by Deb Baker
“It’s all a misunderstanding,” I shouted over the television noise. “I’m helping with the case and so I’m in on some information that the general public doesn’t have. Trust me, Little Donny’s not in any trouble. Ask Blaze, if you don’t believe me.”
“I would if I could find him. At least he’d tell me the truth.”
Grandma Johnson is shriveled up like an old apple you’d find in the back of your refrigerator when you finally decide to clean it out. One that’s so old and moldy it takes a few seconds to identify it. And she smells like a nursing home, which is where I keep suggesting we put her. No one else agrees with me. Yet. That’s because they aren’t the ones having to deal with her all the time.
I don’t know why Grandma showed up on my doorstep with her suitcase. Unless she planned to drive me crazy.
The only thing that looks new on Grandma Johnson is her dentures, which really are brand-spanking new. She wore an old faded housedress with an apron tied around her waist and she snapped her new teeth.
“I better go check my bird,” she said, “before I go burning it up. Almost forgot in all the excitement.”
She sent one last glare my way and headed for the kitchen. I shut off the television, then followed her and watched as she opened the oven door. Holding hot pads in both hands, she carefully pulled the roasting pan out of the oven. My mother-in-law set it on top of the stove and removed the cover.
“See there,” she said. “I did almost burn it.”
I looked over her shoulder and couldn’t help noticing the chicken was so rare it could almost fly away. I also noticed that she had forgotten to turn on the oven. I made a mental note to buy a microwave for times like this.
Maybe after the family digs into this chicken, they’ll agree with me about the nursing home.
****
The supper table was quiet for a change. Star, my youngest at forty-one, sat next to me looking as pretty as a bouquet of pink four-o’-clocks. Even her lipstick and toenail polish were pink to match her outfit. I look out for her the best I can since I still think of her as my baby, so I was sharing the plastic bag I held on my lap. She and I were tossing raw chicken into it and watching the others work on figuring out what to do with theirs.
“Take a big bite of Grandma’s chicken,” I said to Mary, the chief opponent to placing Grandma in a nursing home but the last to offer to take her in. “It’s real good.”
Grandma was crabbing as usual and forgetting to eat.
“It’s a disgrace to our family,” she said, “and I want it fixed right now. Someone better fix this mess Gertie made.”
I wasn’t sure why I was getting the blame for Little Donny’s problems, but I kept quiet.
I smiled at Mary and Star, who nodded and shook their heads in unison whenever appropriate. I missed Blaze at the table. His cheeks would be filled with potato-and-cheese casserole. Between bites he’d be pontificating, mostly rubbish and self-important blab, but occasionally he’d drop bits of information I could use.
“I don’t know why we’re sitting here, stuffing our faces. Shouldn’t we be out looking for Little Donny?” I said to no one in particular.
“He’ll turn up. Soon as he gets hungry,” Star said.
“He’s probably lost in the woods by now,” I said, pushing away my full plate.
Grandma Johnson clicked her new teeth at me. “Barney must be turning over in his grave, what with you carrying on, causing trouble everywhere you go. Are you still associatin’ with that man-hungry woman?”
“Cora Mae isn’t man-hungry. She’s just spunky.”
“In my day a woman like that would’a been drove out of town loaded down with hot tar and turkey feathers.”
“Have a bite of chicken,” I said to her. “It’s real good, the best you ever made.”
****
Everyone had gone home and Grandma Johnson was in bed when I walked outside and turned my face to the starry sky. A flash of metal drew my attention earthward. A sheriff’s truck was attempting to hide on the side of my driveway under a tall pine tree. Deputy Sheedlo peered out at me from the driver’s seat when I approached.
“You go ahead and take a nice nap,” I said to him. “If Little Donny shows up, I’ll wake you.”
“My shift’s over in a bit. I’ll make it.”
Back inside, I almost expected to find my grandson snoring away in the spare bedroom. I fought the urge to call his name through the house. His room didn’t appear to have been touched since morning.
