by C. L. Bevill
Brownie paused and looked at the pile of wadded-up newspapers. It towered over his head and formed a rough triangular shape. “I think I might have made too much.”
Precious’s head came up. Her ears flew in all directions as she evidently heard something Brownie could not. Quickly she got off the chair and hid under the table.
A moment later, Bubba stumbled into the kitchen. His hair had pine needles stuck to it, as well as green leaves. There were red scrapes across his chest plus some mud smeared across one shoulder. The poison ivy vine was still wrapped around his leg and some more trailing behind his other foot. “Brownie,” he said, shortly, “have you seen my dog?”
“She was here a minute ago,” Brownie said. Under the table, Precious lightly bumped his leg, as if they were simpatico for the moment. He reached down and found the keys. Then he wished he hadn’t because they were thoroughly drenched in dog slobber. “But she left these.”
“Thank the Lord,” Bubba said reverently. He took the keys and immediately grimaced when the canine saliva dribbled down his wrist. “I got to go to work, and ifin I don’t get there on time, Old Man Culpepper’s going to dock my pay. He ain’t thought very much of me since all that bizness happened at Christmas.”
“You didn’t kill anyone,” Brownie said, staring at the pile of wadded-up newspaper. “Dint kidnap no one neither. Although you did steal a sheriff’s vehicle, but it was for a good cause.”
“Well,” Bubba said bitterly, “some people don’t got your common sense, boy.”
Tentatively Brownie stuffed some of the wads into the hat. Then he tried on the hat. It fit better.
Bubba stared. “I suspect you’re up to something,” he said warily.
“I need a mystery,” Brownie announced. “It doesn’t have to be a murder, but it has to be mysterious. You know mystifying and all that.”
Chapter 2
Brownie and the Brilliant Babes
Monday, April 2nd
Miz Adelia strode into the kitchen a few minutes later. Bubba was pouring himself an extra-large cup of coffee. Brownie stepped in front of the pile of wadded-up newspapers sitting on the kitchen table like some misplaced Mayan pyramid. It didn’t help. It was taller than him, and Brownie suspected it was multiplying by itself. Precious skulked under the table like a super villain.
The housekeeper paused to view the interlopers in her domain. She may not have owned the kitchen legally, but it was definitely hers. Her hands propped on her waist, and she surveyed the area before as if she was queen. “Don’t you dare drip coffee on my counter,” she said imperiously, “and Precious, don’t leave pieces of soggy biscuit under that table, and is that poison ivy on your leg, Bubba?”
Bubba looked down at his leg and immediately dropped the coffee cup. “Bleep!” he bleated. Then he said another word in a fancy combination with the first word, emphasizing the second word. “I got to wash that off!” he added and vanished out the door. A moment later, his footsteps pounded up the stairs.
Brownie found his notepad and pencil again. Laboriously, he wrote. “Eff-u-cee.” He paused and nodded. “That’s the one my mama doesn’t like Daddy to use. Is that an eye-enn-gee on the end or do I have to use two cees?”
Miz Adelia spared Brownie a brief glance while she wiped the counter. Carefully she picked up shattered pieces of cup and put them into the garbage. “It’s a cee and a kay, but I don’t imagine your mama wants you to write it down neither,” she said.
“Knowledge is power,” Brownie answered. It was a good answer. Three-quarters of the time it confused adults into silence. Possibly it stunned them into muteness. How can anyone argue with that? Knowledge is power. Mebe a commonist would argue ‘bout it. Commonists would argue ‘bout everything. That’s what his pawpaw used to say. Papa Derryberry had been a U.S. Marine for twenty-three years, and he had all kinds of useful information for Brownie concerning freedom of speech. Papa Derryberry had been a virtual fountainhead of facts pertaining to the ability to do what-the-heck-you-want.
Commonists, Brownie understood, were bad people who lived in a bad country and wouldn’t let good folks say what they wanted. And if good folks said what they wanted anyway, the commonists would shoot them in the head. Brownie couldn’t fathom not being able to say what he wanted.
“What?” Miz Adelia paused while holding the cup’s broken handle. “Knowledge is power? That don’t account to a hill of beans when your mama’s got a switch and you’re across her knees with a bare behind after you repeat that word to her.”
