by Mac Flynn
"Mom, you really need to learn how to cook wrong or I'm going to gain ten pounds here," I told her.
She smiled and stood to remove the plates. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Did you want any more berry pie, Adam?"
Adam scooted his chair back and wiped his lips with his napkin. "No, I couldn't eat another bite Mrs.-Annie."
I snorted, but Mom's smile widened. "Good. You, Ralph dear?"
"Is that where I stand in this pecking order? Asked last?" he teased.
"Guests first, dear," Mom scolded him. "But did you want anything else?"
"Nothing on the table. I might need some antacid," he quipped.
She gathered more plates and absently nodded her head. "That's nice, dear. Now what did you two plan on doing today?"
"I was going to take Adam for a drive through town," I replied.
"Well, you'll find a lot of businesses open today," my dad spoke up. "They like to get all the weekend tourists before they leave town."
"There's nothing wrong with making an honest dollar," Mom scolded him.
"It is if they change their day of rest to Monday so that a man can't find a good place to get lunch after he's poured over a half dozen articles," Dad countered.
"I keep offering to pack you a lunch every day. It wouldn't be any trouble," Mom argued.
"It's the only way I lose any weight," he quipped.
I stood and tossed down my napkin. "Well, I guess we'll see you two later. Don't eat all the leftovers while we're gone," I teased.
"We'll try not to," my mom replied.
"We'd die before we finished them," my dad muttered.
Adam and I grabbed our coats and walked outside. The weather was gray, but there was no new snow on the ground. A cool breeze blew by and I bundled myself in my jacket. "I hope we can still fit into the car seats," I muttered.
"Perhaps if we slid them back," Adam suggested.
I snorted as we walked down the steps to the car. "Yeah, but I don't think my feet are that long."
It turned out my mom's food hadn't affected us too much, and we drove into town. The tourists my mom mentioned were avid cross-country skiers and those who passed through to get to the northern ski slopes. Main Street was hopping with traffic and people strolling along the sidewalk going in and out of the small shops. I parked the car in front of the ice cream parlor. It wasn't the best food to be eating-heck, after that meal I didn't feel like eating much-but I noticed an old, beat-up Buick in front of the building.
"I hate to say this, but if we want to find out anything about the rumors then the person we're looking for is probably in the ice cream parlor," I told Adam.
"Is their information reliable?" he wondered.
"As reliable as anyone else."
"Then lead on."
Chapter 7
We left the car and stepped into the ice cream parlor. The shining floor was almost homicidal in its quantity of wax and the walls were a glistening white. To our right was the long freezer counter, and below the top was heaven on earth, or as close to it as one could get. There were over fifty flavors, and all of them were delicious. Unfortunately, I didn't have much appetite, but I led the way to the stools that sat in a neat row in front of the far end of the counter. Booths with red cushions and tables sat against the left wall.
One of the stools was occupied by a woman twenty years older than my mom but who tried to look younger with dyed hair and makeup. She wore a heavy coat and a large, shiny leather purse sat on the stool beside her. Her name was Mrs. Ben Simmons, the local busybody. Opposite her and over the counter stood the thin owner of the ice cream parlor himself, Ben Simmons, her husband. He had a balding head he didn't try to hide, and a smile on his face that complimented the twinkle in his eyes. His calm, gentle demeanor was opposite to his wife's blunt manner.
A little bell rang above us as we entered and Ben glanced at the door. His smile widened and he met us halfway with open arms. "Why, if it isn't the big-city girl, Miss Monet herself! When did you come in?"
"Last night. It was a last-minute decision to visit my folks," I told him.
He leaned over the counter and his twinkling eyes fell on Adam. "Last minute for some future plans?" he teased.
Mrs. Simmons gasped. "You're to be married?"
"No no, nothing like that," I argued. I didn't want any rumors flying about us. "We just wanted to get away from the snow at our place."
Ben chuckled. "So out of the frying pan and into the fire?"
"Something like that. So how's business been?" I wondered. We four were the only ones in the store.
