Downhome Crazy Read Free Page A

job.
    According to the one who achieved the decibel level of a lawn mower because she’s deaf, Waddell Peytona had a general store and dentist office here for twenty years. After he went to join the angels, Waddell Peytona the second kept the store and declined to yank teeth, adding a post office instead. Future Waddell Peytonas changed the inventory, but kept the name, which is why Wadelline Peytona’s dry goods store has a weathered wooden tooth hanging over the front door and a painted advertisement for chewing tobacco fading on the side of the building.
    Beside me, Eugene gives a gasp and jumps as my flashlight flickers across something gray and moving fast. I grab his arm and whisper what I hope is a reassuring, “It’s just her cat.” Now I don’t know that it’s Miss Priss, mind you, but I’m pretty sure our covert operation is blown if I tell Eugene it’s one of those big river rats that sometimes come up through an uncovered drain. That’s one of the drawbacks of living along the flowing Ohio, I learned on moving to Fortuna, but folks here think the river view is pretty enough to make up for foot-long rodents.
    The blade of light we’re following falls on a little of this and a little of that blocking the ends of the aisles. Moving into one of the aforesaid aisles, I discover nothing but bolts and bolts of fabric. Most of the rows are the same, except for the one that holds skeins and skeins of yarn. If this place is still as well-stocked when the apocalypse comes, I want to be stranded here. Surely Miz Waddy has her upstairs apartment fully stocked with canned goods and jars of peanut butter; she seems the practical sort. And with all this fabric, I could have a new outfit everyday while the other survivors wander around in rags.
    Note to self: Learn to sew before the apocalypse.
    “This place is spooky.” Eugene’s voice is higher pitched than I’ve heard it before and now it’s him gripping my arm. “Think maybe somebody hacked her up and stuffed her down the well out back?”
    I bring my light up so I can see his pasty face. He really does look scared.
    “The well out back is a fake,” I explain. “Back before you were born—heck, before I was born—people built those wooden wishing wells as a lawn decoration. There’s not enough room in that bucket to stuff Miss Priss, let alone Miz Waddy.”
    Most wishing wells are long gone from the not-so-luxurious lawns of Fortuna, replaced by families of lawn gnomes or those fire pots. Miz Waddy keeps hers in perfect condition, probably because one of the Peytonas who came before her built it. I swear I saw her varnishing the little wooden staves with a toothbrush last summer.
    Eugene’s being spooked makes me see weird things in the shadows my flashlight doesn’t reach. We retrace our steps, taking care not to disturb anything. We’re two steps from my car when I see one of Fortuna’s finest pulling up in a cruiser. Luther, I’m pretty sure. I suspect that after dealing with the church ladies, Dwaine is headed for the Tip ‘Em Inn for a couple of drinks.
    I know we’re spotted because the blue lights start twirling. That confirms my belief it’s Luther. He loves that light bar.
    He strides toward us, hands on his utility belt like our faces grace the most-wanted posters down at the post office. I keep hoping Luther will find a nice girl and settle down. I can see him dropping the kiddies off at Grandma’s before he and Mrs. Luther go to bingo night at the VFW hall and then stop by the Tip ‘Em to round off date night.
    “Not surprised to see you here.” He tries for a gruff, you’re-in-trouble tone, but it comes out a lot like his gimme-a-cheeseburger tone.
    “I was worried about Miss Priss,” I lie. “You know how I love animals.”
    “Uh-huh.” Luther was around during the months after I inherited Precious, the ugliest dog God ever graced the earth with. He doesn’t know that the ghost of one of my ex-boyfriends was attached, or