Moonlight and Mistletoe

by Maggie Daniels

  That had been a mistake.

  The dog had followed him and when Buck locked the doors it jumped into the Blazer through an open window, knocking Buck’s coffee all over his uniform. When he called the Scraggs females to haul it out, the dog had defied even them, baring its teeth and snarling when they tried to touch it.

  “It’s Demon’s way of saying she don’t want to,” the gnomish child had explained blandly. “Sometimes she bites.”

  Buck wasn’t going to put it to the test. On the way down to the department he had considered opening the door and shoving the dog out into traffic, but attempted illegal disposal of animals was a punishable offense. He didn’t feel like risking it, anyway; not as the county sheriff.

  Now he stared at his telephone messages with a tired, unfocused gaze. He hoped he was never called upon to explain how he had been withstood by a mongrel beast that had refused to be evicted from a county law-enforcement vehicle.

  “Buck,” his secretary said, coming to the door of the inner office, “your telephone’s ringing. Do you want me to take it?”

  He shook his head. His telephone had been ringing for quite a while. Buck lifted it. “Grissom here,” he intoned.

  “Buck?” The voice was that of the bureau supervisor in the state criminal investigation department, Byron Turnipseed. “I hear you got a rash of truck hijackings in Jackson County. What’s going on?”

  “Just a moment.” Buck reached down and lifted Demon’s head from where it was resting burdensomely on his left knee. “Byron, yes, I’ve got problems,” he said morosely. “Which one do you want to hear first? The separation-of-church-and-state injunction to mess up our Christmas pageant on the courthouse lawn we’ve had up here for about fifty years? The local nuts and their Committee for the Real Meaning of Christmas? Or a couple of” – Buck suddenly hesitated – “uh, runaways.”

  He’d decided at the last second not to describe Ancil Scraggs’s granddaughters and how they happened to be spending Christmas with him. No one would understand, anyway. Not down in Atlanta.

  The voice on the telephone quickly reminded Sheriff Grissom that the state’s concern was not runaways but hijackers. Buck managed a weary smile. He didn’t hear the rest as the voice in the telephone was drowned out by a series of disturbing sounds from the outer office.

  Buck thought he heard his secretary, Madelyne Smith, uttering strange, shrill noises that were not at all like her usual conversation. Then he heard the deeper voice of the deputy, Moses Holt, saying something that sounded like: “Halt, hold it right there!”

  At the same time, the big black dog under his desk came to life. Snarling and barking, it tried to squeeze past Buck’s legs.

  “Holy -” Buck grabbed at the edge of his desk so as not to be tipped out of his chair. “Hang on,” he managed to say to Atlanta as, in the outer office, Madelyne Smith’s voice hit a higher decibel.

  The dog tangled for a brief second in Buck’s telephone wire, then jerked the receiver out of his hand before breaking free. The criminal investigation department continued to talk as the receiver swung off the edge of the desk.

  Buck was wearing his gun. As Demon barreled past him his chair went over, dumping Buck to the floor. He still managed to clap his hand over his service revolver. A reflex action, he realized moments later, that was eminently prudent. For looking over the edge of his desk, Sheriff Buck Grissom saw a tall, gaunt figure with a flowing beard and disordered gray hair standing in the doorway. Holding a twelve-gauge shotgun pointed straight at him.

  Buck didn’t need a description. It was Devil Anse. He was sure nobody else could look like that. From his position on the floor, the hardwood desk between them, it was clear they had the drop on each other.

  “Sheriff,” he could hear his deputy shouting, “we got a – a armed intruder!”

  “Stay back!” Buck yelled in answer.

  He could have used some help right then from the huge dog. Like having it charge Ancil Scraggs and disarm him. But the animal obviously knew shotguns, for it dropped to the floor and lay there on its stomach.

  “Sheriff,” Devil Anse said from the doorway, “I come about my female relations, Scarlett and Farrie, what is missing from home. I been told you got them somewheres around.”

