This is really where the trouble started, but it wasn’t entirely my fault. Even Mr. Melvin, who worked over at the vet clinic with Dr. Blackshear, said he couldn’t have predicted (another vocab word) the circuits would blow like that. It was just one of those things, you know?
I parked my bike in front of the Bean and took Mr. Tibbs in with me. Everyone else had enjoyed him so much I couldn’t imagine that Mrs. Beechum or Ms. Reynolds wouldn’t like him. Not to mention Matt.
But I forgot about Bob.
Bob is Mrs. Beechum’s Chihuahua, a nervous little dog if ever there was one. He can’t weigh three pounds soaking wet and if he is wet, it’s usually because he’s peed on something. Nana told Mamma that Mrs. Beechum should take Bob to a therapist if she could find one that specialized in Chihuahuas. I wasn’t supposed to hear that either, by the way.
Anyway, Bob hasn’t had the best of luck with people other than Mrs. Beechum. Not too long ago my friend John Wesley McCready bit Bob to teach him a lesson after Bob nipped John Wesley. It worked, too, until Nana and Bob got into trouble over in Bigelow at the governor’s mansion down in Atlanta. Bob took after a champion dog in the governor’s office and gave him a good chomping, proving again it wasn’t always about size but about attitude. Me and Bob were alike in that way.
Bob’s luck with birds, however, had been even worse. Like with the hawk that nearly had him for lunch. It even picked him up and flew him around town for a few minutes. He has been kind of leery about things with feathers since that.
Because Mrs. Reynolds from the coffee shop had bought the bakery (I remember Nana telling me about that), I had to go in her door. As soon as I walked in I smelled pure heaven, like spring and Christmas wrapped up in a graham cracker crust. Mrs. Beechum was famous in all of Bigelow County for her Italian Cream Cake. What I loved, however, was her lemon meringue pie, and wouldn’t you know there were three of them lined up on the counter just waiting for a customer like me!
I guess it kind of put me in a trance, and that’s why I didn’t see Mr. Melvin working on the side of the counter. I opened the door and peeked around the new opening between the shops so Mr. Tibbs and I could wait until Mrs. Beechum came out from the kitchen. I wanted to make sure it was okay to bring Mr. Tibbs over to her side.
As I hovered, another customer came in and the bell over the door rang.
Mr. Tibbs shouted, “Every time a bell rings . . . Ha Ha Ha . . . an angel gets its wings.”
And that’s when things started to go downhill.
Mrs. Beechum called out from the back, “Hello?” and she appeared behind the counter with Bob in her arms. Bob took one look at Mr. Tibbs and yelped at the same Mrs. Beechum and I said, “Oh, no.”
It all happened kind of fast from there.
“You dirty rat!” Mr. Tibbs yelled as Bob leaped from Mrs. Beechum’s arms straight into the first lemon meringue pie. Bob sank up to his ears in meringue, yelping like someone had stepped on his tail with baseball cleats.
Mr. Tibbs flew from my hand onto the cash register behind the counter, knocking over the sign advertising the daily specials, which clattered to the floor. “Houston, we have a problem,” he squawked loudly and puffed up his feathers, stretching his neck and wings outward.
Bob scrambled to get out of the pie. Lemon filling sprayed onto Mrs. Beechum and showered down onto Mr. Melvin.
“What’s going on in there?” Mrs. Reynolds called from the other side of the shop.
“There’s a bird—Bob, no!”
The Chihuahua dived into the second pie and Mr. Melvin stood up, a collection of wires on his shoulder falling to the ground as he blinked through the pie filling. The meringue formed a perfect white mohawk on his bald, dark head.
Bob must have thought Mr. Tibbs was coming after him like that hawk did a few years back, because Bob looked over his shoulder and stepped right off the top of the counter, sliding down the glass pane that covered the cookie and pastry display on his back. He somehow managed to land on his feet as Mr. Melvin finished wiping lemon pie filling from his eyes.
Then Bob did what Bob did best.
I don’t know much about electricity but I do know that water, or any liquid and electricity shouldn’t mix. There was a loud zzzt and the lights went out.
