Downhome Crazy (14 page)

“I doubt if the organic agriculture society peddles mind-altering drugs, Carson.”

“Not on purpose. There are mushrooms that can induce hallucinations.”

“You think the fine citizens of Fortuna have been tripping on magic ‘shrooms? I find that a little sketchy.”

“Don’t take this as an insult, but you’re probably the most street-smart person in greater Fortuna,” he says. “It was no doubt an accident.”

A nip on my ankle reminds me Miss Priss is waiting for her food. Sighing, I open the fridge door and pull out the bag of food Carson brought the night before. Time to break into the last stock. If Miz Waddy cooked twice a week for her precious kitty, I shouldn’t have to go beef stew shopping for three days.

“Whoa.” I count as I pull out the small food containers. There are twenty, which makes ten days’ worth of meals for a cat that eats twice a day.

“These were all together?” I ask. Carson nods.

“Not some in the refrigerator and some in the freezer?”

He shakes his head. “I grabbed a bag, pushed the boxes off the second shelf into it, and brought it here.”

I open one, heat it up, and feed Miss Priss before she decides to chow down on me instead. Then I begin to stack the meals. Maybe Miz Waddy overcooked so her dear baby could have a choice. But they all look the same to me. I take the lid off one and sniff. The distinct scent of turkey reaches me, the same aroma each meal has offered so far.

Puzzling as the oversupply is, I’m sure there was a reason. Could be Miz Waddy was planning to freeze some and got snatched before it happened. As I’ve learned over the years, the simplest explanation is usually the right one.

I hand most of the containers to Carson who puts them in the freezer. I am relieved I’m not going to be a short order cook for a six-pound grouch, but also hoping that Miss Priss is home long before we get to the last one. I suspect she feels the same way.

We—that’s Carson and me—both jump when his phone rings. Miss Priss flips her tail and walks away. She doesn’t seem to enjoy phone conversations as much as she does daytime TV talk shows.

I try to figure out from his end of the conversation what’s going on, but it isn’t easy. So I have to wait until he gets off the phone to learn details.

“Guy called the Fortuna P.D.,” Carson says as he slips his phone into his pocket and reaches for his car keys. “Has a bike shop over in West Virginia. Said he traded a moped for a mountain bike matching the one Miss Peytona had on her storage list.”

I pull on my jacket and grab my purse. No way he is checking this out without me. Officially, he’s off duty and me, I’m always on duty. I am a journalist after all.

The guy at the bike shop is real nice and as helpful as possible. The bike came from an older woman looking for a more grown-up bike for a grandson, cash transaction.

“When I went to write up the receipt, she laughed and said to forget about it,” he tells us. “Said she trusted me, that she’d bring it back if anything was wrong. That’s all I can tell you.”

Carson asks for a description, but it didn’t sound like Miz Waddy. Her salt-and-pepper hair is usually tousled, she heavily favors polyester, and since she has no kids, she has no grandkids either. The shop owner remembered the woman who bought the moped had ash blonde curls and wore jeans, tee shirt, and big hoop earrings.

“Thanks for calling.” Carson shakes the guy’s hand and asks him to hang onto the traded-in bike for the time being.

“Dead end?” I ask as we head back toward Fortuna.

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug. “Most likely scenario is that the bike was stolen, sold at a garage sale, or an on-line site, and Gramma bought it. The kid decides he’s too cool for a mountain bike, so she goes up the line to make him happy.”

“Yeah.”

It’s full dark and almost time for bed when we finally get home. I find myself longing for a quiet day, the kind you usually find 364 days a year in these parts. I glance over at Carson and see the look on his face that means he’s thinking things through. His forehead is slightly furrowed, he’s biting his lower lip, and a vein at his temple twitches. His fingers tap the steering wheel as he stares through the windshield. When he finally speaks, I jump.

“Would Miss Peytona be able to change her looks like that?”

“Hmmm.” I consider the question. Miz Waddy has creativity in every bone, and she was active in the community theater group back when they still put on a couple of shows every year. The question, of course, isn’t could she, but why would she?

I put that very query to Carson. He doesn’t have an answer, which means we truly are at a standstill.

