see his friend.

  She coughed in an exaggerated way. “Why, I’m sick, Tru, ain’t it obvious?”

  She crawled in through the window and snuggled up with Truman. They made for a perfect pair of misfits—he too refined to play with the boys; she too much of a tomboy to get along with the girls. And that was okay.

  They spent the morning reading the book and drinking coffee. They considered new suspects and eliminated them, like Black John White (who slept in his clothes because he sleepwalked at night and had a habit of doing things he couldn’t remember. But they decided he was too much of a nice guy to steal) and Ed the egg man (who’d never had a kind word from Principal York despite years of delivering eggs to the school. But he had too much to lose to do something so petty). Even Callie was considered, because Truman knew she kept a list of students she disliked (he was on it), and there was a possibility that she might want to set one or two of them up to get them expelled. But Jenny would have locked Callie in the attic if she’d toyed with such a harebrained idea.

  When they finished discussing everyone in town, and produced no new suspects, Truman took another approach.

  “I know what we need to do. We need to go to the drugstore and talk to Mr. Yarborough.”

  “You think he knows something?” she asked.

  “People go to the soda fountain to gossip all the time. I’ll bet he knows something. Maybe even who broke into his store!”

  They didn’t wait for Big Boy to get out of school. Nelle knew from experience that the truant officer usually gave up by noon—after that, it was safe to be seen outdoors. They decided to pay a social call on Mr. Yarborough to straighten out a few facts. The plan was to just sit there and chat away, enjoying an ice-cold Catawba Flip or a fluffy Cherry Dope at the soda fountain. Then, using their wiles and charms, they’d get Mr. Yarborough to reveal some crucial bits of information that would solve the case.

  That plan was quickly scuttled, though. It turned out that Mr. Yarborough wasn’t even there. Instead, his soda jerk, redheaded Ralph, stood behind the counter setting up decorations for Halloween. “What’ll it be, boys?” He winked at Nelle, who sneered back.

  Ralph was just an employee and none too bright, so there was no use wasting a lot of time on him. Still, he was worth a short chat. “Two cherry Cokes, straight up,” said Truman.

  “When’s Mr. Yarborough coming back?” asked Nelle.

  “Oh, he’s away till Tuesday. There’s a pharmacists’ convention down in Mobile,” said Ralph as he served up the drinks.

  It was a slow afternoon, as most days had been of late, due to so many folks having recently lost their jobs. The place was empty except for them.

  Truman tried to make small talk. “That was too bad about the break-in. Thieves have no manners these days,” said Truman, fiddling with a paper jack-o’-lantern on the counter.

  “Wasn’t no thieves,” said Ralph, looking around the empty store.

  Truman sucked down half his drink until he winced—brain freeze. “No? Maybe it was some poor, hungry family? Sook is always taking leftovers out into the forest where lots of folks are rooting around for turtles or squirrels for dinner. It’s a downright shame, I say.”

  Ralph spat into a glass and rubbed a spot clean. “Or maybe it was just some wild teenagers looking to have some fun, get some free candy.” He stared directly at Truman, having experienced his fake-epileptic-seizures-for-candy scheme in the past.

  Truman stared into his empty glass.

  “What about the cameo brooch? That must have been worth a lot of money. Maybe some poor soul stole it to feed their kids?” said Nelle.

  “That old thing?” he scoffed. “Probably just a piece of costume jewelry that Mr. Yarborough kept in the glass case ’cause it looked nice. I doubt it was worth two bits. It was probably just some kids, like I said.”

  Nelle nodded. “You know who did it, then?” she asked, as
innocent as could be.

  Ralph placed the glass on the shelf. “Know one of ’em.”

  Truman whispered to Nelle, “What did I tell you? More than one.” He turned back to redheaded Ralph. “Sooo . . . who was it?” Truman squeaked.

  Ralph grinned. “Why, I can’t really say, kid. You’d have to talk to the sheriff about that.”

  “The sheriff? So someone was arrested?” he said, excited.

  Ralph shook his head. “Didn’t say that neither.” He snickered. “More like . . . grounded.”

  “Huh?” said Nelle. “That don’t make sense.”

