Boo Hiss

by Rene Gutteridge

  “Are you serious?”

  “Sure. I mean, we’ve tried up until now, which would’ve been very convenient. But it just wasn’t our time. So we lay off for two months, and then we can resume when gardening season has passed.”

  Wolfe rubbed his stubble. “Kind of takes the romance out of it, doesn’t it?”

  “Trust me. I’ve read all the books. The first three months the baby is here are overwhelming, and we want to be prepared.”

  “I’d say we’re very prepared. We have a crib, diapers, clothes, toys, and until just a minute ago, a completely decorated room.”

  “A baby is going to change our lives. We have to be ready for it.”

  A knock caused Goose and Bunny to jump to their feet and scuttle to the door.

  “Maybe your dad changed his mind,” Wolfe said, going to the door. “He can hardly ever pass up your—” Wolfe swung open the door. “Alfred!”

  “Wolfe! Greetings!”

  “Alfred?”

  “Wolfe. Greetings.”

  “It’s been months since we’ve seen you.” “Well, are you going to invite me in?”

  Ainsley swept up beside Wolfe and, before he could answer, grabbed Alfred by the arm and pulled him inside. “Of course you’re always welcome in our home, Alfred. Care to stay for dinner?”

  “It’s quiche,” Wolfe said. “You hate eggs.”

  “I do. But I love anything your wife makes, so I’m sure that will include her quiche. Besides, with the budget I’m living on these days, I’ve come to appreciate the value of such a simple food as the egg.” He dropped his wool coat into Ainsley’s arms and surveyed the room. “A woman’s touch is here now, Wolfe,” he said. “It’s nice.”

  “I’m curious about why you’re here, of course.”

  “I knew you would be,” Alfred said. “But as your former editor and longtime friend, you should know that I’m always thinking about you and always have your best interests at heart.”

  “The last time you used that line, you nearly got me killed at a horror writers’ boycott.”

  “That was a simple misunderstanding. When they said, ‘Were going to cut your head off,’ I thought it was a friendly chant from adoring horror fans who love stuff like that.”

  “Anyway.” Wolfe sighed. “I’ve been wondering how you’re getting along. How’s New York?”

  “Well, when you’re not on top of the world, it seems like the worst place on earth. Noisy. Crowded. And expensive. I had to sell my apartment. I’m living with a friend until I can get on my feet again.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Any ideas about what you might be doing?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Wolfe,” Ainsley said, “let the man talk. He may have some good ideas about getting your creativity jump-started again.”

  Alfred cocked an eyebrow as Wolfe gave Ainsley a startled expression, as if she had said too much. But she didn’t care. Wolfe was at a dead end, and he needed something to spark an idea. Maybe Alfred was the answer.

  “Interesting.” Alfred looked at Wolfe, a wry smile delicately balanced on his lips. “Things have been slow for you, too, Wolfe?” “Not slow. Just …”

  “Slow,” Ainsley said. “He’s getting very discouraged.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Wolfe? I could’ve called some people for you.”

  “I wanted to try it on my own. I submitted some things under a pen name.”

  “What happened?”

  “He got rejected,” Ainsley said, patting his shoulder. “And it was good stuff too. I read some of it.”

  “Wolfe, why are you using a pen name?”

  “Because I want a fresh start. I want to know I can make it as a writer without depending on the brand that has been built around all my horror books. I don’t write horror anymore, and so in essence I’m starting over.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got connections. Believe it or not, there are still industry people willing to talk to me despite what happened to you.”

  “I’m not giving up. I’m just taking a little break, trying to get refocused.”

  “Well,” Alfred grinned, swinging his arm in a flamboyant gesture, “that is why I’m here, my friend.”

  Wolfe actually groaned, and Ainsley had to hit him on the shoulder.

  “I know, I know,” he said. “You have your reservations. But let’s not forget the successful transformation I instigated with your beautiful wife. She was three tarts short of becoming the next Martha Stewart.”

  “Alfred, just because you can do something doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a good idea. Ainsley is proof of that. In the end, she wasn’t destined to be what she was very capable of being.”

