“You need to keep the proper balance of wet and dry,” I said. “It smells bad because it’s waterlogged. Right now, I’m glad it stinks, so no one will go near it. After this is over, you should add some paper and cardboard to soak up some of the water.”
Grandma shuffled cautiously down the hall and plastered herself against the wall when she saw Fred near the table. “Get that thing outta my home,” she said, forgetting who owned the house.
I flipped on the micro recorder and hit play to drown out my mother-in-law’s crabs. Everyone listened to the few sentences I had captured on tape.
“Nothing but smut,” Grandma said, edging warily around Fred and pouring a cup of coffee. “Who brought the doughnuts?”
“I did,” Kitty said.
“Are they safe to eat?”
“’Course they are.”
I snapped off the recorder since Grandma was determined to talk right over the voices.
Pearl, whose fifteen minutes of fame ended with the news of the second death, pulled into the driveway at about two miles an hour. I watched her do a jerky park between my truck and Kitty’s rusted out Lincoln.
“Pearl, get your hinder in here,” Grandma called as Pearl walked in wearing a little pillbox hat on her head. “We have a porno tape going.”
“Goody,” Pearl said, stepping it up a bit. Grandma set down a cup and saucer in front of her, sloshing most of the coffee into the saucer.
“What’s the commotion?” Blaze said, rushing down the hall in his boxer shorts. He had his sheriff’s hat on top of his head and an empty holster across his bare shoulder.
“We’re holding ’em off,” Grandma said to get him going. “Where’s your weapon?”
She’s the meanest woman I’ve ever known.
“Sit down,” I told him. “We’re eating doughnuts.”
It’s a good thing I have a big kitchen table. The six of us perched around the table like a bunch of monkeys. Once everyone had sugar fixes and coffee, I rewound the tape. We all listened again.
“That’s Sylvester Stallone,” Blaze said, piping up. “He’s doing his Rocky character.” It was going to be one of those days.
“You’re right,” I said to keep him happy. “Blaze won the first prize. Now, who is the woman?”
“Play it one more time,” Pearl said. “I’ve heard that voice someplace before.”
“Is it a porno star?” Grandma said. “Because if it is, I don’t know any of them by name.”
“You don’t know any by sight either,” Pearl said.
“She’d sit up and fly right if I caught one. I wonder where my gun went.”
“It’s someone from around here,” Cora Mae offered. “She got a part playing the lead with Sylvester.”
“I didn’t hear anything about a movie star being in town.” Grandma clacked her teeth.
“Shhh, everybody.” I turned the volume up and replayed the tape.
“Not much to go on,” Kitty said. “She said a total of eight words.”
“They teaching you to count in that online class?” Grandma sneered. My friend and bodyguard had signed up for an online law degree class. Her goal was to get her state certificate to operate as a lawyer. The woman was book smart, no question about it.
But she didn’t have a ready retort for Grandma. The old woman threw so many balls from left field, it was easier to ignore her than to participate.
“Where’s my prize?” Blaze asked, looking around the room for a wrapped present.
“Have the last doughnut,” Cora Mae said. “That’s a good prize.”
“That’s one higgledy-piggledy tape,” Kitty said, sliding her smug and competitive eyes over to me to catch my reaction.
“Got me again, Kitty,” I conceded.
Chapter 10
MY AGENDA FOR THE DAY was to interview the people involved in the credit union heist. Pearl didn’t have anything new to add to her original sock-it-to-him story. I sent Kitty and Cora Mae to find Dickey in hopes they could pry information from him regarding the dead guy with the Kromer hat.
My two partners pulled out of the driveway with Cora Mae in the driver’s seat. “Good luck,” I called from the porch, hoping they survived.
Fred and I headed for the Trouble Buster truck, but we make it only halfway before being detected by the yard patrol. Guinea fowl flapped through the backyard like a carpet of locust, running as fast as they could on their scrawny legs. They circled Fred, pinning him in the center of the group and pecking his toes. He howled.
Last year, my first squawking flock consisted of six little guys, fluffy day-old keets with orange legs. They weren’t all little “guys,” since they’ve multiplied several times. They like to hide in tall grasses with their broods, depriving me of fried eggs. Instead, I get more of them to feed. It doesn’t seem fair.
Guineas coined the term “free-range.” Nothing can keep a guinea confined. They come and go as they please, roosting in trees or the barn, and they eat up weed seeds and bugs. Guineas like to dine on Japanese beetles and deer ticks. I’ve even seen one peck and swallow a yellow jacket and go on hunting like nothing unusual happened.
They have their faults, though. With a machine-gun-like alarm call, they are the noisiest creatures on earth.
And they hate Fred.
He howled again while I waded in, swinging my arms and legs, parting a path to the truck where the enormous black coward was only too happy to hide. I had to leave the driveway at a rolling crawl to keep from running my guineas down.
Ruthie’s Deer Horn Restaurant was on Highway M35, across from the railroad tracks. The train ground to a screeching halt as Fred and I stepped down from the truck.
“Hey, Otis,” I called to the train conductor, who liked to stop at Ruthie’s for coffee and tall tales. Otis Knutson’s appearance meant Carl should be along shortly. Sure enough, Carl pulled in with George, and they watched me tie Fred to a post in the front of the restaurant where he could keep me in his sights.
My dog dislikes waiting in the truck by himself. When we’re at Ruthie’s, he settles for hanging around outside as long as I bring him a treat afterwards.
The four of us took seats at the counter, lined up like a row of turkey targets. Ruthie swung out of the kitchen with a pot of coffee in her hand. She poured a round without having to be asked.
In the U.P. we take our coffee seriously.
The men ordered mounds of eggs and bacon and potatoes. I stuck with the coffee since all those doughnuts had sunk to the bottom of my stomach like lead weights. Spending a thoughtful moment covertly eyeing George’s hunky body, I had to stop sucking doughnuts.
George winked. I smiled at him, feeling shy and self-conscious. Then we told Otis and Carl about the robbery and the dead guy at the dance. Carl, who lives about a mile from me, already knew most of it. Otis hung on every word. So did Ruthie.
When we finished, Otis leaned his tall, slim body forward and slapped the counter. “Holy Wah! What a story! Too bad Blaze is laid up. He’d get ’em.”
I didn’t mention that Blaze had been more interested in slinging his feet up on the desk than chasing criminals – that he chalked most everything up to kid pranks. And that was at his best, when his brain was at peak capacity.
Ruthie went into the kitchen and came out carrying three brimming plates. She set them down in front of the men.
“Where has Dickey been?” I asked.
Ruthie answered. “He has his nose to the ground like a bloodhound. He’s accused every one of us by now. He had the nerve to suggest I might know more than I’m telling. Deputy Snell isn’t welcome in my restaurant until he apologizes.”
“Otis is right,” Carl said. “We need Blaze back quick.”
“Ruthie,” I said. “When we were lying on the floor in the credit union, I saw the shooter on the roof. I’m sure the man George and I found behind my truck was the same guy.”