by Randy Rawls
I reached for the doorknob, but right brain kicked in and screamed, Listen again, stupid. I obeyed and noted a difference in the noises from inside. While it matched the sounds of Striker and Sweeper dashing about, there were also sounds of anguish—not part of their normal games. I usually heard such sounds only at bath time, when they weren’t in the mood.
I hesitated, my hand resting on the knob. The hair on the back of my neck must have been in tune with right brain because it stood on end. I reached for my Beretta. Not there—again. The pistol lay in my suitcase, three rooms away on the other side of the door. I didn’t relish the idea of crashing in unarmed, but the boys were in peril. The noises continued.
Bracing for the worst, I threw open the door and something hit me in the chest, catapulting me backwards. I stumbled and fell, my head cracking the sidewalk. I must have lost consciousness for a moment.
My eyes snapped open and tears poured. A smell assaulted me, making me wish I didn’t have to breathe. My lungs burned, and I had a headache from hitting the concrete. A weight lay on my chest. Between my streaming tears, I saw Striker and Sweeper crouching on me, every hair on their bodies standing on end. They were licking themselves, but with each lick, they shook their heads and rubbed their tongues with their front paws.
I reached to remove the boys so I could get up, but reeled backward, bumping my head again. The overpowering stench came from them. I picked them up and rose as I held both under my right arm. The smell nauseated me.
“Okay you guys, what have you been into?”
Sweeper twisted free and headed toward the house, peeping and peering as he did so. When he made the doorway, he stopped and looked around before slinking forward.
Following him, I cursed again at not having my weapon. Sweeper gave a clear signal that danger lurked inside. Striker seemed content to stay protected under my arm, licking himself.
When I stepped into the house, the smell was worse, more nauseating. I took out my handkerchief and held it over my nose like the heroes on TV do. Striker squirmed, preferring to stay outside. Three steps into the cottage, I decided Striker had the right idea. The stench penetrated my handkerchief, and I was close to gagging. Striker continued to let me know he wasn’t happy either.
I jumped through the open doorway into the fresh air and called, “Sweeper, get out here.”
For perhaps the only time in his life, he obeyed. My head still pounded from its assault on the sidewalk which made thinking difficult. My survival instincts must have taken over because I loaded the boys into the car and started toward the big house. The boys brought the stench with them, making me glad the top was down.
About halfway to the house, right brain clawed through the pain and the stench, screaming, Skunk, dummy, skunk.
Of course. What I smelled was fresh skunk spray, and I do mean fresh. The boys were on the backseat washing one another, but their sandpaper tongue technique couldn’t cope with the stench.
As I stopped in front of the main house, Frank stepped forward, ready to do his bit. He reached for the door then reeled backwards. “Skunk. You stink like a skunk. I say, Mr. Edwards, where have you been?” He moved away. “Stay right there, I’ll get Annie.” He dashed toward the house.
Easy for him to say. I was the one in the car with two stinking cats. I wasn’t worried about them jumping out in their condition, but I was tempted to toss them out. I wondered if Frank would return. I might not if the situation were reversed. After about five hours, or maybe five minutes, Frank and Annie came out. Annie headed toward me while Frank jumped into the Jeep and sped down the driveway.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” she said from a safe distance. “I’ve got enough tomato juice for one at a time. You’ll have to wait ’til Frank gets back.”
“Huh, what’re you talking about?” I answered. This wasn’t my usual humorous repartee. It was a logical response because I had no clue what she meant.
“Skunk,” she replied. “Frank says you and the cats got hit by a skunk.”
“I think so, but what’s that got to do with tomato juice?”
Annie gave me a look so harsh it shot a pain through my groin. Her eyes said she’d thrown me into the dumb-city-boy pile again. “Tomato juice is what you use to neutralize skunk spray. You get sprayed, you bathe in tomato juice.”
Full realization rolled in on tiny toes like a snail slithering along its trail of slime. “Not me, the boys. A skunk must have gotten into the cottage and sprayed them.” I could picture it, the boys treating the visitor as a new playmate. “The skunk must not have appreciated them.”
