Boo Who

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Alfred! What are you doing out here?” Wolfe asked as Alfred finally panted his way onto the sidewalk.

  “Looking for Ainsley.”

  “What’s wrong? Didn’t the photo shoot go okay?”

  Alfred smiled and handed her a set of pictures. Wolfe and Ainsley looked through them together. She laughed out loud. “My goodness! Look at me!”

  “You look absolutely stunning,” Wolfe said.

  “I’ve never looked this good in my life.”

  “There’s a lot to be said for lighting and a makeup artist,” Alfred said.

  “But honey, you’re gorgeous without all this too, you know,” Wolfe added.

  “But look at me!” she exclaimed. “I mean, I look … I look.

  “Like you need to be in everyone’s living room every weekday morning.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked Alfred.

  “Ainsley, I’ve got a good feeling about this. I showed these proofs to a guy I know in television. He said you had the right look.”

  She was still staring at the pictures. “I look like I’m straight out of a home magazine, Alfred. I’m stunned.”

  “You shouldn’t be. You’re everything that this country needs, Ainsley. You’re bright, funny, beautiful—”

  “Yes, that’s what this world needs, Al,” Wolfe quipped. “We don’t have any bright, funny, beautiful people anywhere in America.”

  Alfred and Ainsley shot him a look, and he found himself kicking snow chunks off the grass.

  “Ainsley has that ‘it’ quality, Wolfe, and you know it,” Alfred said.

  “What’s an ‘it’ quality?” she asked.

  “It means, my dear, that you have what it takes to shoot straight to the top. And that’s why I’m here tonight. I need you to pack your bags. Tomorrow morning we’re going to Indianapolis.”

  “What?” Wolfe asked.

  “There’s a craft and bake trade show there, and God forbid, but Mary-Katherine Covington-Smith has the flu.”

  “Who?”

  “Mary-Katherine is the premiere cookie baker in the Midwest. Every year she wins Best in Show at this thing. She won’t be there this year, but you will be.” Alfred was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Alfred, how in the world do you know about a lady with too many names who bakes cookies at an Indianapolis bake sale?” Wolfe asked.

  “It’s a trade show, and to answer your question, I’ve been doing my homework. I had to understand the competition. And come up with a strategy.” He looked at Ainsley and handed her a folder. “Here are the rules for the baking contest. Get your recipes together. Have three different kinds of cookies baked by 6:00 a.m. tomorrow. I’ll see you at six sharp.”

  They watched as Alfred walked back across the street to his car. And Wolfe suddenly realized that Alfred Tennison knew more about selling cars than he did. He was particularly impressed with Alfred’s keen delivery of telling, not asking and his ability to conjure up the emotional side of this whole deal. And he also realized once Alfred put his offer on the table, Wolfe had been the first one to speak.

  Sighing, he watched as Ainsley headed back toward the house, skipping along and surely thinking about what kinds of cookies she’d be baking late into the night.

  Melb Cornforth sat in a corner booth, away from the distractions of the crowded Mansion restaurant, with a book she’d picked up at the local library. It was on bird-watching. The more she read, the more she realized she wasn’t really interested in watching any birds, but that silly old owl that hung around fascinated her. He almost seemed to taunt her with his questions. Well, go on and question. Who? Part of her just wanted to climb the tree and strangle it. But the other half of her, the nature lover she was sure dwelt inside her, sensed that there was something she could learn from this bird.

  “Hi sweetie.”

  She looked up to find Oliver sliding in across from her, unwrapping the scarf from his neck and pulling off his gloves. She loved his hands. They were at once plump and strong. It was like putting her hand in a bed of marshmallows. Marshmallows on steroids.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, “but I stopped by the bookstore for a moment—wanted to pick up that new Chicken Soup for the Salesman’s Soul —and got hung up with Dustin.”

  “Dustin?”

  “The kid that works there, you know? He was telling me about some horror novel he’s reading. Says it’s terrific.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, some book about ghosts in a forest. Sounded kind of corny to me. But the way this kid talks, it’s like he believes in that stuff. My goodness, the things that can get planted in one’s head! I think Wolfe’s books are responsible for a lot of it.”

  “So how was your day? Did Wolfe seem to catch on any quicker?”

  “I think so.” Oliver sighed. “I gave him a lot of information, and at the end he did look a little dumbfounded. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him about After Market Presentations.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know, where you sell them the rustproofing, the ten year warranty, and so on.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you know how I have that song about ‘Buyers Are Liars.’”

  She shook her head.

  “Oh, you know, I’ve sung it for you before. It’s to the tune of ‘Get Down Tonight.’ It goes like—”

  “That’s okay, honey.” she held up her hands, looking around the restaurant.

  “You know, KC and The Sunshine Band—”

  “I know, I know.” She smiled. “Yes, I remember.” How could she forget? He had this insatiable appetite for disco. When talking about the wedding, she’d suggested songs by Whitney Houston or Celine Dion. Oliver had his mind set on the Bee Gees and Earth, Wind & Fire. He thought it would be great to play “I’m Your Boogie Man” while he walked down the aisle. They still hadn’t come to an agreement on music yet.

