Critters of Mossy Creek

by Deborah Smith

  “Still is. The prevailing wisdom is that God made Violet and then dirt, which would be fine if the Nazi’s weren’t invading.”

  Since there really wasn’t much of anything one could say after a statement like that, I shut her car door and pulled her toward the Jeep. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way.”

  ooo

  I’d called a neighbor of Violet’s before I left the station. He wasn’t under imminent attack and couldn’t see anyone in Violet’s yard, which meant that Violet’s backyard Germans were 99.9% certain to be fat, bold raccoons dining out of her trash cans. The beggars can make a hellacious racket turning over cans. They can also cast a pretty big shadow if they’re standing upright.

  Violet, despite her advanced age, did truly, probably, know the Germans weren’t invading, but she had a wicked flare for the dramatic. Factor in her bad eye sight and willingness to “pop a cap in those fellas” if I wanted her to, and I had no choice but to extend the earlier ban on her shotgun to her hand gun. I didn’t want a tragic accident happening on my watch. My goal was to walk out of Violet’s house with her gun for safe keeping.

  As usual, Ida had other ideas. She didn’t think we needed to take the guns. Just the bullets. Violet was a shut-in. We could get the word out that no one was to replenish her supply. That left Violet with a gun she could brandish if come upon by marauders in the night and I could sleep the sleep of the righteous because I didn’t have to worry about her ventilating some poor unsuspecting soul who only wanted to borrow a cup of sugar.

  Neither of us said a word once we got back in the Jeep. Violet’s shoebox full of bullets were stowed in back. I saw Ida bite her lip and look hard out the window. We made it almost back to Ida’s car before I couldn’t stand it any more. “I’ll need a promise.”

  Ida kept staring out the window, but she hmmmed in a suspiciously high-pitched way, like she was on the verge of losing control.

  I didn’t trust her as far as I could throw her. “I’ll need better than that.”

  Then she did lose it. She put her head on her knees and her shoulders shook soundlessly.

  I whacked the steering wheel with the flat of my hand a few times. “She handed me the shoebox! How was I supposed to know she wrapped her bullet boxes in granny panties to keep the bullets from ‘exploding?’ ”

  Ida sighed and straightened up. She was enjoying this. “Red granny panties. Really big red granny panties.”

  “And that is the last time those words will ever pass your lips.” I parked the Jeep, and swiveled to face her. “What happens at Violet’s, stays at Violet’s. Or there will be consequences.”

  She put her hand on the door handle and grinned. “No there won’t. Problem with you, Amos, is that you always fight fair.”

  “No. I don’t.” I didn’t plan to kiss her. That would have been a different kiss, softer. With my left hand I reached out to circle her arm and pull her closer. My right hand slipped over her shoulder to cup her neck and bring her to me. I leaned in to whisper, “But I do fight. You aren’t hearing me, Ida. I want you. It’s not a game.”

  Maybe this wasn’t the right time or the right place, but it was the right kiss. In front of God and everybody wandering the town square that evening, I laid claim to Ida. I knew it. She knew it, and I was fairly certain a few other folks would know it by morning.

  When I pulled back, I warned her. “That’s going to happen again. Just you come to grips with it.”

  My newest favorite thing is the look in Ida Hamilton Walker’s eyes when she realizes she has made a serious miscalculation.

  The Rabbit Stops Running

  Part Three: How Ida Viewed that Night

  I love being mayor, even though it’s rarely a glamorous job. I spend a lot of my time in work boots and baseball caps, going out with our crews to look at broken water lines, leaking sewer pipes, zoning violations, to name a few. I don’t mind the long hours or the dirty jobs, the boring meetings and the occasional mud-slinging from an unhappy citizen. We’ve won civic awards under my leadership; more importantly, we’ve made people’s lives safer, friendlier and more hopeful.

  But I admit I hide behind my office a lot of times. My cluttered, homey space at town hall feels like a warm hug, a good, secure fit. After the unnerving soccer game—had everyone in Mossy Creek seen me shrivel as little Matthew Reynolds called Amos ‘Daddy?’—I headed to my office in a hurry, shut the door and threw myself into the exciting job of reading the state’s latest bulletins about everything from crop dusting to art grants for puppet shows.