Bob jumped about two feet into the air then took off running like the devil himself was on his tail. Mrs. Beechum chased him into the Bean side, calling his name, her lemon pie footprints fading across the floor.
Customers scattered from their places, then Judge Campbell opened the door. Bob shot out onto the sidewalk.
Mrs. Beechum cried, “Stop him! Somebody please!” then took off after him.
Frozen in place, I could hear Bob yipping in-between Mrs. Beechum’s cries. A weird smell filled the two shops, like someone had baked a fur coat.
Mr. Tibbs sat quietly for a second, surveying the damage. “Squawk. What a dump.” Then he followed Bob and Mrs. Beechum out the door Judge Campbell still held open. I heard Mr. Tibbs shout, “Come back, Shane. Come back!”
Stunned by the ruckus, Mr. Melvin and I stood there watching the lemon-filling slide down the glass display window to plop on to the floor. Voices started to gather outside the bakery and then I heard Mrs. Reynolds ask, “What happened to the lights?”
ooo
Dr. Blackshear checked out Bob while I sat on the front steps of the police station with Nana. He said the nervous twitch from the electric shock should stop in a day or so. He gave Mrs. Beechum some liniment for Bob’s . . . ummmm . . . burns and told her there wasn’t any permanent damage. I wasn’t allowed back in the bakery without adult supervision.
Daddy, Mamma and Chief Royden were standing near Dr. Blackshear. Mr. Tibbs was sitting on edge of a planter eating some sesame seeds Mrs. Reynolds had given him. Mr. Melvin was working to restore the power to the bakery and coffee shop. I was staying out of the way and away from Mamma’s and Mrs. Beechum’s stares.
“Are they going to put Mr. Tibbs to sleep?” My voice kind of choked and I tried to fight the tears but they filled my eyes at the thought of Mr. Tibbs being in trouble.
Nana squeezed my shoulders then wiped some lemon pie filling off my nose. “Heavens, no, sweetheart.”
“What’s going to happen to him then? I want to keep him.”
Nana thought about that a bit. “I heard the chief tell your Daddy that he’d called around and heard of a lady over in Chinaberry that had lost a bird like Mr. Tibbs. Her bird’s name was ‘Simon Says’ because he could repeat famous lines from movies and TV shows. They’d been together for 55 years. A new housekeeper started this morning and Simon got out accidentally.”
“What should I do, Nana?” Something hurt deep inside me at the thought of Mr. Tibbs going away. I’d only known him a day but I already loved him. He didn’t see me as a little kid.
“You know, Ida. I think you’re old enough to make this decision on your own.”
Nana gave me another squeeze and a kiss then went and joined the police chief and my daddy.
I thought about Mr. Tibbs and me and a lady I didn’t know over in Chinaberry, then watched Mrs. Beechum hug Bob and talk to him like he was her baby. She’d had Bob a long time and they’d been through a lot together. I loved Mr. Tibbs after just one day.
I put my head on my knees and looked over at Mr. Tibbs. Matt and Mrs. Reynolds were talking to him and feeding him more sesame seeds. When Mr. Tibbs looked my way, however, he spread his wings and glided over, landing on the railing of the stairs where I was sitting.
“We’ll always have Paris,” he squawked and lowered his head like he wanted petting.
I stood up and scratched his head, sniffing back the tears. “I’m going to miss you, Mr. Tibbs.”
“Hasta la vista, baby.” Then he leaned over and kissed me.
Maybe mamma was right. Being grown up is tough.
Mossy Creek Gazette
Volume VII, No. Six • 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
Howdy, fellow Creekites, I have a big ol’ scoop of double-dip dish for you: Win Allen, aka Chef Bubba Rice, is stepping up to the gossip plate with a chef-sized appetite for public brawling. He’s thrown his chef’s hat into the political ring against Mossy Creek Chamber President and City Councilman Dwight (Native American name: “Sits On A Fist”) Truman, for the Chairman’s position. Folks, this is bound to be a delicious food fight. Dwight wasn’t expecting any opposition whatsoever.