His merry eyes flickered to the frosty outdoors. "Good, but it does get slow around this time of year. Can't imagine why."
I laughed. "Neither can I."
"So what can I get for you two trouble-making city-slickers? Your favorite's still here," he told me.
Suddenly I had more room in my stomach. "Death-By-Chocolate?"
He nodded. "Yep."
"I'll take a bowl, and a gallon to take home," I told him.
"You know, your dad's taken a liking to it, too," he warned me.
"On second thought I'll take two gallons," I added.
"Good." Ben's attention turned to Adam. "And what will you have, kind sir?"
"Do you have lemon?" Adam wondered.
"Yep. It's not often called for, but we keep some around just for folks with a special flavor," he replied with a wink. Ben went into the rear of the store to fetch the ice cream, and that gave his wife a chance to pounce.
"So what have you been up to, Chrissy?" Mrs. Simmons asked me.
We walked over to her and took seats on nearby stools. "Oh, just typing on my columns and buying my first house."
"Yes, your mother told me you'd bought a quaint little thing in the hills. It's quite a distance from here, isn't it?" she mused.
"Yeah, a good four hours with all this snow," I agreed.
Her hawk-like eyes scrutinized our faces and a smile was on her lips. "I heard you say you were here on a surprise trip. It didn't happen to be about that wolf running around, would it?"
I shrugged to try to hide my stiff shoulders. "Well, it might. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I heard one of your columnists was around talking with people." She looked straight ahead and turned her nose up at the wall as though it was my fellow employee. "He spoke with me, but he didn't quote me."
"I'm sure it's because he didn't have enough room. We're allowed only so much," I told her.
"Well, be that as it may he certainly had time to quote Eb for all he was worth," she argued.
I raised an eyebrow. "Eb? What does he have to do with this?"
"Why, my dear, he's the one who first saw the creature."
I choked on my spittle and a coughing fit nearly overtook me. "Eb's the one who first told the story?" I asked her.
"'Eb?'" Adam repeated.
"Ebeneezer Scald, the dirtiest man in the county," Mrs. Simmons explained.
"And a teller of tall tales," I added.
"Well, it seems these tales aren't as tall as some of this others because Old Greg's seen the monster, too," she added.
"Yeah, but sometimes Old Greg starts seeing things when somebody's put ideas in his head. Remember the time he thought the gophers had grown to mutant sizes because his son was telling him about comic books?" I pointed out.
Adam smiled. "Were they mutant gophers?"
Simmons snorted and waved her hand at him. "No, dear, they were just badgers. The first anyone had seen in a long time around here."
"Finally found it!" Ben spoke up as he strode through the doorway to the back room. In his hands was a gallon of ice cream partially encased in ice and with signs of having been chipped free with a pick. He plopped it down on the wide counter in front of us and little chunks of ice slid everything. "It may look bad on the outside, but these tubs'll outlast all of us." He popped open the tough plastic lid and showed us the clear, un-crystallized interior that contained Adam's lemon ice crea
m. "See what I mean?"
"Very impressive," Adam agreed.
Simmons scowled at her husband. "You interrupted our conversation, Ben."
"Sounded mighty philosophical, from what I caught in the back. Something about mutant gophers. Old Greg telling tall tales again?" he teased.
"We were wondering if there was any truth to these wolf tales," I spoke up.
Ben grabbed some bowls and began scooping the requested ice cream flavors into them. "Well, I don't know about a wolf, but Old Greg saw something that spooked him, and it wasn't a coyote that killed his cattle. One of his hands came in and told me about it. Ordered a strawberry milkshake, his usual, and gave all the grisly details. It was something big that got those cows, that's for sure, and there was some big tracks."
I watched him pile on the scoops and the stack grew higher and higher. Ben had a good memory in the past, especially when fulfilling orders for a dozen people at a time, but he must have slipped in the last few years. "Um, Ben, we ordered a small bowl, not a punhc bowl," I reminded him.
