Downhome Crazy (4 page)

“She really is something.” Carson keeps his distance as he examines the fussing feline.

“Very diplomatic,” I say, dropping Miss Priss before her semi-good humor disappears entirely. “She’s evil personified, but as long as I remain her humble minion, she’ll let me live.”

Carson laughs. I know he thinks I’m exaggerating, but he hasn’t spent twelve hours alone in the house with her. My sleep was fitful last night. Part of it was sheer anticipation at seeing my sweetie, but the primary reason for my frequent awakening was the cat perched on my dresser top, her narrowed gaze on me every time I opened my eyes. You’d think that since I’m like a thousand times bigger than her, it would be like having a pesky mosquito in the room. Yet it was more like a crouching leopard waiting for the wounded gazelle to wander by.

I did make sure Miss Priss was well fed before Carson’s arrival. Since she has a disdain for the foods cats are supposed to eat, I rummaged through the cupboards showing her can after can until we both agreed on beef stew. Yes, I know that sounds silly. But even on such short acquaintance, I’ve come to believe she has been sent by an alien intelligence to do surveillance on our world. She’s most definitely not a mouse-catching sort of cat. She’s more the kind to order night vision goggles off the Internet and organize the neighborhood felines into a well-trained battalion to launch all-out warfare.

“I suppose you intend to go to the police department with me,” Carson says. That, I figure, was a given. After all, we’re the Batman and Robin of crime fighting in greater Fortuna. In all modesty, I must admit that helping solve a murder made me a minor celebrity. And almost worth staring down the barrel of pistol held by a madwoman.

I realize the question was rhetorical, since Carson is handing me my purse. I follow him out and hop into the passenger side of his unmarked state-issued SUV and buckle up.

“Nice ride,” I say as he fires it up.

He grins. “Plenty of speed and I’m not paying for the gas. The only reason they let me have it is because the environmentally-friendly cars were checked out.”

Now I’m all for saving the ozone layer, the whales, and cute baby squirrels, but if we have to make a run for it, I’m pleased to have lots and lots of horsepower at our disposal. Especially if Florine’s, uh, situation gets worse.

On the short ride to the cop shop, I debate the wisdom of confiding the whole Eugene/crazy relative thing to Carson. But I ultimately decide it’s better if he meets Big E in living color before he hears Part One of the current drama. Dealing with Part Two is sufficient unto the moment, as they say.

Dwaine offers a greeting and hitches up his pants when we walk in. Luther straightens and gives Carson one of those nods that carry secret meaning for men; I stroll behind the counter meant to keep the officers of the law separate from us regular folks. Carson leans on the counter from the real people side and engages Dwaine in conversation.

Basically, it’s a delicate dance of Dwaine semi-apologizing for calling Carson in and Carson doing the “aw shucks, it’s okay” response. I listen in, as does Luther, until we reach the gist of the matter.

“We’ve had a bit of confusion in the last day or two,” Dwaine says without adding, “the town is going nuts.”

Carson nods.

“Miz Waddy, er, Miss Peytona is a lifelong resident of this town. Her family goes back generations, and I ‘spect that someone figures that means she’s got money. I don’t believe that’s so, but folks around here will take up a collection if that’s what we need to get her back.”

“Have there been any demands for money?” Carson asks.

Dwaine shakes his head. “Not unless someone’s got one and isn’t telling.”

“And no signs of foul play at the shop?”

Dwaine shakes his head again.

“You’re certain she didn’t simply go visit someone?”

Dwaine offers his “do you think I’m stupid?” look and nods this time. “Miz Waddy is one of the most responsible people I know,” he adds. “She’s so trustworthy that for years she’s been the informal bookkeeper for most of the stores in town.”

“Ah,” Carson offers.

“Counts up their receipts, makes their deposits, and balances their bank statements,” Dwaine goes on. “She started helping out a math-challenged friend and things snowballed from there.”

I listen as Carson asks questions and Dwaine answers. By the time the two men shake hands and we’re leaving, I’ve learned that Miz Waddy refuses to take a penny from any of those businesses. The Peytonas have a reputation for honesty and that’s probably why she was snatched away. Personally, I’m not sure that being beloved by her fellow merchants is enough for a kidnapper to see a potential ransom coming their way, but hey, I’m not a kidnapper, am I?