  Buck lowered himself even more behind the desk so as to minimize a possible blast from the shotgun. From there he could see a stretch of green office carpeting and, in the doorway, a pair of ancient black boots. He considered a bullet in the old man’s foot to disable him. He didn’t think it would work. Not before his desk got blown apart by the twelve-gauge.

  “They don’t want to go home,” Buck told him.

  “Well, I don’t doubt that,” the voice of Devil Anse replied. “Scarlett’s got a mind of her own, and the little one does what she tells her to. She ain’t easy to live with, Scarlett ain’t.”

  Buck was finding that out.

  “I don’t know what Scarlett told you,” Devil Anse continued. “She can spin a mighty good story when she gets going. But I ain’t about to force that girl to do nothing she don’t want to.”

  Buck, recognizing a new element, thought that over and decided not to comment.

  “No sirree,” the grating voice of Scraggs went on, “I ain’t going to trade Scarlett off to Loy Potter’s boy for his new pickup truck. Not if I get a better offer.”

  Buck couldn’t help it. He looked around the edge of the desk. “You what?”

  “That’s right, Sheriff.” The old man stood leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, shotgun now resting in the crook of his arm. The fierce, biblical prophet face, surrounded by dirty flowing gray hair, looked almost benign. “Scarlett’s a rare piece,” he said with relish. “Better looking than her maw before she ran off with that Tennessee guitar player.” He paused. “Now, Sheriff, I allus look to where I can make a good trade, anybody who knows me will tell you that. And Scarlett needs a settlin’ hand. Ain’t nothing sinful – Potter’s boy is willing to marry her.”

  Buck sat back on his heels. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The old degenerate made it sound like he was trading off a hunting dog. Instead of a perfectly able-bodied – desirable – human being.

  For a damned pickup truck.

  “What about the little girl?” Buck said carefully.

  “Farrie Fawcett?” The raspy voice turned ingratiating. “That’s a delicate subject, Sheriff. She gets about funny on those skinny little legs, don’t she? A regular little hobgobler. I’d be willing to turn her over to the county, see what they could do for her.”

  Turn her over to the county? Buck choked down a surge of wrath. The cold-blooded old devil – the kid was his grandchild!

  “Now Sheriff, let’s do some straight talking.” The voice in the doorway was sly. “In past days I have accommodated the law around heres to mutual benefit. Oh, not with your daddy, son – he was a man who shied away from anything that might even look like a purely good-hearted, generous gift with no strings attached.”

  Buck suddenly stood up, his gun leveled at Devil Anse’s potbelly. “What’s this about my dad?” he growled.

  The old man looked surprised. “Lord, son, didn’t I just say it ain’t got nothing to do with yore daddy, may God rest his soul? We’re talking about you. One thousand dollars, cash, and Scarlett’s yours.”

  For a minute Buck was too stunned to speak. Then he felt a wash of red rage begin at his ears.

  “Dirt cheap, too,” the old man added sincerely. “Considering the good amount of cash young Potter said he would throw in on top of the ninety-three Dodge.”

  “You -” Buck began in a strangled voice.

  His reaction plainly pleased Devil Anse.

  “It’s a bargain, ain’t it?” The old man smiled a broken-toothed smile. “But Sheriff, I’m willing to make this sacrifice if it means a new, friendly feeling between this office and the Scraggs family business interests. I’ll be honest with you, boy, since you took over from yore daddy it’s been a rea
l economic hardship for us in the Scraggs line of liquor services and auto parts supply. I want you to look at Scarlett as a public relations gesture of future goodwill and cooperation. On both sides.”

  “Your family business interests? Is that what you call them?” A pulse was pounding in Buck’s head. “Liquor services and auto parts supply?”

  “Son,” Devil Anse said gently, “words like ‘boot-legging’ and ‘car stealing’ are out of date, don’t you know that? Now Scarlett, if I tell her so, she’ll stay with you. And mark my words, yore bound to get yore money’s worth. No man’s laid a hand on -”

  “Money’sworth?” Buck managed to bark. “You old viper! Are you trying to bribe a law-enforcement officer?”

  He started around the desk, gun in hand. Devil Anse backed into the corridor.

