Boo

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Daddy!”

  “The man creates fiction and fables for a living. I wouldn’t put it past him to be making this up too.”

  Ainsley threw her hands up and laughed. Her father glanced over his shoulder with a frown. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are. I’m going to be an old maid because of you.”

  “Me? It’s your fault that nobody’s good enough for you. And besides, who will take care of me if you’re not here?”

  Her smile faded. His tone was light, but there was so much truth to it. She slumped in her seat and thought of the impossibility of her leaving town. Once an impossibility. Until six months ago. When she had made up her mind. With finality. As soon as her Aunt Gert passed away, she would leave Skary, go somewhere far away from the burdens of family and the indecency of what had happened to the town her mother had adored so much.

  Ainsley stood to help her father with the salad. “Give me the lettuce. You’re tearing the pieces too big. Grab that knife and chop the celery, will you?”

  Her father obeyed, and for a few moments they prepared the dinner in silence. She tried not to think about Aunt Gert. She hated the idea that she would pass on soon, and she hated the idea she had made Aunt Gert her gatekeeper. But nevertheless, it was reality, and along with the decades of responsibility she felt for taking care of her father, Aunt Gert was the only other reason Ainsley stayed. She shook her head and looked at her father. “All I said was that he was handsome.”

  “OUCH!”

  “Daddy!” Ainsley grabbed his hand and found a small trickle of blood on his index finger.

  He snatched his finger away and sucked on it. “Could you just stop repeating that?”

  “You’d better leave the chopping to me.” Ainsley took the knife away from him with a smile. “And what about ‘the benefit of the doubt,’ Daddy? Didn’t you just tell me I should give him ‘the benefit of the doubt’?”

  Sheriff Parker went to the Band-Aid drawer. “That was before I knew he was handsome.”

  Missy Peeple thumbed through the pages of the book. She’d never read or even touched a Wolfe Boone book. The cover of Black Cats was bright red, with a dark shadow of a cat at the corner. His name was in large letters, and the title was much smaller, centered at the bottom of the cover, nearly obsolete, as if to say, “Wouldn’t anyone read a Wolfe Boone book, regardless of the title?”

  She had to admit, out of all the books he’d written, this one sparked her curiosity more than the others. After all, just the title somehow insinuated that the book might be at least loosely based on the town. For nine years an odd phenomenon regarding the population of cats had plagued Skary, and no one could explain it. A shelter had to be set up just to manage the problem, and though most everyone had their animals spayed or neutered, the problem still had not gone away.

  Missy’s knobby fingers glided over the small embossed title as she considered the implications of Mr. Boone’s conversion. And a strategy, too. Yes, her mind was always thinking of strategy, no matter the circumstances.

  Ever since their little town inherited Boo, nothing had been the same. Their tourism capital couldn’t be rivaled within three hundred miles, and it had more than tripled in the last five years alone.

  And so she sat in her rocking chair, alone in her dusty old house, dark though it was bright and sunny outside, and rocked back and forth, forming a plan. A sketch of a plan really, for she knew she needed more information. Information was a deadly weapon, and the more she had, the more she would have to modify her plan. But few people knew how flexible Missy Peeple could be.

  First, she knew, in order to acquire more information, she would need help. So her mind sifted through possible accomplices. She’d have to be careful. This was going to require a lot of subtlety. A lot of finesse. Her “accomplices” would operate only on a need-to-know basis. There was nothing more dangerous than the wrong person with the right information.

  Her eyes narrowed with determination. People were foolish to reason that this little conversion of his would not affect the comforts of this town. She would be an unappreciated hero for her efforts to save Skary and its prestige, its fame, its wealth.

  She could remember driving back and forth down Main Street at the ripe old age of seventy-one for thirty minutes, seeing nothing more than a dog on the sidewalk. Now Skary was vibrant. Flourishing! Perhaps only she had eyes to see that, once again, Skary was on the brink of becoming a deserted old town that nobody in the world had heard of.

  Not if she could help it.