He grinned and kept scooping until the bowls were graced with a dozen scoops. "You think old Ben's gotten a little soft in the head like the soft ice cream? Well, these bowls are on the house to celebrate your little visit."
"That's very kind of you," Adam spoke up.
Ben slid the towering bowls towards us and handed us large spoons. "Isn't nothing to talk about." He leaned toward me and winked. "I'm sure that mom of yours is starving you out of her house."
I snorted. "Yeah, we're wasting away like Dad."
"Ben, you were saying about the tracks," his wife reminded him. She hated to have a story stopped mid-telling.
"Oh, right. Now lemme see here." He tapped his chin and through his eyes I could see those well-oiled cogs working. "Well, there was some big tracks. He showed me pictures, and the sheriff took some casts. They were huge, like a big dog, but longer and wider. Almost looked like somebody was wearing some skinny shoes with wolf tracks on the bottom. Maybe that's where that columnist fellow got the idea it was a werewolf."
"So you don't believe it?" I wondered.
He shrugged as he cleaned off his scoop with water and a towel. "I don't know, but those were some pretty funny-looking tracks."
Mrs. Simmons puffed up and frowned at her husband. "I for one believe Old Greg. He's never been known to lie, and there's far too much proof to say he was lying."
"Did they try following the tracks?" Adam asked them.
"Yep, with some hunting dogs from Sheriff Wyman. He hunts grouse with them, but the dogs didn't think this was a grouse. They just barked and growled at the tracks. Couldn't get them to go more than a few yards before they'd stop and howl and bark," Ben told us.
"So what about Eb seeing the wolf-thing first? Did he get a good look at it?" I spoke up.
Mrs. Simmons sniffed and shook her head. "No. He says it was too dark and he had a hangover at the time. All he knew was there was a wolf prowling around his shack and it left the same footprints like those around Old Greg's place."
"And these incidents happened at the same time?" Adam guessed.
"No, a few days apart, though between those days some of those cross country skiers found the remains of some poor animals, torn to shreds like Old Greg's cattle," she added.
"Any footprints there?" I asked her.
"There'd been some fresh snow the night before so they didn't notice any tracks on the ground," she replied.
Adam set down his spoon and we all turned to him. His bowl was empty, and if I didn't know his manners I swore he licked it clean. Mrs. Simmons blinked at the empty container and Ben chuckled. "You've got a healthy appetite there, son."
"How can I have anything else with such delicious ice cream and wonderful company?" he countered.
Ben's smile broadened, and Mrs. Simmons waved her hand at him and blushed. "My goodness, but you are a sweet one with words. Chrissy, wherever did you find him?"
"Would you believe in the middle of the woods?" I asked her.
"No, but you have to point me to these woods," she pleaded.
Ben shook his head and winked at me. His wife was always saying such things, but their fifty-year marriage spoke for itself. I glanced down at my bowl of melting fudge and chocolate chips. "Um, as much as I agree with Adam on the company part, I think I'm going to need a doggy-bag for this pile before it melts."
"No problem," Ben obliged. He pushed off the counter and grabbed a small plastic tub. "As I always say, I'd rather watch somebody walk out with these tubs than see ice cream go to waste."
My ice cream slid into the container and we slipped off our stools. "Thanks, Ben, you're a lifesaver," I told him.
His wife and he led us to the door of the shop, and Ben handed us two more gallons of my favorite, along with Adam's lemon, and winked at us. "Don't make yourself such a stranger, and if you ever have some young'uns you just remember old Ben's name," he told us.
"Ben!" Mrs. Simmons scolded him.
"We'll be sure to do that," Adam promised with a wide smile on his face.
"Good, now go have some fun in the snow before the next blizzard comes. I can feel one coming in my ice cream nozzles," he warned us.
We slipped into the car and Adam turned to me with a raised eyebrow. "Can he really feel anything in the nozzles?"
I shrugged and started the car. "I don't know, but he's more reliable than any weatherman. If he says a storm's coming then a storm's coming."
