Faux Pas (A Road's End Mishap Book 2)

by Deborah Dee Harper

  Dewey, looking triumphant that he wasn’t at the sharp end of Sadie’s point right then, poked at the dirt floor creating little puffs of dust with each stab. “Wish we could see what’s goin’ on out there.”

  Sadie grimaced. “Just what do ya think is going on out there, Dewey? S’pose it might be a thunderstorm? Huh? Stand still, for cryin’ out loud. You’re making me dizzy.”

  “Yeah,” George added, “and yer messing up the floor with all those footprints.”

  Dewey, apparently realizing the error of his ways, began to smooth over the footprints with the side of his shoe, creating more prints each time he stepped over to smooth another one out.

  Sadie rolled her eyes.

  “You know,” George said, “if Hugh had just listened to us, we’d know what was goin’ on out there.” Another crack of thunder rolled overhead, and he ducked as if the extra four inches between him and the thunderclouds thousands of feet above him might somehow make a difference.

  With great passion, Dewey pumped his fist into the air and cried, “Windows! We need windows!”

  “You need windows to know there’s a thunderstorm above your heads? You big dopes.” Sadie was not in a benevolent mood. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry than worrying ’bout a little storm.”

  “’Least we’ve got our bore holes,” George added.

  “And bore holes will help you how?” Sadie had seen and heard all about the boreholes a few minutes earlier during the guided tour George gave her upon arrival. “So you can see if the worms are getting wet? Forget your bore holes and let’s figure out what we’re gonna do to save the president.”

  Before any brilliant ideas could be bandied about, they heard the clomping and chatter of more men coming down the steps to the basement. Thirty seconds later, Pastor Parry, Frank, Joe, Rudy, Leo, Sherman, and Dodge stood at the base of the stairs dripping all over the dirt floor and tripping over one another to find a place to stand.

  “Boy, that was dangerous!” Pastor Parry said, shaking his head and pulling at his wet shirt.

  Sadie spoke up. “Gettin’ worse out there, Pastor?”

  “Could be, Sadie, but I was talking about coming down the steps. It’s dark as pitch in the church. In fact, seems that all the lights in town are out.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sadie said. “It’s stormin’. We lose power when it storms. Period. Now if all you dummies are done sprayin’ everyone with water and stomping dirt everywhere, let’s get back to the point. We need to save the president.”

  “Let’s hear it for Gray Ops!”

  “Shut up, Dewey.”

  “Excuse me, I don’t mean to sound like I doubt anyone,” Pastor Parry said quietly, “but how do we know the president is even in any danger, Sadie?” Perry Parry was no fool. No one wanted to be on Sadie Simms’ bad side, particularly with a thunderstorm raging overhead and only a rickety staircase between Sadie and relative safety, so he trod softly. “Can we be absolutely certain?”

  “You betcher boots you can, Perry,” George said, pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Me and Dewey heard those two guys talkin’ about gettin’ the job done tonight and then losin’ their memory soon as the deed’s done.”

  Dewey nodded vehemently. “Yeah, and one of ’em was mad about a mug. Don’t know what that was about, but you know how guys are with their favorite coffee mugs. Coulda been one of ’em stole the other’s from him.”

  “No matter,” George said with a shrug. “I heard him say it was ugly anyway.”

  Sherman DeSoto looked up from playing a game of tic-tac-toe in the dirt with his granddad and said, “Yeah, some o’ those mugs I seen can be doggoned homely. One time I was in a gas station and seen a green one that ...”

  “Shut up, Sherman,” Sadie said.

  Sherman promptly shut up and went back to making his Xs.

  Pastor Parry looked confused. “You mean they were arguing over a coffee mug? How’s that make them out to get the president?”

  George looked deep in thought, while Dewey watched him think. Joe and Rudy arm-wrestled over the wood-burning furnace, which, fortunately, wasn’t fired up, Leo puffed some squiggles with his pipe, and Frank dozed over in the corner. Sherman yelled, “Yes!” His granddad groaned and scratched out the dirt-floor game board with the piece of kindling he’d been using to draw his Os. “Rats.”

  Sadie groaned and under her breath said, “I’m surrounded by nitwits.”