  Hours passed. Darkness fell. I dined grimly on leftover hop n’ johns salad from my office fridge. Cold black-eyed peas and chopped onions with vinegar dressing suited my mood perfectly.

  I was intent on not leaving my hiding hole before every street was deserted and every Creekite soul had gone indoors for the night. No one, but no one, was going to get the last snicker of the day at my expense.

  And Amos was not going to get another chance to kiss me. Hiding from him was nothing new. I’d even given up eating lunch at Mama’s, Win’s or the Bean because Amos had developed a knack for showing up wherever I was.

  Smiling rakishly, he’d settle himself at my table. People always stared and smiled. Yes, I could have told him to bug off, to give me my space, to stop making me choke on my sandwiches and blush like a teenager sitting across from the hot guy in the school cafeteria.

  But I didn’t. My willpower was fading.

  But not tonight.

  Finally I snuck out a little after eight. Earlier than I should have. There were people strolling Mossy Creek’s picturesque square, but in the spring darkness I could scoot to my Corvette before they caught me.

  I locked the building’s front door, juggled my growing collection of empty food containers, and right-handed my keys like a shank I could stick in the other inmates’ necks if anyone tried to stop me from crossing the prison yard.

  Then Amos spoke from the shadows beside his Jeep. Which was parked next to my Corvette.

  “Working hard? Or hardly working?”

  I nearly dropped my Tupperware in the azaleas. “Do you creep up on all our citizens or just me?”

  “I’m not creeping. I’m standing here big-as-life.”

  He held out his arms.

  I took a deep breath and hugged my containers to my chest like a shield. We traded a few more zingers until finally he coaxed the stack of plastic ware out of my grip and admitted he was there on official business.

  I eyed him suspiciously as I unlocked the Corvette. When he said, “I need you to talk Violet Martin out of her gun,” I perked up and paid attention. Like many of our older citizens, ancient Violet Martin can still cause quite a ruckus when she’s in the mood. I asked Amos where she got a gun.

  He deadpanned, “Judging by her age . . . I’d say from Samuel Colt.”

  Okay, Amos’s droll sense of humor is yet another hard-to-resist part of him. Call it nerves, relief, or an excuse to make friends with him again, but I laughed like a drunken sailor, guffawing so hard my legs wavered and I leaned against him. Just as he started to cradle me with his arms I came back to my senses and stepped away.

  He said something. It sounded like, “Violet thinks the Nazis are invading.” While my brain was trying to imagine that concept he took me by one hand and the next thing I knew, we were in his Jeep together, heading off for an adventure.

  ooo

  Violet can’t see well, hear well or move fast, but she is very capable of analyzing complex current events, like the fact that it’s about sixty years too late for Nazis to be a credible threat in her backyard. Still, she enjoys upping the ante on her 911 reports, knowing that Amos and his officers hustle when she calls, because they’re never quite certain that this time she’s not just crying wolf.

  Or, in this case, raccoon.

  “I’m gonna pop a cap in the furry Nazi behinds of those fellers,” she warned as we examined her trash-strewn backyard. “They’ve scattered my garbag
e from here to yon one time too many.”

  I tried not to patronize her, but it was hard. “Miz Martin, you can’t shoot at the raccoons.”

  “Why not?”

  I glanced at Amos for help. He looked at Violet solemnly. “Because even Nazis are protected by the Geneva Convention.”

  She was unconvinced. “Then you should send ’em to Gitmo with the rest of the terrorists!”

  I pulled Amos aside and we conferred out of Violet’s earshot. In other words, we stepped two feet away and started picking up her spilled trash.

  “I already banned her shotgun,” Amos said, stuffing empty soup cans in a plastic bag. “I hate to take her handgun, too. But she’s going to hurt herself or somebody else.”

  Shoving a bacon wrapper into a bag, I looked at him from under my brows. “A woman needs a gun to wave. Even if it’s just for show.”

  “Why, Mayor, are you letting me know you’ll only threaten to shoot me?”