“So you say,” Annie replied. “All I know is everything near you stinks. You keep the cats right there. I’ll get the tub and the tomato juice.”
She disappeared, leaving me to ponder why I’d decided to adopt these two delinquents. Sure, they were good buddies when they felt like it, but considering their neutering, cat food, litter, stays at the cat hotel, shots, breakage, and all the other expenses, I’d have been better off with a pair of hamsters, or perhaps, a programmable toy. Plus the toy would have done what I told it to. These two guys swam to their own tide.
Annie returned in five minutes with a wash tub. For those of you of a later generation, too young to have known, it’s a galvanized tub that holds about ten gallons. People used to wash clothes in them, used them as a bathtub and any other purpose requiring lots of liquid. Annie set it in the middle of an open space and disappeared again.
The boys had adapted to their condition and decided to treat me to a curl-up time. They were both in my lap, sound asleep, still stinking. My eyes had quit watering, but my nostrils continued to signal the assault.
“Alright, bring the first one over here.” I saw Annie pouring tomato juice into the tub.
“Okay, who’s first?” I said, looking at the boys. They stood on their rear legs, watching Annie, curiosity evident in their gazes. But not so much they’d welcome a swim in the red sea. “Sweeper, you’re the bravest so you go first.” I hoped I could appeal to his vanity.
He appeared to understand my message, and was not thrilled with its import. Nevertheless, I gathered him up and opened the car door. I glanced at Striker whose butt wiggled. That means he had a long jump on his mind. In this case, it would be out of the car, and as far from me as he could get.
“Oh no, you don’t, my friend,” I said, reaching out and stroking him. “You’re next in the bath line.”
I hit the button and the convertible top went up. As soon as it closed, I raised the windows. Big mistake. The smell got worse. I lowered the windows as much as I dared and stepped out, Sweeper squirming in my arm.
“Okay, Annie. What do we do?”
“We? Ain’t no we in this,” Annie said, backing from the tub. “You’re going to dip that cat in the tub several times and make sure you rub tomato juice into his fur real good. When he’s soaked, here’s some towels to dry him with.” She nodded to a stack of towels I hadn’t seen her bring out. “Once he’s dry, give him a good sniff. If he still stinks, repeat the process.”
She took a few more steps away, and I saw a grin playing at her mouth. “Sure wish Miss Wanda had a whiff of you. She might change her mind.”
That hit like a stinging slap in the face. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I could bribe you to keep quiet?” I asked, knowing the answer.
“Ain’t enough money in the world,” she replied, giggling. “In fact, I’m thinking about selling tickets when it’s your turn in the tub.”
I stared at the tomato juice with its little red waves cresting from side to side. No way. She didn’t mean I… No, couldn’t be, could it? I shoved that thought aside and approached the tub with Sweeper.
“Try to cooperate, you old reprobate, and we’ll get through this together.” I lowered Sweeper toward the tomato juice—big mistake. Before I understood his actions, he spread-eagled himself across the tub, each set of claws anchored on the edge. That launched the battle. He fought, I cajoled, he
clawed, I stroked, he bit, I cooed, he growled, I used brute force to shove him into the tub. Outweighing him by a ton and having opposable thumbs gave me an insurmountable advantage. He sputtered as his head rose from under the tomato juice. I laughed and rubbed the liquid into his fur. “You may as well relax, old buddy. This has to happen.” Out of nowhere, I got a picture of the same thing happening to me. I wondered who’d do the scrubbing.
After that, Sweeper calmed enough for us to repeat the process three more times, after which I toweled him dry. He looked terrible. The red of the tomato juice had turned his natural orange fur into a deep orange, an orange-red, or a red-orange. Whatever, it was not a color Mother Nature had in mind for cats.
I repeated the process with Striker as Sweeper sat on the rear seat of the car licking himself and grinning. I feared he was tripping on tomato juice.
