Boo Hiss (17 page)

Butch had watched Leonard stand on the steps of the community center and shamelessly wave his ego flag. A small group had gone with Leonard. The larger group had been directed to the pet store where apparently they were going to get a lesson on rodent control. His father had taken charge of some hysterical woman. And the mayor, on tenterhooks, was being led away by Martin. So the only one left standing was a small man in overalls named Gordon.

Butch had approached him after the dust had settled. “What are you still doing here?”

He shrugged. “Waiting for someone to tell me what in the world I have in my house.”

“You have tracks?”

“Yep.”

“Snake tracks?”

“It was about yea wide,” he said, opening up his hands to measure six inches across. “Looks to me like I’ve either got an anaconda or a potbelly pig.”

It took ten minutes to get to Gordon’s house, which was near the edge of town. It was an old farmhouse, the paint peeling off the wood like a cheese slicer had gone down the side of it.

Butch followed Gordon in the front door. “This is my wife, Alda.”

Alda sat on the sofa in the living room holding a shotgun, her hair wound back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Alda looked like she knew exactly how to handle a shotgun, so Butch just smiled, said a hello, and tried not to make any sudden moves. “Why don’t you show me those tracks, Gordon?”

Gordon brought him to the back of the house, near the kitchen. He pointed to the flour. Butch stooped down to take a closer look. Sure enough, there were large tracks, nearly six inches wide, going through the flour. And they continued on toward the basement in an j-like sequence.

“What’s down there?” Butch asked.

“Aw, not a whole lot. Some cattle feed. I do a lot of wood cutting down there. It’s just a bunch of junk.”

“I need a flashlight.”

Alda rummaged through some drawers in her kitchen and returned with one. The light was dim, but it would do. He shone it down the stairs, where the flour faded with each step. So whatever it was had gone down the stairs, not up them. Which meant whatever it was had a high probability of still being down there.

“Is there another way out the basement?”

Gordon shook his head. “We had the door cemented over. There’s a window, but it’s high, and an animal couldn’t get to it.”

“You have a light down there?”

“Naw. Burned out in ‘69,” Alda said.

Butch squatted at the edge of the stairs, trying to figure out what would make such a large track. Suddenly an idea popped into his head. He stood, Gordon and Alda hovering right behind him. “I need a phone.”

“Alda, go get the phone,” Gordon said.

She handed him the shotgun and left.

“What for?” Gordon asked.

If Butch’s theory was right, there was a lot at stake here, and the last thing he needed was a trigger-happy farmer’s wife blowing a hole through him and the basement wall at the first sign of trouble.

Alda returned. “Here you go.” She plopped a ceil phone into his hand.

“Gordon, I’m going to need a rope. And Alda, can I get a cup of coffee?” Both went to fulfill their separate tasks, allowing Butch the room he needed to maneuver. He didn’t need a rope or coffee, but he needed them out of his hair for a moment. When they were out of earshot, Butch made a phone call.

“Bookstore, Dustin speaking.”

“Dustin, this is Butch. Let me ask you something. You say that Bob is the more dominant of the two heads.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“So what happens to Fred when they’re slithering along?”

“Oh, he just sort of gets dragged. Sometimes he’ll put up a fight, but that just puts them at a standstill. So mostly he just gets dragged.”

“Okay, thanks.” Butch hung up the phone and looked at the tracks. That could account for the wideness. Fred’s head being dragged alongside the body.

“Cream and sugar, son?” he heard Alda call from the kitchen.

“One and a half tablespoons of sugar and three ounces of cream.” Butch clutched the flashlight and headed down the cold cement steps as he heard Alda opening kitchen drawers, trying to find a measuring spoon. He fingered his knife with the other hand. His footsteps echoed as he descended into the dark box. Standing on the last step, he listened carefully for any sound.

After a few moments, he started hearing a noise from the far corner, over by where the cattle feed was stacked.

“Got a rope!” he heard Gordon call from the top step.

“I forgot to mention I’m also going to need some pliers. Needle-nose if you have them.”

The wood above him creaked as Gordon went back out to the shed. Butch aimed his light over to the corner. He blocked out everything else around him and controlled his fear.

With careful steps, he made his way around a pile of junk and to the corner. The sound became clearer as he approached with deft footsteps. He knew one thing for sure. He was going to have to move those feed sacks if he was going to see anything. And you don’t move a feed sack with one hand.

