by Gale Borger
TOTALLY DECKED
By
Gale Borger
TOTALLY BUZZED
An Echelon Press Book
First Echelon Press Publication / 2010
All rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2010 by Gale Borger
Cover Art © Karen L. Syed
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eBook 978-159080-726-2
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter 1
Fred Miller hummed along with Johnny Mathis as he crooned Silent Night on the Christmas CD. The twinkle lights she had oh-so-carefully put away last January lay hopelessly tangled in a mass at her feet. "Darn it anyway," Fred groused as she attempted for the fourth time to untangle the knotted lights.
Loud squawks and several cuss words came from the back room. Fred sighed. "Kitty, that is exactly why you were kicked out of the science atrium! You need to turn over a new leaf, or it's Bye-Bye Birdie for you."
She looked at the knotted cord in her hands and yelled, "Hey Kitty, you don't happen to know how to untangle electric cords, do you?"
The silence from the back room made Fred uneasy. "Kitty, are you there?"
Nothing.
"Kitty?"
Fred had a split second to duck before three hefty pounds of feathers and loud mouth dive bombed her from overhead. "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty, Heeeer Kitteeeee!"
Caught off-balance, Fred swung her arms in circles and teetered on her toes, trying not to step on the heap at her feet. She lifted one foot and aimed for a clear spot on the floor. She wrapped her toes around the twinkle lights, grabbed for the ladder and missed. She fell backward and landed hard on her butt, missing the lights, but sending decorations flying in all directions. The huge blow-up Saint Bernard in a Santa suit slipped off the top of the ladder.
Fred folded her arms across her chest and pouted as the giant cloth dog drifted gently toward the floor and settled over her, covering her head-to toe. Grumbling out loud, Fred tried to extricate herself from the billowing material. "Dumb bird, I don't know why I put up with you! It's bad enough you got expelled from school because of your potty mouth, but now I've been saddled with you until you're fit for polite company."
Fred swore the bird was standing by her toes, laughing at her. Kitty squawked. "Stick 'em up, you rat tailed varmint!" Fred growled and Kitty must have sensed he was in trouble because he cussed like a sailor and headed for higher ground.
Fred sighed. She tugged and pulled on the cloth dog until the last of the dog's tail slid forward over the top of her head. Static electricity made Fred's mink brown hair stand on end, while her bangs flopped forward to cover her huge blue eyes. She puffed air toward the offending bangs and was rewarded with a gentle lifting of the hair covering her eyes before it settled back, covering most of her face. She pushed back her hair again and tried to stand. "I ought to give you back to Ian so he can ship your sorry butt back to South America, you dumb bird!"
Kitty cocked his head and the crown of feathers atop his dome unfurled. He leveled one beady eye in her direction and danced from foot to foot. "Dumb Bird. Pretty Bird. Pretty Dumb Bird. Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. Heh-heh-heh-heh! Ah, go away kid, ya bother me!"
Fred scowled at Kitty. "Now that line didn't do you any favors with the room mothers either, you crazy bird." She had to laugh as the cockatoo hopped up and down on the Saint Bernard, mimicking movie stars of days gone by. Kitty must have sensed forgiveness because he hopped into Fred's lap and tucked his head under her chin. Fred tried once again to blow the bangs out of her eyes. She gave up and stroked the big bird, eyes half closed, smiling as Kitty babbled nonsense, and Johnny Mathis continued to croon softly in the background.
This is the sight that greeted Mark Malone when he pushed open the door to Miller's Menagerie that mid November morning. You could have knocked him over with a feather.
Chapter 2
The morning had started out lousy for Mark and showed no signs of improving. Earlier, he'd tripped over his sister's disgusting, ill-mannered bulldog on his way out the front door to retrieve the morning paper. The paper was not in a dry plastic bag–oh no–it was tossed in the middle of his front his yard and soaked from the automatic sprinkler system Mark didn't know he had. Henrietta, the bulldog, sat placidly by the front door looking mildly offended as Mark grabbed the note attached to her collar.