  “True,” Ainsley said. She figured she should throw one in on Wolfe’s side, just to keep him from becoming overly agitated by Alfred’s endless insistence.

  “Well, if you’ll hear me out, I’ve uncovered something truly amazing. It astonishes even me, and I’m well aware of the depth of my editorial and agentary talents.”

  “Agentary is not a word.”

  “It’s an industry word. Anyway, do you want to know what it is?” “I think I might need some food in my stomach,” Wolfe said. The timer buzzed from the kitchen. Alfred popped his hands up and grinned. “Timing is everything!”

  CHAPTER 3

  WOLFE WALKED ALONG the sidewalk, deep in thought. Alfred had been so passionate with his idea, and in a moment of honesty, Wolfe envied that. He hadn’t felt that kind of passion for his writing in some time. He’d written a nice piece about Skary, and though moving and appreciated, it had bombed badly. He’d been informed by his publisher that he was welcome back as soon as he was ready to write horror again.

  Well, he wasn’t. Somewhere deep inside loomed a gigantic story, but he had no idea what it was or how to write it. He told himself it just needed to sit. Ferment for a while. When it was time to be poured out, he would know it.

  And now here was the great Alfred Tennison at his doorstep once again, with another grand plan to resurrect his career. For a while he’d been thinking that his career wasn’t to be resurrected. But he was starting to realize something very profound: he didn’t do anything else well.

  He’d tried to sell cars. He’d tried to sell books at the bookstore. He’d even tried to do nothing. But all he really knew how to do was write. What perplexed him now was why he couldn’t seem to write anything. Was he that bad of a writer that a hop over to another genre caused everything to collapse?

  During the quiche dinner, Alfred had tried to politely eat, though Wolfe could tell he wasn’t enjoying it. Alfred explained there was a market for “you kind of writers.” By “you kind of writers” he meant the kind who “think God has to be in everything.” Once Alfred got past all the rhetoric, Wolfe understood him to be saying there was a whole market for what he called religious fiction.

  “At first I thought they were talking about stories set in the Vatican, but no.” Alfred seemed completely in awe of whatever he was trying to explain, and he was doing a fairly poor job of it. “I mean, it’s nearly surreal,” he said. “You know how a book won’t sell if it doesn’t have one and a half sex scenes or a lot of gratuitous violence, right?” Wolfe nodded, though Alfred was exaggerating. It wasn’t quite boiled down to that kind of formula. Though close. “Well, these books don’t have sex scenes in them. Or gratuitous violence. In fact, they won’t even publish a book with something like that in it.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Bizarre was what I was thinking, but anyway, it sounds like it could be your kind of deal. And from what I can see, there’s quite a bit of money to be made. People actually like this stuff. I’m not kidding. I looked up the numbers. Turns out, lack of sex sells. Who knew?”

  Wolfe walked into the recently renovated coffee shop. He’d been enjoying the routine of trying a new drink at each breakfast. It helped break up his mundane mornings. The decor was nice t
oo. The long metal tables and aluminum chairs that had been in here before had been replaced by wooden chairs and matching, small, round wooden tables. There was art on the wall instead of hometown newspaper clippings.

  He walked to the counter, where a huge selection of fancy pastries had replaced donuts. Was that baklava? Wasn’t that a German pastry he used to eat at Ingrids?

  “Good morning, Wolfe.”

  Wolfe turned to find Reverend Peck, also a new and loyal coffeehouse customer, standing behind him. “Good morning, Reverend.” The reverend liked to kill about half his morning in this place.

  “How is your day going?”

  “So far so good. Took a little walk, did some thinking, came in for a cup of coffee. That’s about it.”

  “That sounds fun.”

  “How is your morning going?”

  “Actually, it’s been pretty interesting.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “A woman came to visit me at the church, claimed she could turn it around, get people to start coming again. She said it’s all in the children’s ministry.”

  “Huh. Children’s ministry. Did you mention we mostly just have adults?”

