“The one with the game room and the pool?” Eugene sounds like a bitter six-year-old.
“The preacher’s offered you a spare room in the parsonage,” Luther says. “He’s a fine man and his girl Penelope makes some mighty tasty pie.”
Eugene doesn’t answer right away. He’s busy with his cell phone, wandering off to carry on a conversation. Upon his return, he announces he’s spending the night at this grandmother’s.
“You’re sure this is what you want to do?” Luther asks. “Penelope has a coconut cream pie she made today, and she’ll cut us each a piece when we get there.”
Ah, the plot thins. Luther’s sudden concern over the weird kid makes sense at last. And while I normally choose any solution that involves pie, I certainly understand what Eugene’s thinking: The crazy you know is always more comfortable than the crazy you don’t. Not that I’m saying Penelope’s less than perfectly sane. It’s simply that sometimes her actions and words might confuse you on that particular matter.
“I’ll run along home then,” I say, edging toward my car. “I’m sure I can get the whole story from the chief in the morning. Gotta be up bright and early, you know.”
“Stop right there.” An unusual note of authority rings in Luther’s words, and I realize he must have seen me coming from Miz Waddy’s store. Us. Eugene’s not built for stealth. I seriously do not want to sit in the county jail on a charge of tampering with evidence, so I prepare to grovel.
“Or maybe I should take Eugene to his grandmother’s first.” I make an impatient gesture toward good old Big E, who takes the hint and nods.
“I’ll make sure the boy is taken care of before I go tell Penelope her fine offer was unnecessary. Just need to lock up Miz Waddy’s place first. What I’d like you to do is call your…Lt. Hayes.” Luther’s cheeks carry a blush, and I realize he almost used the word “boyfriend.” That makes me a little more sympathetic to the man than usual.
“Thanks for being there tonight,” I say. “I know it means a lot to Eugene and all those church folks to have someone like you on the job.”
Luther’s blush deepens.
“I’ll be glad to call and see if Carson can come down,” I quickly add. “As a consultant, of course. I know you and the chief could handle this fine if it weren’t for the other things going on.”
Luther casts a glance at Eugene, who is leaning against his cruiser and texting, and replies in a near whisper, “If the ladies down at the church weren’t going cuckoo, you mean. Something bad happens down there, the chief will be out on his hinny as quick as the church board can get to the mayor.”
Indeed, Luther has summed the situation up in his usual succinct style. The two most important institutions in town are the bank and the church, both of which have spotless reputations. The slightest hint of scandal and not only would the Rev. Hayslinger be ousted from the parsonage, but the whole choir could find itself singing in someone else’s sanctuary. I managed not to get dragged into the disagreement over the new hymnals last year, but I’ve heard the council president tossed the offending suggested songbook with its bright yellow cover toward the council secretary with a suggestion as to where he could put that “mustard-colored piece of doodoo.”
In Fortuna, those are fighting words. I suspect poor Dwaine had quite a time that evening, too.
I pat Luther’s shoulder in a sympathetic gesture and wave goodbye to Eugene, who looks up from his phone long enough to give me a nod. I’ve only gone a few steps when Luther says, “Hold up. You forgot the cat.”
In deference to Eugene’s youth, I swallow the words I’d so love to let loose. Dang it, I had offered to take care of Miss Priss, which makes me wonder about my own sanity.
Eugene and I watch as Luther walks into the dry goods store and the lights go on. We exchange glances as a dark shadow bobs and weaves until finally, Luther walks back to us carrying a loudly yowling basket.
“Here.” He shoves the basket at me, suggesting that I keep one hand on the lid as I drive home. The snarling that replaces the yowls makes me wonder if it’s illegal to transport a domestic cat in the trunk of a twelve-year-old sedan. Or deposit a yowling feline in the night drop of city hall, which is conveniently connected to the police department and good old Dwaine.
* * * *
“Eat.” I drop down on all fours and stare a glaring Miss Priss in her rheumy eyes. I’ve sacrificed a can of tuna, the last bit of milk in the house, and now a can of chicken noodle soup in an attempt to get her to accept something as supper.