  “Sheriff, ‘bribe’ ’s an ugly word,” the old man protested. “I’d hoped not to hear words like that between us. Not about an honest little gift or two. The girl’s staying at yore house, ain’t she?”

  Reluctantly, Buck stopped.

  Devil Anse looked triumphant. “Didn’t think I knew? Well, no telling what’s already happened.” He gave a truly repulsive wink. “Why don’t you think of Scarlett as a – trial offer? Money back if you ain’t satisfied, as they say on TV? You keep her a while, and if she don’t give you -”

  Buck was outraged by the sheer gall of the old man. He started for him. And tripped over Demon, who was under his feet.

  “Dammit!” Buck exploded.

  He staggered, stepped on the dog’s tail, and to the accompaniment of its anguished howls managed to reel forward and hit his shoulder on the doorjamb. But, thankfully, not his nose. In the outer office he could hear his deputy’s warning shouts, Madelyne’s shrieks.

  When he looked up, the old man was gone. Buck stood rubbing his shoulder, wondering if he had hit it hard enough to fracture it. He couldn’t afford to be injured right now. Not with so much going on.

  Worse, when he reviewed the conversation he’d just had with his visitor, he groaned. There was no doubt about it. Devil Anse Scraggs thought he had just made a deal.

  Seven

  Farrie patted the white turtleneck top stretched across her stomach. “I can wear this with the red skirt over there, can’t I, Scarlett?” she pleaded. “We wouldn’t be taking too much.”

  Scarlett knew it wasn’t a matter of taking too many of the church’s clothes; it was simply that the top didn’t fit. When the boxes had arrived Farrie had hopped like a small skinny bird from one to another, trying on everything. To judge from what the Methodist church had sent they hadn’t expected someone her size. She was small for a nine-year-old. The minister’s daughter, Judy Heamstead, had gone back out to the car for another load of donated clothing.

  “Come over here,” Scarlett told her. “Let’s try on something else.” She caught Farrie’s arm before she could scuttle away, grabbed the white knit top and pulled it over her head, leaving her little sister in nothing but her ragged underpants.

  Ordinarily yanking Farrie’s clothes off like that would have brought on a fit of outraged screeching, but this time she hardly noticed. Farrie was living in another world, so happy, so charged up about everything that Scarlett knew it couldn’t last. She tossed the turtleneck into the pile of clothing that was rapidly becoming a small mountain on the Grissoms’ dining room floor.

  Scarlett hadn’t mentioned Devil Anse’s visit to Farrie but it weighed on her mind. Ever since their grandpa had showed up on the Grissoms’ front porch wanting to get in, Scarlett had been unsure of how long they could really stay at the sheriff’s house. Farrie might be convinced that the big tough sheriff could handle anything, but she wasn’t so sure.

  On the other hand, she told herself, Devil Anse might have come just to talk. If he’d come to take them away it could have been a whole lot different.

  Still, she’d been jumpy as a cat all day long, thinking Devil Anse would come back at any minute. Or telephone. But nothing had happened.

  “Oh, Scarlett, lookahere!” Farrie stepped into a pair of green corduroy overalls, hauling them up by the straps. The too-large pants almost swallowed her.

  Scarlett sat back on her heels. The overalls had been made for somebody’s fat little kid, younger than her sister; there was even a duck embroidered on the bib.

  “You’re supposed to wear a shirt with that,” she said. “You can’t go around with your bare shoulders and arms sticking out. Not in this weather.”

  From the look on her little sister’s face nothing she could say would spoil her mood. They were surrounded by boxes from the church mixed with the Christmas decorations the sheriff’s mother had left behind. Farrie had gone from one clothing box to the other like a whirlwind. Some of the clothes, Scarlett had to admit, were nice. Some looked almost brand-new.

  “What’s that?” With a cry, Farrie bent over a cardboard box to drag out a dress. When she held it up they could see it was a gown in a peach rayon satin, old, not in good condition. The sweetheart neckline was raveled and the taffeta flowers that decorated the skirt were so flattened that it was hard to tell at first what they were.

  Scarlett frowned. “You don’t need that. It looks like something yore grandma would wear.”