  And though she loved Oliver (a man for the most part very reserved), whenever any sort of disco tune came on, something happened to him. His body would start gyrating, his eyebrows would pop up and down on his forehead in what he thought was a seductive manner, and the next thing she knew, he was dancing. And it was the day he’d made up this jingle about “Buyers Are Liars” to some boogie song, that Oliver thought he might have a chance in the music industry. Fortunately, that was ten years before they met. And since then, he had found out that he didn’t have much talent beyond catchy car jingles.

  “Anyway,” he said, “poor Wolfe has this very naive view of things. Black or white. Cold or hot. Evil or good. I mean, when I tell him that all buyers are liars, it might offend him.”

  “Are all buyers liars?”

  “Of course they are! They either come in saying they’re not willing to buy, and they do, or they say they won’t pay more than X, and they do, or they tell me they want to get something conservative, and they drive off in a Corvette. People don’t know what they want. Someone has got to tell them. That’s me.” Oliver grinned. She loved that grin. “And enough about me. How was your day? Did you put the money down for the caterer?”

  “Umm … the what?”

  “Hello? The caterer?”

  “Yes … yes, of course.” She scanned the menu. She was going to need a double cheeseburger. Maybe double onion rings.

  “Good! Melb, this is so exciting. I can’t wait until the day I call you my wife.”

  “I’m going to start owling.”

  “Excuse me?” Oliver asked.

  “Owling.”

  “Howling?”

  “Owling.” Melb held up the bird-watching book. “I need a hobby.”

  “Why?”

  Okay, this was going to be tricky. Oliver did not know that she’d bought a dress four sizes too small for $550 over budget. Or that she’d blown the caterer money on therapy. She would fix all this. She knew she could. That’s why she was taking up owling. The therapist had told her to get a hobby. And that owl … It beckoned her.

  “It’s compli
cated, but trust me. It’s the best thing.”

  “What’s owling?”

  “It’s where you call to an owl and they call back.”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a challenge. I need a challenge in my life.” She tried to smile and ignore the confused look on Oliver’s face.

  “Isn’t planning a wedding in this amount of time enough of a challenge?”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry. Did I say challenge? I meant stress reliever.” Concern melted away from the turmoil in his eyes. “You’re stressed? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I’m fine. I really am. I just need a bit of a distraction. You know how wedding planning can be. You get so focused.”

  He took her hands. “Sweetheart, whatever you need. But tell me what’s going on with you, okay? Don’t hold it inside. We need to be honest with each other.” She smiled. “I agree.”

  “And encourage each other. That’s what marriage is about, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I want to encourage you and tell you how proud I am of you. You’re doing a fantastic job planning this wedding.” “Really? Thank you!”

  “I think if I had married any other woman, I’d probably have gone insane by now. But you realize things about me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how important budgets are, for example. I mean, I can turn into a lunatic at the dealership when we go over budget. I mean, a real freak of a monster.” He offered a smile. “But you sense these things, and that means the world to me.”

  “W-what, um, what kind of monster?”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t literally turn into a monster. You’ve read too many of Wolfe’s books. What I mean is that I can get totally irrational and out of my mind, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” A weak laugh was all she could manage.

  “What do you say we eat? What sounds good to you?”

  “A double cheeseburger with a side of meatloaf.”

  Reverend Peck stood in the parking lot of his church with fifty orange cones in the freezing cold. It was Friday, and this was the last of his tasks. He was way ahead of schedule. It meant he could take tomorrow and write his sermon, which he wasn’t sure he was going to get to this week. But it didn’t matter. According to his plan, he wasn’t even sure he was going to need a sermon. Sunday was going to be a test run. He knew one thing for certain: The pews would be packed; there would be standing room only.

  He finished up with the cones and traversed the small pathway that led from the church over to his parsonage. Inside, he fixed himself a bowl of stew and relaxed for a while on his sofa, trying to come up with a sermon topic.

  After some thought, he realized exactly what he was going to preach on. It was brilliant.

  Sex.

  CHAPTER 14

  WOLFE GRUNTED OUT A SIGH as he rolled over, trying to peer at the clock on his night table. It was just past five. He’d gone to bed at midnight and had tossed and turned, tangled his emotions around the twisted covers.

  It was their first fight. They would get over it. But it was also a good dose of reality. They were just like any other couple.

  It had started that evening at his house, when they began discussing Ainsley’s trip to Indianapolis. Wolfe had protested, questioning whether she knew what she was getting into with Alfred. He learned quickly that was not the best approach. The ‘tell, don’t ask’ method might work with Oliver and Alfred, but Wolfe didn’t have any luck. Telling her she was not going to Indianapolis did not go over well.

  Soon the evening ended with Ainsley stomping out of his house, yelling something about cookies and dignity.

  As he’d sat quietly in his empty house, Wolfe had to at least ponder the idea that his resistance to Ainsley’s new journey might be due more to the fact that his own journey had seemed to end so abruptly. Spiritually, he was the best he’d ever been in his life. It did something to a person to know how much God loved him, how hard He’d worked to show that to him. But emotionally, Wolfe knew he was struggling. It was one thing to believe that an ordinary life was going to be his destiny. It was another thing to now be identified as Oliver’s associate who still had not even talked to a customer.