What? Ma doesn’t switch me…much. Only when I do something really bad. Like the time I dyed the cat purple. Poor cat had to go to the vet three times. Or when Mammaw Derryberry nearly ruptured her hernia when I glued the…maybe I shouldn’t think about that right now. Time for another tactic.
“Your cinnamon rolls are the best I’ve ever tasted,” Brownie said sincerely. Silently he added, Ifin there were some about, I would eat them cheerfully. But there ain’t today, so I be out of luck. Mebe she’ll make some ifin I flutter my eyes at her.
Miz Adelia dropped the cup’s handle into the garbage and eyed him cautiously. “Tomorrow I’ll make some. Mebe you’d like to help?”
“You’d let me help you bake?” Brownie thought about it. He could learn how to make them himself. Cinnamon rolls all the time. Sounds great. Ma don’t cook unless it comes pre-packaged, although her Stouffer’s Lasagna Italiano is right tasty. “You got it, sweetheart.”
She shot him another look. Brownie tilted the fedora in a fetching manner. Charming the dames, that’s what it’s all about and solving mysteries, too.
“Miz Demetrice said she thought you liked the Dashiell Hammett,” Miz Adelia commented.
“I want to be a gumshoe,” Brownie said enthusiastically.
“I kin see that,” she said. She went back to the counter. “What does a gumshoe do?”
“Solves mysteries. Backs up his partner. Says stuff that’s fancy. Looks good in a hat.” Brownie considered. Did I leave anything out? “Smooches all the cool kittens.”
Miz Adelia covered her mouth with her hand and looked as if she was going to choke. Brownie thought about his first aid patch. Perhaps he could utilize a few of the maneuvers from the class, but the housekeeper merely clutched her mouth with her hand and seemingly recovered.
“What kind of mystery will you be solving then?” she asked in a high voice, still covering her mouth with her hand. She turned away and stared at the wall. At least that was what Brownie thought Miz Adelia was doing. Her shoulders shook a little as she stood there. Mebe she’s feeling down in the pants.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I done thought about it. I found everything on Auntie D.’s treasure map, so I need something.”
“Both diamond earrings?” Miz Adelia asked quickly. She glanced at him, her dark eyes big and wide. Evidently, Miz Adelia had been a contributor to the hiding of the treasure items.
“One in the chandelier and one hidden in the hidey-hole on the third level of the grand staircase,” Brownie said promptly.
“How in the name of— ” Miz Adelia bit off the word she was about to say and then waited a moment before adding, “how did you find the hidey-hole?”
“Don’t remember,” Brownie said. He shrugged. “Looked like it was a place for a hidey-hole. You know when Ma was here at Christmas, she was tapping on all the walls for secret passages and got me started.”
“I thought she was busy estimating the market value of all the furniture,” Miz Adelia said, looking back at the wall.
“That too. Ma can multitask.”
Miz Adelia said something under her breath that Brownie did not hear.
Under the table Precious pawed his leg as if warning him.
Surreptitiously Brownie got up and went to the counter where there sat a large ceramic pig wearing a chef’s toque waggling a tremendous tongue. He would have whistled covertly, but that would have cued Miz Adelia. He carefully took off the head and snatched up tw
o doggie biscuits. With utmost discretion, he eased the lid back on. A spy/cowboy/astronaut couldn’t have done it better.
Miz Adelia said, “Don’t give that dog no more after them two biscuits.”
Brownie glanced at the back of her head. She can do that better than Ma. Mebe there’s cameras in here. He looked around suspiciously.
Returning to the table, he passed one biscuit to Precious who pretty much sucked it into her mouth.
“Dog’s getting a little pudgy,” Miz Adelia said. “Reckon she needs to go on a diet.”
Precious whined.
“So like I was saying,” Brownie went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “I want to be a sleuth. And all I need is a mystery. A really good mystery.”
Miz Adelia began washing dishes. “A mystery,” she said. “Let me think about that. I aim we can come up with something.”