Wondering how to tell my other daughter the bad news about her son, I decided to wait one more day in case things straightened out. Chances were, Heather wasn’t getting Michigan news way down in Milwaukee. She might as well have one last good night’s sleep before I had to tell her that her son was missing and a man had been murdered.
I didn’t have a clue where to start looking for Little Donny. When I couldn’t stand the quiet any longer I picked up the phone.
“Cora Mae, we have work to do tomorrow,” I said. “You need to come by with my new truck. We’ll take it over to George’s for some rewiring.”
I knew that mentioning George would work. Cora Mae would love to get her man-hungry--I mean spunky--hooks into that hunk of a man.
“What about George?” she asked, coyly. “You two going out?”
Once, George and I went to a movie in Escanaba, and it felt awkward and uncomfortable. We were best friends, but all of a sudden we didn’t know what to say to each other.
“It’s way too early for me to think about dating, Cora Mae.”
“It’s been over two years. Time to move on.”
“I don’t want to ruin my friendship with George. If we go out and it doesn’t work out, things will never be the same.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, then Cora Mae said in a sweet, confidential voice. “Mind if I give him a try?”
“Go ahead,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t a sexy woman like Cora Mae. What could George see in little old me that he couldn’t find more of in my friend? Unless he appreciated brains over beauty.
Because I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts I kept Cora Mae on the phone as long as I could, going on about small things that didn’t really matter in the face of Little Donny’s disappearance.
Eventually, Cora Mae hung up, and I spent the night listening for the sound of a door opening.
It never did.
chapter 4
Tuesday morning, after a sleepless night, I found Little Donny’s mother, Heather, and her husband, Big Donny, pounding on my door. It was long before the sun was up. The moon was still visible over the horizon, and the guinea hens were still roosting in the trees. Usually they hear when someone pulls into the driveway, and they come running, squawking up a storm. You have to be up early to beat those hens, and Heather was.
My daughter blew into the room like a tornado and threw herself at me, sobbing and wailing. Big Donny blustered after her, bogged down with enough suitcases to last the winter.
I unwrapped Heather’s death grip from my neck and deposited her on a kitchen chair with a box of tissues while I made coffee and popped frozen cinnamon rolls into the oven.
“Milwaukee’s five hours away,” I said. “You must have started out before midnight.”
“Blaze called and told us about Little Donny.” Heather’s sobs were turning into hiccups. “I couldn’t sleep from the worry so we packed up and started driving. Is there any news?”
“Not yet.”
Big Donny dove into the cinnamon rolls with the same determination as his son would have. After he’d swallowed three without chewing, I put two on a plate for Heather for when she felt like eating again, and took one for myself. I handed mine to Big Donny after I noticed him eyeing his empty plate.
“I’ll pop a few more in the oven,” I said. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
Big Donny wasn’t big, just like Little Donny wasn’t little. Big Donny stood about five-
foot-five in his brown wingtips, but he made up for it in girth. He’s almost as wide as he is tall, with a short guy complex the size of his white Lincoln Continental. A carnivore, he absolutely loves meat and potatoes as long as they don’t touch each other on the plate. He looks down his nose at those who hunt and tend gardens for their survival.
He’s a stockbroker in downtown Milwaukee, and his meat has to come from the grocery store, preferably from one of those specialty stores, and his oversized suits have to be Italian.
Little Donny, on the other hand, appreciates his Swedish, backwoods heritage, and when I get done with him, he’ll be shooting the knobs off clothespins on the clothesline. Even though I don’t hunt, I know how to hold a rifle, and I can shoot straight if I put my mind to it.
“You don’t look the worse for wear,” I observed, watching Donny pound down my share of cinnamon rolls.
“Heather was so worked up I had her drive. I slept most of the way. No use both of us suffering from lack of sleep.”
Big Donny always has been an insensitive oaf.
Heather looked a mess. Her eyes were just about puffed shut and her hair looked like a rat’s nest. I helped her get comfortable while Donny dragged in more suitcases from his fancy Lincoln.