Mark frowned at the canine. "You could have at least fetched the paper." Henrietta ignored him, as if the thought of fetching anything was beneath her and didn't deserve a response.
Mark read the note from his sister, Mindy. It said she was sorry, but she was heading off to Kalamazoo to find herself, and would Mark and Matt be dears and look after Henri until she returned—if she returned.
Mark crumpled the letter. Kalamazoo? What the heck does she think she'll find in Michigan? And what in Sam Hill does she mean by "if" she returns?
Mad as a wet hen, Mark eyed Henrietta. She eyed him back. Giving up the battle, Mark stared into space, then turned toward the house and tripped over the dog. She looked accusingly at him. "Sorry dog, I'd hoped you'd have wandered off while I ignored you...no such luck, eh?"
Henrietta turned her snub nose in the air and walked past Mark into the house. Mark stumbled after her, stubbing his big toe on the door jamb and splashing half his latte across the back of his hand. If he had any sense he'd pour half a bottle of Jamison's into his remaining drink and go back to bed. He thought he heard a floorboard squeak underfoot until air so foul he could almost taste it wafted past his nose. Slamming the door behind him he yelled at the dog, "What the heck does she feed you?"
Henri looked hurt and Mark immediately felt bad. "I guess you can't help it, Henri. Well, Hell. You might as well make yourself at home; Lord knows how long Mindy left you sitting out there on the porch."
Filling a bowl with water and making Henri some toast, Mark made a mental note to pick up dog food and other necessities on his way into town. He grabbed a blanket out of the closet and dropped it by the French doors in the kitchen. "There. That ought to hold you until I get back. I sure hope harebrained Mindy house trained you at least."
Henri looked up at Mark with soulful eyes. He felt another twang of conscience and almost packed her into his BMW—almost. Remembering the smell that gagged him earlier, he patted her head and made for the garage.
Mark drove into White Bass Lake, struck again with the ambience of Small Town, USA. Not that small town was his cup of tea of course, but according to the professionals, this was the perfect spot to open their newest coffee shop. Mark argued that even though the local diner served everyone in a tri-county area, statistics showed the town could easily support Cool Bean without sucking too much business away from Sal's Diner. Mark personally thought Cool Bean would end up being the dregs on the bottom of Sal's coffee pot.
He knew during the winter months his business would drop off, but the installation of a huge flagstone fireplace and overstuffed leather chairs would hopefully draw civic interest. He planned to lure organizations, book clubs, and business meetings to the shop once the summer people went home, without interfering with Sal's business hours. Mark had been in Sal's and found him a warm and friendly guy—no wonder Sal's place was the place to go.
Turning onto the main drag, Mark gazed at the rustic façade of his new shop. S
uddenly, he caught a blur out of his left eye. Slamming on the brakes, he avoided running over a perky little old lady in a pink housedress carrying the largest pink purse he'd ever seen in his life. Not sure what on earth had possessed her to stand in the middle of the street… He swore when he spilled most of the rest of his double mocha skinny latte all over his new jacket. "Damn! My brand new jacket! What else can possibly go wrong today?"
The jacket sucked the fluid like a sponge and Mark sighed. No use crying over spilled milk—or latte, in this case, Malone. At least you haven't lost your sense of humor.
He brushed at the mess on his jacket and felt a warm wetness soak through under the thigh of his jeans. "On no!"
He jammed a fistful of napkins between his leg and the leather seat. He put the mangled cup in the cup holder and shook coffee from his dripping hand.
A gentle tapping on the window had him whipping his head around and snarling into the morning sun.
Two lively blue eyes and a large crinkly grin ogled him from the other side of the glass. A mop of distinctly purple-hued and tightly curled fuzz perched on top of her head. Mark inwardly groaned. Great. All I need is the local color churning up gossip based on my humiliating wet spot. Another reason I live in the big city—no one would even notice the wet spot.
He rolled the window down and forced a smile.