  Truman put two and two together. “I see . . . well, thanks for your time, Ralph. Come on, Nelle.” He tugged on her overalls, pulling her away from the counter.

  “But I haven’t finished my drink—”

  He yanked and she went with him, taking a last slurp of her drink. But right before they stepped outside, Truman whipped around and pointed at Ralph’s surprised face. “Quick—what do you know about the notorious snake gang?”

  Ralph blinked and stared right back at Truman. After a good five seconds passed, redheaded Ralph shook his head. “Kid, you’re too young for that action. Pit’s no place for you two. Now git.”

  He walked out from behind the counter and straight at Truman. This time, it was Nelle who pulled Truman away. Ralph glared at them as they escaped into the street. When they hid around the corner, Nelle was a little unsettled by what had happened. Truman, however, was rather pleased with himself.

  “Did you see that? We got to him,” he said.

  “Truman, this is getting too weird. I wanna play a different game. How ’bout you be the cowboy this time—”

  “What’sa matter? You scared—”

  Before Truman could finish the sentence, Nelle swung him around and pinned him to the side of the building. Truman’s toes were barely touching the ground.

  “You calling me chicken, you little pipsqueak?” She glared into his face.

  Truman knew when to back off. “I didn’t mean nothing, Nelle. Honest.”

  She saw him turning pale and let him go.

  Truman took a few breaths and straightened his collar. “You know you’re onto something when you start to get to them. Did you see the look in Ralph’s eyes? I wonder what the pit is. Maybe a snake pit?”

  “I’m tired of all this snake talk. I don’t like ’em,” said Nelle. “I got bit by a cottonmouth once when I went swimming in Little River.”

  “Really?” said Truman. “I heard they can’t bite you while they’re swimming.”

  Nelle scowled. “Ask A.C. I had to go to the hospital and everything.”

  “Okay, okay, no more snakes for now. But we still have another clue to deal with.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Not what, who,” he said. “The sheriff’s son, Elliot. That’s who Ralph was talking about! I never did like him. Or his dogs.”

  “Now, hold on a minute, Truman. Isn’t Elliot the one that chased you down that time and locked you in the icehouse till you almost froze? You think he done it? How do you figure him?” said Nelle.

  Truman shook off the memory. “It’s elementary, my dear Watson.”

  Nelle threw up her hands. “What are you saying, Tru?”

  He smiled. “I’m saying, who gets grounded by the sheriff? Only his son, Elliot, that’s who.”

  Nelle slowly nodded in agreement. “Do you mean what I think you mean?”

  Truman suddenly looked worried. “Yes. We have to go talk to the sheriff.”

  20

  Showdown

  Sheriff Farrish was a giant of a man who wore huge leather boots and a heavy black belt that holstered a pearl-handled revolver. There were stories of him shooting people who’d rubbed him the wrong way. Everyone avoided the sheriff like the plague if they could help it, but Truman knew Sherlock Holmes would never back away from a lead.

  Sheriff didn’t take kindly to Truman and Nelle waking him up when they knocked on the window of his patrol car. He was surly enough from the interruption of his afternoon nap but became even more so once Truman hinted that his own son, Elliot, had been involved in a crime.

  He stepped out of his car and unfolded his body to the size of a giant oak tree until he towered over the two kids who intended to question him. The sheriff had one hand on his pearl-handled revolver, which just happened to be at Truman’s eyeline.

  “I don’t know what you heard or what gossip people are sayin’, but I would advise you to stay clear of the matter,” he grumbled. “People who stick their noses into other people’s business tend to get them cut off,” he said without any humor.

  Nelle was ready to slink off but Truman held his ground. “So, sir, you’re saying it’s not true?” He jutted out his lower jaw, trying to look tough. It had the opposite effect.

  The sheriff just laughed. “It’s true what they say about you, boy. You do look like a bulldog, though not like any bulldog I ever owned.”

  “Come on, Truman, let’s go,” said Nelle. Truman refused.

  “Not until the sheriff tells us what’s going on around here. The press has the right to know if there’s some kind of cover-up, sir.” Truman didn’t know if his little ruse would work on a lawman.

  “The press?” He guffawed. “Listen, you runt, if you’re the press, I’m President Hoover.”