  “Well, Chief, that’s a risk you’ll have to take.”

  He smiled. “Deal.”

  What was I saying? I was flirting with him. Over garbage. While a woman who looked like Yoda in a shawl now waved a loaded pistol at the birdbath.

  “Back to the subject. Violet needs her gun. It’s the principle of the thing. But I can talk her out of her bullets. And we’ll tell everyone in town not to sell her any new ones.”

  Amos picked up a raccoon-gnawed stalk of celery. He presented it to me with a slight bow. “Brilliant. I award you the Exalted Celery of Diplomacy.”

  I took the award solemnly. “I’ll share this with Wampa. He’ll either eat it or rip it to shreds in a psychotic frenzy.”

  ooo

  We drove back to my car with Violet’s treasure trove of bullets in our possession. There had been a little surprise with the bullets. Neither of us could wrap enough breath around the words to discuss it.

  Finally, Amos said in a tight voice, “I’ll need a promise.”

  I went “Huh” or “Hmmm” or “Hush,” I’m not sure which, because I was struggling not to explode.

  “I’ll need better than that.”

  Innocent words. But he sputtered as he said them, and the failing control in his deep voice completely unhinged me.

  I bent double, once again hooting like a sailor on a tequila bender watching Wile E. Coyote cartoons.

  Amos pounded the steering wheel and growled something about, ‘How was I supposed to know about the granny panties,’ and ‘What was I supposed to do, scream and throw them on the floor when I realized that’s what she’d wrapped the bullet boxes in?’

  As he swung the Jeep into a space beside my Corvette I suddenly became busy noticing how many late-night diners had just stepped out of Win Allen’s restaurant. All of them swiveled their heads toward Amos’s well-known vehicle. All of them did a double-take when they realized I was sitting in his passenger seat.

  Amos was saying something about swearing me to silence.

  I mumbled an answer. Refusing to promise. Told him his problem was that he always fights fair. I tried to change the subject. “We have an audience . . .”

  “No, I don’t always play fair,” he interrupted. The suddenly serious, graveled need in his voice alerted me that we’d just stepped out of the comedy club and onto a dark, sultry dance floor. He slipped one hand around my arm and cupped the back of my neck with the other. Then he leaned in close to my lips and said, “But I do fight. You aren’t hearing me, Ida. I want you. It’s not a game.”

  What happened next was inevitable, wonderful, a big step forward . . . and a clear warning that Amos was closing in on me, and that I was letting him.

  On the street, the crowd broke into applause.

  ooo

  I drove home under a dark, twinkling universe of spring stars, with the Corvette’s window rolled down to catch the cool wind on my hot face. The first of the spring frogs sang in the marshy spots of the forests and fields. The lights of town disappeared behind me.

  I had wobbled out of the Jeep, glowered at the applauding Creekites, then swiftly ducked inside my car—Jeb’s favorite car, a classic silver model. I’d kept it running, in mint condition, for twenty years. My life was filled with reminders of Jeb, of us, of the past.

  Yet I drove home thinking about Amos, and only Amos.

  I certainly knew where another step forward would take him and me, and I still wasn’t sure I was ready for it.

  You better get ready, get ready, get ready, get ready for mating season, the frogs sang.

  At the farm I parked near one of the barns, saw a light there and found my farm managers inside, doting over the Boggs’ miniature goats, pig and burro. My managers are a hard-working husband/wife team who live in a small house on a hill behind my big Victorian. They’re very pragmatic about most of our livestock, which includes several horses and a large herd of dairy cattle. They don’t usually get sentimental about cute critters.

  But there they were, scratching the newcomers’ heads, feeding them slices of apple. They suggested we add a petting zoo to the new winery, which was well under construction on a ridge nearby.

  I told them that was a good idea. I hoped, for the sake of Mr. Boggs and his little boy, these pets would go back to their home one day. Until then, yes, we’d have a petting zoo.

  Walking back up the farm road to my house, where an automatic timer had turned on the veranda lights, I glanced at the patterns of the vineyards that now crisscrossed a distant pasture. They made shadowy lines in the starlight. The grape vines were sprouting leaves. I expected we’d get our first harvest in the fall. Jeb’s winery. His dream.

