Dead Pan (24 page)

“Sit, Tuck,” Mr. Sanders said, again with another nudge, and the dog reluctantly squatted on its back haunches with nose in the air and sniffing furiously. Sanders leaned forward. “What you got in that pot?”

Bitty smiled. “Chicken and dumplings. Homemade, of course.”

I could see Sanders wavering. The shotgun lowered, the bowed legs quivered, and I swear that his nose twitched just like his hound’s.

“Huh. Reckon you intend to bribe me with those, do you.”

“I sure do.” Bitty’s smile got bigger. She lifted the lid and a thin curl of steam wafted up. “Fresh, too. Just made early this morning. They have to sit a little bit to let the dumplings soak up all that broth, of course.”

“Young hen?”

“Two. And White Lily flour cut with shortening and rolled out to a quarter inch.”

While they discussed the intricacies of dumplings, I looked around. The white painted house has a chimney at each end; old brick covered with ivy at one end, bare wisteria limbs on the other chimney. Windows go all the way to porch level on the front, with green shutters that can be closed in stormy or cold weather. Elongated
S
hooks have the patina of age on them, but still look in good working order. A lantern hangs from the center of the porch, and electrical wire covered with conduit pipes painted white run along the porch’s edge to make a sharp right angle beside the double front door, and then run parallel above the footings of the house and around the corner. One of the front doors was open, the screen shut. The closed door has one of those old-fashioned bells that have to be twisted to make a noise. It’s a bright, polished brass. Everything about the house promises loving attention, while the front yard looks like goats live in it. No grass. Just red dirt, ruts, and gigantic cedar trees with furrowed gray trunks splintery with age.

“Reckon you can come in if you want,” I heard Sanders say, and I looked over at Bitty. I thought she might faint. Her face had the dazed expression of someone in a spiritual trance.

Her voice shook a little when she said faintly, “Why, Mr. Sanders, we’d love to come in. Wouldn’t we, Trinket?”

I looked at the shotgun. I wasn’t so sure.

“Uh...”

“Come on, Tuck,” Sanders said, and opened the screen door for us. “He don’t bite, but I ain’t of a mind to leave him out here with that pot.”

The hound didn’t worry me. When it’d drooled over the chicken and dumplings, I’d seen that it had no front teeth. Mr. Sanders, however, seemed to have all of his teeth but not all of his marbles. Maybe it was the odd glint in his eyes, or the way he kept cackling like an old hen.

Reluctantly, I followed Bitty and Sanders into the house. It has that smell old houses have of meals long eaten, people long past, memories long gone. It isn’t a bad smell. It’s actually very comforting. Furniture gleamed dully, smelling like lemony beeswax. Bitty paused in the entrance hall and took in a deep breath. She was obviously having a religious experience.

As if afraid to wake the saints of old houses, she whispered, “Beautiful. Just beautiful!”

I have to admit she’s right. Oval-framed photographs of family members in garments a hundred and forty years old hang on walls. The walnut mantel over the fireplace holds more old photos in small frames, a chunky bronze statue of a soldier on a horse, and a pair of crystal candlesticks. A low fire burned behind solid brass andirons. The front room is filled with antiques, and just a glimpse into the dining room across the foyer promised more treasures in the heavy furniture and wide sideboards against two walls.

Since I don’t know that much about antiques or old houses, I followed along as Mr. Sanders gave us the royal tour. Bitty kept clasping her hands in front of her face as if praying, and murmured in rapture while we looked at huge old beds with wooden canopies and mosquito netting, cedar wardrobes that go all the way to the ceiling and still hold clothes from the 1800s, and gilded mirrors with a mottled tinge betraying their age. Carpets laid over bare heart-pine floors look as if they hadn’t been walked on in years.

By the time the tour was over, Bitty had almost convinced Sanders to allow his house to be put on the historic register and added to the tour. He still had reservations and muttered about turning his home into a circus, but had definitely wavered. Bitty really is good. She should sell real estate or run for Congress.

When we got down to the foyer again with Tuck tagging along at our heels, Bitty picked up a bronze statue from a small parquet table. “This is General Grant, isn’t it?” she asked.

