Land of a Hundred Wonders

He’s always trying to get me to think “appropriately.”)

“That certainly would be appropriate thinkin’,” Miss Jessie replies in a complimentary way. “The field boss told the sheriff that Buster mentioned somethin’ about going to a government get-together and he assumed that’s where Buster’s been. But whoever it was that he was supposed to be meetin’ up with called the sheriff station this morning reportin’ that he never showed up.”

“Oh, my, my. The field boss assuming like that? That is such a big mistake to make.” The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation says that assuming anything is just about the worse thing anybody can do. You should never assume anything until you have the facts. “Are you by any chance having hot sex with Sheriff Johnson?”

“Lord.”

I asked her that because when Miss Jessie and Grampa go out to dinner at Gil’s Supper Club, and she’s gussied up in that vanilla dress of hers that is cut on the low side up top, and the high side down below, well, I strongly suspect Grampa wouldn’t mind spooning her up for dessert. But if my understanding is correct, hot sex is a one-per-customer deal, and if she’s already having it with the sheriff, that would leave Grampa SOL. (Shit outta love.)

“No, I am not having hot sex or any other kind of sex with the sheriff,” Miss Jessie snips as she fastens the last strap on the bridle. “And I better not see that tidbit in next week’s Gazette.”

“Fine, but ya best be careful,” I warn. “He looks at you with a lot of lust, ya know.”

“Oh he does, does he?” she says, still snotty sounding.

“Yes, he does. In fact, I bet LeRoy wouldn’t mind one bit gob-blin’ you up whole,” I say, swinging myself into the saddle. “Just like he does one a Miss Florida’s pies.”

Miss Jessie rests her hand on my knee, a mushy look coming into her eyes. “You and I both know that I already have feelin’s for somebody, and that somebody is not Sheriff Johnson.”

“I perceive that you are hot for Grampa,” I say, gathering up my reins.

She gives Peaches a sharper than normal slap on the rump and says, “Well, I perceive this conversation has just drawn to a close. Git.”

“Sometimes he calls out your name in his sleep,” I say, steering out of the coolness of the barn into the muggy heat.

Miss Jessie chases me down. “What’d ya just say?”

“I said you are hot for Grampa.”

“No, after that. Something about your grandfather callin’ out my name in his sleep?”

I don’t recall saying anything of the sort. “Are ya feelin’ all right, Miss Jessie? As you well know, I have been trained in basic Red Cross. Maybe you’re havin’ a heatstroke. Are ya seein’ stars? Do ya… well, speak of the devil.” I point over her shoulder at the Grant County Sheriff car that’s speeding up her drive. (Considering our previous conversation, him showing up like this doesn’t look too good for her. Makes her look Culpable: Blameworthy, don’tcha think?)

“What in tarnation does he want?” Miss Jessie says, flushing flamingo.

“He wants to gobble you up-”

“Hush,” she says out of the corner of her mouth as the car comes sliding to a stop next to the barn.

Watching the sheriff walk our way, I think about how he’s always reminded me of a past-prime peach. With fuzzy orange hair on top and all over his arms, and while not exactly fat, he is real mushy around the middle. “Afternoon, Miss Jessie,” he says to her with so much lust in his eyes it’s practically squirting out. “Miss Gibby.”

I say, “Good afternoon,” but what I want to say is-it was until you showed up anyway, you rancid bully-and am real proud of my restraint.

“Like they say, two heads are better’n one. Got time to sort out Buster’s disappearance with me, Jess?” he asks, offerin’ his arm.

“Pardon me, Sheriff,” I butt in, because Almighty God, the memory of finding that dead body this morning has just floated back into my mind! “Would ya know if Mr. Buster Malloy was well known for his swimmin’ ability?” I will need this information for my awfully good story, because even though Mr. Buster wasn’t drowned, but punctured in the chest and messed up in the neck, it would be an interesting background fact. I wish I had my blue spiral with me. I should be getting this down.

The sheriff, putting up a nice front for Miss Jessie, says to me in the dearest of voices, “And for what purpose would you be wantin’ to know that information?”

“For the article I will be writin’ about him once he turns up dead, ya big asshole.”

“Gib!” Miss Jessie shouts, givin’ me the cut-throat sign. (That’s her secret code to warn me I’m cursing.)

The sheriff is waitin’ on me to, but I won’t give him my deepest of apologies, I won’t.

“Well, now,” he says, removing his mirrored sunglasses. “Guess ya got ahold of some bad information, Miss Gibby. Mr. Malloy is not dead. He’s missin’, is all.”

I coulda corrected him, even mentioned that I got pictures of that dead man sitting in the camera that’s inside my briefcase that’s under those bushes in front of the barn, but I don’t. Because at last summer’s Cray Ridge Days, where there were running contestsand buffet food, I overheard the sheriff remark to his deputy, “That McGraw girl’s gotta be dumber than anthracite coal.”

“Stay on the path,” Miss Jessie calls to me as she and the sheriff head toward a shaded picnic table and a pitcher of sweet tea. I guess to put their two heads together and I hope that’s all. “Like always, Gib, turn back when I ring the come-and-get-it bell.”

“Turn back when I hear the bell. Got it,” I say, heeling Peaches in the ribs.

Now, even though I am 100% lovable with mostly Christian thoughts, as I enter the backwoods, I’m gonna have to confess to thinking: Mr. Buster Malloy is too dead. And when I solve that murder and publish that story, by next week Friday, everybody in town will be reading the front page of Gibby’s Gazette, their admiration piercing through the clouds and landing square in my mama’s heart. We’ll see then who is dumber than anthracite coal, Sheriff LeRoy Johnson. We’ll just see about that. Ya big asshole.

Mr. Charles Michael Murphy

It’s not until after I come in the cottage back door and set the egg basket down on our kitchen table that I realize that me and Keeper have come home without my black leather-like briefcase. I left it in the bushes back at Tanner Farm. “Doggone it,” I shout, indecent mad at myself for forgetting.

“Where you been?” Grampa calls in a persnickety voice from the screened-in porch. He can get like that when he wakes up from a nap. “I just got off the phone with Jessie. She said you left more’n an hour ago.”

“I… I…” I remember the lousy look Sheriff Johnson gave me when Miss Jessie went to retrieve my egg basket for me. I also recall Keeper yapping at snoring Sneaky Tim Ray when we snuck around him in the woods. But then… oh my goodness.

I will not tell Grampa. He’ll only get red in the tips of his ears.

Like I mentioned earlier, I usually don’t keep secrets from him, but in one of the chapters of The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation, Howard Redmond states quite firmly that oftentimes, in the midst of an ongoing investigation, one must endeavor to conceal certain facts, so one might have to Prevaricate: Stray from the truth. Even from our loved ones if necessary. (For their own protection, you understand.)

“I went over to Miss Lydia’s,” I lie, stepping out to the porch. Grampa’s perched on the edge of the flowered wicker sofa. Rumpled up. “Please don’t get mad.”

Well, for godssakes, this is so UTTERLY discouraging. Why didn’t I tell him I stopped by to see