  Farrie pulled the dress over her head. The back gaped open where there were buttons she could not reach, and the squashed roses hung limply. As did the puffed sleeves. “Did you ever know my grandma?” She found a wide-brimmed straw hat with matching peach satin flowers and a huge bow in front with a rhinestone pin.

  Farrie jammed it down over her ears. When she turned, arms held out, the ridiculous hat teetering, Scarlett had to smile.

  “No, I never saw her.” Scarlett had always wondered about the woman who’d been foolhardy enough to marry Devil Anse, but their grandma had died long ago and now no one ever spoke of her. “You better take that thing off. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be, probably somebody’s old bridesmaid’s dress.”

  Farrie came to stand in front of her. “What’s a bridesmaid’s dress?”

  “You know what it is, we’ve seen ’em on TV.” She cupped one of the fabric roses in her hand. It must have been pretty once: the inside was just like a real flower with little imitation white and green stalks. “Rich people have big weddings where all the bride’s girlfriends dress up to be in the church with her when she gets married.”

  Farrie flopped down on the floor beside her. “Oh Scarlett, you could have that, a big wedding with bridesmaids and all, if you married the sheriff.” She stroked a small hand down Scarlett’s sleeve coaxingly. “You’re so pretty, you’d make the best-looking bride.”

  Scarlett pulled Farrie’s hand away. “I thought I told you to stop talking like that.” Scarlett was wearing a black cotton shirt that Judy Heamstead had cinched with a leather belt with a big brass buckle, and a pair of tight but becoming jeans she’d found in the clothing boxes. The minister’s daughter and Farrie hadn’t stopped talking about how good she looked.

  “Go help yourself to more clothes,” Farrie urged. “There’s lots left. Look at all the things I found.”

  Scarlett shook her head. She wasn’t going to go hog-wild. Jeans and a couple of shirts and sweaters were enough. She didn’t want to say it in front of Farrie, but she’d never liked wearing other people’s clothes. Everyone had their dream; for Farrie, it was to live in a big house with a bed with a ruffled tester, and have a real family. For Scarlett, who had worn used clothing most of her life, it was to have her own clothes. Just a few. But all new.

  Judy Heamstead came in carrying two cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other. “Here,” she said, trying to see over them, “I hope these have got some shoes. These are sure heavy enough.”

  Seeing no place to put them, Judy opened her arms and let the boxes drop to the floor. The minister’s daughter was seventeen and wore jeans with a huge oversized red sweater, a down jacket, and cowboy boots.

  “Are you going to wear that?”
She stared at Farrie openly. “My cousin Ina was a flower girl in that for my mamma’s wedding years ago. The hat, too.”

  “A flower girl?” Farrie’s eyes were big. “In a real wedding?”

  “Take it off,” Scarlett told her. Weddings were not a good subject. There was no need to encourage her sister. She got to her knees and pulled the boxes to her. “What I need for Farrie is a warm coat. What’s in these?”

  “I hope it’s shoes.” Judy sat down on the floor beside them. “You need shoes. You can’t keep on those rubber sandals, it’s too cold.”

  The minister’s daughter stopped, her cheeks reddening. The reasons why the two Scraggs girls were at the sheriff’s house were, her mother had warned, none of Judy’s business. But since she’d brought in the boxes from the church, Judy had been dying to find out. “If these boxes don’t have any shoes in them maybe we can find some of Sheila’s old ones upstairs.”

  Scarlett was silent for a moment. “Do you know them? The sheriff? And his family here?”

  The other girl nodded. “My mother and Alicia Grissom went to school together.” She looked around the big room. “Mamma remembers when the first sheriff gave Buck’s mother this house. It used to be in Mrs. Grissom’s family but they ran out of money and lost it years ago. It was almost falling down. Hey, will you look here?” She seized something and held it up. “No wonder the box was so heavy! I thought there were shoes in it.”

  “Books.” Scarlett picked one up, curious. “A cookbook?”

  “It’s stuff left over from the last rummage sale,” Judy murmured. “Goodness, haven’t you ever seen a cookbook?”