Carson drives slowly as we head for Miz Waddy’s store. It’s not that he’s all that interested in seeing Fortuna once again; he’s stuck behind the big old Caddy driven by Arthur Fletcher, who’s somewhere in his mid-nineties. Arthur makes a daily drive to the post office and back, taking the long way. Today, the long way means right in front of us.

To his credit, Carson doesn’t get impatient or try to cut around Arthur. I flatter myself that it’s because he treasures every moment in my presence until I realize he’s frowning like he’s listening hard.

“Hear that?” he asks.

All I hear are the tires hitting the pavement and a strange sort of buzz from the heater and I say so. Carson frowns a bit more and puzzles aloud whether a belt might be going bad. I pretend to care since he is my honey bunch, and men have this thing about appearing to be car guys. No big deal, I figure, since it’s a government car.

I direct Carson to the spot in front of Miz Waddy’s shop, where Luther waits for us. Carson is barely out of the SUV before the hood is up, and the two cops are investigating the mystery of the noise. I lean against the fender, glad I wore my fuzzy-lined hoodie. It also makes me the prime target for Luella Malone and her little pug.

“Oh, honey, I just heard.” Luella, who is six feet tall and skinny as a rail, wraps her arms around me, the dog resting on my shoulder. I assume she refers to Miz Waddy’s disappearance. Or Florine’s current state of cuckoohood. My growing friendship with Eugene even.

“If you need me to cook for Miss Priss, just let me know.” Luella assumes a position on the fender next to me. “The other neighbors will help, too, if you need us to.”

My stomach sinks. This so does not sound good.

“I thought I’d drop by the store and pick up some canned food,” I answer.

“Oh, Miss Priss doesn’t eat
cat
food.” Luella seems horrified by the very idea. “Dear Waddy fixes her meals every Sunday and Wednesday and keeps them refrigerated.”

She cooks for her cat? No wonder Luther was so frigging pushy about me taking the stupid cat in.

“What kind of meals?” I ask, hoping the answer is fish sticks.

“Organic,” Luella says. Of course. Again I wonder how I manage to get into these things and where in blue blazes anyone in Fortuna manages to find organic food for themselves, let alone an old, grouchy cat.

I offer a thumbs up; I hope she interprets as my agreement that Miss Priss will continue to have only the finest cuisine while under my roof. And honestly, in my life, canned beef stew truly is a gourmet meal.

Luckily, our conversation is interrupted by Carson and Luther who agree that it’s probably just a dry belt. I excuse myself to hurry them toward the locked door of Miz Waddy’s shop.

The place looks far less scary in daylight. The nooks and crannies that seemed to harbor danger in the dark actually hold pattern books and knitting needles, neither of which seems to concern Carson at all. He heads through the shop to the back room, which I didn’t have time to investigate during my hurried visit last night. I follow, making sure to stay within eavesdropping distance. Even though Carson and I are now officially a thing, he’s still careful not to drop useful knowledge I’m not supposed to know. Luther, on the other hand, thinks discretion is a new cologne for men.

Everything seems to be okay, or so Luther announces as Carson examines the back door latch. It’s one of those old ones that probably has been there since Miz Waddy’s great-grandfather started pulling teeth. I suspect, judging by the rust, that the lock above it hasn’t worked for a long, long time.

Tagging along, I find soon myself in Miz Waddy’s living quarters. One quick look-see makes it obvious Miss Priss reigns here. Cat toys litter the floor and a carpeted board rests beneath the tall window that overlooks the back yard.

Kitty kitsch covers the tabletops and even the border on the pale yellow wallpaper has a cat motif. Photos of Miss Priss in cutesy frames dot the mantel over the fireplace with its gas flames.

“This will be your living room soon,” Carson teases as he flips a finger against a feathery toy atop a cat palace. “You and Miss Priss cuddled up on the couch watching Animal Planet.”

He laughs as I shoot him my best evil look, which makes me rethink whether it’s all that evil. Luther has gone ahead into the kitchen, which turns out to be a feline fancier’s paradise as well. I’m not surprised when we reach the bathroom to see that the litter box is covered with a fancy lace canopy.

Although my knowledge of my temporary guest’s lifestyle has been greatly enhanced, there are no clues as to how or when Miz Waddy disappeared. If it weren’t for the open door and abandoned cat, no one would bother wondering where she was.

