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Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Introduction
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Introduction |
Sometimes refered to as the Lost Improv, "Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek," was the first improvisation writing project to be planned rather than springing out of the whole cloth insanity of the old Poetry Workshop at the now defunct MsN Groups. As near as we can recall, these episodes date from 2004.
Blind Pete conceived of it and set it up at a web site all its own and then invited writers in rather like a spider hanging an Open for Business sign on its web. Unfortunately, Pete lost his long battle with his sight and went blind before the improv ran its course. Without him, the writers lost interest and the story line ground to a halt. Most people forgot it even existed.
We stumbled upon it during the migration from MsN Groups to our new home here at Multiply. It's been in packing cases down in the basement. Just recently, an old nag was in the basement and barked her shins on the crates. She started nagging us to open up the boxes and exhibit the work. What she was doing in the basement without the lights on has not been revealed and we have thought it best not to ask.
Blind Pete's idea was to have his character, The Judge (who hadn't yet appeared in these episodes), be revealed as the evil mastermind behind all the murder and mayhem. Before he could be brought to justice, however, The Judge would die when the steering wheel came off his Lincoln Town Car on a steep and winding mountain road. The final scene was to be Cadlin in his and Scotty's automotive garage. He would reach into his pocket and toss onto the workbench a nut of the type that secures the steering wheel in a Lincoln Town Car. Thus would the tragic murder of Scotty's wife and others be avenged.
Fini.
1: Dangerous Waters, by Pete
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Episode 1 |
Dangerous Waters
Judd Hanson had been thinking about it all morning. He was in a state of excited anticipation that was difficult to hide. The man seemed to glow as if lit by some inner fire. The arrival of the plain brown paper package at breakfast had set him alight. He’d been anxiously awaiting it for three weeks, ever since he’d replied to the advert in the Anglers Gazette and Bait Guide Monthly. This was the premier publication for all that was cutting-edge and sexy in the angling world, if it wasn’t in the Anglers Gazette then it just wasn’t worth knowing, and no serious, self-respecting angler, would read anything less.
Judd was the same every year. Normally a relaxed and placid man, as the fishing season approached he would grow tense, like some main spring being over-wound and waiting to snap. The townsfolk were used to this. You would be talking to Judd one minute and then he’d get that fiery look in his eyes, and you knew he was gone. Not bodily, but his spirit would already be out on that lake, rod in hand, eyes scanning the surface for the slightest ripple from his nemesis. In fact with a smile and a slightly tongue in cheek wink, the good old boys of the town would tell strangers the many tales of Judd and his twenty-year battle with that now almost mythical creature of the deep. This was a battle of epic proportions, fought by titans. Forget the classics: Ulysses, Homer, the Trojan Wars, and Moby Dick. This was much bigger. This was the stuff of Country and Western songs, a modern legend in the making, waged by two opponents who neither gave nor expected any quarter.
On one side of this mighty conflict you had Judd, lean and weathered like old leather from his many years of exposure to the elements. Almost rock like in his composure, he’d spent half his life patiently waiting for his enemy to make that one fatal mistake. Never once faltering in his belief that he could master this challenge. Weaker men had broken under such enormous strain, but not Judd. In fact, Judd was about the most ornery critter God had ever seen fit to put into all of creation, which was just as well since he seemingly faced the very spawn of hell.
There had been tales of Old Methuselah way back when Judd was just a boy. The mere mention of the name was enough to induce a church-like silence. The tales were told in a tone of reverence or fear, which are pretty much the same. And what tales they were. Heroic tales of man against nature at it’s fiercest. If they’d been only half true then this catfish was something beyond just a fish. It was half alligator, half demon and pure evil cunning the likes of which few men have ever dared face, or cared to.
Those heroic tales were what first drew a young Judd to the lake. Stepping out of the tree line he caught his first ever sight of its placid waters. It was an epiphany, a revelation. The sky was early morning pink merging into the deepest blue, with air so sharp, keen and cold that each breath hurt. The early morning mist drifted in mystical, magical strands across a black, mirrored surface. He had stood drinking in the silence that first time, awed by the raw beauty of it all. It was like God had shown him the first day of creation. And at that intense moment, there had been movement, a powerful ripple that broke the glassy surface of the lake and the beast had revealed its menacing presence.