  “Not sure, Perry,” George said after a few seconds of deep thought. “But that just adds to the mystery, don’tcha think?”

  Sadie stared at the dirt floor and shook her head. “There has to be more to it than that. Think about it, men. What’d they say that made you believe they were gonna hurt the president?”

  George looked at Dewey. Dewey looked back. They squinted their eyes as if that would bring their thoughts into sharper focus. Apparently, it didn’t.

  “Not sure, Sadie,” George said, “but there was jest somethin’ about the way they were talkin’. I know there was somethin’ in particular, but I can’t put my finger on it. I just gotta think there was more goin’ on between ’em than a fight over some coffee mug. ’Sides, don’t it seem a bit odd that me and Dewey’d overhear two guys talkin’ about getting the job done on the same night the president’s in town?”

  “Maybe they’re after the em-per of China. He’s here, ya know,” Sherman tried again. “Pastor Foster told me. I saw him eatin’ chips over at the inn—the em-per, not the pastor. Didn’t know they ate chips in China. Onion rings, yeah. Ever’body knows that. But chips?”

  Everyone ignored him.

  Pastor Parry stroked an imaginary beard. “That’s true, George,” he said, “but maybe it wasn’t the president they were talking about. Perhaps it was Senator Austin. I hate to speak badly of our elected officials ...”

  Sadie jumped in. “Go right ahead. That’s all right. Greasy bunch o’ politicians, the whole lot of ’em.”

  Perry ignored her and continued his thought. “... but I don’t think Gilbert Austin is well-liked around Washington or around here, for that matter.” He stopped and pondered that for a second. “Or around the country. Or ... or the world, I guess.” He shook his head. “So, wouldn’t that point to Senator Austin being the one they’re after rather than the president?”

  Sadie nodded. “It could. I know I’d like to get rid of him, but that’s just me. He rubs me the wrong way.” She shrugged. “Well, if it’s him they’re after, let’s just forget about it.”

  Perry’s jaw dropped. “Sadie,” he said, “I’m not particularly fond of the man myself, but we can’t just let someone hurt him or ... or kill him and not do anything about it just because we don’t like him.”

  “Sure, we can,” Sadie said. “Simple. We wait out this storm and go home.” She stared at Perry for a moment then burst into laughter. “I’m just joshin’ you, Pastor. ’Course we gotta do something about it. Although,” she thought for a second. “I have to admit I’m not as keen about saving him as I would be ’bout saving the president.”

  “Well, this is a fine kettle o’ corn flakes. Here we are all ready to rescue some highfalutin official and we’re not even sure which one it is,” George said. “Isn’t that just like a politician to confuse things? Make it more complicated than it needs to be? Honestly. We oughta throw the whole lot of ’em into a lake somewhere.”

  That got Joe’s and Rudy’s attentions. Rudy piped up, “How ’bout that lake over there on yer land, Leo? That’d be the perfect spot to dump ’em. No one’d ever think to look there.”

  Joe nodded his agreement. “Yeah, that’d be the perfect spot, wouldn’t it? Whatcha think, Leo?”

  Leo squiggled another smoke ring out of his pipe before answering. “Dry.”

  Perry practically burst into tears. He waved his hands and said, “Wait a minute, everybody. Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute. Now we’re finding places to dump bodies? What’s happened to us?”

  “Us?” De
wey pointed a quivering finger at him. “Yer the one cussin’, Pastor. Shame on you.”

  “Cussing? Since when is cotton-pickin’ a cuss word?”

  “Since you started sayin’ it, Pastor,” George said. “Never even heard you raise yer voice before. Must be mighty mad to start cussin’.”

  Perry had lived in this town with these same men for forty years; he had to know when he was up against the wall. He sighed and hung his head. “Sorry, George. Don’t know what got into me. As I was saying, we can’t start talking about hiding bodies and getting rid of people we don’t like. We just can’t do it.”

  “Pastor’s right,” Sadie said with a bob of her head and a hearty foot stomp, causing a tiny dust storm at her feet. “Right now, we need to save the president. We can worry ’bout gettin’ rid of those politicians some other time.”

  Perry must have thought Sadie’s suggestion was better than nothing because he didn’t say another word. Instead, Dewey fairly leaped into the air and said, “Got it!”

