A Cherry Cola Christmas (16 page)

21

Botulism and Populism

W
as there anything more draining than the impersonal hospital waiting room game? Why, the number of worst-case scenarios the brain could conjure up was absolutely astounding!

Maura Beth and Jeremy had been sitting in the midst of her parents, Cudd'n M'Dear, Connie, and Douglas at the Cherico Memorial ER for a good half hour. Though there was no news yet on Becca from her Stout Fella, the comings and goings of Councilman Sparks's lackeys—Chunky Badham and Gopher Joe Martin—aroused more than a little curiosity among the group. First one and then the other councilman would enter through the sliding glass doors, briefly inquire at the desk, disappear inside the ER for a time, and then exit hurriedly, looking totally distracted and wild-eyed. There were moments when it all came off like a rehearsal for a classic stage farce with some unseen director demanding frantic energy levels.

“What do you suppose they're up to running around like headless chickens that way?” Connie said, unable to restrain herself any longer. “Surely, it can't have anything to do with Becca, can it?”

Maura Beth spoke up with absolute certainty. “I highly doubt it. When it comes to the activities and priorities of those two, it's never about anyone but our beloved Councilman Sparks.”

“What would that so-called man of the people be doing in the emergency room? Doesn't everyone come to him?” Cudd'n M'Dear added, tossing aside the medical magazine on recipes for diabetics she had been skimming to make the time go by. “Besides, you've led me to believe he doesn't even have a drop of blood in his veins, Maura Beth.”

“I wouldn't go quite that far, but something is definitely going on.” Then Maura Beth had another thought that immediately softened her attitude. “Maybe it's his wife, Evie, and he's back there with her. I just hope it's nothing serious.”

“Could be a nervous breakdown after living with him all that time,” Cudd'n M'Dear continued, clearly amused with herself.

Maura Beth decided not to humor Cudd'n M'Dear any further. It was so easy for the woman to get out of hand and completely hijack any conversation. “Whatever. I'm just about ready to go over to the desk and find out what's going on.”

“I'm afraid that won't do you any good. There are patient confidentiality laws,” Connie said. “You'd have to catch one of the councilmen on his next flyby and ask him about it.”

“Well, they certainly seem to be having no trouble getting all the information they need.”

Just then, Justin emerged, sauntering toward them with a shrug of his wide shoulders. “Hey, it's just false labor, folks.” He sounded almost matter-of-fact about it all, even managing a big smile. “The doctor says it was brought on by a bladder infection, so he's giving her a course of antibiotics. That's way better than a premature delivery, though. We get to keep the bun in the oven a little longer.”

“So everything's okay?” Maura Beth said.

“Just fine. They'll be releasing Becca soon.”

Maura Beth's sigh of relief was dramatic—very much belonging to an expectant godmother. “That's all I wanted to hear.”

“Yeah, she was a little rattled there for a while, but they've got her calmed down pretty good right now.”

“Well, it seems we all rushed over here for nothing,” Cudd'n M'Dear added in that judgmental way of hers. “I could've made my telethon speech after all, and I had it rehearsed to perfection. I think everyone would've been inspired to go out and raise money immediately.”

“But you simply can't take chances with babies,” Cara Lynn Mayhew said. “Believe me, cousin, when a pregnant woman tells you she thinks that baby's on the way, nothing else matters.”

“Just think of false labor as a dress rehearsal,” Connie pointed out. “I saw enough of them during my career. They can be a bit unnerving, but usually a case of no harm done. That bladder infection should be no big deal.”

The impromptu drama continued as Justin headed back into the ER to join his wife. But no sooner had he disappeared than a distraught-looking Evie Sparks emerged, heading for the sliding glass doors.

“I'm going to see if I can find out what's going on,” Maura Beth said, jumping up from her spot on the sofa. But Evie sped up as soon as she saw Maura Beth approaching, staying well ahead until she had escaped into the parking lot. At that point it seemed unwise to continue the pursuit.

“Now I really am curious,” Maura Beth told the others as she returned to them. “At least we know it's not Evie back there, but she deliberately avoided me. Of course, I've always gotten a bit of a cold shoulder from her anyway.”