Brownie began carrying loads of wadded-up newspaper to the garbage before Miz Adelia could tell him to do so. There was a pounding down the stairs as if someone with cement shoes on was in a terrific hurry and Bubba came in. Dressed in overalls, he appeared as though he had dashed through the shower and hadn’t paused to use the soap or a towel or possibly even the water. There were still needles in his hair, but the leaves were gone. Brownie couldn’t tell if the vine of poison ivy was still present.
Bubba took the entire carafe of coffee and carried it out the door before Miz Adelia noticed. He paused to forcefully scratch his leg and slopped about a cup’s worth of coffee on the stoop. Then he was diving into his old green Chevy truck without spilling anymore coffee, which Brownie thought was quite an accomplishment. The truck sputtered protestingly as he started it. He hesitated to put the carafe to his mouth and drank a significant amount straight from the glass container before putting foot to pedal.
“What happened to the coffee?” Miz Adelia said, looking around. She had a dish towel in one hand and a plate in the other. “There’s a mystery.”
“Bubba took it,” Brownie said and jerked a thumb toward the door.
The Chevy roared into life, and Miz Adelia peeped out to see Bubba turning the truck sharply into a U-turn that was tighter than Brownie would have thought a vehicle that old was capable of doing. “The whole thing?” she asked skeptically.
“I believe Bubba is in a hurry,” Brownie said.
Miz Demetrice came into the kitchen. She saw Brownie with an armful of wadded-up newspapers and a fedora perched jauntily on his head. Then her gaze took in Miz Adelia, wearing an apron over a t-shirt and jeans and an irritated expression on her face. Finally, Miz Demetrice managed to locate Precious under the table, zealously guarding her dogly booty, even while she vigorously chewed on one end.
Brownie dumped his load into the garbage can and shoved it down so he could add more. Dang it, I dint know I had wadded so much.
“There’s pine needles and poison ivy on the stairs,” Miz Demetrice said as her avid cornflower blue gaze settled on Brownie. She deftly tightened the belt on her blue robe.
“It wasn’t me,” Brownie said. He had practiced saying that many times in his life, and occasionally it was even true.
“That was Bubba,” Miz Adelia agreed.
Miz Demetrice’s delicate features knitted together into a frown. “And you didn’t cause Bubba to have pine needles and poison ivy on him, Brownie dearest?”
“I did not,” Brownie said, puffing out his chest. “I’m innocent.” On the inside he added, Of that anyway.
“Where’s the coffee?” Miz Demetrice asked after scrutinizing Brownie for another long moment.
“That was Bubba, too,” Brownie said cheerfully. It was nice being able to truthfully blame someone else. That was the main reason he wanted his mother and father to produce a sibling. Transferal of culpability. Oh what great joy a brother or sister would be!
“I expect I’ll have tea today,” Miz Demetrice finally said.
“A fine idea,” Miz Adelia concurred. “Sit down, Miz Demetrice, I’ll put a kettle on the stove.”
Miz Demetrice sat at the kitchen table and looked out the window. One hand slipped under the table and located the sweet spot behind Precious’s right ear. The dog’s leg began to thump in time with the scratches she was receiving.
“Ain’t you gonna ask how Bubba got pine needles and poison ivy on him?” Brownie asked.
“I find that in situations like this, it’s better not to ask,” Miz Demetrice said.
“Knowledge is power,” Brownie said immediately. Boy, that saying shore is handy.
“Ignorance is bliss,” Miz Demetrice said automatically.
Brownie couldn’t come up with an answer for that. It was true. Sometimes it was better not to know something. For example, when he knew he was going to the dentist, he worried and worried about it. He’d gotten so upset the last time, he’d thrown up on his desk at school. It had splashed Suzy Derwinkle and Madison Blue, and both girls refused to sit next to him again. That’s a good thing because Suzy said she likes me, and I don’t like her. She likes a lot of boys, and she kisses them all, too, even when they don’t want it. The thought of it made Brownie want to wipe his flesh off. She’d tried to kiss him, too, but he’d run away screaming about “COOTIES!”
In any event, when there was to be a dental appointment, his mother decided not to tell Brownie when he was scheduled for a visit so to spare him further anxiety. She simply showed up at school and picked him up. Apparently the five minute drive to the dentist wasn’t long enough for his stomach acids to get riled up enough to rebel wholeheartedly. Of course, Ma always included a plastic wash basin just to be safe.