  “I tried to tell her. But she insisted that she could multiply the parishioners. She would just need a box of Goldfish.”

  “Well, I guess that’s a cross between a loaf of bread and a fish product.”

  “Yeah, guess so.” He looked at the woman behind the counter. “Double vanilla mocha.” He smiled at Wolfe. “I’m feeling a little crazy today.”

  Hardy Bishop could hardly believe his eyes. This was a dream come true. Booky’s was now everything he’d ever wanted. He always knew money could buy happiness, and this was proof.

  “I have a vision for your store,” the woman with nice hair and expensive pants had said. “I think it has the potential to be amazing.”

  So they’d secretly planned the move. She had ideas down to every last detail. Huge posters hung from the ceiling. Recessed lighting added a homey glow. And there was aisle after glorious aisle of every book imaginable. Mrs. Downey was right. There was nothing on earth like it. Right here, in Skary, Indiana, was the most unique bookstore on the planet.

  There was even a computer that scanned the bar codes and rang up the price.

  But his favorite part of it all was the fact that this old grocery store, abandoned ever since the new Wal-Mart had arrived the next county over, was in use again. And it still looked like a grocery store, which was Mrs. Downey’s vision for it all. It was pure genius.

  Hardy looked at his watch. It was time for their grand opening! Outside he could see curious people milling about, trying to get a glimpse into one of the windows. “Dustin! It’s time! Open the doors!”

  Dustin didn’t have a lot of expressions, but even he looked excited as he trailed over to the door, the bottoms of his jeans dusting the floor. He stood just right so the automatic doors sensed his presence and slid quietly open. “Come on in,” Dustin said to the crowd of about forty. Some were Hardy’s usual customers, including Wolfe, who gave him a hearty wave. Some were new customers, and that delighted him even more.

  “Welcome, my friends,” Hardy said as they gathered around him. “Welcome to the new location of Booky’s, where we will now meet all your reading needs! Dustin, why don’t you start passing out the maps.”

  While Dustin passed them out, Hardy continued to explain the layout of the store. “Folks, grab a buggy and get ready to read. Over here”—he gestured—”is the vegetable section. Here you will find all our books on nutrition, as well as some healthy cookbooks. At the dairy section, you’ll see a nice assortment of books such as How to Milk Life for All It’s Worth and other popular books like Don’t Cry Over Spilt Milk. Over where the cheese used to be you’ll find the bodice rippers. But some of the more serious romances you will find where the flowers used to be stocked.

  “In the meats section, you’ll find the philosophy and Christian living books. The Bibles are where the breads were. And in the old pet supply section, you’ll find a great variety of books on animals. The gift books are where the condiments used to be. All thrillers, suspense, and horror are back in the butcher’s corner. However, you’ll find the mysteries on the foreign food aisle. And for those of you looking for the classics or literary fiction, a fine selection awaits you in gourmet foods. Pop fiction is on the soda aisle.

  “And,” Hardy said with a final grin, “if you’d like some coffee, we have some fresh and hot over on the coffee aisle!” Everyone looked enthusiastic, so he said, “Go shop and enjoy yourself. We have some couches and reading chairs at the back of the store too.”

  Everyone dispersed except Wolfe, who walked toward him and shook his hand. “Hardy, this is terrific. What an idea!”

  “Thanks, Wolfe. Glad you could make it.”

  “I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”

  “Sure. Anything.” Hardy tried to ignore the way Wolfe apparently felt the need to bounce on the balls of his feet at this moment. Maybe it was a writer thing.

  “Have you heard of religious fiction?”

  “Sure. Curiously, I’ve been having a hard time placing these in my store.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I had them over by the breads, and then moved them over to the meats. You won’t find any by the cheeses. The butcher block seemed kind of extreme. The freezer might send out the wrong signal. I don’t know. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Not really. I’m just familiarizing myself with it now. So where’d you put them?”

  Hardy grimaced. “Well, in the cereal aisle.” “The cereal? Why?”