  Perhaps her tactics would be frowned upon by some who thought angels came to sing to them in the morning. But those people had no common sense, much less a regard for the sacredness of reputation, namely, the reputation of this town.

  The first piece of information she must acquire was the identity of the person responsible for the man’s conversion. Aside from God, that is. She needed a name. She had her suspicions, but she needed to know for sure who had felt obligated to share the good news with this man.

  And keep that person at bay.

  Then she needed a plan to return Boo to the way he was.

  She turned to the last page of Black Cats and read the acknowledgments. Who was Boo close to? Who mattered to him? Though a little blurry even through her glasses, Missy Peeple was able to make out the name of a man that she knew immediately would be very helpful in her crusade. She snapped the book shut.

  The first person to unwittingly join her cause.

  There would be more.

  Wolfe had imagined, and he had quite an imagination that stemmed all the way back from his childhood, that as he walked the neatly swept sidewalks of Skary’s main street, people might thoroughly welcome him, or at least smile and wave. After all, he felt so different inside. Surely everyone else could sense it.

  But instead, on this chilly early morning, he found people staring at him through their shop windows, their noses pushed up against the glass, as if they knew something he didn’t. He even tried to wave a few times, thinking perhaps people just weren’t used to seeing him venture into town any farther than the grocery store and The Haunted Mansion. But only one person waved back, an elderly man who seemed to have such poor eyesight he probably couldn’t make out who he was waving at. And a black cat took a little interest in him as he passed by a music store.

  So Wolfe kept walking, pondering the mystery of all that had taken place a few mornings back. How thankful he was to know the reverend and to feel accepted. As he swept his tangled hair out of his eyes, he almost smiled at the idea of what everyone must be thinking. For years, thirteen to be exact, he’d stayed a recluse in his house on the hill, pretending to be oblivious to what was happening down below in the town. He didn’t want to know. But he knew.

  He’d always been comfortable being by himself, but as he realized just recently, he’d so secluded himself that he’d actually become lonely. Really lonely. And the fulfillment that came with writing successful horror novels had ended long ago. These days, he just followed the formula that worked, all the while wondering if there was something more to life.

  Now he’d found it.

  This morning, he vowed to put an end to his loneliness. He passed by the town’s pet shop, which he noticed had a sale on vampire bats. Then his mind shifted to Ainsley.

  He’d found comfort over the years in just watching her. He loved to watch her. She was kind and warm to people. She made direct eye contact when she spoke. She grinned at everyone, even the ones who didn’t grin back. She was a breath of fresh air in a world that didn’t have time for people. And she was everything he’d always wanted to be.

  Now maybe he had a chance at being that.

  A plump woman careened into his thoughts, and before he knew it, he’d knocked her over, or she him, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was lying face-up on the sidewalk, with a leather purse over his face.

  Before he could think to remove it, he found himself blinking up at a bright and chubby
face. His head was pounding a little from hitting the sidewalk, but he managed a small smile in return, the first pleasant exchange he’d had all morning. Then a firm grasp took his hand, and he was up on his feet, staring at a woman who almost matched his height.

  She grinned from one rotund cheek to the other, blinking abnormally fast with her hands clasped together, her heavy leather purse hanging from one of her arms. “Oh my! I am ever so sorry. I never do watch where I’m going.” She laughed and shook her head.

  “No, it’s my fault,” Wolfe offered, even though he didn’t even know what happened. “I was in deep thought and not paying attention.”

  One mittened hand suddenly hit her chest, right at her heart, and at first by the stunned expression on her face, Wolfe thought she was having a heart attack. But then he realized it was just astonishment.

  “I hate to be a bother,” she said, staring at him as if he were a pile of gold, “but … well … can I have your autograph? I’ve read all your books. They scare the tittle out of me, to tell you the truth, and I’ve never wanted to bother you before because I know you must get a million—no, probably a billion—people asking you for your John Hancock, but since I near killed you here in the middle of Main Street, maybe I should just ask you now?”

