by Amie Denman
“Geez.”
“And I had to quit.”
“Really?”
“Because he was my boss.”
“I’m on duty, but I’ll risk getting fired if you want me to go get us about a half-dozen beers,” Kurt offered.
“Tried that. Unemployed and drunk. It worked for a while,” I said. “But then Harry swooped in.”
“Wearing a fabulous outfit I imagine.”
Kurt’s grin made me feel like shedding months of miserable weight.
“And size twelve heels.”
“And so here you are.”
I nodded and clinked my paper lemonade cup against his. “Here I am.”
“I’m glad.”
“You know what? I am too.”
I could feel my eyes getting damp, but not from despair like at the Dairy Slide after church. Happy tears. I’d just told Kurt about my mistakes, and then somehow we were laughing. Perhaps coming out of hiding after a year under the church umbrella was a good idea. The new Jazz was shaping up to be a lot more interesting than the old one.
I scooted closer to him. And I think he noticed. It was getting dark enough to get away with something. I was sure Harry was doing just that. Kurt slipped his arm around my waist, and I could make out all the little details in the fire truck patch on his chest. So cute. I wondered if he had fire trucks on his underwear. Or fire truck bed sheets.
“Fire!”
Was someone reading my mind?
“The trash can’s on fire!”
Kurt’s head snapped up and he looked to where bystanders were pointing. He squeezed my arm and then he was gone. People raced toward a red-and-white striped tent near the carnival rides. The trash can was smoking profusely and flames started to creep up the side of the tent. I decided to stay put. Trouble and I were too cozy these days.
“Christ, you’re a hard woman to catch alone,” said a muffled voice.
I whipped around and found Kurt’s seat occupied by a large dog. Or rather a dog costume. Presumably with a man inside.
“I’ve been trying to get a word with you, but there’s always someone in line ahead of me,” the dog said.
I stared at the ridiculous creature. A wiener dog with a giant head, long tail and a dozen balloons clutched in his paw. Over the costume, which covered the wearer completely, was a T-shirt that said Spay and Neuter your Cats and Dogs in sparkly gold lettering.
“Do I know you?” I briefly wondered if it was Harry playing a trick. He did love costumes. Somehow, though, I knew he’d be a sexier dog.
“Not yet.”
I tried to place the voice, but even muffled by the dog head, it didn’t sound familiar. Great. Probably some vigilante or desperado who’d heard I was a sucker for a losing cause. Maybe he wanted me to help him bust his buddies out of the pound. Or maybe he had eighteen kittens looking for a good home.
He leaned closer and his whiskers brushed my cheek. “I’m John Johnson.”
Almost ten seconds passed before I remembered that name.
“From the FBI?”
“Shhhh.”
After five years of shushing kindergarteners, karma had swung around to bite me in the ass. I was being shushed by a man in a wiener dog costume at a carnival.
“From the FBI?” I whispered.
He nodded his dog head.
“How do I know it’s really you and not a double agent?”
The dog head tilted to the side and stared at me. Maybe it was better that I couldn’t actually see his face.
“I wanna balloon!”
A little blond boy muscled between us, grabbed one of the balloons in the dog’s paw and tried to jerk it away.
“Timmy.” My teacher voice rang out clearly over the crowd noise and wailing sirens of the approaching fire truck. I rose to my full almost five feet and glared at my kindergarten student.
The boy stopped roughing up the dog and silently handed over the balloon.
“Sorry, Miss Shepherd,” he mumbled. He looked down at his feet for a minute and then turned and fled into the crowd.
“Damn kids,” the dog said. “Parents oughtta be spayed and neutered.”
“Hey,” I said. “I happen to like little kids. Even Timmy.”
“You sure scared the piss out of him. Glad you’re on our side.”
“Catholic school. We don’t take any prisoners.”
“Tell me about it,” the dog grumbled.
I sat back down on the bench and picked up the last of my lemonade. This had been one hell of an evening so far, and I had no idea how I was getting home.
“Got a car?” I asked the dog.
He nodded and his long ears flapped enthusiastically.