It was the impact of that first day that brought Judd back time and time again, year after year. But this time it would be different, and not the different that each succeeding year always promised. No, this year he had his Excalibur. Judd didn't even open his store that morning. His rod and tackle box were already packed inside his pickup. He cranked the engine, revved it up and back to an idle. He shifted into gear and headed out of town to meet his destiny. Fifteen minutes later he had parked and was making his way through the woods towards the lake.
This was the tricky part. Some five years earlier the federal Bureau of Land Management had annexed a large part of the forest including his lake and fenced it off. At first he’d been angered at this. He’d reckoned he’d been fishing here half his life and he wasn’t about to let no pen-pushing government bureaucrats tell him otherwise. But then he found that no one ever seemed to be there to bother him. He kinda liked the privacy.
Judd headed towards the bushes where some years earlier he had cut a hole through the fence. He was surprised to find his secret entrance had been disturbed. He hadn’t been here since the end of last years’ fishing season, but he knew he’d wired the hole back up, he always did. As he carefully made his way down to the lake he wondered if someone else was after Old Methuselah. But there was no one to be seen. Relieved, Judd sat down on the bank and began to rig his tackle.
Opening the tackle box, Judd removed the plain paper package, with a smile he slowly unwrapped the box. This was it this was his Excalibur. Opening the box Judd lifted the Acme Stealth 2002 mark 5 Catfish lure. He admired its glorious perfection of form. This was state of the art and as high tech as it gets. It was made of the composite materials and had a liquid filled centre. It was computer designed and ergonomically shaped to exacting standards. This thing had more sex appeal than any lure had a right to. Judd laughed to himself. That Old bastard Methuselah wasn’t going to know what hit him. It’s a wonder the damn fish didn’t just swim up to the shore, crawl up the bank and roll over dead.
Attaching the lure to its trace, he made his first cast out into the centre of the lake. Slowly he began to spool in. Judd knew that any minute his life’s ambition was going to be realised. Then it happened, right there on the first cast. The line tightened. Reacting immediately, Judd struck. Whipping his rod up, the line went taut, the rod bent and Judd knew he’d hooked a big one. He expected at any moment to hear the scream of the ratchet, and the battle for which he’d prepared half his life to begin. He knew this was it. It had to be Methuselah, but nothing happened. He lowered his rod and the line went slack. He gave it a moment just to be sure, but with a sinking feeling he knew he’d hooked some weeds or something, maybe an old tire. He jerked the rod a few times hoping to tear the lure free. Nothing. It was firmly hooked into whatever it was. Unwilling to cut it free and lose the lure, Judd began to haul on the line. He half expected it to part at any moment, as he pulled harder and harder. Just when he dared not pull any more he felt the object give a little. Slowly, Judd began to haul whatever it was towards the bank.
After some ten minutes of struggling a shape began to emerge through the murky water. Judd kept pulling. It was large and heavy, whatever it was. Then one moment he was staring intently, trying to make out what the hell the vaguely familiar shape was. Then the next he was dropping his rod and backing away eyes riveted to the now all too recognisable shape. He didn’t make it far before he turned, and his legs buckled, dropping to all fours, Judd vomited violently. The heavy shape that had been an unknown what, had just become a very dead and bloated unknown who?
2: Garagemen and Whoopers, by Cadlin
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Episode 2 |
Garagemen and Whoopers
Judd Hansen tore away up the road like his beat-up old Studebaker pickup had forgot it was a tubercular antique. From the opposite direction came the sudden wail of a siren, which cut off as suddenly as it had started. Except for a noisy flock of egrets, all was quiet again. Then a moment later came a long plaintive wail. Then nothing. The quiet was pregnant with what might be coming next. What came was a long, climbing and descending moan of siren.
The sonic insults continued with each outburst sounding a little nearer. Moments later a brand spanking new patrol car came purring into view. The patrol car pulled over just where Judd's Studebaker had been a minute before. As the driver braked to a stop, the red and blue lights leapt to life, the siren started to wail. It was like a poor mans version of "Close encounters of the third kind," then it all stopped.
The passenger opened his door and climbed out to a new chorus of light and sound effects. He shut the door and all was quiet except for the deep, intimidating purr of the high performance engine under the hood. The driver open his door and stepped out. Show time again. He slammed his door and the show closed early.
"Scotty, wasn't that young Judd went tearin' up the road from here like he'd just remembered his wife got home yesterday?"