  Nelle started to wrench Truman away. “I’m a writer, Sheriff, and I’m going to write about this,” said Truman firmly.

  The sheriff spat a glob of chaw near Truman’s white shoes. “Ain’t no story here, son,” he said, leaning over Truman. “Maybe it was the boogeyman who done it.”

  “Or maybe the answer is in the snake pit,” said Truman, shaking.

  The sheriff stared straight into Truman’s eyes. “You look just like your mother did at your age. She was trouble too. Guess the acorn don’t fall far from the tree.” He turned and got back in his car. As the engine roared to life, he took one last look at Truman. “You too pretty for a boy. You wouldn’t want to lose them pretty looks, now, would you?”

  Truman gulped.

  “Say hello to your dad for me, Miss Nelle. I’m sure he knows what you’re up to.”

  He winked, gunned the engine, and sped out onto the road, disappearing into a cloud of dust.

  21

  Playtime’s Over

  Truman and Nelle regrouped in A.C.’s study. Nelle liked being in his room because it was filled with books—law books, religious books, encyclopedias, and almanacs. It was also a place where A.C. went when he needed to think—which was just what they needed, because Truman was still steaming over the sheriff’s comments.

  “It’s just a game, Truman. Sometimes we’re pirates, sometimes Rebel soldiers. Why don’t we just start a new story?” asked Nelle, playing with her pipe. “Or, better yet, figure out what we’re gonna dress up as for Halloween? My sister still has that ham-hock costume left over from the Hog Festival—”

  Truman was rifling through his notes. “Isn’t it odd that two people have mentioned the boogeyman now?”

  Nelle shrugged. “It’s just an expression.”

  “Or a clue,” Truman suggested.

  Nelle sighed. “Or just an expression, Tru.”

  “What about this snake pit?” he continued.

  “You know I don’t like snakes . . .”

  “Come on, Nelle. You saw their reaction. Watson never gives up and neither should you. Even if you were bit once.”

  Nelle sat at her dad’s desk and fiddled with his typewriter. “You’re always making up stories, Truman. I just like to read ’em.”

  Truman stared at his shoes. “You’re a storyteller too, Nelle. Just like me.”

  She looked at him ruefully. “Well, I feel more like a character in your play.”

  Truman swung her around. “You’re the star of my play, Nelle Harper. You and me, we’re . . . apart from everybody else. Nobody gets me like you do.”

  Nelle nodded. She fe
lt the same. She’d never been one of the girls, and he understood what it meant not having a mother around. Truman was different but he made her feel like she belonged. Deep down, she liked being in his adventures, even if they got her in trouble.

  Life was never boring with Truman around.

  Nelle grabbed a blank piece of paper and wound it into the typewriter. She stuck the pipe in her mouth and poised her fingers over the typewriter, then suddenly started pecking away at the keys—clack-clackety-clack.

  Truman peered over her shoulder as she typed Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Red-Eyed Snake Gang, a new mystery by Dr. Watson (Nelle).

  “Nice title,” said Truman.

  Nelle took out her notes and began typing up some of her ideas. Truman saw she’d been scribbling away on her own. “I knew it! You are a writer, Nelle.”

  “I’m gonna be a lawyer like A.C. Go to law school and everything,” she said without stopping.

  Truman grinned. “Fine, have it your way. But when we grow up, I’m gonna find us a genuine case to solve and then we’ll write about it for real, you’ll see. You’ll always be my Watson.”

  22

  Little Bit o’ Trouble

  Not every home in Monroeville had a phone. Truman’s and Nelle’s did, and whenever Truman was too lazy to climb over the wall, he’d just call her up on the telephone. He rarely used his everyday voice; instead, he used his strange high-pitched lisp and told outrageous stories, or sometimes he greeted Nelle with a deep bass voice. “Hello, this is Professor Moriarty!” he’d boom—or some such nonsense.

  Every house was connected by a party line, which meant you could listen in on all the conversations on the block. Sometimes, just for fun, Truman and Nelle would listen in to hear whatever local gossip was flying around. And it so happened that on this particular day, they were each on the line and heard it click over to none other than that mean bully Boss Henderson. Where he was calling from, they didn’t know, but he had to be close by.