Chapter 8
I drove us down Main Street. "So what did you think of their stories?" I asked Adam.
"They leave us very little to go on," he replied.
I snorted. "Wolf tracks and the dogs howling aren't enough?"
"It might still be a non-native creature that the dogs don't recognize," he mused.
"And the prints?"
"I must admit those are troubling."
"So where to now? Well, besides home, so I can drop off all this ice cream before it becomes a puddle of chocolate and lemony goodness."
"Do you know the location of this 'Old Greg's' farm?" he wondered.
I nodded. "Yep, it's actually past my parents' home five miles up the road. Sometimes if the wind's right you can smell his feedlot."
"Sounds enchanting."
"Well, my mom can get all the manure she wants for a good price."
"Will this 'Old Greg' be pleased if we visited him?" he asked me.
I snorted. "Old Greg never said 'no' to anybody who wanted a look around his place. He's got a green thumb when it comes to raising beef cow and likes to show it off. Well, in his own, quiet way. He won't go out of his way to brag, but he'll show it if you want a tour."
"A tour is exactly what I wish," Adam confirmed.
We stopped off at home and Mom greeted us on the porch. "Back already?" she wondered.
"We stopped off at Ben's ice cream parlor and he loaded us up," I explained.
She smiled. "I see. Well, there should be room in one of the freezers, but if you have any of your favorite you'll want to hide it in the beef freezer so your dad won't find it."
"Speaking of Dad, where is he?" I asked her as we trudged inside.
She nodded at the living room. "After breakfast he said something about sitting in his chair to have a food coma, and I haven't heard a peep from him since."
I rubbed my still-full stomach. "Not a bad idea."
"Should I expect you two for lunch, or just dinner?" Mom asked us.
I looked to Adam, who smiled. "We'll gladly be here for both," he assured her.
My mom's smile widened. "Good, now let's put this ice cream away before your dad-"
"Ice cream?" a voice spoke up. Dad peeked his head around the corner of the living room doorway.
"Not for you, dear,' Mom scolded him.
"He might be able to have some if he's good," I teased.
Dad snorted. "I should have spanked you more when I had the chance."
"Ralph," Mom warned him as she slip
ped away with the ice cream.
"You were spanked?" Adam wondered.
A mischievous twinkle slipped into my dad's eyes. "Oh yes, plenty of times. She was a very naughty girl."
I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. "I wasn't that bad," I argued.
"What about the time you gave laxatives to one of the chickens?" he reminded me.
I blushed and coughed into my hand. "That was for a-um, a science experiment."
"And the time you climbed onto the roof to lie in wait for Santa?" he added.
"I was seven, and it wasn't that cold of a year!"
He snorted. "It took me an hour to get you down, and by that time Santa had come and gone."
"That's because Mom stuffed the presents under the tree while you coaxed me down," I countered.
Adam set his hands on my shoulders and chuckled. "You must tell me more during lunch, but weren't you going to show me some of the country?" he reminded me.
I frowned, but half-turned away from my parental adversary. "You tell him any more and you're not getting any ice cream," I warned my dad.
My dad raised an eyebrow. "Where exactly were you two planning on going?"
"Just to-um-"
"To Old Greg's farm. I was curious to see the footprints they found," Adam admitted.
"I see. Is that why you two came here to visit?" he inquired.
I cringed, but nodded. "Yeah."
My dad's gaze fell on Adam, and there was suspicion in his eyes. "You're not an investigator or anything like that, are you?"
Adam smiled and shook his head. "Nothing like that at all. I merely have an interest in fantastic stories."
Dad sighed and shrugged. "Kids these days are interested in most anything weird and strange. Well, don't go bothering too many people with questions. They've already answered some with that column and they might not feel like answering the same ones again," he warned us.
Adam bowed his head and directed me to the door. "We will be sure to not bother anyone," he promised.
"And be back in time for lunch or your mom will worry!" he called to us.
"We will," I shouted back as we left.