Back home that unspoken shift from work to sweeties takes place. We cuddle on the couch to watch the evening news before going to bed. I curl into him, my ear against his chest so I can hear his heart beat and drift off. No matter how crappy the days are, these nights are pure heaven.

Chapter Six

Miss Priss’s insistent meowing at the bedroom door takes me from dreamland to harsh reality. The rain slapping the window and the wind shaking the loose section of siding on the house gives a clue as what it’s like outside. I struggle from beneath the covers, being careful not to wake Carson, and push back the curtain. Oh, yeah, it’s definitely a heavy sweater day.

I pad into the kitchen, pull out a container of kitty chow, and nuke it. The act is so routine I miss the ding. Miss Priss gives me a bite on the calf to inform me. Only my reputation as a nice person keeps me from drop-kicking her across the room. That and the fact that with her disposition, she’s probably already used up her first eight lives and the act might do her in.

As soon as I have the coffee started, I grab a shower. Carson’s in the kitchen when I come out in my fuzzy robe. He’s a beautiful sight as he leans against the counter and sips from a giveaway cup from the bank. The vision of him bare-chested with his hair sticking up every which way almost makes up for the dismal weather outside.

“Wanna play hooky today?” I ask, giving my best come-hither wiggle.

Despite a grin, Carson declines the offer. I kiss his cheek and duck out to get dressed.

As usual, I start my day at the station. Marc is being ultra-nice like he thinks I know far more than I do. I foster that illusion by telling him I’ve had the chance to interview Florine Forrester. If he believes I’ve got a hot trail to follow, that’s okay because I intend to start doing some real investigative reporting today. As in, I’m getting nosy.

After I’ve taken care of my official duties, I hit the police station where my beloved and Luther are debating the merits of a smart phone versus one of those tablet thingies. Since the fanciest thing on my phone is its slide-out keyboard for texting, I drop in on the chief instead. He’s sipping what I suspect is his first cup of coffee of the day since he seems to be enjoying it. Only severe caffeine deprivation would make anybody appreciate the P.D.’s coffee.

“Hey, Lois Lane.” He nods.

I reply with, “Hey, Chief.” That’s been our standard greeting for years, and if he calls me Tessa or Miss McDonald when we meet, I know something’s wrong.

“Just stopped by to see what’s going on,” I say. I usually do a cop shop stop every day just to make sure nothing escapes notice.

The chief pulls a battered binder from the top of a pile on his desk. Flipping it open, he frowns at the top page. “Looks like a dog barking complaint, excessive muffler noise out on Sunway Drive, and a drug bust.”

“What!” I lean forward. I didn’t even know we had drug dealers in Fortuna. This could be the day’s big story.

The chief laughs. “Just kidding. Wanted to see if you were awake.”

I settle back in the chair. Sometimes Dwaine can be downright mean.

“Been talking to your boyfriend about the Forrester woman,” he says.

“Oh?” I’m cautious in how I answer. Since I have no idea if he’s talking about Florine in general, Florine when she was possessed by whatever, or Florine yakking her head off last night, I let him take the lead.

“Like your idea of something at the festival affecting them all,” he continues. “Don’t think it was eye glass spray, though. My wife’s used it for years and she’s still normal. Well, as normal as anyone from her family can be.”

I laugh because he expects me to. And because he seems to be in a mood to feed me information.

“Working on a theory right now,” Dwaine says. “Remember when those folks died because some jackass injected something into their painkiller capsules? Could be some psycho dropped some sort of mind-altering substances into their frozen sodas or something.”

What was it Carson had said? Oh, yeah the simplest explanation is probably the right one. It sounds to me like the chief is grasping at straws. But I don’t mind grabbing a few myself.

“I’ve got some time today,” I offer. “I know you’re stretched with Miz Waddy’s disappearance and all, so I can help check that out.”

“Fine with me.” Dwaine drains his cup and stands, hitching his pants and utility belt into place. “I’ve got Luther going down to the elementary school for career day, and I’ve got to hit the firing range today. Don’t want to lose my certification. Just let me know if you find something. Or tell Hayes.”

I sketch a farewell salute and head for the door. I most definitely will tell Carson before I report to the chief. I am, after all, Kato to his Green Lantern.