  “Because it’s fortified with good stuff. Dustin suggested the canned foods, but he’s never been to church and probably has never read a religious fiction book. I don’t know. They just seem peculiar. Frankly, they don’t really fit in.” He smiled. “But they sell well.”

  “A friend thought I should try writing one.”

  Hardy laughed. “You?”

  “I shouldn’t?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think they have horror.”

  “I was thinking of writing something other than horror.”

  “Really. Can you do that?”

  “I think so.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe a good, cozy mystery.”

  “Did I mention my mysteries are over in the foreign food section?” “Yes. Clever.”

  “Well, I think you’re a capable writer, and whatever you decide to do, I’m sure you’ll do fine with it.”

  Hardy turned and saw people streaming out the doors, each carrying a grocery sack. He walked over to Dustin. “This is great! People are in and out in a jiff, able to find exactly what they need!”

  “Yeah,” Dustin said, checking out a final customer. “But we’re going to need to place an order.”

  “An order? We’re fully stocked.”

  “We’re completely out of every book on snakes.”

  CHAPTER 4

  MARTIN WATCHED MAYOR WULLISWORTH tug at the tuft of white hair protruding from his ear. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the mayor was one snake sighting away from a Caribbean vacation. He’d ripped down all the Lost Pet posters the kid had put up.

  “It’s frightening the residents!” the mayor had snapped in a shaky voice. That may have been true, but it was certainly trickling down from the top.

  He drummed all ten fingers against his desk like it was a typewriter, and his leg bounced up and down beneath him.

  “Sir,” Martin replied, “what this town needs is to see its mayor calm and collected, a reassuring voice in an uncertain time.”

  “This is horrible! It’s horrible!” the mayor shrieked, then gnawed at the fingernails of one hand, while with the other he grabbed a pencil and busily doodled across a memo on his desk. Martin had never seen the mayor this nervous about anything.

  It was supposed to be their weekly event meeting, so Martin deci
ded that might get the mayor’s mind off of his self-described “worst horror of my life.”

  “So part of the soccer field mystery is solved. The Brewer family sold the land, for quite a good profit, to another family, apparently not residents of Skary. I guess they wanted a soccer field. They have a right to do what they want with it. I did notice a nice set of metal bleachers has just been put in. Who knows? Maybe a soccer league would be nice around here.”

  The mayor nodded, and kept nodding. He didn’t stop nodding. Martin resisted the urge to grab his head and make him stop.

  “Anyway, the other exciting news is that Lois Stepaphanolopolis is starting a community theater!”

  “A what?”

  “A community theater. She’s written a play and says she has people knocking down her door trying to get a part in it. She’s planning a Thanksgiving Eve performance.”

  The mayor grumbled. “What else?”

  “Trudy’s little coffee shop is going well. New tables, a new counter, and a lot of different options. And I mean a lot. I never knew coffee could be had so many ways. She must order the beans straight from heaven, because it’ll cost you the treasure at the end of the rainbow to try a cup. I just order Trudy’s Special myself.”

  “What’s so special about it?”

  “It comes black with nothing in it. Anyway, it looks like the economy is picking up a little. For the first time in years, I see a little light at the end of the tunnel.”

  The phone rang, and the mayor waved it off. “I don’t want to talk to anyone today.” He grabbed his coat. “I’ve got some things to do.”

  Martin answered the phone as the mayor hurried out the front door.

  “Mayor’s office.”

  “I hear there’s a snake on the loose. Making everyone real nervous.” The man had a distinct accent. “Who is this?” “The answer to all your reptilian problems.”

  Dustin walked out the front door of his home, letting the screen door bang shut the way his mother hated. He didn’t care.

  “No calls,” his mother had told him when he got home from work. Not a single sighting. Had his snakes run away? He’d been sure that within a few days Bob and Fred would have returned. He would even sneak downstairs after his mother went to bed and crack the back door open, though he was sure Bob was smart enough to make his way into the house by other means. Fred tended to do what Bob wanted more than Bob did what Fred wanted. But there had to be a dominant, and Bob was really better at it. He had a larger head and seemed to sense danger better.