“I guess we'll find out about it all soon enough, Maurie,” Jeremy said, as everyone stood up preparing to head to their cars.

“Maybe not. I can assure you that Councilman Sparks is pretty good at keeping things from people. That's how he operates.”

“Truly a man of the people in the grand tradition of our Huey P. Long,” Cudd'n M'Dear added almost gleefully.

But Maura Beth wasn't in the mood for trading clever quips. “That may be, but I think our favorite populist could be in trouble back there.”

Cudd'n M'Dear smirked. “Perhaps he's just getting what he deserves.”

 

“I think the meeting tonight was an astounding success. Those stories really stuck with me, and I intend to follow through with that Lucianne woman,” Jeremy was saying as he and Maura Beth snuggled in bed after one of their nightly lovemaking sessions. It always took a while for either of them to speak because of the satisfying exertion and the time it took for their pulses to wind down. The honeymoon wasn't over yet by a long shot.

Maura Beth carefully untangled herself from the warmth and firmness of his muscles and propped herself up on her pillows, biting her lip as she considered briefly. “I think you should. A collaboration could end up helping a lot of people. Meanwhile, I have an idea of my own.”

“And what's that?”

“I'm going to call the hospital and ask for Councilman Sparks's room. That way I'll know if he's been admitted or not.”

Jeremy frowned as he sat up as well. “I'd like to know why you're so concerned about him. We both know he certainly hasn't been all that concerned about you all these years.”

“Just humor me,” she told him. “Being out of the loop has cost me dearly in the past. I don't want that to happen again.”

Moments later, Maura Beth found herself waiting for someone to answer in Councilman Sparks's room. “He's definitely there,” she told Jeremy with sudden excitement, holding her cell phone to her ear.

Finally, a female voice said, “Hello?”

Maura Beth boldly pressed on. “Yes, this is Maura Beth McShay. I don't want to disturb him, but I just wanted to find out how Councilman Sparks is doing. I was concerned when I saw everyone coming and going at the hospital tonight and just wanted to check in.”

There was no response at the other end. A good fifteen seconds passed. It was amazing how long fifteen seconds could be.

“Hello?” Maura Beth repeated. She even wondered if she had lost the connection, but her cell phone told her otherwise.

“Just a minute, please,” the female voice said. There was another long pause. Then, “Miz McShay, Durden has asked me to tell you that everything is just fine, and he appreciates you calling about him. Unfortunately, he just had a little food poisoning tonight—but it's nothing serious to worry about now. They're just keeping him overnight for observation.”

“Oh, I'm so glad to hear that. This is Evie, right?”

“Yes, it is.” But Evie's tone of voice was definitely on the frosty side. “Now, if you'll excuse me, Miz McShay, I'm sure you can appreciate that my husband needs to get his rest, and I'm a little tired myself. Thank you for calling.” Then she hung up abruptly.

Maura Beth gave Jeremy the gist of her conversation with Evie, and he said, “Food poisoning, huh? Must've been a helluva case to put him in the hospital. Not to be indelicate, but the few times I've had it over the years, I've just thrown up, and that was the end of it. Nasty business, though.”

“I suppose they could be telling the truth,” she told him. “My mother got a hold of some bad boiled shrimp once and ended up in the ER down in New Orleans, but I think Evie was lying. I know I surprised her, and something about the time it took her to tell me what was going on just didn't ring true. I can picture the two of them huddling at the last second to get their stories straight. At any rate, something out of the ordinary put him in the hospital.”

Jeremy shrugged. “At least we know now that botulism will be the official party line.” Then he gave her his most devilish smile and pointed at her. “By the way, nice detective work there. Maybe you should offer your services permanently to Sheriff Dreyfus.”

Maura Beth flashed back to the way she had solved the mystery of Emma Frost and the missing tips and couldn't help but be impressed that yet another ploy of hers had worked. “Thanks, I appreciate that. Let me know if you ever need my input for something puzzling out at the high school.”

Jeremy looked thoroughly amused, leaning over and gently chucking her on the arm. “Well, I would, but the most mysterious thing that ever happens out there is trying to figure out who eats all the jelly doughnuts in the teachers' lounge every morning. I mean, none of the ladies ever admits to eating even one. So I guess we must have an overweight ghost.”