  Wolfe chuckled. “Sure. Do you have a pen?”

  The woman frowned. “Oh dear. No. I don’t have a pen. But I do have a nice tube of Streetcar Red lipstick and a napkin. Will that do?”

  Wolfe swallowed. He guessed it would have to. “Okay.”

  She grinned again. “Oh, good. Then it’ll look like blood.”

  “Blood?”

  She fished into her purse and came out with the tube. “Here.” She handed him a folded napkin too and Wolfe tried to figure out how he was going to sign his name with a tube of lipstick. He decided just to go for it. After all, the woman was so intent.

  “There you go,” he said, handing it back to her.

  “Thank you! Thank you! I’m such a big fan. This is so exciting.” She held the napkin delicately. Then she looked back up at him, her eyes filled with a deep sincerity. “The name’s Melb. Not with an a, like Melba. Just Melb. Melb Cornforth. But if you accidentally call me Melba, it’s okay because I’m used to it. It’s so stinkin’ confusing I don’t blame you. Melb’s a stupid family name, on my father’s side, and for the sake of tradition they gave it to me. Shoot, I probably shoulda just gone by Melba and made my whole life easier. I swear sometimes I think I’m gonna go insane just trying to explain the whole thing.” She sighed and tried to smile. Wolfe thought she was one of the most peculiar people he’d ever met. “Maybe I am insane and just don’t know it. The thing is, I’m concerned about the rumor.”

  Wolfe blinked, trying to follow the woman’s rambling. “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s just a rumor, isn’t it?” She clasped the handles of her purse and held it awkwardly against her chest. “I’m your biggest fan.”

  Wolfe shook his head, trying to be gracious and kind to the one person who seemed to be taking an interest in him. But she kept shifting topics, and he had not the slightest idea what she was talking about. “I’m sorry, I just—”

  She was pulling something out of her purse, and the next thing Wolfe knew, her hand was in his face holding a small business card up for him to see. “See? I’ve been a proud member since 1992.”

  Wolfe squinted to see what the card said. THE OFFICIAL WOLFE BOONE FAN CLUB. MELBA [with the A scratched out] CORNFORTH, PROUD MEMBER SINCE 1992. He smiled at her and said, “Oh. How nice.”

  “Yes, so you can imagine how concerned I am about the rumor.” She took a couple of steps backward, as if something about him startled her. “I’m not one to gossip, you should know. I don’t listen to all that nonsense. When I go to get my hair fixed, I’m going to get my hair fixed. Not for any other reason, if you catch my drift. Listen, I’m all for going to church. I go to church every single Sunday, have since I was born. In fact, my mama took me to church when I was only two days old, and back then that was a no-no because of all the disease and such. But church is important, and I have nothin’ against it.”

  Wolfe scratched his head. Did this have something to do with what had happened at the church? He bit his lip, trying to decide what to say. But he didn’t have a chance to say anything, because Melb kept talking. “It’s just that so many of us read your books. And so many of us count on those books. I’ve already got a copy of Black Cats. You see what I mean? It’s important. It would be life-altering if something were to happen and you stopped writing.” Her eyes were suddenly fierce with emotion.

  Wolfe began to piece things together. Somehow she knew about his new faith. He tried to reassure her with a smile. “Melb, you must understand. I have no plans to stop writing.”

  “Oh! Thank heavens!”

  “I just plan on writing different things.”

  Melb’s face dropped as if a weight were pulling her skin down. “Different?”

  “Sure. I’ve always appreciated literature, and I hope to write a few classics of my own.” He grinned at the thought of it, but Melb was not grinning back.

  “Classic literature? Are you out of your mind? You can’t write classic literature!”

  “Well, I’m sure it’ll take some practice, but I hope to accomplish—”

  “I can’t sit in bed at night under my covers with a hot cup of tea and read some historical coming-of-age story. I need suspense! I need murder! I need evil!” She lost her breath, and the color drained from her face. Both fists sat on her large hips—her purse now swinging—and she seemed to be snarling ever so slightly. “Do you hear me, mister? It’s not fair. It’s simply not fair to reel me in like some helpless fish, only to slice me open with the news you plan to get righteous!”