The Mice that Roared
Part Seven
Win
“This dog is perfect,” Hank said before he even said hello.
I closed the door to his office and sat in the chair on the other side of his desk. “Glad you’re so pleased with yourself.”
“I picked her up last night at the new humane shelter in Bigelow.”
“Her?”
“Yes, a Cairn female, wheaten. Very small, even for a Cairn. Only 9 pounds, full-grown. I think she’s around three years old. Must’ve not have been fed too well as a pup. Might be why she was in the humane shelter.”
“Good mouser?”
“Boy howdy. She’s already killed two mice and one rat in my barn, where I let her go to see what she could do.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Best thing is, she’s the friendliest little Cairn I’ve ever seen. I’ve known Cairns that are a lot like cats—can take you or leave you, love to hang out in high places, love to kill mice. Well, our little gal has two of those three. So she’s probably enough like a cat that Jayne should like her, but she seems starved for affection. Which also makes her eager to please. Always a good trait. She gets along well with other cats and dogs. I’ve tried that, too.”
“Wow.”
Hank leaned back in his squeaky office chair. “I can’t say enough good things about her. If Jayne doesn’t want her, I sure as heck can place her somewhere else. Easy. I might even keep her myself.”
“Oh, no, you won’t. Sounds like a perfect match for Jayne . . . not that she knows that yet. Well, don’t keep me in suspense! Where is she?”
I followed Hank out to the kennel. A tiny blond dog in the very first cage snapped to attention as soon as we entered. She let out one plaintive yelp, then stood at the door to her cage, her whole stocky little body shaking with delight.
She was less than a foot high with a thick, shaggy platinum-blond coat. She had a strong stand-up tail, wagging furiously now, small pointed ears and stubby little legs. She practically vibrated with the words, “Pick me up!”
When Hank let her out, she bounded straight up into my arms and licked as much of my face as she could reach.
I couldn’t help but laugh. I couldn’t help but fall in love that instant.
“Obviously, I told her you were coming,” Hank said dryly.
I laughed again. “Heck, if Jayne doesn’t want her, I do! Little lady, one way or another, you’ve got a home.”
“Don’t accept your dog’s admiration as conclusive evidence
that you are wonderful.”
—Ann Landers
Louise and the Marauders
If we hadn’t fenced the back yard and put in the dog door, we might have had a chance. If Charlie had not been the ultimate kind-hearted do-gooder, we still might have been saved.
I like dogs. Truly. The fence and dog door allowed us to keep my daughter’s Labrador when they went out of town, but we had no dog of our own.
Having an animal ties you down. We’d both reached the age where we wanted freedom to go and come without considering the needs of another critter.
It started innocently enough. My husband Charlie—a semi-retired enginner who works on various projects only when he wants to—called me late Friday afternoon and said, “Hey, honey, how would you like company for the weekend?”
Back when the circus was stranded in Mossy Creek, I had the most delightful houseguest. We still email one another. She helped me through a very rough patch and still keeps me on track in my relations with Charlie.
I was not, however, interested in taking in someone else.
“I’d have to vacuum the guest room,” I said at my most curmudgeonly, “and put on fresh sheets. And go to the grocery. I can’t stretch dinner. We’re just having soup and sandwiches.”
Charlie chuckled. That should have warned me, but it didn’t. Charlie is not a chuckler. “No, you wouldn’t have to do one single thing. They bring all their own things.”
“Bedding and towels? They eat a weird diet? Who are these people? Oh, Lord, more than one? How many?” I could hear my voice rising.
“Calm down, Louise. Only two, and only from this evening through Monday morning. They won’t be a minute’s trouble.”
“Do I have to entertain them? Take them for a tour of Mossy Creek? That should take up half an hour if I drive slowly.”
“They entertain themselves. I’ll introduce you when I get there. I’m headed home.” He hung up.
Hung up! Would you believe?