He found a box to set his flashlight on, facing the beam toward the sacks. He pulled out his knife and put it between his teeth for easy access. Then, one by one, he slowly moved the sacks. The sound became more prominent with each movement he made.

He had three sacks to go. He moved one, and as he went for the next to last one, he stumbled backward, dropping his knife. After getting over the shock that he’d actually
yelped
, he bent forward, picked up his knife, and peered between the remaining sacks and the corner wall. There, coiled tightly, was a two-headed snake.

One head was obviously bigger than the other. But nevertheless, four soulless eyes were staring back at him. He’d been in a lot of dangerous situations, but he’d not once felt his knees shake. The snake was fat and thick but not exceptionally long. It looked like it didn’t want to be disturbed, so with great care, Butch stacked three of the sacks back and stepped away. He climbed the stairs as he heard Alda call, “I’ve got your carefully seasoned coffee up here.”

Butch emerged and shut the basement door behind him. Alda didn’t look pleased. She shoved the coffee into his hands. Butch smiled and took a sip. “Delicious,” he managed, despite Aldas growing scowl. Gordon returned with needle-nose pliers.

“Maybe we should call that snake hunter. He’s the expert, after all, and probably more qualified to handle this situation,” Gordon said.

“No need. The snake isn’t down there,” Butch said confidently. “I shut the door to make sure whatever it is you do have doesn’t go down there. That is now a secure location, so whatever you do, don’t open that door, or it immediately becomes unsecured.”

“What do you need the rope and pliers for?” Gordon asked.

Butch handed the potently stale coffee back to Alda. He took the rope and pliers from Gordon like he knew what he was doing. He didn’t have a clue. But he was trained to think fast, and that didn’t stop in a farmer’s house.

He carefully coiled the rope against the bottom of the door and then set the pliers in the middle, with the sharp end sticking up.

“What’d you do that for?” asked Alda.

“If it is a snake you have, then it will be scared off if it thinks another snake has a territorial claim over the house. Snakes don’t see well, so to him, it will appear to be a snake.” It was a bunch of bull, but bull can be sold with the right kind of cockiness.

Gordon and Alda looked down at the rope and pliers. Both shrugged. “Okay. Well, how long do we keep the basement door shut?” asked Gordon.

“Three days,” Butch said. “If you don’t see any more activity surrounding the flour, then I’d say you’re in the clear, and the snake has been scared off. If you see tracks in the flour, go ahead and call the snake hunter.”

That seemed to bring some relief to both their concerned faces. Gordon shook his hand. “Thank you, son. Thank you.”

Butch smiled, decided not to thank Alda for the coffee again, and walked outside. As far as he was concerned, he’d come face to face with the Loch Ness monster.

C
HAPTER
17

“S
TOP, STOP
!” L
OIS YELLED
from four rows back. The actors onstage turned, defeat heavy in their shoulders. “What was that?” She rose from her chair and floated down the center aisle. “Mariée, do you expect me to believe you’re the kind of woman these two men want?”

Mariée was about to answer. But in the theater, Lois never asked a question that she intended someone to answer.

“The fact of the matter is that you’re going to have to push yourself in this role, Mariée. Lotus is a complex woman, with a lot of complex emotional components. Yes, on the surface she may appear to be handling the love of two men with grace and dignity, but underneath, what is happening to her?”

“ She’s—”

“Losing her mind, that’s what! She’s envious!”

“Envious of what?”

“Women who only have to deal with the affections of one man, that’s what! How she longs for a quiet, simple life. But yet how can she deny love?”

“So you want her to be moody?” Mariée asked. “I can do moody.”

“Not
moody.
Mariée. Misunderstood.”

“So in this scene, when she slaps both men at the same time, she’s misunderstood?”

“No. She’s just mad. But that’s Lotus for you. She’s not intimidated by anger.” Lois sighed as she looked at their perplexed faces. “Okay, it’s
late and you all look tired. Go home, get some good rest, and well come back here tomorrow night with some fresh blood in us. In the meantime, be thinking about your character, okay? What makes him or her tick? What motivates your character to do the things he or she does?”

“Mental illness,” she heard someone whisper. She ignored that.

Everyone dispersed except Sheriff Parker, who came toward Lois as she gathered her things. A sloppy grin looked like it was about to fall off his face.

“I don’t suppose Lotus would be up for a late night piece of cheesecake?”

Lois stood upright and swung her bag over her shoulder. “In case you haven’t noticed, Lotus is a little irritated.”

“But Bart always brings a smile to her face.”