“If you give me a ride home, I’ll fill you in on the crappy little amount of information I know.”
“Deal,” he said. “But I gotta leave the costume on. Don’t wanna blow my cover this early. I’m in the parade tomorrow on the humane society float.”
“I’m a duck on the St. Pete float.”
“I know.”
I wondered how much else he knew, but didn’t want to go there tonight. I just wanted to go home and drink a beer in bed with Peanut. It was the last day of school and I still hadn’t celebrated. Unless you counted the flirtatious exchange with Kurt. The one that got cut short by burning garbage.
Yep. I was leaving the carnival with a mystery man in a wiener dog costume. Helloooo, summer vacation.
Chapter Thirteen
Wondering if things could get any worse is a terrible temptation for the gods. The duck costume Harry had put together for me was an example of his propensity for exaggeration. I’d told him I didn’t want to show any skin, and he took this foray into morality seriously. I doubted a square centimeter of flesh was visible to the rapt spectators lined up in the late afternoon sun along the parade route.
My full-body, feathered costume had the effect of doing two things: One, it hid my identity almost completely. Only a handful of people knew I was the fool suffering under the yellow feathers and I planned to keep it that way. And two, I was roasting under several layers of nylon and synthetic duck. For the sake of ducks everywhere, I hoped their natural materials were a whole lot more breathable. It didn’t help that the summer heat took its job seriously and had settled onto Bluegill for Memorial Day weekend. The nuns considered it a blessing for the monetary success of the festival. I considered it a blessing that I wouldn’t be facing the heat in my classroom.
Some well-meaning parishioner had donated a boat that was no longer seaworthy sometime during the last half century. I didn’t think it looked too roadworthy either as it creaked on an ancient trailer. Harry had decked out his truck with magnetic yellow ducks, yellow streamers and a curiously attractive orange beak covering the grill. I pictured him in the driver’s seat desperately trying not to look back at me in the visually despicable ancient boat. He’d think his shiny F-150 was pearls before swine. Not that I felt like a glamour queen riding and waving on the dilapidated boat, but a year of teaching Catholic school had made me a whole lot less picky in a whole lot of ways.
From the small eyeholes in my duck head, I saw John Johnson waving in his wiener dog costume on the humane society float. Sisters Mary Alice and Mary Doris wandered into view every now and then as they walked beside my boat-float handing out brochures about the duck race. Well, they weren’t really walking. Mary Doris, wearing her full black habit, lapped the boat as she jogged and dodged in and out of the crowd. She probably scared a few kids from public school who weren’t used to her somewhat imposing good intentions. Mary Alice scurried, the victim of short legs that had spent a lifetime doing double-time just to keep up.
Sweat streamed under my costume, my two favorite nuns suffered and it still wasn’t enough for the Fates who get their daily entertainment from my life. I heard it long before I saw it. I should have realized that the St. Peter Duck Race float isn’t exactly a “closer” and wasn’t likely to be the grand finale of the parade. The deafe
ning siren of the approaching fire truck was my first official clue. It was late, but it was coming.
I didn’t even turn around. I knew who would be driving it. Besides, my peripheral vision was seriously compromised, and I was trying to balance on a moving float. I’d flirted with enough danger lately.
Behind me, the Bluegill Fire Department pumper’s siren alternated between a slow and a warbling wail. At least a mile of agonizing parade-speed progress went by. John Johnson in the wiener dog costume waved at me in a manner I had to assume was supposed to be reassuring. I desperately hoped for the end of the route so I could get off the float and get the duck race over with. Only then could I think about summer vacation.
We rolled past the high school football field, the Ford dealership, the SeaGull Motel by the river and both gas stations in Bluegill proper. Die-hard parade fans sweated it out in their lawn chairs on both sides of the road. Bluegill takes the Water Festival very seriously as a Memorial Day weekend tradition. I was still new enough to appreciate the annual event from an outsider’s perspective. Sure it was nice, but I was ready to jump ship when we passed the Dairy Slide. The thought of ice cream tested my powers of resisting temptation.