"I do believe it was, Cad," Scotty said. He scratched the back of his neck. His hands were dark with the more or less deep creviced and permanent stains of a mechanic. Both he and Cadlin were dressed in dark blue, oil stained coveralls. Cadlin had a red grease-rag hanging from a back pocket.
The boys' great-grandpas had been lawmen back when the town was young, same with their grandfathers. But their fathers left the deputing business and opened the Town’s first garage and used buggy lot. They figured they could make more money fixing the County's broken vehicles and equipment than its broken laws. Especially since they and their forebears were the primary breakers of both the laws and the County's property.
That first garage their fathers opened hadn't been much more than a half-built barn, but the city fathers of Cherry Creek immediately awarded them a civic improvement award. The then very young Ambrose Ewelle "Pumpkin" Faulk guaranteed them a large enough line of credit from his newly inherited bank to insure the garage would succeed. And also to insure they'd stay out of both his and the law's business.
"Sheriff Pat is expectin' to take delivery of this car come lunchtime," Scotty said as he resettled a small black welder's cap atop his head. "And I don't thinks he's gonna be too happy with all these lights and sirens popin' on and off ever' time he touches something."
"That's no problem," Cadlin answered. "Guess I shouldn't of cut off that switch and wired it on the back side of the battery ground." Cadlin stretched his long lanky frame. "Wonder what young Judd was in such a hurry about?"
"Probably thought the Sheriff was comin' to bust him for fishin' this here Federal pond," Scotty laughed.
"Hell," Cadlin coughed and spat. "Sheriff Pat uses Judd's secret hole behind the bushes his own self," Cadlin said. "Only person in the county that thinks that hole is a secret is Judd." Cadlin sniffed his nostrils clear, coughed the flam and spat. "Ain't nobody but a black sedan FBI cop mean enough to arrest a fella for fishin' where he's been fishin' since he was a kid."
Scotty's eyes lit up. "You reckon maybe he caught old Methuselah? Maybe that's why he was pourin' on the coal."
Cadlin looked at Scotty and grimaced. "Scotty, the only way anybody's ever gonna get that catfish is with a harpoon cannon. Why, just last week old Pumpkin Faulk hooked into it and then said goodbye to his five-hundred dollar fishin' rig."
"Yeah, that's right," Scotty nodded. "What made him think he needed a genuine, titanium cased, Garcia spinning reel is beyond me." Scotty smiled and added with a wink, "But we did make a good profit on that deal."
"Yes sir," Cadlin smiled. "Amazing what a little paint remover and some gun bluing can accomplish."
The boys looked out over the lake for a bit. Cadlin checked his pocket watch. Damn, he thought, don't dare to go fishin' now. "Come on Scotty," he barked. "We gotta get this car back to the shop and do some rewirin'."
They climbed inside to a chorus of lights and sound. Cadlin backed the car around and braked. The show lit up again. He shifted into drive and released the foot brake. The show closed. The cruiser slowly headed back down the road. A sweet, spicy scent drifted from the grass with the morning mist. An egret ran along the lakeshore, opened its wings and pulled itself into the deep blue sky. From down the road came the occasional fury of siren.
3: Abbey Hits Town, by Cat
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Episode 3 |
Abbey Hits Town
“This land is your land, this land is my land”, Abbey was half humming, half singing to herself with her head stuck inside the new Professional Chef freezer. Well, not quite new. Abbey had saved six months for the giant ice maiden and purchased it second hand from one township over. It’s first home, the City Market, had sold out to a chain conglomerate, with spiffy new appliances to go along with the exuberant new prices. With one hand holding the door from clanging shut on her, Abbey stopped her pounding rendition of Woody Guthrie, to puzzle over the slabs of frozen pork fat.
“How strange,” She murmured to herself. “I could have sworn I had more packages than that.” Lifting up the white butcher paper covered blocks, she peeked underneath a few, as if somehow they might have stuck together as one. “Next delivery,” she commented to herself, “I need to write things down. This dang memory bank of mine keeps making withdrawals without recording them.”
The breakfast special every day this week was Francis Bacon Frittata. It was a recipe she’d discovered quite by accident when she found her postage stamp summer garden was capable of a farm load of zucchini. She noticed even that mongrel of Scotty’s could no longer be persuaded to eat the leftover zucchini muffins. Somehow the verdant vegetable seemed to be overlooked as the dreaded summer squash when she fluffed them into her original egg creation.