The guinea hens eventually discovered the Lincoln intruder and shouted and flapped around the car. I threw some feed behind the shed and told them to scat, but they ignored me.
The guinea hens and I have learned to get along, but it took awhile. At first I thought they were like chickens, but guineas are much more independent, which is why I like them so much. They don’t take well to confinement and neither do I. We have an understanding. They’ll hang around and eat bugs, especially wood ticks, which I hate, as long as I don’t try to coop them up inside chicken wire.
Guinea hens take their chances in the treetops through the night, and occasionally a conniving raccoon will outsmart one of them, but it’s rare. During the day when they aren’t snacking on bugs, they stand guard in the front yard against automobiles attempting to encroach on their territory.
I was out in the driveway having my “bug off” conversation with the hens when Blaze’s sheriff truck pulled in, followed by another truck full of deputies. A slew of uniforms piled out and I noticed Devil Fang’s cage in the truck bed.
The guineas must have spotted the dog too, because they cleared out.
I groaned as Deputy Sheedlo hauled the animal out under Dickey Snell’s supervision.
“What are you planning on doing with that pathetic excuse for a search dog?” I asked.
Deputy Dickey puffed up his skinny rooster chest. “This superb police dog will locate the suspect once he acquires the proper scent. He’s trained for this line of investigation.”
“The suspect?” I shouted at Dickey. “By suspect do you mean my grandson? I’ll suspect you, you little twerp.”
Blaze grabbed my elbow and pulled me back.
“We’re still trying to get a good scent going.” Blaze hitched up his pants over his potbelly with his free hand. The weight of the gun on his hip was helping to send them south.
I looked at my son’s gun. “Little Donny’s still missing.” It wasn’t a question.
Blaze nodded.
“He hasn’t called here. I was hoping he’d at least call and let us know he’s okay.”
“No one’s heard a thing, Ma.”
“Your sister and her husband are inside, and I don’t want them more upset than they already are. Take that vicious animal and get out of here.” I pointed at Deputy Sheedlo. “Go on, put that thing away.”
“No can do,” Blaze said, demonstrating his remarkable grasp of the English language. “The dog needs to help find Little Donny. What if he’s hurt in the woods and can’t find his way out? The dog can help, Ma.”
I hadn’t thought of that, and I didn’t want to think of it now. With mixed feelings, I let them inside, and Blaze led the way to the spare bedroom where Little Donny slept. Big Donny and Heather watched from the hall, and when Heather realized what was going on, the dam broke again. I would have to put tissues on my grocery list.
“What’s goin’ on out here?” Grandma Johnson shuffled out of her room, forgetting her new teeth in the excitement. Devil Fang and several weighty deputies almost ran her over. Blaze threw out an arm to protect Grandma. “In there,” he said, nodding toward the spare room.
Devil Fang went right to the jacket that I’d rummaged through to find Little Donny’s keys. Another battle started between the dog and me. Blaze jumped in between us and I managed to kick him in the shin. The dog, excited now and not sure whose side he should be on, grabbed Blaze’s other pant leg. Blaze howled. Heather screamed.
The ruckus ended as quickly as it had started.
The cops stared at Devil Fang, clearly puzzled by the dumb dog’s inability to tell the difference between Little Donny and a crusty old woman.
“He’s getting up there in years,” Dickey explained, defensively. “I was thinking about retiring him next year, but at this rate, he’ll be grazing sooner than planned.”
I grinned at Devil Fang. That’ll teach the mangy mutt.
Blaze reached over and patted Devil Fang’s head. “Good boy, Fred.”
“Fred? That’s his name?” I couldn’t believe this aggressive mass of hooked fangs could be called that.
I pulled the bed sheet from the bed, balled it up, and gave it to Blaze. “This’ll give Fred a good start. Now get going. You’re riling Heather.”
****
Cora Mae was hanging all over George something terrible.
“I just love tools,” she said, eyeing his groin and standing so close to him they looked like Siamese twins.
