Brownie and the Dame Read Free Page A

counter,” she said imperiously, “and Precious, don’t leave pieces of soggy biscuit under that table, and is that poison ivy on your leg, Bubba?”
    Bubba looked down at his leg and immediately dropped the coffee cup. “Bleep!” he bleated. Then he said another word in a fancy combination with the first word, emphasizing the second word. “I got to wash that off!” he added and vanished out the door. A moment later, his footsteps pounded up the stairs.
    Brownie found his notepad and pencil again. Laboriously, he wrote. “Eff-u-cee.” He paused and nodded. “That’s the one my mama doesn’t like Daddy to use. Is that an eye-enn-gee on the end or do I have to use two cees?”
    Miz Adelia spared Brownie a brief glance while she wiped the counter. Carefully she picked up shattered pieces of cup and put them into the garbage. “It’s a cee and a kay, but I don’t imagine your mama wants you to write it down neither,” she said.
    “Knowledge is power,” Brownie answered. It was a good answer. Three-quarters of the time it confused adults into silence. Possibly it stunned them into muteness. How can anyone argue with that? Knowledge is power. Mebe a commonist would argue ‘bout it. Commonists would argue ‘bout everything. That’s what his pawpaw used to say. Papa Derryberry had been a U.S. Marine for twenty-three years, and he had all kinds of useful information for Brownie concerning freedom of speech. Papa Derryberry had been a virtual fountainhead of facts pertaining to the ability to do what-the-heck-you-want.
    Commonists, Brownie understood, were bad people who lived in a bad country and wouldn’t let good folks say what they wanted. And if good folks said what they wanted anyway, the commonists would shoot them in the head. Brownie couldn’t fathom not being able to say what he wanted.
    “What?” Miz Adelia paused while holding the cup’s broken handle. “Knowledge is power? That don’t account to a hill of beans when your mama’s got a switch and you’re across her knees with a bare behind after you repeat that word to her.”
    What? Ma doesn’t switch me…much. Only when I do something really bad. Like the time I dyed the cat purple. Poor cat had to go to the vet three times. Or when Mammaw Derryberry nearly ruptured her hernia when I glued the…maybe I shouldn’t think about that right now. Time for another tactic.
    “Your cinnamon rolls are the best I’ve ever tasted,” Brownie said sincerely. Silently he added, Ifin there were some about, I would eat them cheerfully. But there ain’t today, so I be out of luck. Mebe she’ll make some ifin I flutter my eyes at her.
    Miz Adelia dropped the cup’s handle into the garbage and eyed him cautiously. “Tomorrow I’ll make some. Mebe you’d like to help?”
    “You’d let me help you bake?” Brownie thought about it. He could learn how to make them himself. Cinnamon rolls all the time. Sounds great. Ma don’t cook unless it comes pre-packaged, although her Stouffer’s Lasagna Italiano is right tasty. “You got it, sweetheart.”
    She shot him another look. Brownie tilted the fedora in a fetching manner. Charming the dames, that’s what it’s all about and solving mysteries, too.  
    “Miz Demetrice said she thought you liked the Dashiell Hammett,” Miz Adelia commented.
    “I want to be a gumshoe,” Brownie said enthusiastically.
    “I kin see that,” she said. She went back to the counter. “What does a gumshoe do?”
    “Solves mysteries. Backs up his partner. Says stuff that’s fancy. Looks good in a hat.” Brownie considered. Did I leave anything out? “Smooches all the cool kittens.”
    Miz Adelia covered her mouth with her hand and looked as if she was going to choke. Brownie thought about his first aid patch. Perhaps he could utilize a few of the maneuvers from the class, but the housekeeper merely clutched her mouth with her hand and seemingly recovered.
    “What kind of mystery will you be solving then?” she