“From California to Maine and Thailand.” Abbey was notorious for forgetting the correct lyrics and continuing in her own vein. Since retiring from the school system, the woman had never been more content. The former instructor had stumbled upon Cherry Creek at dusk one September when she’d taken the wrong turn on the highway, heading back to Boston from Crater Lake. Abbey could still feel the dry heat of that late Indian summer. She’d pretty much pedaled herself into town when her faithful Beetle stuck in third gear in the middle of road bordered by barbed wire, dust and panic. It was luck she’d inherited from her Irish Grandmother that brought her to Fat Sally’s truck stop and introduced her to those two mechanics.
She had spent many sleepless nights debating about spending her retirement fund and entering into debt to purchase Fat Sally’s. Truth was, without the help of Cadlin and Scotty, she might never had made the plunge. But now she knew it was the right decision. She spent more mornings waking with a smile on her face than the familiar dread in her heart. She’d found a way to practice her cooking skills and stay close to her beloved books all in the same place.
In a former life, Christopher use to tell her to hurry up and learn the culinary skills and quit all the blasted practicing. She smiled as she glanced at the old Elgin, a tenth anniversary present from her departed husband. No one ever knew if the man had died or simply departed. Abbey preferred to leaving them guessing. For the more persistent big rig vagabonds, she’d usually make up some story of his demise. The stories entertained her, and kept the local wondering as well. Anyone familiar with the old Hitchcock Magazines on the back shelves would have recognized her tales immediately.
Five-Fifteen. It was a rare morning when Judd didn’t sneak past the wooden porch and steal the current edition of the True Grit, always returning it by afternoon, neatly folded and stuffed under a couple old copies of National Geographic. Probably hoping she’d think it had been there all the time. She was on to him, but no harm done, so she let him carry on with his ruse.
Abbey headed toward the front counter to prepare the morning specialty brew- Bronte Brule. She heard Cadlin and Scotty arguing loudly near the front door and rattling the lock. They knew darn well she didn’t open the front door a minute before five-thirty. If they’d just bother to walk around to the delivery entrance, she’d usually let them sneak in and help themselves to the regular coffee. That seemed to suit them anyway. Though Scotty would often try one of the literary café’s new flavors, usually just to pacify Abbey and appear grateful, Cadlin steadfastly refused to even sample it. That man would be content to drink Valvoline, if just the right temperature.
Well, this morning they could either come around back or wait until she was read to flip the OPEN sign.
4: Robbie Comes to Town, by Free
| Murder and Mayhem at Cherry Creek Episode 4 |
Robbie Comes To Town
Robbie was baptized, Roberta Lee Tyler, the 6th child of 8 born to Juanita and Robert Tyler. Robbie got lost in the bunch and very often totally forgotten about. When dinnertime came, no one did a head count so she missed quite a few meals. Perhaps this was why she was so small. By the age of seven, she had learned how to be invisible. It came in handy when she wanted to get the scoop on one of her siblings. She imagined all sorts of things and often played out entire plays inside her head.
Being a 'skinny thing', as her father would say, she found it very easy to slip in and out of a room with hardly a trace. By the time she was 11, no one noticed her at all. That's when the plan began formulating in her mind.
From some spare parts she'd found at the local junkyard, she began building her get-away car, well bike as it were. Johnny Jay, from next door helped her every afternoon after school. They spent hours-scrapping parts and building. She told him her plan to run away. But she called it, "Git away". Johnny never believed she'd really go. He just liked her a lot and thought she had a great imagination.
"Johnny", she would say, "I gotta have this done by summer. I got me a date with destiny."
"Yeah", he'd said laughing, " you're not goin' anywhere on this scrap heap."
"Just you wait and see J.J., she barked, flashing angry eyes his way, " I'll show you whose goin' where!"
"Where the heck ya goin' anyway? Johnny asked, "You aint got no money er nothin." He kicked an old pop can off the road, waiting for her to answer.
She turned a grease-smudged face towards him. "Don't you worry none Johnny, I got plans."
"Well, like I said RT, you ain't gonna get too far!"
When summer break came, she was well prepared for her trip. Johnny tied old coffee cans and soup cans all over the 'brand new', old bike. There was a place for everything, right down to her pen and pad. She rolled up a blanket and one small pillow into a tight bundle and strapped it to the back of the bike with old belts. Johnny found a moldy saddlebag from the barn out back. A little cleaning up and oiling and it would do nicely to put her clothing into. The bag was secured across the milk crates that were positioned one on each side of the tires. With everything in place, she had only to wait for the last day of school.