My favorite fireman must have gotten bored waiting for me to turn around because pretty soon the air horn blasted. Three sharp blasts. Loud enough to blow the feathers off the ass end of my costume. If I were an actual duck being shot at during hunting season, I probably couldn’t have jumped any higher.
Sadly, the only real victim of the air horn blast was Sister Mary Alice.
When I jumped at the sound and temporarily lost my balance, she tried to leap to my aid. Sudden movements are no friend of the short, round woman. Mary Alice tripped into the side of the float and bounced off. She rolled a few feet toward some shocked children holding plastic bags half filled with candy. I don’t think they had expected any of the parade floats to toss middle-aged nuns. They shrank back as she revolved to a stop near the curb.
Sister Mary Doris thumped on the side of Harry’s truck to get his attention, and the whole parade behind us came to a stop. The siren silenced and I heard the door of the fire truck slam. Kurt and I reached Mary Alice at the same time.
“God forgive me, Sister Mary Alice,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
Because I was under the Kurt spell in general, I found his apology to the scuffed up nun sweet and touching. He carefully examined her foot, which protruded naked from the edge of her black skirt. Her shoe had flown a few feet away, but Mary Doris swept in with it before I could even speak.
“You all right, Alice?” she said as she slipped the shoe back on and tied it decisively.
“Just a bit rattled. And my ankle got twisted a little.”
Kurt looked penitent. “I could splint that for you. Want me to carry you to the truck? You know I still owe you from the auction.”
“Stop fussing, Mr. Reynolds. Sister Mary Doris and I still haven’t decided what we’re going to do with you, but this isn’t it. We don’t want to waste our three hundred dollars on just any old thing.”
If any bystanders heard this conversation, it wouldn’t be good PR for nuns or firemen. I had to do something to get everyone moving forward again.
“Why were you so late for the parade?” Sister Mary Doris was never afraid to ask the tough questions.
“Small fire in the city records office. We got it put out right away,” Kurt said.
John Johnson bent over us, the long shadow of his wiener dog costume darkening our weird little scene.
“Everybody okay here?” His voice was muffled, but I recognized it from last night.
“Yep,” I said cheerfully.
The kids with candy bags had seen enough for one day, and I wanted to clean up this minor disaster before the wiener dog threw Mary Alice over his shoulder and hauled her off to be spayed or neutered. Kind of like the dish running away with the spoon, but less musical.
“You can ride on the float, Sister,” I said. “There’s only room for one person, but I don’t mind walking.”
“No, no, the duck float has to have the duck on it. I’m sure I’ll manage somehow.”
“You can ride in the truck with me,” Kurt offered. He helped Sister Mary Alice to her feet and put an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll let you run the siren and blow the horn.”
This plan seemed to be the best solution and Mary Alice waddled off under his care. As he led her to the fire truck, I heard Mary Doris mutter, “Damn. I wanted to blow that horn.”
She thumped on Harry’s truck and gave him the thumbs-up, and the parade lurched to a start. The moment we started rolling again, I looked up and realized our whole spectacle happened right under the judge’s stand. The mayor stood there taking it all in, judging our float. And probably us too. His cold glare turned my sweaty costume to ice and I felt like a sitting duck under his scrutinizing gaze.
Standing next to the mayor was his beautiful, virginal daughter. Mary smiled demurely at all the floats as they passed under her radiant gaze. She’d never be in a gussied up sluttyduck.com costume clinging to the steering wheel of an ancient boat in a heat-soaked parade. How the hell could I ever stack up against her? She waved at the fire truck and I wondered if Kurt would wave back, or if he would be focused on my feather-covered ass.
I looked straight ahead and tried to think about the service I’d be doing the whole town if I unraveled the mystery surrounding her scoundrel father and the mysterious Cerberus. Ahead of me, Johnson resumed waving on the humane society float. Hard to believe I’d take comfort from the sight of an FBI agent in a wiener dog costume, but it did settle my ruffled feathers.