Striker was a model of decorum, at least compared to Sweeper. In half the time it had taken with Sweeper, Striker sat on the backseat of the car where they commenced cleaning one another.
I watched, feeling satisfied with my morning’s work.
“Okay, you’re next.”
I spun and saw Annie standing with hands on hips—her position of authority. Around her were cans of tomato juice. I sighed and accepted the inevitable. “You’re the boss. Where do I do this?”
“Same as the cats. You don’t think I’m gonna let you in the house, do you?”
“Whoa, Annie. I’m not about to strip right here in the open. I may smell like a skunk, but I’ve still got pride.”
Frank stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against the Jeep. “Annie, don’t you think we could let him use the old bunkhouse. Nobody sleeps there anymore.”
Annie appeared to consider the possibility. I hoped she’d accept Frank’s suggestion.
“Honey,” she whispered, walking over to Frank.
I strained to hear.
“Don’t you think it’d be good training for a hot-shot Dallas detective to wash his butt in the open air of Van Zandt? We could get Chip out here and Matt and whatever other hands are working close by.” She looked at me, speaking louder. “This could be a story for our great-grandkids. The local paper could write it up. I can see the headline, Dallas Detective Has a Red Ass.” Her laughter bounced over the sides of the house.
Frank laughed with her, but appeared more uncomfortable with it. “No, let’s use the bunkhouse.”
“Spoil sport,” she said, heading for the house. I heard her laughter radiating through the walls after she entered.
“I’ll get the juice, you get the tub and follow me.” Frank pulled a large sack from the Jeep and headed around the house. “Don’t walk too close, though.”
I’ll spare you my embarrassment of bathing in a washtub filled with tomato juice in an old bunkhouse with spiders and other creepy-crawly things. I hoped there were no fire ants loitering nearby. For all I knew, they might think tomato juice was an aphrodisiac. But bathe I did. Frank found an old horse brush, and I scrubbed myself. After about thirty minutes, Frank declared me presentable and threw in some clothes.
“We best burn what you were wearing. That smell’ll never come out.” Frank looked with distaste at the stack of clothing I’d taken off.
“Can we save the boots? They’re my best pair,” I pleaded.
“We can try, but you won’t be wearing them for a few days. We’ll leave them outside and hope they air out.”
“What about the cottage and the skunk?” I remembered what had started all this.
“While I was in Canton, I called Harvey Snogginsbottom. He specializes in de-skunking places.”
“Harvey who? With a name like that, how does he get business.”
“Easy. Folks look up Stinky in the Yellow Pages.”
Frank turned toward the door, and I stopped him. “What about the boys?” I remembered I left them on the backseat of the car.
He looked toward me, a crinkle of a smile at his lips. “Oh, they’re fine. Annie took them into the kitchen. She had some boiled chicken for them.”
Chicken? Damn, between Frank buying the most expensive cat food on the shelf, and Annie giving them chicken, I’d never be able to feed them again.
Frank continued, “She said they had a terrible shock.” He chuckled. “She also said she had some cold cuts if you want a sandwich.”
Frank withdrew while I muddled my comedown in life. After a few minutes, I got out of the tub and toweled off. I didn’t know whether I’d dyed myself red, the color came from the scrubbing, or from embarrassment. I decided it didn’t matter as long as no one called me Stinky. I pulled on a pair of boxer shorts that would fit someone twenty pounds heavier.
The door to the bunkhouse opened and a feminine giggle penetrated my privacy. “This, I have to see.”
Wanda. Damn. My bad luck continued. “What do you think you’re doing?” I sputtered. “I’m getting dressed. Get out of here.”
“Thought I’d look in to see what I missed the other night when you put business first.” She rested her chin on her fist and stared as I grabbed the pair of jeans Frank had left. “Hmmmmm, not bad, but I’ve seen better.” She followed this announcement with another peal of laughter. “Maybe you should drop the shorts and let me examine the whole package.”
“Out, woman, out,” I said, meaning it. “Leave a man some dignity.” I gripped the boxers to keep them from tumbling down while trying to get a leg into the jeans. “And, tell Frank I need clothes that fit me, not a giant.”