Later, as Maura Beth tried to fall asleep, she couldn't help wondering what had really happened to send Councilman Sparks to the hospital. Her intuition regarding the man had been serving her well as of late, even if it had been hard-won. He was so full of secrets with such a deep, dark side to him, one she had witnessed in their private encounters all too often. Nonetheless, she admitted the distinct possibility that she would never discover the truth in the matter. Some things were best left alone.

22

Enter Waddell Mack

“D
on't Sell Me Short When I'm Longin' for You” was not exactly Maura Beth's cup of tea. But she had promised Periwinkle that she would at least give Waddell Mack's music a listen before the big dinner at The Twinkle. So Renette had brought her CD player to the library, and the two of them were holed up in Maura Beth's office listening to his latest hit while Marydell Crumpton worked the checkout counter with her customary efficiency.

“It's definitely twangy,” Maura Beth said after they'd listened to it for the second time. “I'm not so sure about catchy, though. It just kind of wears me down emotionally the more I listen. My impression is that country music is all about wearing your emotions on your sleeve.”

“I have to admit I don't listen to much of it,” Renette added. “But what I have when I'm running up and down the dial on the car radio—well, it all seems to be about busted-up romances, and people who are mostly miserable because of it. I did some Googling the other day on my computer. They call it honky-tonk music sometimes. I think that's some kinda bar, but I've never been in one. I was brought up believing nothing good happens in bars.”

“Well, I'm not much on bars, either. But drowning your sorrows by throwing back a couple definitely seems to be the ticket in this kind of music.” Then Maura Beth began writing down some of the lyrics on a sheet of paper to amuse herself.

“Periwinkle swears by this stuff,” Maura Beth said, scanning what she had just written and chuckling in spite of herself. “She says her ex got her into it. I guess it's an acquired taste.”

“When is this band supposed to arrive?”

“Around five-ish, I think. They have to get down to Tupelo after they finish eating to check in to their hotel, though.”

Renette was staring down at the CD case as if she had just been presented with an engagement ring by some ardent suitor. “The picture of this Waddell Mack fella on the front—well, he is kinda handsome with all that curly hair and those tight jeans and those cowboy boots. You'd think he owned the world the way he's posing. Hey, with the money I bet he's making, he prob'ly does.”

Maura Beth leaned across the desk and fanned Renette's face playfully. “Down, girl, down!”

“I can't help it. He looks like he's undressing me with his eyes, not to mention those dark, bushy brows. And then he's scowling just a tad bit, and I betcha he doesn't shave on purpose. I see lotsa men on TV with that scruffy look these days. Don't know if they actually are, but it makes 'em look kinda dangerous. Do you think I'm silly to think like that?”

“Well, no. But I prefer the clean-cut type, myself,” Maura Beth said. “Jeremy pretty much has to shave since he's a schoolteacher and is supposed to set an example for his students, but I've never been big on beards and mustaches, anyway. That—and tattoos. Just call me old-fashioned, I guess.”

“Well, check out the titles of some of these other songs,” Renette continued, handing over the CD case.

Maura Beth began reading slowly and with a bit more emphasis than was necessary. “ ‘The Muddy Waters of My Heart' . . . ‘Gonna Crash and Burn for You, Baby' . . . ‘Just a Hot Rod NASCAR Romance' . . . ‘Where'd You Git That Giddyup?' . . . I think that about covers all the bases, wouldn't you say? The thing is, Periwinkle says he's all the rage right now, so who are we to turn up our noses? As a librarian, I've always been a very inclusive person.”

“Yeah, I guess I am, too . . .” Renette tailed off, but Maura Beth was reading her mind anyway.

“You had a little something else to add, right?”

“Umm, well, Miz Maura Beth, I was wondering if maybe . . . I mean, I hope it's not too pushy of me, but . . .”

“You were wondering if I could sneak you into The Twinkle tonight? You're easy to read after all this time, you know.”