On the morning she was to leave, Johnny had agreed to meet her out at the barn where no one from their houses would see them. Barely light outside, they stood with hands on their hips looking at their masterpiece.
"Well J.J." she said, "Today's the day I begin my new life. When I get were I'm a goin, I'll send ya a letter OK?"
"Dang RT, I never thought you'd really leave. What you gonna tell yer folks?" he said sadly.
"Heck fire JJ, wouldn't matter what I said, they never hear me anyway!" she said frankly, reaching in her pocket bringing out a small stone she'd found down by the creek.
"Here JJ, this is for you. It's real special so don't be a loosin it or lettin ever body look at it." she said sternly."
Johnny looked hard at the stone in his hand noting how it sparkled in the early morning sun. "Are ya ever commin back RT?" He asked with sad eyes, rolling the stone around in his hand.
"Oh sure, I'll be back, just as soon as I make a name fer myself, I'll be back and tell you who I am. " She laughed feeling quite proud of herself.
She gave him a quick hug, and hopped on her get away bike.
"Bye JJ", she called, "don't ferget. Don't tell nobody!"
Johnny watched as she rode the rickety old bike down the dirt road towards the highway. He began to wonder if it was really happening. "Bye RT" he called. "Don't forget to come back."
Two weeks latter, she's folding up papers for her delivery route in the small town of Cherry Creek. This was the place she'd heard about a year earlier when she was eavesdropping on a conversation at the drug store while her parents argued over laxatives. A man clad in suit and tie was telling a pretty young woman about all the money he was gonna make "over there at Cherry Creek". He said "there wasn't a riper cherry in the country just waitin to be picked". Robbie thought to herself that day, "I love cherries."
She tucked her hair up under her hat and peddled into town. The town folk of Cherry Creek paid little attention to the scrawny kid wearing dirty dungarees and a baseball cap riding the strange bike, She just peddled down the street like she'd lived there forever, waving hi and smiling big. Odd thing was, people waved back.
She followed her nose to the scent of cooked food. God she was starved. After nearly 3 days of peddling and only a few candy bars and some peanut butter sandwiches, she would give anything for a real slab of meat.
"There it was", she thought, looking up at the neon sign, ' Fat Sally's'. She pulled to the back of the building and propped her bike up against the old wood walls. The screen door was open just a crack so she creeped in to have a peek. She couldn't believe her eyes. There on the stove was the biggest burger she'd ever seen in her whole life. Now the problem was how would she get the darn thing.
As she began to work a plan out in her head a big fat cat brushed against her leg scarring the bejesus out of her. She jumped back, tripping and falling right into a 5-gallon can of lard. "Damn", she whispered to herself as she eased herself out, "this aint good."
She heard a womans laughter heading her way. She darted behind a rack full of old newspapers and magazines. Holding her breath she noticed the cat was meowing at her feet. She gave the cat a kick as gently as she could, but the cat seemed to like it so she kicked a little harder but it came back again and again. Afraid she was about to be found out she gave the cat one more swift kick. She couldn't believe her eyes. She'd kicked the cat right into the bucket of grease she'd just pulled herself out of. The cat scrambled out atop a bag of garbage scattering cans all over the floor.
"Hitchcock, what in tarnation are you doing? The woman shouted.
It was about that time that she leaned a little to heavy on the rickety old rack of papers. All of a sudden, she heard the woman let out a blood-curdling scream. When she opened her eyes, all she could see was legs, arms, and lips. She heard words come out of that woman's mouth she'd never heard before.
"Hey you!" the woman called, seeing Robbie turn to run. "What in blazons are you trying to do, kill me?"
Robbie ran through the kitchen grabbing the burger as she went. She never broke stride hitting the front door like a Brahma bull in a dog cage. Around the building, she ran to where she'd left her bike, and stopped dead in her small tracks.
Some old guy was kneeling down looking at her bike. He was dressed up in grungy coveralls that appeared to be as much garage grease as cloth.
"Hey, boy," the man smiled. "This here your bicycle?"
Robbie just stared, expecting any moment to feel that lady grab her from behind.
"These wheel bearing are way too loose," the man was saying. "Get yourself killed with wheel bearings this loose."
Just then, the back screen door flew open and the restaurant lady stepped out. "Scotty, you know that boy? You send him in here to destroy my kitchen and steal you a hamburger?"