She’d been after him without snagging him for the longest time. Cora Mae usually gets what she wants right away. George is her first holdout and, true to form, she wasn’t handling it well and was acting more aggressive than usual, especially after my reluctant approval.
George slid back his cowboy hat with the coiled rattlesnake on the brim. He wore a tight white undershirt and snug blue jeans, and I figured, if you’re going to dress like that around Cora Mae, you’re just asking for trouble.
To tell the truth, I’ve never seen a sixty-year-old man look so good. George Erikson and I have had a special friendship, relaxed and easy, ever since his wife picked up and left him on Christmas Eve the year before last, and I didn’t want Cora Mae busting in and ruining it.
George was my best friend after Cora Mae, and I wanted to keep it that way. I felt a twinge of irritation every time I thought of them maybe getting together.
George slapped a wrench into Cora Mae’s hand. “I sprayed oil on those rusty bolts,” he said, pointing at my new truck’s strobe lights. “Give it a minute to work, then see if you can pry them loose.”
By the look on Cora Mae’s face, the wrench in her hand wasn’t the tool she loved so much.
George winked at me.
I hid a grin and went to work opening the lettering kit and arranging the letters on the ground.
Cora Mae and I had had a heated discussion on the way over to George’s house about the name of our company. I won, since starting the business was my idea, and to top it off, it was my truck. She wanted to go over every little contribution she had made. I acknowledged her points, but still won because it was my truck.
Putting lettering on the side of a truck is harder than it looks. I stood back and viewed my work. THE TROUBLE BUSTERS. The letters swayed and swerved along the passenger side of the truck. I tried to peel a few off and set them right, but they were already cemented on like dried concrete.
I did a little better on the driver’s side. By the time I finished, George had the lights and siren in working order, and we were ready for business.
I gave him a quick cheek kiss and pulled Cora Mae toward the truck before she could give him her version of the same.
We bounced along a gravel road north of town with the lights and siren goin
g just for fun. “Where are we going?” Cora Mae asked.
I shouted back over the blare of the siren, “We’re going to have to interrogate the bear hunters camped in the area where the murder occurred. Maybe someone saw something.”
I turned onto the rutted dirt road leading to Walter Laakso’s house, remembering at the last minute to warn Cora Mae about his typically friendly greetings to visitors.
Walter barreled out the front door with his sawed-off shotgun leveled directly at me. Cora Mae had decided to wait in the truck till introductions were over.
“Dang,” I said, stepping away from the truck, my hands in the air. “It’s Gertie Johnson. Put that thing away. Do we have to go through this every time I come to visit?”
“Hey, Gertie,” Walter said, glancing at the passenger window and frowning. The shotgun didn’t waver, it just redirected. “Who’s that with ya?”
“That’s Cora Mae. Come on out, Cora Mae. It’s safe.”
After Walter lowered the gun, she slid out of the seat and followed us inside. We sat at the kitchen table while Walter boiled a fresh pot of coffee on the stove. He poured coffee all around, then dumped brandy in his and added some to Cora Mae’s before she knew what was happening. I spread my hand over the rim of my cup to ward him off.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m on the job.”
Walter gave me a wide grin, exposing the gaps where his front teeth used to be.
I looked around. Walter’s place was what you’d expect from an old guy who’s lived in the backwoods alone pretty much all his life. Piles of dirty dishes lined the counter and the kitchen table was littered with tools, cans of bug spray, and other health hazards.
Walter scratched his long scrawny beard, took a sip of his coffee-laced brandy, and asked about my husband.
“Barney’s been dead a few years now, Walter. You remember, don’t you? You came to the funeral.”
“Oh, ya,” he said. Then waited.
Small talk is an art in the Michigan U.P., since most things that happen here are small. Long silences are okay, too. Most of what’s said will be said again tomorrow. The weather, gardening, and the no-good federal government are all good topics, interspersed with pauses and throat clearings. It’s our way of life.