Brownie scratched the side of his head under the edge of the fedora. Ma’s not stupid.
“Making pancakes for the boy,” Miz Adelia said.
“A stack of wheats,” Brownie said salaciously.
“He also needs a mystery to solve,” Miz Adelia added. “He’s a gumshoe now.”
“On the square,” Brownie said. “All you tomatoes around here got to have some kind of mystery a fella could sink his choppers into.”
“Tomatoes?” Miz Demetrice repeated.
“Dames, twists, ankles, dishes, babes,” Brownie explained.
“He shore do soak up those old hardboiled novels,” Miz Adelia sighed.
“Bims, chicks, janes, dolls, skirts,” Brownie went on blithely.
“Well, isn’t that special,” Miz Demetrice said, “he’s like a little Bogartian encyclopedia.”
Brownie frowned as he attempted to interpret his great-aunt’s meaning. “Do you mean I speak like Humphrey Bogart?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Okay then.” He stared at Miz Demetrice, certain she was teasing him at his expense, but her face was placid, and her eyes stared outside.
Miz Adelia began preparing pancake batter, breaking eggs and pouring milk as if she had been born to do it. She whipped the mixture with a large spoon, causing a batter bridge that Brownie couldn’t look away from. Once she got the griddle down and the oil poured on it, the kettle startled to whistle.
Miz Demetrice got up and made tea for the two of them. “Milk, Brownie?” she asked politely. “I have chocolate.”
“I’ll dip my bill, sister,” he drawled, watching Miz Adelia pouring batter on the grill.
“That would be a yes,” Miz Demetrice said.
Brownie took the glass from the Snoddy matriarch and sat at the table. Pancakes are good and all, but it don’t create the mystery I need. Dang. This place is hopping most times, but when I need a mystery, there ain’t nothing to be found.
A wet schnozzle examined the area of skin above his sock, and Brownie inferred that as a request from the hound for the other biscuit. Therefore, he passed it to her and heard a satisfied grunt and crunch in return.
Miz Demetrice brought her tea to the table and sat across from him. She added sugar and stirred it.
“A mystery,” she mused.
Brownie drank half the milk and sighed. “Chocolate good,” he mut
tered. Then he comprehended what she’d said. “Yes, a mystery. That treasure hunt was mighty fine fun, but I’m a gumshoe now. I’m dang serious, and I need a mystery. I’d try to solve how you really killed Great Uncle E., but most folks say you’re just making that up.”
Miz Demetrice took a sip of tea. “Do tell.”
“There’s the Civil War gold, but Bubba says that’s all phooey, too. Bunk. Falseloo. The big graft.”
“You seem to be an expert on the Snoddy history,” Miz Demetrice said.
“Daddy talks about the house a bunch,” Brownie explained. “Ma mostly talks about the stuff you’ve got in the house.”
“You know what?” Miz Adelia interrupted. “My favorite spatula is gone.”
Brownie and Miz Demetrice turned to look at the housekeeper. She was pulling drawers out and looking inside each one.
“Not the one from Williams-Sonoma?” Miz Demetrice asked.
“That very one,” Miz Adelia affirmed. “Brownie, you ain’t bin playing with my spatula?” She pulled a plastic one out instead and began flipping pancakes on the griddle. She glared at the cheap replacement as if it were at fault.
“I haven’t seen it,” Brownie said honestly. A light bulb appeared above his head. “A mystery! The mystery of the missing spatula.” He found his notepad and grabbed his pencil. “Can you tell me when you last saw the missing implement, sister?”
“It’s not an implement, boy,” Miz Adelia said imperiously. “It’s a WMF Stainless Steel, Slotted Spatula.”
Brownie wrote quickly. “I get fifty big ones a day plus expenses, although I ain’t figured out what expenses would be. Can you describe the missing spatula?”
“It’s silver and has slots,” Miz Adelia said. “It has the perfect round handle with a loop on the end for hanging. And it’s dishwasher safe. You shore you dint take it, boy?”
Brownie scoffed. “I don’t cook, and I can’t think of anything else you would do with a spatula. Unless you could use it for flipping things at targets? Do you reckon you can do that, Miz A.?”