  George looked at him suspiciously, as if Dewey had gotten hold of something that George should have had first. “Got what?”

  “The reason, man. The reason!”

  “Then spit it out, Dewey,” Sadie said.

  “Shaving mug! It’s a shaving mug!”

  “What’s a shaving mug?”

  “What they were fighting over. Those two men. It’s not a plain ol’ coffee mug. It’s a shaving mug.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No wonder they were so upset. You can forgive a guy for taking yer coffee mug but shaving mug? No way.”

  Sadie closed her eyes and looked to the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance. “What on earth are you talking about, Dewey Wyandotte?” She opened her eyes, stared into Dewey’s, and shook her bony fist at him. “And it better be good.”

  Dewey slapped his forehead and looked chagrined. “I don’t know why I didn’t remember this before. One o’ those guys told the other not to get in a lather. Remember, George? Remember him sayin’ that?”

  Sadie looked at the sea of faces around her—some appeared interested, some confused, one was fast asleep. And she knew hers had to be turning redder by the second.

  Despite that, Dewey continued, wonder at his own brilliance permeating every word. “Don’tcha get it? He was tauntin’ him about takin’ his shaving mug!”

  “Well then,” Sadie said, throwing her hands into the air. “Mystery solved, I guess. We’re lookin’ for a cranky guy with a scraggly beard that’s gonna kill the president ’cause someone stole his stupid shavin’ mug, and then he’s just gonna forget about it all in the mornin’. That about right, Dewey Wyandotte, oh, wise one?”

  Dewey thought about that then nodded his head slowly and said, “Yeah. Yeah, Sadie, I think you got it right. Sounds ’bout right to me. Whatcha think, guys? That sound about right to you?”

  The men looked at one another, at Dewey, at one another again, and then shrugged collectively.

  “Yep.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Can’t beat that for logic.”

  Smoke squiggle.

  Pastor Parry bowed his head and mumbled. The men high-fived one another, and Sadie groaned. They made a few last-minute plans, agreed on their assignments, and went their separate ways. Road’s End’s newly-minted Gray Ops team was on the move. Each member had a job to do, and by golly, they were gonna do it, come heck or high water. And with that thunderstorm raging above them, the high water was undoubtedly already there, so that left just ... well, you know.

  They were on their way back up the rickety stairs when Sherman stopped mid-staircase, nearly causing a domino effect of tumbling old men and multiple fractures. “Still think it’s mighty odd ’bout those chips.”

  “Shut up, Sherman.”

  Chapter 38

  Stuart Thomas Rogers stood next to the kitchen sink, palms flat on the countertop, and peered out the window at the vivid display of nature’s aggression overhead. The sky, already darkened by nightfall, now roiled and raged with ominous power as lightning arced its way from the clouds to the ground with increasing intensity, and the constant thunder—invisible, but infinitely menacing—roared its displeasure at the world beneath it.

  He closed his eyes and remembered the last time he experienced the fury of a thunderstorm to match this one. It was in Cincinnati during the campaign for the presidency, a little over three years before. They’d planned an outdoor rally despite the forecast for strong storms because it would be a quick in-and-out speech and didn’t require an enclosed venue with all the details involved in using a stadium. His aides assured him he’d have time to give the speech and be on his way to their next destination long before the storm arrived.

  Caroline was dead set against it. “It’s not us I’m worried about,” she said to Carlton, a short, dapper, dark-haired, and, as she had told STR on several occasions, a dangerously ambitious senior aide. “It’s the people who’ll be coming to the speech. We’ll be spirited off to the bus and be on our way, but they’ll be leaving the grounds, looking for their cars, trying to get home in the storm. What if something happens to someone because we decided to go ahead with the speech? Can we live with ourselves if someone gets hurt? Or dies in a car accident?” She shook her head. “I know I couldn’t.” She turned to STR and crossed her arms. That was a sure sign she meant business. “No. We can’t do it.”