  Humbling. And he was sure that was where God needed him to be. Humble. He’d lived a life of glory. Now that was over.

  But deep inside himself, he had to admit there was much of that life he loved. He even missed the nickname the town had given him. Boo. Who was Boo now? A salesman? A once-famous writer? Ainsley’s fiancé? The reason the town suffered?

  None of these identities told him who he was. He never thought at his age he would have to search for himself. But in reality he had no idea who he was or who he was supposed to become.

  He rolled out of bed. Goose and Bunny’s wet noses gave him an extra lift. He trotted downstairs and let them out into the cold. In two hours he was supposed to be at the car lot. He wanted to call Ainsley before she left for Indianapolis, but he had no idea what time she would be waking up.

  So instead he put on some longjohns—on the off chance he might actually leave the building and be allowed to step onto the sacred grounds of the car lot—and decided to read his Bible. He knew one thing for sure: He was looking forward to church on Sunday. Maybe the reverend’s sermon would really speak to him.

  Ainsley shoveled one cookie after another with the spatula, sliding them into a beautifully decorated country-style basket. It was a little past five in the morning, and so far she’d baked one hundred and thirty cookies, seventy of those last night, mostly out of pure indignation. How could Wolfe not support her in this? What made him the authority of her life? This was her whole life’s dream, wrapped up in a nice bow and about to be handed to her. How could he deny her that? Was he just jealous? Her thoughts had distracted her so much she’d put three teaspoons of vanilla in one batch of cookies, and then mixed the pecans into the wrong batter.

  She had tried so many times to understand what in the world he was thinking, but rational thoughts were replaced by incensed emotions, which translated into another batch of cookies. Alfred had asked for three kinds. So far she had nine.

  But it hurt her heart to know they were angry at each other. She shouldn’t have stomped out of his house last night. Yet what more was there to say? She was going to Indianapolis, and he wasn’t going to stop her with his petty worries of how Alfred Tennison was going to corrupt her. He’d done a lot for Wolfe. Why couldn’t his talents be used for her dreams now?

  Ainsley decided she’d better stop with the cookies. She turned off the oven and stood by the phone, thumbing absent-mindedly through the folder Alfred had given her last night. It was early, but she would be leaving soon. How could they go the whole day angry at each other?

  She was just about to pick up the phone when she heard a scream. Gasping, she turned around, and then heard another horrifying scream. It was the worst sound she’d ever heard in her life.

  “Daddy!” Ainsley ran upstairs. “Dad! Dad!” Opening his bedroom door, she found that he was just coming to. “Dad! Wake up!”

  “What?” He jumped out of his bed, fully clad in his pawprint pajamas.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “That screaming?”

  The sheriff rubbed his eyes. “Screaming?”

  “I heard a woman scream, Dad. I’m not imagining it. I wasn’t even asleep. I was downstairs baking. I heard her scream twice. It was simply terrifying!”

  The sheriff sighed, robed himself, and followed Ainsley downstairs, all the while beckoning Thief to come with him. The cat never left the bedroom. “What is it going to take with this cat?” her father complained. “He’s like a zombie.”

  “Dad, focus. The woman. Screaming.” Ainsley opened the front door and followed him outside, both with their house slippers on. Standing on the front porch, the sheriff looked around.

  “I don’t see or hear anything.”

&nbs
p; “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard a scream.”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t know what I can do until someone calls the police or we hear something else. Now come on back inside. It’s freezing.”

  Ainsley followed her father inside, but not without one more look. She knew she’d heard someone scream.

  “Whoo. Whoo.”

  Ainsley looked up. It wasn’t yet 5:30 a.m. There, high in the trees, she heard an owl. She couldn’t see it.

  “Whoo. Whoo. Whoo.”

  “Who screamed?” she said flippantly, then went inside. Her father sat at the breakfast table, staring at the mound of cookies on the counter.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I’m entering a baking contest in Indianapolis today.”

  The sheriff tried to look interested, but his eyes were puffy, and he was now staring at the kitchen clock. Ainsley quickly poured him a cup of coffee.

  “I haven’t been sleeping well,” he admitted. “I’m worried about Thief. He’s not the same cat. Half the time he doesn’t want to come out on patrols with me. But when he does, he just sits in the car.”

  “Well, that’s probably the best place for him, Dad. That way he won’t get into trouble.”

  “I think he’s depressed.”

  Ainsley joined her father at the table. “Thief will learn there is more to life than chasing lady cats.”

  Her father shrugged and sipped his coffee.

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I got in a fight with Wolfe yesterday.”

  The sheriff looked up. “Thank goodness.”

  “What?”

  “I was beginning to worry about you two, viewing everything through rose-colored glasses all the time.”

  “I feel horrible. I don’t know what to do. What did you and Mom used to do when you got into a fight?”

  “We’d take some time to ourselves, just to cool off. Then your mom, she was always really good about bringing us back together to talk about it. Of course, I never wanted to. But once we started, we both realized why the fight started in the first place, and by the end of it, we were usually laughing about the whole thing.”