The man she called Scotty looked quickly at Robbie and the squashed hamburger in her small hand. He looked up at the lady who was standing with her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. He looked back at Robbie and gave a wink.
"Sure do, Miss Abbey," Scott drawled. "Something the matter?"
"Then perhaps you will not mind paying for that hamburger?"
"Well, can't say that I know the boy all that well," Scotty answered with a big smile leaking out onto his face. "Say boy," he said, "why don't you introduce yourself to Miss Abbey."
So, that is how Robbie came to Cherry Creek and met both Miss Abbey and Scotty in about the same moment. Miss Abbey asked Robbie to come back inside the kitchen. Scotty said he was taking her bike down the road to his garage and fix the wheel bearings.
"You come on by and get it just as soon as you and Miss Abbey finish up swapping lies," he grinned.
"Young man," Miss Abbey said as Robbie came back into the kitchen, "if you wanted a bite of food, why didn't you ask?"
Robbie looked at the woman real funny. She talked just like her teacher's back home did.
"I'm sorry ma'am, I just thought maybe you wouldn't miss one burger." She said, looking down.
"Well son, just you come on inside here and we'll have a little chit chat. Maybe see about working off that burger you stole. Or would you rather I call Deputy Beauregard?"
"Oh no ma'am" she said looking at the woman with her saddest eyes, "I can work real good."
That was how her new life began in cherry Creek. It was a day she would never forget.
Robbie waited for a few days before telling Ms Abbey that she was a girl. She figured it might pay off to let the woman think she was a boy. All she needed was to be put in one of those frilly dresses and be sprayed down with that fancy perfume. Ms Abbey did insist that she take a tub bath.
From that moment on, Ms Abbey and Robbie had an agreement of sorts. Ms Abbey would give her leftovers from breakfast, lunch and dinner. In exchange, Robbie would do some chores around the place. Only problem was Ms Abbey seemed to think Robbie needed more 'education'. Robbie liked to read so it wasn't so bad, and besides she got to read all the new mysteries that came in by post. But her favorite read was the local newspaper.
After Robbie had settled in to her new home, Ms Abbey talked to the owner of the local newspaper about giving Robbie a job. The early morning paper delivery was her first real job at age 12.
5: Boston Haunts Her, by Cat
MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK
EPISODE 5
BY: CAT
Boston Haunts Her
Abbey was leaning across the counter, her head buried in a Raymond Chandler mystery, the latest arrival from her monthly book club. Except for one-armed Jake Johnson who was always so quiet you hardly knew he was around, the diner was relatively silent. The front door was propped open to allow a bit of a breeze through and both overhead fans were running overtime. Occasionally you could hear the freezer motor kick in then off again. The mid-day sun was a scorcher. Abbey’s only relief was the sweating green bottle of Coke she occasionally wiped her brow with before guzzling it down a constantly dry throat. She was on her third bottle now.
Jake was hunkered down in a back booth, lost in a collection of stories by O. Henry. He came in at this time every afternoon to wait for his wife's shift to end at local millinery store. Despite that deformity at birth, Jake was as strong a man as any bull needed to be. He was in charge of the nightshift at the local rail yard. Taking his position of policing the cars as seriously as Sheriff Pat took guarding a violent prisoner. With the old Desoto the only vehicle for the couple to share, Jake drove Margaret to town every morning and was waiting at the corner to drive her home at 5:15 sharp every evening. He always appeared shy around Abbey, but ever polite and endearing. Every now and again a railroad car would wreck with a boxcar full of slightly damaged merchandise, to soon be covered by the Line’s insurance carrier. Jake always found a home for the various items that would have been discarded anyway. The new overstuffed chair in the back reading room was one such find. Abbey discovered it outside her door early one morning. One leg was missing, but Cadlin had promised to fix her a new leg right away. The chair was still being propped up by an old Butternut can.
Jake always spent the last two hours of the afternoon at Fat Sally’s, reading, and almost always it was O. Henry. Abbey was sure by now he’d have had the three collections the place owned memorized. She did take note that Jake usually tried to hide the book in some obtuse place to ensure it would be there when he returned. She no longer tried to encourage Jake to take the book home for he always insisted he’d just misplace it. Abbey assumed he liked the afternoon solitude of the diner. Whenever Abbey straightened out the bookshelves, she made sure to leave Jake’s hiding place untouched. Today Jake had helped himself to his usual orange Nehi from the cooler, dropped a quarter on the counter and was snuggled into a back booth.