  Wolfe must have had a shocked look on his face, because Melb’s expression suddenly seemed softer, and she patted him on the arm. “You’re just brilliant the way you create those characters. They draw me in, you know? I can relate to them. I feel their pain.” Her eyes grew distant as she ruminated. “And I don’t know how you do it, Mr. Boone, but you write those female characters of yours like no one I’ve seen. It’s almost like you’re inside the female head or something.” She smiled at him. “Sometimes, I swear it’s like I know them. Like they’re familiar to me, almost as if you’re writing about someone I know.”

  Wolfe cleared his throat, and in the cool of the morning he suddenly felt very warm. “Well, Melb, it was nice to meet you. I must get going now.”

  Melb blinked but nodded graciously. “I understand. I’m sorry to have kept you here so long. Listen to me, rambling on like some lunatic out of one of your books.” She placed a mitten on his forearm. “Just promise me, Mr. Boone, that you’ll keep writing those horror novels. Promise me.”

  Wolfe looked down at her, tried to smile, and could say nothing more than “Have a nice day.” He moved past her and kept walking down the sidewalk, never looking back, though he could feel her staring at him. He couldn’t promise her that. In fact, he could almost promise just the opposite. He’d spent years dabbling in the dark side. Now he felt completely drawn to the light.

  Missy Peeple’s cane tapped the concrete as she stood in a darkened corner of the street, a cubbyhole perfect for hiding and waiting. The chill in the early morning air seemed to reach down her throat and squeeze the oxygen out of her lungs, but she wouldn’t be deterred. Not by that grumpy Old Man Winter. Nosiree. Besides, he couldn’t hold a candle to Missy. Though she had two layers of mittens on, her hands felt like ice cubes. Her nose dripped in perfect unison to the tapping of her cane, which she amused herself with momentarily, but then she grew bored with it.

  “Where is that woman?” she spat.

  Just then a large shadow extended itself past the small nook she stood in, and Missy recognized it immediately.

  “Hello?” a voice called.

  “In here!” Missy Peeple reached out, just as Melb came into view, and pulled her into the
nook.

  Stumbling in, Melb was breathing hard and holding her chest. “My goodness! You scared me half to Hades, Miss Peeple. You shouldn’t just reach out and grab someone like that!”

  “If you wouldn’t read all those horror novels, you wouldn’t be so paranoid all the time,” she scolded. She wiped her nose with her mitten and narrowed her eyes at Melb. “So what did you find out?”

  Melb shook her head. “It’s true, I’m afraid. I didn’t really get a straight answer from him, but from all indications he doesn’t plan to continue what he’s doing.”

  Missy Peeple growled from deep within her throat, and Melb took an astonished step back. “I felt a little bad about this, Miss Peeple,” she said after a moment. “I don’t much like to deceive people, even though I was quite curious myself. Still, I wasn’t completely honest with the man about why I was asking him all those questions.” She leaned against the wall opposite Miss Peeple. “He’s quite a handsome fellow, I have to say. And has good manners, too. He’s not at all scary like I thought he’d be. From that picture on the back of his books, you’d think the poor fellow was mean as snot. But I guess you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” She chuckled, and then her smile faded as she glanced up at Miss Peeple. “Anyway, I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I’ve tried other horror novelists, but they just don’t seem to have the depth and insight that Boo has.”

  Missy finally grew tired of hearing Melb speak, and so she said, “Melb, you really must try those romance novels.”

  Melb’s eyes widened. “Romance novels?”

  “Why yes. The heaving bosoms. The hairless-chested men. Oh, the romance. Blah blah blah. You might be surprised how truly scary they can be.”

  “Oh?” Melb chewed on the end of one of her chubby fingers. “Well, I have to admit, my favorite part of Boo’s novels are the romances, even though usually one or both die in the end, but still …” Her eyes grew blissfully distant at the thought.