The care and feeding of cats is something I have absolutely no experience in. “Pets” in our house during my growing up years were loosely defined as the tropical fish in a tank in Dad’s den and the pair of lovebirds my mother kept for a friend for about six months. My attempts to get a kitten or puppy always resulted in a parental reminder that I couldn’t even grow a Chia pet, so maybe I ought to consider donating to the ASPCA instead.
Precious wasn’t too hard to care for since Bobby, my ghost in residence last year, knew all about what she did and didn’t like. After all, Precious had been his mother’s dog for years before he became ectoplasm, and I figure he hung around his mom’s place before they both came to stay with me.
Alas, translators who speak both English and feline are in short supply in Fortuna. My understanding was that cats are low-maintenance. Give ‘em a litter box, toss some kitty chow in a bowl, and the job was done. I’d stopped at the farm and feed store and bought both litter and chow, neither of which suited the finicky feline. Hence, the succession of items from the cupboard, which were way far from doing the trick.
“Fine then, starve to death.” I stand on two legs, like the superior being I am, and vow to ignore Miss Priss until Miz Waddy comes back or hell freezes over, whichever comes first. Making a point not to look her way, I pull the last of yesterday’s leftover baked steak from the fridge, pop it in the microwave, and wait the requisite minutes until the ding. Sliding the meat onto a plate, I add a handful of potato chips and head for the couch and TV. Yeah, it’s ten at night, but when you’re a news reporter you get used to odd meals at odd times.
“Muwhp.”
The weird sound comes from over my left shoulder, where Miss Priss has settled in. She gazes at my plate with the lustful stare of a knickknack collector at a twenty-family yard sale. I ignore her, just as I vowed.
The next “muwhp” is louder and accompanied by a claw delicately sunk through my t-shirt and into my flesh. Miss Priss takes advantage of my shock and pain to launch herself at my lap, snag the steak, and tear toward the kitchen. I am left with a scattering of chips on the couch and the undeniable knowledge that I have once again doomed myself to becoming a creature’s servant.
Miss Priss hisses as I walk into the kitchen. I give her a wide berth as I search for a substitute supper. The quest is interrupted by the ring of my cell phone. I dive for the blamed thing, which has buried itself under a couch pillow, because that ring tone is reserved for my beloved.
That’s right. Whenever Carson calls, my phone chimes the Beer Barrel Polka. Not that he’s particular fond of beer or even knows how to polka, but because one of our first almost dates was at this charming German restaurant. Okay, it wasn’t that charming. And someone was after me there. But doggone it, I want my memories anyway.
“Hi, babe,” he answers my hello with that warm, sexy voice of his, and I get a little melty inside. “Miss me?”
“Of course,” I say. “Every minute you’re not with me.”
“But you didn’t call at the precise time my favorite sci-fi show comes on to say you can’t live without me.”
He’s right. I don’t call during his sci-fi show; he doesn’t call during my reality shows that has all those hunks in skimpy duds on the island.
“It’s Luther,” I begin. Before I can complete the sentence, a chuckle comes from way up in Columbus, Ohio.
“If you’re calling to let me know you’re eloping with Officer Gross, you’d better tell me where you’re registered,” Carson says. “Otherwise I’m assuming the gun department at Wal-Mart.”
“Ha, ha.” I push the syllables out fast so he can’t interrupt easily. “Luther is requesting your assistance here in Fortuna.”
“Another body?” I can see Carson sitting forward on his couch, elbows on his knees and all cop-like.
“Missing, but not dead as far as I know. Miz Waddy who has the dry good store seems to have disappeared.”
“The one with the gray bun, glasses on a chain, and the killer cat from hell?”
“Yeah. And about the cat…”
Silence, but not the good kind. As the moment lengthens, I anticipate his next question.
“It’s there with you, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t let it catch my scent. It already hates me.”
That reporter instinct in me is pushing hard against the gooey part of me that’s Carson’s lovey-dovey. Trying for an offhand approach, I say, “I didn’t realize you knew Miz Waddy.”
“Barely acquainted,” Carson hastens to say, as if I might be jealous of a bird-legged sixty-something, who everyone knows has a crush on the postmaster.
“But acquainted.”
“I met her when I first came to Fortuna. You know, the dead wife of your first boyfriend.”
Ah, yes, I remember it well. Good times, good times. Sort of. I met Carson, I fell in love with him when he complimented my appetite, and we had glorious times back in my old hometown of Clovette. I mean if you ignore the being threatened, being shot at, and the mixed pain and pride when poor Precious took the bullet for me and went on to the great beyond.