The parade ended only an hour before the duck race was supposed to kick off. I imagined an hour’s worth of frantic duck sales by the marina. Surely my performance as the duck would inspire people to adopt furiously in hopes of taking home the cash prize. I found a shady place to stand near the booth because I had to keep my costume on for my big moment when I would launch a boat load of yellow plastic ducks and send them racing down river. It was strangely gratifying to note that duck sales were brisk.
“Are you ready, Miss Shepherd?”
Old Lady Clark had a way of appearing suddenly and opening a conversation with a question. I nodded.
“When you launch the ducks for the race, it’s important to take the edge of the tarp and give it a little floof,” she continued. Clark was even kind enough to demonstrate the “floof” just in case I didn’t get it.
“Last year, the ducks got dumped off the boat and some of them just sat in the water. It was unacceptable. I want to see those ducks swimming this year.” Her tone implied that she would brook no opposition.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Clark glared at me. There were days I suspected she liked me. Something had compelled her to entertain Chief Balcheski with tales of my sleuthing at school. Maybe she was proud to have me on her staff. And I was a team player today, covered in adorable yellow feathers from head to toe. The sash Harry had lovingly glitter-glued with the school name helped conceal my generous assets, so it was entirely possible that I looked more respectable than usual. No one could disapprove. Even Old Lady Clark.
“This way,” she said. Her lips were pressed together tightly, but I tried to look on the bright side. Maybe it would redden them and she’d look pretty for the race. I still wondered what magic Harry could have worked with some makeup and his generous wardrobe offerings.
I followed Clark through the crowd. Kids were lined up for games, the beer tent was beginning to do a lively business and people were bellying up to the fried food wagons. Perhaps one more corn dog wouldn’t kill me. Especially if I lived through the next hour. I deserved a corn dog in the same way I deserved ice cream after church. Some rewards are in heaven; some are in empty calories.
One of the wealthier parishioners at St. Peter’s had loaned his boat to the duck race. The sleek powerboat waited for me along the outer dock of Ripple
Marina. Clark led me down the dock, and I stepped carefully onto the boat. No room for error in a duck costume around a whole lot of water.
A few boats gathered in the river, but the spectators mostly lined the break wall along the marina. A floating racecourse made of white plastic pipe awaited my ducks. All I had to do was stand on the back of the boat, wave enthusiastically to the crowd and wait for the signal from Clark to let the little guys go for a swim.
She stood next to me with a bullhorn. It suited her almost as perfectly as a rosary. Or an ax.
“Thank you for coming to the twenty-sixth annual St. Peter Duck Race.” Her voice carried over the water and the people on shore cheered.
A horn blasted from a nearby boat and I turned to see who had come up beside my duck boat. Of course. The fireboat piloted by hottie fireman. A longer double horn sounded, and the Greenback sidled up to my other side. Two men stood on the lower deck. Damien Cerberus and Mayor Ballard. I guess they wanted to outshine the fireboat. They weren’t fooling anybody if they were trying to cover up some inadequacy of their own.
At first glance, it appeared Kurt was alone. But then I saw a flash of radiance behind him. The Virgin Mary took his arm and looked right at me. Her stance implied that she owned that fireboat and the man on it. What the hell was she doing there? Judging this event too? She wore a slim-fitting white dress and her perfect hair fell in blond waves over her shoulders. My hair was plastered to my neck under my yellow feathers.
Father John took the bullhorn now and offered a short prayer, asking for fair winds and happy travels for the ducks. I asked for something a lot less congenial involving Mary Ballard. Spectators on the break wall bowed their heads and nodded. Good thing my face was covered by my costume.
Old Lady Clark took the bullhorn back from the priest.
“Good luck to all the ducks, and may the fastest one win!” Clark almost had a smile on her face as she shouted and then elbowed me. “Remember the floof,” she whispered.
I waved to the crowd and stepped onto the swim platform of my boat. I grabbed hold of the edge of the tarp containing a thousand rubber duckies. And I floofed that tarp. The first floof only launched about half of the ducks, so I gave it another enthusiastic tug. Since the tarp was now half empty, my second floof was out of proportion with the weight of the ducks.