Renette blushed and briefly averted her eyes, but she found the words anyway. “Could you? I mean, I wouldn't eat anything, if that's an issue. I wouldn't have much of an appetite anyway—I mean, with him in the room and all. It's just that this . . . thing has come over me.”

Maura Beth was both amused and touched. She wasn't all that far removed from those teen years full of fleeting crushes herself. But, oh, how much better to be finally settled in life and looking forward to the future with that special someone! “Oh, I'm sure I can get Periwinkle to rustle you up a plate, young lady.”

“Then I can come?”

“Absolutely. Jeremy and I will pick you up, and I'm sure we'll all have a wonderful time.”

“Oh, Miz McShay, you're the best boss ever!”

Maura Beth winked smartly. “I try.”

 

Waddell Mack was lounging on his red leather sofa with both legs sticking out in the carpeted aisle of his star bus, practically daring anyone to trip over the expensive snakeskin cowboy boots he was wearing. There was no mistaking which band was traveling through the back roads of Middle Tennessee on the way to the extreme northeast corner of Mississippi: along either side of the Prevost sleeper was his name in bright red cursive script. For many miles now, he had been daydreaming about the visit to Cherico and The Twinkle. Being the small-town boy that he was, real home cooking on the road was a rare treat, as well as a welcome respite from the franchised fare or worse that was usually available to him and his band with their hectic schedule. Indigestion seemed to come with the territory.

“You've just gotta stop by this little place called The Twinkle when you're anywhere near,” his sister-in-law, the pageant-haired Bettye—who considered herself Dolly Parton's #1 fan—had told him a year or so ago after a vacation she'd taken. “It's not all that much to look at, except I thought the stars danglin' from the ceiling were kinda cute. But the food—it's pretty tasty. Oh, and if you get down to Natchez, try Fat Mama's and get you some of the tamales and wash 'em down with a Knock-You-Naked Margarita. I know you and the boys'll toss back a few. Oh, and they got the cutest old bathtub out in the side yard with lotsa flowers growin' out of it. The whole place is just a hoot'n a half!”

Waddell knew Bettye Mack was a genuine foodie. She and his brother, Milton, almost never ate at home up in Nashville. Eating out was their thing. So if they recommended a restaurant or a particular dish or drink, he knew it had to be the real thing. If he accomplished nothing else on this tour—in addition to the fact that it was a sellout—it would be to chow down in style and comfort at The Twinkle in Cherico and Fat Mama's in Natchez.

“I'm gettin' kinda hungry,” Lonnie “Fingers” Gholson said as he sidled up and plopped down next to Waddell. The leather cushions made a soft, squishy sound as Lonnie shifted his weight to get more comfortable. “Hey, how much longer we gotta go, dude?”

It hardly surprised Waddell that Fingers was hungry. A tall beanpole of a man who had one of those efficient metabolisms that allowed him to eat whatever and as much as he wanted, Fingers played rhythm guitar for the band. He was also one of those prodigies who had never had a music lesson in his life. Couldn't read a note. “God give me what I got,” he was always telling everyone. “And I just run with it.”

Waddell checked his watch, and said, “Hold your horses. About a half hour more and we'll be there.”

“I been lookin' over the menu you went online and printed out for us,” Fingers continued. “Makes my stomach growl. Same for Davis, Torrey, and Lightman. We've been huddlin' in the back.”

The “back,” as they all called it, consisted of another bright red leather sofa strategically placed in front of a fifty-five-inch HDTV where everyone could view music videos, movies, and TV episodes as the miles rolled by. “Everyone” consisted of Johnny Davis, the bass player, Sam Torrey, the attention deficit drummer, and Trent Lightman, the fiddle player with the customary chaw in his mouth. Not to mention the quartet of twenty-something male roadies who helped with the equipment; and finally, Rankin Lowe, the band's officious manager, who had been with Waddell since the early days when the struggling singer couldn't buy a cup of coffee making the rounds on Music Row. All things considered, it was quite an entourage—one that was getting hungrier and hungrier by the minute.

“I don't wanna sound like I'm one a' those brats in the backseat on vacation, but are we there yet?” Johnny Davis said, approaching the sofa with some urgency. Unlike Fingers, Johnny was a big-boned specimen who always ate much more than was good for him—and the proof was concentrated in his overhanging belly; thus the sometimes nickname “Hulk.”