  How would Amos feel about all this? Would he be happy dealing with my heritage, all the pompous Hamilton baggage, the eccentricities, the battles with Ardaleen and her son, the Governor? Sure, he’d dealt with my public feuds many times as a police chief, arresting me so often that some people said we’d been dating for years if you counted all the trips I’d made in the back of his patrol car.

  I took a deep breath. “What next?” I said aloud to the budding azaleas along the fieldstone path to my front steps.

  As if in answer, I heard the rumble of a car on the long, graveled lane to the public road. I squinted into the darkness as headlights came through the trees. My veranda lights glimmered on Rob’s silver-gray Prius. He’d gone hybrid. Was even talking about opening a Prius dealership in addition to running Hamilton’s Department Store in town. My son was intent on becoming a very rich man. Richer than all the Hamiltons combined and certainly richer than his father’s Walker heritage. My people make money and buy property; they live long and prosper, like Vulcans. Jeb’s people race cars, fly stunt planes and die young—but leave unforgettable memories.

  And Amos? Royden men are somewhere in between, tall, stalwart, sure of themselves. They are lovers and fighters, law men and rebels.

  Maybe he was exactly what I needed here. A strong link between my two worlds.

  But for now, I had an unhappy son frowning out his open Prius window at me. Rob stopped the car by my walkway gate. He called out, “Mother, how about hosting a sleepover for your granddaughter and her insane rabbit?” Rob held his right hand out for me to get a good look. He had Band-aids on two fingers and a thumb.

  I suppressed a smile. “Sure. The evil bunny and his assistant are always welcome here.”

  Little Ida climbed out of the passenger side, grinning, dressed in a coat over her pajamas, carrying her Miley Cyrus overnight bag and Wampa’s personal plaid tote. Wampa looked over the edge with calm pink eyes, though he did glance back at Rob and gnash his teeth.

  Rob’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to win that rabbit over.”

  “Better buy some steel-mesh gloves,” I called.

  He looked heavenward as if his father might advise him, shook his head, blew me and Little Ida a kiss and drove away.

  I went down the steps to meet her. As I hoisted her overnight bag to my shoulder she looked up at me with mischievous eyes. �
��Nana, do ‘just friends’ swap smooches in the front seat of Chief Royden’s Jeep?”

  I sighed. All over greater Mossy Creek, the spring gossip was about to burst into bloom.

  Mossy Creek Gazette

  Volume VII, No. Two • Mossy Creek, Georgia

  The Bell Ringer

  The New Bell Ringer Blog!

  Subscribe now for 24/7 gossip at www.bellebooks.com/MossyBlog on Mossy Creek Gazette’s On-line Edition!

  by Katie Bell

  True-love showdown on the soccer field . . .

  Everyone in Mossy Creek is whispering about the heated confab today between Mayor Ida Walker and Police Chief Amos Royden RIGHT IN FRONT OF GOD AND THE SOCCER BALL at the future home of the Mossy Creek Rams High School Sports Stadium.

  Chef Bubba Rice, aka Win Allen, was eavesdropping so hard he got hit in the head by a soccer ball. And THERE’S MORE. Tonight, as of 9 p.m. EST, reports are that a certain mayor and a certain police chief were seen in a certain police chief’s Jeep parked outside town hall, locking lips.

  Somebody please buy a supply of mentholated lip balm. SOME public officials around here may NEED it.

  The Mice that Roared

  Part Three

  Win Allen

  “Good grief,” I muttered. “Winfield Jefferson Allen, you’re 40 years old, not 14.”

  “Pardon?”

  I turned my head to see that my under-the-breath mutterings had captured the attention of elderly Eleanor and Zeke Abercrombie, who were strolling down the street arm-in-arm.

  I shrugged. “Just talking to myself.”

  “Great game Saturday,” Zeke said as we shook hands.

  “Thanks,” I’d been vindicated for asking Amos Royden to substitute for Dwight at the game on Saturday. He’d made the winning goal.

  “That’s the first sign of senility, you know,” Eleanor said.