“Oh, you’ve got dignity. I see it radiating all over you.”
“You either beat it, or I’m going to dump you in the tomato juice.”
“Okay, I’m out of here.” Her words were difficult to understand, they were so interspersed with laughter. “I’ll find you something to wear.” She stepped to the door, then turned toward me. “Frank took your car into Canton to see what they can do about the smell. He said Stinky might be able to de-skunk it. I’ll check you later to see if you’re respectable.”
Before I could comment, the door slammed shut on another shrill giggle.
EIGHTEEN
The following morning, Wanda and I dropped the top on the Chrysler and headed for the cemetery. Stinky had done a great job of getting the skunk smell out.
The boys and I spent the night in the big house. Frank had picked up some clothes that fit me when he took the car in so I was in a better mood. Of course, I’d have felt better if Wanda and Chip hadn’t cracked jokes about me all night and again this morning. After razing me, Chip had assured me he’d have Stinky bring in a crew to de-stink the cottage.
It was another beautiful day, and I reveled in it as the pleasant breeze flowed through the car. I looked at Wanda and wished we were on a drive in the country to enjoy one another’s company, rather than casing a ransom drop-off site.
When I wrapped up this case, I’d ask Annie to pack a picnic lunch so I could take Wanda to a secluded field, spread a blanket and enjoy her with no interruptions.
About three miles from Chip’s driveway, Wanda pointed to the left, “Pull in alongside the church. The cemetery is in the rear.”
I followed her directions and drove about a hundred yards off the road. There was the graveyard and as our kidnapper said, there was a small pavilion alongside. There were several small tables in the middle with chairs scattered around.
I checked the area around the structure. What I saw did not please me. On one side, brush and trees grew alongside the shelter while a second side bordered the cemetery. The third was where we’d come in and it, like the fourth, was wide open to view. If I convinced Chip to bring in the sheriff, there was no way deputies could cover the drop site. Our nefarious friend could arrive early and hide himself with a clear view of the entranceway and the cemetery. Anyone trying to approach through the dry brush would sound like a herd of elephants at three in the morning. The best I could do was pray for rain.
I wore my old boots. My good ones were still airing ou
t, trying to throw off the skunk stench. Wanda had dressed for rough country also, so we wandered the area for about thirty minutes. I found no improvement in my first impression and, with misgivings, congratulated Mel on his choice of sites. He might sound like a rookie, but he’d lucked into an ideal setup.
“Chip said your ancestors are buried here,” I said. “Want to show me?”
“Sure, let’s go.”
We walked toward the gate, and I saw a historical marker. It said the Holly Springs Methodist Episcopal Church was established on the grounds in 1860. Someone had donated three acres of land to the Church. The donation didn’t surprise me, but seeing a combined Methodist and Episcopal Church did. It couldn’t happen today, that’s for sure. The cemetery opened in 1863 with the burial of a Susan M. Hanks—no explanation of who Ms. Hanks was.
When we walked into the cemetery, I noticed the flutter of small flags in the breeze. Some were United States flags and some were the battle flag of the Confederate States of America, the Stars and Bars. As we walked, I saw many civil war veterans in family plots. These were men who may have fought against one another during the war, then lived together and now, in death, lay side-by-side.
Wanda led me to a well manicured corner where all the headstones bore the name Jamison. “These are our ancestors, the people who settled and built this area, people who worked hard and died hard so we could have what we have today,” Wanda whispered, her head down. A small tear trickled from her eye.
She pointed to two graves in adjoining plots. “Mom and Dad. You can see he only lasted a year after she died. Some say, and I agree, he died from a broken heart. He just couldn’t go on without her. We were a close family. It’s a damn shame I screwed up their legacy.” Her hands went to her face and tears flowed in earnest. I gathered her in my arms and held her, feeling helpless. Is there any man who knows what to do when the woman he holds is sobbing? But, it proves once more that no matter how much bravado we lead with, there’s still a human behind it. That was true with Wanda.