I stuffed the lunch dishes into the dishwasher and turned it on, ran upstairs to hang clean towels in the guest bathroom, grabbed a fresh roll of toilet paper out of the big cupboard where we keep the extra TP and paper towels we buy in bulk at the outlet store, and unwrapped and set the fresh roll on the back of the toilet to supplement the partial one already in place.
I set a fancy box of tissues on the counter, fluffed up the bath mat and that rug thingie that goes around the bottom of the toilet, then hit the guest room.
The sheets on the guest room twin beds were clean, but hadn’t been changed in a couple of months. They’d definitely be musty. I stripped both beds, remade them with the Paisley sheets that matched the Paisley comforters, stuffed the old sheets in the hamper to wash later and rushed downstairs to straighten the magazines, books and morning paper that were strewn around the den.
Of course, all that activity brought on a hot flash. I could feel the sweat rolling down my back between my shoulder blades. Maybe Southern ladies are supposed to ‘glow,’ but I sweat like a field hand. The hair on the nape of my neck was soaking wet, and I knew if I looked in a mirror, my face would be the magenta of an autumn dogwood. I poured myself a glass of iced tea and steeped another batch, then put the coffee pot on. Who knew what these people drank?
We live in an old Queen Anne cottage that we restored and have added onto again and again. Our latest project was a big double garage, so I knew Charlie would drive our guests around and usher them not through the front door, but via the mudroom, where we drop jackets and Wellington boots and winter hats. I was putting Charlie’s golf clubs into the cupboard that we had designed specifically to hold them and which he never uses, when his SUV drove into the garage.
Should I wait at the mudroom door like the madam of a brothel to invite these unknown strangers in? Or should I sit in the den with a magazine on my lap? Actually, I’d probably use the magazine to fan myself with. That made my choice for me. The den it was.
“Louise? Louise, honey, come meet our company.”
I stood with as much aplomb as I could manage, pasted a hostessy smile on my red face and turned with hand outstretched.
A moment later I was flat out in the wing chair with my legs stuck out in front of me and a hundred pound furry weight trying to climb into my lap as it drooled on my shirt.
“Benjamin, down!” Charlie yelled.
A second weight hurled itself on top of the first.
“Mirabel! Get off her! Louise, shove them off!”
“Arrghhh! I can’t feel my legs!” I gasped. I could, of course, but I wasn’t about to tell Charlie that. “You get them off! You let them get on!”
Past the shoulder of the one called Benjamin, I saw Charlie yanking on a pair of heavy leather leashes. I gave a concerted shove. Eight sets of claws fought to embed th
emselves in my clothes and/or my flesh as they were dragged backwards. I felt as though I’d been mauled by bears attempting to flay me to get to the good stuff.
“Sit!” Charlie yelled. He doesn’t usually yell unless he’s upset or frightened. I had no idea which at this point. All I knew was that his command had no effect whatsoever on the two gray behemoths milling around and trying to figure out how to get back into my lap.
I shoved myself to my feet and put the couch between me and them.
“What,” I choked, “Are those? And why are they in my den?”
Charlie dropped to his haunches and began to play with the one called Benjamin, who seemed uncertain whether to enjoy the fun or bite Charlie’s head off. At the moment, I would have backed him in the latter option. “These are our weekend guests. Aren’t they gorgeous? Louise, say hello to Mirabel and Benjamin.”
“They are dogs. Large dogs.”
“Yep. Grand champions, both of them.”
“Grand champion whats? Dinosaurs?”
Mirabel decided that Benjamin shouldn’t have all the fun. She loped around the end of the couch and skidded on the wood floor to crash into my thigh. I managed to keep my feet, but it was a near thing.
“Come on, Louise. They’re Bouviers des Flandres. Aren’t they beautiful?”
I shoved Mirabel’s nose away from the crotch of my jeans. “I might enjoy looking at them through bars at the zoo, but I don’t want to share a cage with tigers, either. Why are they here?”
Charlie sat back on his haunches. Benjamin responded by crawling into his lap and knocking him back on his butt. Charlie giggled like a crazed hyena, closed his eyes and actually hugged the thing close to his breast, which it then drooled on.
Critters of Mossy Creek Page 19