For the historically uninformed, General Grant was a Civil War general who burned and slashed his way across Mississippi in 1862, but spared most of Holly Springs. Legend says it was because the ladies were so pretty and treated him to nightly piano concerts, but historical fact has a different version.

Ulysses Sherman Sanders was named in honor of Generals Grant and Sherman, since his family had taken possession of The Cedars right after the war when taxes were high and Confederate income non-existent. As Yankees, they were not enthusiastically welcomed into the community. A few generations have gone by since then and hostilities have ceased for the most part, even if not been completely forgotten by some.

Sanders bristled at any hint of censure in Bitty’s question. “That’s right; it’s a statue of General Grant. Got a problem with that?”

“Heavens no. General Grant was an absolute gentleman while he and his troops stayed in Holly Springs, though I can’t say the same for all his soldiers. With some exceptions, of course,” she added hastily, apparently remembering that Sherman Sanders’ ancestor had been one of those Union soldiers. “This statue’s very heavy. Is it weighted?”

Sanders nodded. “I reckon so. Probably because it’d be top heavy otherwise, what with the general liftin’ his sword like that.”

Bitty smiled and set it down carefully. “I’ll be back in a day or two to discuss what needs to be done before the tour. Even though The Cedars hasn’t yet been put on the historic register, we can fill out the paperwork and submit it. I don’t think there’ll be any problem at all. You’ve done such a wonderful job taking care of this house. I honestly don’t think there’s another house in Marshall County that’s been kept up nearly this well. Most need extensive renovations.”

Sanders puffed up his chest. He still held his shotgun, but just by the barrel now. I hoped that was a good sign.

Tuck suddenly barked and rushed toward the open screen door, making me jump. We all looked outside. Something big and brown had its head stuck in the pot of chicken and dumplings. Before Bitty or I could move, Sanders started to cussing, and banged out the screen door and took a shot at the aluminum pot. Rock salt pellets pinged against metal, and the mule made a strangled sound and took off down the rutted drive wearing the pot up to its eyeballs and shedding chicken and dumplings behind it. Tuck immediately took advantage of this unexpected windfall, and the pot-blinded mule ran into a tree. The impact knocked it backwards so that it sat on its haunches blinking dumplings from its eyes while the liberated pot rolled across the yard. Tuck greedily and happily worked the path the pot had taken, slurping loudly. The mule got up and shook itself free of dumplings, obviously unharmed. And unfazed.

Bitty and I just stood there transfixed by the entire thing. Mr. Sanders heaved a disgusted sigh.

“Blamed mule,” he said. “I swear it’s part goat. Ate half my hat last week.”

Roused from temporary astonishment, Bitty said brightly, “Well, I’ll just have to cook you up another big batch of chicken and dumplings. Don’t worry about the pot. I have another one at home.”

 We were halfway back to Cherryhill before we started laughing. Bitty had to pull over to the side of the road so we wouldn’t wreck. Finally I wiped tears from my eyes and tried to keep from snorting through my nose. I have a tendency to do that when I’m hysterical with laughter.

“Is putting this house on the tour worth another pot of chicken and dumplings?” I asked as soon as I was snort-free.

Bitty nodded. “As many as it takes. I’ll just have to buy more ingredients and take them over to Sharita’s house.”

“You fraud. Someone else cooked them for you?”

“Good Lord, Trinket, you know I can’t cook. If I’d cooked them we’d have been shot, stuffed, and mounted over that magnificent walnut mantel. Did you see it? All those gorgeous hunting scenes carved into the wood... I thought I’d pass out from pure pleasure.”

Bitty and I have different values in many ways. While I appreciate antiques and old houses and generations of custom, it’s more in an abstract kind of way. Bitty has obviously made it her reason for living. There are different ways of handling divorce and that empty feeling you get even if the relationship degenerated into nastiness and you’re happy to see the last of him. My divorce was pretty straightforward. Bitty’s last divorce made waves throughout the entire state.

Bitty let me off in front of my house. “I’m going shopping for new shoes,” she said, and tooled on down our circular drive with a happy wave of her hand. I smiled and shook my head. Now there’s a woman who knows how to cope.