“I just finished telling Fingers, we're under a half hour!” Waddell said, almost barking at him. “What are you guys watching back there? Never heard so much carrying-on in my life.”

“Oh, just an oldie-but-goodie that Rankin stuck in the slot,” Johnny answered. “
It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.
They've had a few beers back there, too.”

“Pure slapstick, Hulk,” Waddell continued, cocking his head while remembering several typical scenes. “Banana peels, car chases, buried loot, and all that Keystone Kops stuff as I recall. But it dudd'n seem like Rankin's style.”

Johnny shrugged, screwing up his mouth. “We told him we weren't in the mood for one a' those talky documentaries he likes about the history of country music, okay? So that's what he came up with instead. By the way, these folks in Cherico don't expect us to perform while we're there, do they?”

Waddell looked annoyed. “No way. They just expect us to eat plenty—and maybe autograph a picture or two for their wall. Just small-town, par-for-the-course stuff, that's all. We've been there and done that, and I wouldn't want to disappoint this nice lady—Periwinkle, she calls herself.”

Johnny looked down and snorted. “Periwhat?”

“Winkle!”

“You serious?” He patted his protruding stomach. “Never mind. I'm ready to let 'er rip!”

“You referrin' to the buttons on your shirt?” Waddell said with a wicked little smirk while Johnny rolled his eyes. “I just hope this Twinkle place is ready for an all-you-can-eat outing from you guys.”

 

Councilman Sparks was about to lose his temper with his Evie, and he had practically never done that during the course of their long marriage. But she'd been at him for the past fifteen minutes and just wouldn't let up. It was very uncharacteristic of her to nag or challenge him in any way, of course. Like Bonjour Cheri, she had always known her place. Until now.

“So the bottom line is you're not going to move a muscle all day?” Evie repeated as they eyed each other skeptically across the kitchen table. She had been trying to get him to eat something—a small bowl of cereal with sliced bananas for starters—but to no avail. Coffee was all she'd been able to manage so far—and even that he'd let cool off to lukewarm after taking a tentative sip. “You're just going to stay here in the house and feel sorry for yourself? You're not acting very much like the Master of Cherico. I never thought you'd throw that away.”

Finally, he broke his silence, narrowing his eyes further. “I'm entitled to at least one day off after having my stomach pumped, okay?”

“I understand that part, but I thought you said this invitation to The Twinkle was extremely important tonight.”

He dismissed her words with an abrupt, throat-slashing gesture that was startling, to say the least. “It's all pretty pointless now. Periwinkle killed my buzz permanently when she said I couldn't take the film crew into The Twinkle, so all this scrambling around at the last minute to put together a video for Spurs 'R' Us just seems like a big waste of time. And you'll have to forgive me if I don't have much of an appetite today, all things considered.”

But Evie remained tenacious. For once she knew she had the upper hand. “You could at least put in an appearance and welcome this band to Cherico. Didn't you promise them the key to the city or something like that? You can do that sort of thing in your sleep. You could use last night's lie as your excuse for not staying and eating anything. I'm sure everyone will understand.”

“The key to Cherico doesn't mean much anymore,” he told her with a sigh of resignation. “A long time ago I promised my father and Layton Duddney that I'd look after this town, but it's dying on the vine under my watch. No way do I feel good about that.”

Evie drew back and thought for a while. When she finally spoke, she did not sound happy. “You know, we've never had a talk about what that Cudd'n M'Dear person intimated at Maura Beth's wedding. That you might be having an affair. Are you having one . . . or did you?”

Councilman Sparks leaned back in his chair, allowing himself the barest hint of a smirk. His near-death experience was squeezing the truth out of him, and he was helpless to resist. “Well, I thought about it. Okay? I admit it. But I got nowhere with Maura Beth. You have the right to know that. I struck out with a woman for the first time in my life.”

“I sensed something was going on with you about Maura Beth. Did that have anything at all to do with your lame suicide attempt? Was this really about your ego and not Cherico?”

All he could do was shrug. “Maybe. But who can explain such a drastic decision rationally?”