Some people go out to dinner on their first date. Or a movie, maybe. Carson and I went to watch the local b-ball team, the Fortuna Flying Fish, do abysmally on the gym floor and then ate pie. Or doughnuts. Details get fuzzy sometimes.
When Carson offers, “Do you think maybe she just wandered off?” I realize there’s been dead space between us while I relived the glorious and not-so-glorious moments when we were Clark Kent and Lois Lane. I mean, except he didn’t skinny down to a cape and tights, and I most certainly have better journalist instincts than Lois ever possessed.
Since I’m sure he means Miz Waddy and not Miss Priss, who is licking her paws after polishing off my dinner, I hasten to explain. “Dwaine thinks she’s been kidnapped.”
Another long pause ensues, this time on Carson’s end. Finally he says, “Do you think there’s really someone who thinks this town would pay to get her back?”
Now I really want to know what occurred between my beloved and the latest in the line of Peytona shopkeepers to piss off both Miss Priss and Miz Waddy. But I feel that it may be prudent to apprise him of the other goings-on here in beautiful downtown Fortuna.
“Maybe,” I say. “But the main reason Luther thinks you need to come is not only because of the probable crossing state lines thing, but because Florine Forrester has gone off the deep end.”
“And Florine Forrester is…?”
“Eugene’s mom.”
“Oh.”
Carson’s “Oh” is not an “I see” but more of a “maybe I should just go along with this.” I’d attempt to fill him in on Eugene, Florine, and Annalee but I don’t think my cell phone’s battery will last long enough. So I change the subject, coo a little, and hang up the phone happy to know that my honey will be here in Fortuna by ten, tomorrow morning.
And maybe, if I let her out for a little fresh air at the crack of dawn, Miss Priss might wander away before he arrives and I have to explain why, once again, it looks like we’ll be including a critter in our investigating team.
Chapter Two
I don’t even attempt to tell the boss why I’m leaving right after the AM news broadcast. The beauty of modern radio is that recordings can replace a warm body in the DJ chair, so I taped the noon and afternoon segments before I went on air at eight a.m. After the farm report and the three obituaries provided to the station by air time, I managed to finish that one live session without mentioning the incident at the church or the disappearance of Miz Waddy. The official explanation for the closed sign on her building, the chief informed me at 6:42 this morning, is that she was called out of town on a family emergency.
That’s his story and I’m sticking to it. I manage to get along pretty well with Dwaine, but that doesn’t mean he won’t slap an arrest warrant on me if he gets ticked off. He has this quaint notion that there are moments when an active investigation is none of my business, a notion I have yet to disabuse him of.
The reason for my rush down the well-worn steps is that Carson texted to let me know he was running ahead of schedule. And since it’s been over two weeks since his lips last touched mine, I don’t intend to waste hello again time sifting through news releases on the farm club’s upcoming potluck and the date for a planning meeting on the Thanksgiving parade.
The aroma of coffee fills my little house by the time Carson’s car stops in my driveway. He proves the extent of his affection toward me by showing up with a box of my favorite glazed doughnuts. The big box, which means he picked up a full dozen. It barely gets to the kitchen before I’m in his arms, greeting him with enough ardor that if we’d been in a public place somebody would have already yelled, “Get a room!”
“Missed you,” Carson whispers when that magnificent kiss finally ends.
“I know,” I whisper back because I can feel how much he missed me pressing against my leg. I would like nothing more than to lead him to my bedroom and strip him naked, but he’s on the clock. And when that clock is monitored by the state of Ohio’s Bureau of Investigation, there’s no time for hanky-panky. I kiss him again, reminding him of the hanky we’re going to panky as soon as his workday comes to an end.
A bitter squall followed by a nip on his ankle changes the mood in an instant.
“What the hell was that?” Carson blurts out, looking around him for his attacker.
“Miss Priss.” I hold up a wait-here finger and grab the cat from under the kitchen table. Despite the briefness of our acquaintance, I’ve already figured out the one way to grab her without getting bitten or torn to pieces by her razor-sharp claws. I’ve heard about cat scratch fever all my life, but I have absolutely no interest in experiencing it for myself.