Mama and Daddy had gone from playing gin to planning a cruise. Pamphlets were spread over the kitchen table. Something familiar smelling simmered on the stove, and afternoon light made cozy patterns on the walls and floor. Brownie slept in a patch of sunshine. He’s a beagle-dachshund mix with long legs, a short body, a dachshund head and coloring, and a beagle’s loud bay. He can be heard three counties over when he scents a squirrel. He’s also neurotic.

“Where are you going?” I asked my parents when I’d hung my sweater on a coat hook beside the back door and stood looking over Daddy’s shoulder at the array of pamphlets.

“I was thinking we’d enjoy rafting down the Colorado River. But your mother wants to take the Delta Queen down to New Orleans. They have a cruise in March this year. It’s usually June before the cruises start, but it’s been chartered just for us retired postal employees.”

Mama looked up. “I thought it’d be nice to travel down the river like those old gamblers used to do. Do you remember
Maverick
? Not the movie. The old TV show. James Garner always did well. I have a feeling I might be just as lucky.”

“Huh,” Daddy said. “You just think you’re a card shark now because you beat me at gin.”

“Three times,” Mama said with a big smile.

I thought it best not to interfere. “What’s for supper?” I asked instead.

“Chicken and dumplings.”

My parents just looked at me as if I’d lost my mind when I started laughing, and I heard Mama say to Daddy in a low tone, “Hormones. Must be The Change.”

Cart Before The Corpse

Book One

The Merry Abbott Carriage Driving Mysteries

Set in Mossy Creek

Carolyn McSparren

Trade Paperback 14.95

Ebook at Fictionwise.com

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Sunday Afternoon, Chattanooga, Tennessee

Merry

I should learn to count chickens instead of eggs.

I’d already packed my computer and printer in my truck and checked out of my motel. The scores were posted on all the driving classes except the cross- country marathon. As show manager, I’d passed out ribbons and trophies. Once the marathon ended and the scores were tallied, I could drive away from the horseshow grounds with a happy grin and a fat check.

That’s when I heard the screams. “Runaway!” I turned and raced across the field toward the start of the marathon course. When the screams continued, I knew this was more than a loose trace.

Please God some nervous horse had yanked his lead line from his groom and wandered off to graze, or decided he didn’t feel like being harnessed to his carriage today and trotted away dragging his reins and harness behind him.

Just so long as he wasn’t also dragging a carriage.

A runaway horse harnessed to a driverless carriage is a four-legged missile with no guidance system.

I was still fifty yards from the start of the marathon course when I saw Jethro, Pete and Tully Hull’s Morgan stallion kick out with both hind feet and connect with the steel dashboard of their heavy marathon cart with a God-awful clang. Terrified, Jethro reared straight up in his traces and tossed both Pete and Tully off the carriage and into the dirt.

“He’s going over backwards!” somebody screamed.

Amy Hull, Pete and Tully’s thirteen-year-old daughter, clung to the back of the carriage. Her normal job was as counterbalance around fast turns. Now, she was trying to keep both Jethro and the carriage from landing on top of her.

“Jump and roll, Amy!” I shouted. “Get out of the way!”

She jumped, landed on her feet and rolled away from the carriage. With less weight to overbalance him, Jethro came down solidly on all fours, Thank God.

But then he took off at a dead run across the field, with the carriage careening wildly after him.

Still screaming warnings, some people ran to help the Hulls. Competitors stamped on their carriage brakes and reined their own horses in hard to keep the course from erupting into a re-run of the chariot race in
Ben Hur
. Poor Jethro was terrified. With the eighteen-foot reins flying behind him, the carriage had become his personal banshee. He had to escape it if it killed him.

It might. As well some of the rest of us, horses, competitors, trainers and spectators alike, if we didn’t stop him. And nobody else was trying. Everybody not rushing to help the Hulls dove out of the way, cowered behind trucks and horse vans, huddled in the tents with the food and the vendors and prayed that Jethro wouldn’t decide to charge them.

Jethro weighed three quarters of a ton. The steel marathon carriage weighed only slightly less. The horse had become a runaway eighteen-wheeler with four legs and a terrified brain.

He craved sanctuary. He was desperate to find his people so they could get the monster off his tail. He didn’t know he’d left them behind in the dirt. Somehow I had to focus his attention on
me
, let him know that one human being wanted to save him from the monster that chased him.