  “But Mrs. Rogers,” Carlton argued, “that can be said of any rally or speech. People will always be traveling to hear your husband, whether it’s across the street or from a hundred miles away. Something bad could happen at any time. To anyone.” He’d shrugged and given her one of his disarming grins. “It’s a chance we all take every day of our lives. Besides, they’re not our responsibility, ma’am. They can take care of themselves. If they want to take the chance, I say, let ’em.”

  Caroline looked at the aide and said, “Shut up, Carlton.”

  Carlton shut up.

  She turned to STR. “I don’t care what your ... aide tells you. We’re not talking about our lives here. We’re talking about American citizens who care enough to come whatever distance to hear you speak. We can’t take their lives in our hands. It’s just not right. If you’re going to be their leader, and you are, then this decision should be a no-brainer.” She turned away and nearly knocked Carlton on his backside on her way out of the room. Before she opened the door, she turned to the surprised aide. “That’s the difference between you and my husband, Carlton. You don’t want to take responsibility.”

  STR looked at Carlton. “She’s right. Call it off. And while you’re at it, you might want to review some of the more relevant points of my campaign. Sounds like you’re more interested in helping me become a winner than a leader.”

  Carlton tensed, ready to argue his point, but before he could utter a word, Stuart said, “Think about it, and let me know tomorrow morning whether or not you want to continue on this campaign. Because it seems to me we’re not on the same page. The American people are our responsibility.”

  After Carlton left and Caroline returned, they sat on the small couch by the window in the motor home's compact living room and watched the approaching storm. It turned out to be every bit as bad as the weather forecasters predicted. He never found out if anyone was hurt because of the storm, but at least he knew he hadn’t been the cause if they had. He recalled thanking God later that night for Caroline’s gentle spirit and gutsy determination. She would have made a first-class first lady.

  The staccato tapping of the rain as it blew sideways against the window roused him from his reverie. He pushed back from the counter, pulled out a chair, and sat down at the big table. Still no electricity, so there was no fresh coffee. He looked around at the kitchen, outfitted with the latest of modern improvements but still holding the charm and history of the old home it was.

  He wondered about the people who had taken turns sitting at this table down through the generations over the past two hundred yea
rs. What had been their thoughts? Had they opposed the Revolutionary War? Had they been staunch British subjects or sympathetic to the cause of the American rebels? And what had been their views during the War Between the States? Had they lost loved ones? And were any of the former residents of this home buried in the old cemetery beside the Christ Is Lord Church? He ran his hands across the scarred tabletop. It was probably two hundred years old, maybe older, and still on the job. The windows behind him were multi-paned and original to the house; they’d given its owners a view of the world outside this kitchen for many years even before the country was born. Hugh had given him a tour of the venerable old inn on the afternoon of his arrival, and STR could easily live in a place like this. Maybe he could come back some time in the future just to relax and enjoy Hugh, Melanie, and the rest of the Road’s End gang. Then again, maybe he’d check first to find out the whereabouts of Sadie Simms.

  He was alone for the moment. Mack was checking out the rest of the house for who-knew-what. Maybe a clever assassin produced a thunderstorm to disguise his evil plot to kill the president. He couldn’t see anyone, but he knew there was at least one agent within tackling distance of him. He could only hope it wasn’t Artie.

  He grinned and shook his head at the thought. Mack was only doing his job, but living in fear of his life every minute of his day was exhausting. Frankly, he didn’t know how Mack did it. Looking for the danger, or the potential for it, in every situation had to be draining. But Mack was excellent at his job, and his job was to do just that. Artie, on the other hand, was just a touch too enthusiastic, almost too giddy, for STR’s taste.

  But training agents wasn’t STR’s job. His job was to be the recipient of their hard work, training, and protection, and he wasn’t blind to all the danger they put themselves into every day to protect his life. He reminded himself to call them together when this was all over and give them a pat on the back and his genuine thanks.

  He breathed deeply and let it out slowly, trying to control the waves of loneliness washing over him. These were the times he missed Caroline the most—the quiet, intimate moments when circumstances prevented them from going about the usual business of their day; when their privacy was assured and the cares and troubles of life in the political spotlight could be set aside for a few moments. Sometimes, he felt he could close his eyes and, if he wished hard enough, transport himself back to those days. Or better yet, conjure her up in the present. If wanting could make it happen, she’d be sitting across from him now.