"Hello young fellow, you got pretty good reaction time there! I could have been filling in the cracks in the asphalt if you hadn't slammed on those brakes—not that some folks around here would miss me much. I'm what you'd probably call the local color. I sit at home thinkin' up ways to get people goin' around here."
Figures, first person I meet is going to spread the word I wet my pants in public.
She shoved a tiny hand through the window. "Mary Cromwell, at your service. And you are?" She actually waggled her foofy white eyebrows.
"Mark Malone, ma'am. Pleased to meet you."
Her eyes brightened. "Oh! One of them Malone boys who's opening that new yuppie coffee shop at the end of the block, eh?"
Mark quirked a smile. "Yes ma'am. My brother and I hope to open next Monday, as a matter of fact."
Mary cackled. "Good luck there boy, but if you ask me, you're askin' for trouble opening up this late in the year. With all them high-falutin' summer people gone home for the winter season, you might as well wait and open up in the spring. Sal ain't gonna take kindly to some new kid steppin' on his toes either, and folks around here ain't gonna change where they go for coffee. We don't hold much for your kind of half-fat-double-bubble-latte-mocha-choke-a-cappuccino-frappachino-froo-froo-foof-fa-chino stuff—no offense young man."
The hair on the back of Mark's neck rose, but he smiled politely and said, "Thank you very kindly for the advice, Mrs. Cromwell. I hope you and your friends will at least stop by and say hi for the grand opening. You're my first friend in White Bass Lake, and I would consider it an honor if you'd be my first customer as well. Come on by and I'll buy you your first cup of plain old black coffee at Cool Bean."
Mary slapped his arm. "Why aren't you the charmer! Tell you what—I'll not only stop by, I'll bring the rest of the SWAT girls with me."
"SWAT?"
"Ah-yup! We're the Senior Women's Action Team. We help out on police investigations, missing persons, rescue missions, whatever needs doing around here." Mary patted her flat chest. "We'll all come over so it looks like someone shows up—heck, we'll even come in separate cars so the parking lot looks full!"
Mark couldn't help but smile, wondering if the other SWAT women were as colorful as Mary. "Why thank you, Mrs. Cromwell, it will be my pleasure. Now I have one more question. I recently acquired a dog, and I need some supplies. Could you direct me to the nearest Wal-Mart, Pet Smart, or Pet-Co?"
Mary slapped him on the arm. "Pshaw! Shame on you young man, you need to shop local. Freddie Miller next door to you has the best little pet store this side of Lake Michigan!" Mary eyed his left hand. "Plus she's single and pretty as a pixie. Go on over there and she'll fix you right up, okee-dokee?"
Mark covered her hand with his. "I'll do that Mrs. Cromwell, and thank you."
Her smile crinkled her whole face. "Mary, young man, my name's Mary. We're pretty casual around here."
Mark smiled back, feeling good for the first time that day. "Thank you, Mary. I'll see you Monday. Now you'd better be getting out of the road."
Mark drove away and when he pulled into the parking lot of Cool Bean, he looked in his rear view mirror to find Mary still looking at him from the middle of the road. Another car squealed to a stop to avoid mowing her down. They yelled at her and she flipped them the bird, but she finally shuffled toward the sidewalk. He smiled and shook his head.
Mark found Chris Pyle unpacking boxes of Cool Bean coffee mugs when he strolled through the back door. He'd argued with his brother Matt in favor of hiring the surly seventeen year old with the lanky black hair and churlish attitude, but Mark saw something in the angry young man worth investigating. Chris never smiled and rarely spoke, but he worked hard and didn't complain about the hours or the pay. Despite the lousy morning, Mark pasted a smile on his face and marched through the door. "Hey, how's it going there, Chris?"
Chris looked up from the box and shrugged. Mark waited, but when no words were forthcoming, he gave up and went to the office. He looked at his watch and realized the professional Santa his brother hired to start next Monday at the grand opening hadn't arrived yet.
"Hey, Chris, did that Santa Matt hired from the agency show up earlier this morning?"
Chris lifted his head just enough to clear the box. "Nope."
Mark waited a beat. "Did anyone call?"