Lois rolled her eyes. “Not tonight, Irwin. I mean, Bart. Whoever you are.” She brushed past him. Glancing back like any self-respecting woman shouldn’t, she noticed how wounded the sheriff looked as he walked the opposite way out the front doors of the auditorium. With a grunt, she turned and called, “Bart?”

It took him a moment, but he finally figured out she was calling him. “Yeah?”

“Maybe you could stop by Saturday, help me paint some of the set.”

His face lit temporarily. “Okay. I’ll bring the coffee and donuts.”

Lois nodded and continued toward the back exit where her car was parked. This play was going to be a disaster. Nobody understood anything about their character, least of all Mariée, who couldn’t seem to get out of her late-twenties mind-set. And despite Lois’s best directing attempts, Mariée didn’t look a day over thirty-six.

Outside, the night had turned frigid. Lois tucked her chin into the collar of her coat as she walked to her car. Pulling her keys from her pocket, she reached for her door and heard, “Hello, Lois.”

Wolfe tiptoed down the stairs, each creak of the wood announcing his presence. He’d just finished talking Ainsley off a cliff, and then she’d fallen asleep mumbling something about vegetable crackers. Melb had become quite the late-nighter, and it was only a few minutes before that she’d finally gone up to bed. Ainsley said that Oliver had been asleep since eight.

The rehearsal had let out late, and Lois was in a particularly grumpy mood, so the fun and games of it all had vanished, and now for everyone there was real fear of dropping a line. He’d been diligent in his memorization. Why not? He didn’t have anything else to do. And though he’d wanted to offer Lois some tips on basic story structure, he wasn’t sure that would be well received, so he just kept his mouth shut and tried his best not to be bothered by the fact that the story didn’t have a climax and that the conflict and resolution both shared the same page of the play.

Now all he wanted was a big, fat sandwich and a tall glass of milk. It was nearly eleven o’clock. In the kitchen, Goose and Bunny huddled in the kitchen and whined. This had all been hard on the dogs. Accepting Ainsley into their family wasn’t the problem, but the recent activity inside their home was wreaking havoc on their predictable dog lives.

Wolfe went to the garage and got their dog food. He poured it into their bowls, but they didn’t move to their dishes. “Come on, kids. Dinner’s waiting. I know it’s late.” They stayed put, and actually hung their heads and whined. Wolfe stooped down to their level. “What’s wrong with you two?” He scratched their heads. “Listen, I know things are weird around here. We’ve got houseguests who aren’t exactly conventional. And I’ve noticed that Ainsley doesn’t pay as much attention to
you as she usually does. I’m sort of in the same boat. But life will return to normal. I promise. You’re both probably feeling ignored, and that’s understandable. After all, most nights I don’t get home until late with all these play practices.” He gave them both a good rubdown. “All right, go eat.”

Both slid closer to the floor and lowered their heads. Wolfe’s growing concern was interrupted by a tapping at the back door. He could see someone standing outside. As he approached, he recognized his father-in-law’s badge.

“Hi,” Wolfe said, opening the door. “What’s going on?”

The sheriff came in and glanced around. “Everyone asleep?”

“Yeah, except me. I was just about to make myself a sandwich. You want one?”

“Sure. Thanks.” He followed Wolfe into the kitchen. “I’m glad you’re up, Wolfe. I need to talk.”

Wolfe had his back to the sheriff as he poked his head into the refrigerator. So luckily he didn’t see Wolfe squeeze his eyes shut. That was the last thing Ainsley had said tonight before she went into a thirty-minute tirade that somehow included Wolfe’s unwillingness to help fold Melb’s laundry. Except Ainsley had never asked him to, and there was a part of him that wasn’t sure he could fold other people’s underwear.

Wolfe took out all the ingredients and laid them across the counter. “Talk?”

“Yeah,” the sheriff said, plopping down on a barstool. He glanced at the dogs. “What’d these two do, dump on the carpet?”

“What? No. They’re fully trained.”

“Really. That’s the exact same look Thief gives me when he doesn’t make it to the box. I’m the sheriff. I know guilt when I see it.”

Wolfe rubbed his temples and tried to breathe deeply. He was
not
having this conversation, was he? “They’re just tired.”

“Anyway, I thought you could give me some advice.”

“Advice?” Wolfe slapped mayo onto the bread and whisked it from side to side.

“Yeah. I’m going crazy, Wolfe.”

“Why?”

“I think I’m in love. But it’s so complicated, and I just don’t trust myself right now.”