I stop at the refrigerator to grab several small plastic containers with the days of the week on them, which I assume as Miss Priss’s meals. Consequently, I miss a little of the conversation and have to ask where we’re going when Carson fires up the engine and makes a U-turn.

“Checking with the bank,” he said. “Your buddy Luther says the Peytona woman makes deposits for a number of businesses. It seems to be common knowledge and could be a motive for her disappearance.”

A chill snakes down my spine as I imagine a couple of thugs whapping Miz Waddy on the head and stealing her and the money. Maybe they hit her too hard and dumped the body before they roared out of town with the dough. My mind goes into overtime as I try to figure out where that dumpsite might be.

We pull up in front of the Merchants and Miners Bank, which is as old as Fortuna itself. The few merchants in town do business here, since it’s the only bank in town, but I doubt if there’s a single miner on the books. There are folks from other occupations, including radio news reporters, as Carson finds out when we walk in.

Before he can ask for the bank manager, a chorus of “Hey” and “Morning, Tessa” rings out. I am grateful my checking account is in order because I know if it wasn’t, at least one of the tellers would call out, “Come to take care of that overdraft?” As I may have mentioned before, privacy is not one of the advantages of small-town living.

Carson goes through the ritual of introducing himself, which is a cop thing, I suppose. He’s come to visit me often enough over the last few months that by now, practically everyone in town knows his name, that he’s from the Ohio Bureau of Investigation, and not to drop by my place if his car is in the driveway.

Turns out that the branch manager is having his wisdom teeth cut out. His assistant invites us back to his office anyway and listens intently as Carson describes what he’s looking for. I know my sweetie’s on the verge of telling the assistant manager he’ll get the proper paperwork, so I give him a kick on the shin. In the tiny space of time it takes for him to turn and frown at me, the AM’s fingers are flying over the keyboard.

“No deposits last night,” he reports. “Not from Miz Waddy’s business or any of the others she takes care of.”

“How many would that be?” Carson has his notebook out.

“Nine,” comes the prompt response. “Used to be ten until Fred Alterman knocked his noggin in a four-wheeler accident. He hasn’t been able to cut a key or pick a lock since.”

We leave the bank with a sheaf of printouts in Carson’s hands and that cop look on his face. I know he’s thinking we indeed do have motive now and heaven knows opportunity’s not hard to come by in Fortuna. I suppose some folks lock their doors and avoid strangers, but they’re either newcomers or dealing with dementia.

I expect our next stop to be back to the police station to fill Dwaine in on developments, but Carson drives right on past. I don’t have to ask where we’re headed as he passes the city limit. We’re going to our place, the pancake house at the interstate exit. He enjoys their coffee; I like having a dozen syrups to choose from, and most folks from Fortuna only go there on Sundays after church or for somebody’s birthday. I’m ready for some alone time with Mr. Sexy beside me.

Of course, I’ve somehow managed to forget that Florine has been ensconced in the adjacent motel. I am reminded when we pull in and park behind the red A-roofed restaurant and I spy her dancing on the lawn next door. I use the word “lawn” advisedly; it’s more like a square of winter-dried grass with some hearty mums separating it from the road.

I assume Florine is dancing. She’s spinning, and I realize as I exit the SUV, singing at the top of her lungs. I believe she’s attempting Lady Gaga’s latest hit, although it could have been the Memphis blues for all I know. The reason she directs the choir is because she can read music and keep time; her vocal ability greatly resembles my attempts to play the clarinet. My father, quite accurately I’m sure, described it as a cross between a cat in heat and nails on a chalkboard.

Carson stands dumbfounded at the sight. His eyes are wide, his face a study in disbelief. You’d think by now he’d have learned to expect anything and everything in Fortuna, but every visit seems to bring a surprise.

I wait for the motel manager to come and retrieve her but no one appears. So because I feel sorry for Eugene, who I did foist off on his grandmother, I head for Florine before she launches into yet another operatic solo.

“Let’s go inside,” I suggest, grabbing futilely at her flannel nightgown.

“Dance with me!” She yanks me away from the mums and inside what I realize is a circle of what appears to be leaves and weeds. Potpourri from the front lobby I decide as she latches onto my hand and drags me into what’s either an old-fashioned reel or a polka. I stumble over my feet as she sings and sways, and begin yelling Carson’s name. If he really loves me, he’ll come save me.