Muffled words drifted up from inside the box. "Yup."
Mark waited again. "Well? Did you answer it?
Chris eyed him for a second. "Nope."
"Gee, thanks, Chris, remind me to put you up for a promotion."
Chris popped his head out of the box and cracked a smile. "Uh-yeah, right. Can I get that in writing?"
Mark barked out a laugh. "Chris, you crack me up."
Chris mumbled something and buried his head back in the box.
Good job, Malone, so much for bringing the kid out of his shell. "Hey Chris, need anything at the pet store? It seems I acquired a canine companion overnight, and I need supplies. Some little old lady told me to go to Miller's Menagerie."
Chris' head popped up again. "Oh, man, that little old lady, she didn't have a mongo pink purse in her hand did she?"
"Yes, she did, why?"
"Then definitely look out for her. I mean she be bad news man! That Mary Cromwell, oh wow. Be careful with that one, fer real."
"She seemed nice enough in an eccentric sort of way."
"Eccentric ain't the word I'm thinkin'. She is one scary old lady—her and her friends. One minute you're walkin' down the street mindin' your own business, next thing you know sirens are blarin', old ladies are yellin', you get a Taser stuck in your side, but that ain't nothin' compared to getting' hit over the head with that pink purse-o-hers. That thing will knock you into tomorrow. You wake up cuffed and you got one big mother of a goose egg on your head!" He sobered and rubbed an imaginary lump. "Just be careful, man." He ducked into the box.
Mark shook his head, trying to make sense of Chris's ranting. "Uh, okay. I'll be careful. Anything you need to tell me about the pet store, or am I okay to walk in without getting attacked?"
Chris almost cracked another smile. "Naw, Fred Miller's okay. Just be careful of flying objects, that's all."
"Flying obj—"
Chris actually chuckled and Mark stood stunned. "Sometimes Fred's the one flying. Fred uh, trips a lot, but she's cool." Chris looked thoughtful. "In fact, way cool. Old, but still real hot, you know? All them Millers are nice to you, even if you're a freak."
Chris ducked back into the box and Mark ran a hand through his hair. Turning toward the front door he tried to make sense again of the words of wisdom Chris had i
mparted. "Fred trips." He mumbled. Heading down the sidewalk, he mused, "Fred, whoever he is must be awfully clumsy if tripping is his only claim to fame." He pulled up. Did Chris say Fred is hot? Oh, yuk!
Hesitating at the front of the pet shop, Mark inhaled deeply, grabbed the old fashioned handle, and shoved open the door. A cacophony of sights and sounds immediately battered his senses. Puppies yapping, hamster wheels squeaking, birds singing, music playing—he almost backed out onto the street, but his eyes slowly took in the ladder, the decorations scattered over the floor, the twinkle lights in a tangled mess, and the flattened Saint Bernard. His gaze finally came to rest on the small person sitting in the middle of the chaos.
Mary had said something about a pixie, and there one sat, almost covered by a huge white bird. He could only stare at the large cockatoo with his head under the pixie's chin, his eyes closed, mumbling so he sounded like a purring kitten, and the girl—no, a woman. A beautiful woman, her eyes closed, her hair standing on end, clothes disheveled, stroking the cockatoo as if he were the most prized possession in the world, and he fell instantly in love–with both of them.
Whoa boy. What the heck are you thinking? You know beautiful women. This one has freckles. She looks more like Becky Thatcher than Miss America! She's calmly sitting on the floor in the middle of the day surrounded by pandemonium, and you stand here like a dope drooling over her pixie-girl-next-door-look...with freckles! I wonder if Fred Miller knows his help is taking a lengthy time out with Birdzilla in the middle of the store? But wow, she sure is cute.
The thought of some good old boy in a flannel shirt and a camouflage ball cap, beer-belly hanging over his belt, chaw in his jaw, amused over the fact that the pixie-girl turned his pet shop into a disaster area made him chuckle.
The pixie must have heard him because she opened up her eyes. The bird screeched and took off toward the rear of the store, and Mark stood stupefied.