“What’s complicated about it?”

“I’m not sure what part of myself is really in love.”

Wolfe tried to hand the sheriff his sandwich without looking like that statement was at all odd. “Right, I see.”

“It’s Lois,” the sheriff sighed. “I think I’m in love with Lois.”

“Lois, Oliver’s cousin?”

“Yeah. I know. The Queen of Menopause.”

“No, no. Not at all. Lois is a fine lady. Eccentricity can be attractive, especially when it comes with hot flashes.”

The sheriff didn’t show a hint of a smile, but he was biting into his sandwich at the time. Wolfe decided he’d better can the humor and listen to his father-in-law. The man was obviously distressed.

“So you’re not sure about your feelings for her?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure if it’s a fantasy or not. One night Lois and I went out together as Bart and Lotus, just for some help with my character. She called it method acting. You should try it with your character.”

“I might. My character’s dead, so I could just lie around all day.”

“The problem is that I don’t really know if my feelings for Lois are because I’m pretending to be Bart, or if they’re for real.”

“Well, how do you feel about Lois when you’re not Bart?”

“That’s the problem. I can’t seem to leave Bart behind. He’s a smooth guy, you know? He always knows what to say and when to say it. He’s
got these great little lines in the play that make all the women crazy. And so whenever I’m around Lois, I can’t seem to be myself. I always go into Bart, because Bart always knows what to say. I, on the other hand, just fumble my words and act like a complete idiot.”

Wolfe lost his appetite. He set down his sandwich. “So what you’re saying is that whenever you’re around Lois, you pretend to be Bart?”

“It’s a little game we play. She becomes Lotus, and we do our thing. But that just makes me more confused. Do I really have feelings for Lois, or am I in love with Lotus? And who am I, anyway? Me, or Bart?”

Wolfe felt a tickle in his belly, that tickle you feel right before you giggle at the most inappropriate time and at something you absolutely shouldn’t. Wolfe squeezed his stomach muscles and stuck his tongue to the roof of his mouth just to make sure nothing escaped.

The sheriff continued. “The other thing complicating matters is that I think I have some competition.”

“Really?”

“Gibb.” The sheriff cleared his throat. “Martin, I mean.”

Wolfe shook his head. Of course! That was who Martin was talking about. “You think Martin is dating Lois?”

“I know he is. I’ve seen them out.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. What should I do?”

Wolfe went ahead and took a bite of his sandwich, just to give him some time to try to think up a rational answer in this very irrational circumstance. After forty thorough chews, he swallowed and said, “Obviously, you’ve got to find out who, exactly, is in love with Lotus. Lois.”

“Right. And whoever it is, which woman is he in love with?”

“Good point.”

“So step one is going to have to be this: I’m going to have to talk to her as myself. No word-savvy Bart. Just me.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“And we’ll see if there’s chemistry. I should talk about work and family and see what happens, right?”

“Right.”

“Maybe just talk about work. I don’t want to scare her off.”

“Okay.”

“But you get my point. I’m going to have to come through as myself.”

“Yes.”

The sheriff finished off his sandwich and gulped his milk. He wiped his mustache and handed Wolfe his plate. “You make a good sandwich. Ainsley’s been so out of the loop lately, maybe you should start cooking, eh? It’s not like you work or anything.”

“Yeah …”

“I guess I better head out.” He pulled his jacket on. “Don’t breathe a word about this to anybody. Especially not my family. They see me as a rock, Wolfe. The stable part of this family. If they sensed that I was in any way coming unglued, it could really do some damage.”

“My lips are sealed.”

The sheriff slapped his arm. “Good. Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Wolfe let him out the back door and locked it. He plodded into the kitchen to put the sandwich stuff away. Goose and Bunny were still acting strangely.

“What is up with you two?” Wolfe asked. “Do you need to go outside?” They both remained motionless.

Wolfe sighed and put all the sandwich stuff into the refrigerator. All he wanted to do was go to bed and forget all the conversations he’d had in the last two hours. His mind was mush, and his emotions were teetering. He was about to flick off the kitchen light when he noticed Oliver’s coat on the back of the couch. Soon enough he would be properly
trained by Ainsley as to where his coat should go, but for now Wolfe decided he’d better divert any potential conflict-causers.

He grabbed the coat and went to the coat closet. He noticed the dogs slipping to the other side of the room and decided he was going to have to call Garth, the vet, in the morning. Just as he was reaching for the door to the coat closet, he heard someone whisper, “Don’t scream.”