The conversation between my honey pie and Luther has switched to brands of bulletproof vests by the time I rejoin them, a conversation which ends quickly after I sit down at the conference room table. Luther and I do the hello, how are you dance before he glances at his watch and announces he has an appointment with a class of sixth graders. I wish him luck and mean it. A bachelor and only child, he has no idea what it means to be trapped with twenty-five twelve-year-olds.

I fill Carson in on my conversation with the chief and invite him to join me.

“So your plan is to go snoop.”

“Snoop sounds so tacky,” I say. “I prefer socialize.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have the lists and photos from Lovenna,” I remind him. “What with last night’s dinner and trip to the bike shop, I haven’t done more than glance at them. I hope some of the volunteers can identify the people Lovenna can’t.”

“And that will help?”

“If we can figure out who the strangers are, we might be able to check them out.”

Carson wisely does not poke holes in my theory. Instead, he suggests we get out of the P.D. and head back to my house where we can study Lovenna’s offering in peace. We wind up at my kitchen table with the papers since Miss Priss is established in the center of the sofa and obviously has no intention of moving. It is in my best interest, I decide, to honor her claim on the best seat in the house.

By the time we’ve read and looked at the photos and talked, my butt is numb from sitting on the wooden chair. I think Carson’s is too because he suggests that we walk to see the various individuals I’ve circled rather than drive. Since the rain has stopped and the wind died down, I reluctantly agree. He seems to forget he’s an avid jogger while my idea of exercise is walking to the kitchen for a diet drink to wash down the half-bag of chips I devoured watching TV. Or maybe he does remember and is attempting to engage me in a subtle lifestyle change.

Not surprisingly, the sidewalks are deserted. The occasional car passes, but on the whole Fortuna is quiet today. Okay, Fortuna is usually only slightly louder than a tomb, but the weather seems to have kept lots of people in. That suits my purpose. They’re more likely to be bored and welcome visitors.

Before long, I’m getting discouraged. The logistics chairman for vendors—that would be the guy who tells them which spot is theirs and referees disputes—doesn’t recognize a single of the unknowns in the photo. He does inform us that never in the history of the Fortuna Fall Festival has a vendor been anything but pleasant and easy to work with and certainly the “bad sort” would never be accepted in the first place.

We make our next stop at the beauty shop where Clarice is under the dryer. Poor Carson doesn’t understand everyone knows everyone else’s business in a small town. He seems confounded when I tell him the best place to catch her is the Curl Up and Dye because she always drives to the nearest town with a Wal-Mart after she gets her hair done.

Clarice leaves the warmth of the plastic dome to talk to us. She’s been identified in Lovenna’s list as the local media liaison, which means she calls me to remind me of things like the apple-bobbing contest and baby pageant. She also never forgets a face or so she claims.

“Well, they might have been there, but I never saw a one of them,” she sniffs as Carson hands one photo after another. “Sliding through, I’d say.”

Her eyes widen. “Do you think one of those people took poor Wadelline?” she asks.

I allow Carson to field this one.

“Ma’am, we’re not certain Miss Peytona didn’t leave of her own accord,” he says. “My presence in town is simply to ferret out the facts I can.”

“Oh, pooh.” Clarice slaps Carson’s arm. “We’ve been friends since second grade, and there is no way she would leave like that. Especially not after she’d signed up nearly a dozen people for quilting classes during the festival. She is far too level-headed and responsible to act like a giddy school girl.”

Luckily she doesn’t apparently remember Miss Priss. By now, everyone in town seems to know the cat has taken over my house. Most of them still remember my last unfortunate pet-tending experience, which leads to repeat questions regarding the health and welfare of Miss Priss. Trust me, I may be in Dwaine’s cruiser, charged with animal cruelty and heading for the county lock-up, if anything happens to her.

Our next stop is the band director’s home. Visitors aren’t allowed in the particular department where he’s “resting” at the county hospital, so I hope we can find his wife at home. Mrs. Meriweather is still dressed in her flannel nightgown when she opens the door, and I catch a whiff of something I suspect is peach schnapps. All is not well in the Meriweather mansion, I fear.