With both the screen and wooden door held open by an old metal milk crate, the usual warning bell was disengaged. Leslie Willis was able to sneak right up to the counter and startled Abbey into a yelp.
“Hello Darrrrrrrrrrlin. You sure are looking pretty, as usual”, he whispered in a conspiratorial tone. His face so close to her ear that she was repelled to back up against the ice cream freezer. Abbey detected a slight New England accent behind what was an obviously poor attempt at a southern drawl.
Catching the Coke bottle just as her elbow was about to knock it off the counter, She snapped at him. “Jesus! You scared the bejeebees out of me, Leslie!” She scolded with a scowl. She was never eager to see the man.
Jake looked up from his reading, just long enough for Abbey to catch a scowl cross his face, as well. Leslie Willis, a fairly new visitor to the café, was not much liked by the locals. Abbey couldn’t quite put her finger on why she disliked the man so much, only that he did not appear genuine.
She convinced herself temporarily that it was just the man’s essence the put her off.
“What can I get you Leslie?” She asked in a flat voice.
“Darlin, I keep tellin’ you the name is Les. Unless you have some other term of endearment you’d like to call me?” The lecherous grin did nothing more than make Abbey want to walk away and stick her head in the freezer.
There was something very familiar about this new trucker who started coming by the diner just six weeks earlier. His route seemed to take him out of town for a couple weeks at a time, and then he was back again. Abbey noticed his clean white cotton Hanes with the pack of Camels rolled up in the left sleeve, revealed the hint of a tattoo. For such a warm day, there were no telltale signs of underarm sweat and his full head of black hair was freshly swooped back in an attempt to look like Elvis Presley. At six-feet four-inches and a belly that hung below the belt line, Abbey thought he looked more like the giant mascot atop the Big Boy Burger Palace.
“I’ll have some of that delicious blackberry pie, Sweety. Damn, but you make the best pies in six states.” He crooned, dripping the compliment.
”I hate to disappoint you Leslie.” Abbey purposely stuck with the man’s full name. She thought it sounded very feminine for the big dork and enjoyed a bit of self-satisfaction seeing him grimace each time she said it. “I can’t take any credit. These are Dolly’s pies. Made fresh this morning. Dolly makes the best pies in all fifty states. After a million attempts at baking pies that sat with the forks still glued to the customer’s plates, Abbey had given up trying. She’d made an arrangement to buy the pies from Dolly’s place just before opening every morning. Abbey’s regulars appreciated it.
Abbey could feel Leslie’s eyes roaming over her before he spoke. “Darlin’, why don’t you and your waitresses wear those cute little pink frilly dresses those gals down at Dolly’s wear? You know, a bit of lipstick would bring out your smile, too. Sometimes I drive past here and think it’s one of those garage men hunched over the counter.”
Well, the man sure knew how to pass out the respects. Abbey looked down at her faded dungarees, rolled up just past the knee. Her yellow and blue windowpane plaid shirt was hidden behind a flour-towel apron. She brushed back her dark, shortly cropped hair with a heavy sigh. The look of disgust she gave Leslie, left little to be said.
She’d worn her heavy locks long for Christopher. A decade ago in Boston, there was always time for the weekly trip to the beauty shop with a few hours to spend on the manicure and hairstyle. Dining at the Club had been a regular ritual for them back then. She had no one to try to please now and was too busy running a business to worry about pleasing anyone new, even if she was so inclined. Most nights she shared the leftover diner special with Hitchcock, the fattest black cat in the county.
Thinking about Christopher suddenly set off alarms in her head. The night before he disappeared three men had come to the house asking to see him. He had quickly ushered them into his back office. Being an attorney, it was not unusual for clients to drop by in the evenings for consultations. Rarely though, did they come in threes. Uncharacteristically of her husband, he had not bothered to stop to introduce them to her either. She only caught glimpses of their back as the tallest one took off his hat just as he closed the door securely behind them. She remembered opening the windows of the office later that evening to air out the cloying smell of Old Spice.
6: Ripples from the Pond, by Pete
MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK
EPISODE 6
BY: PETE
Ripples From The Pond
Deputy John Edward Beauregard stepped out of Fat Sally's Diner and Lending Library. He let the screened door bang shut behind him. Beau, as his friends called him, always did lunch at the diner. There was something about the combination of good, home-style cooking and quality books that appealed to his appetites, both bodily and artistic. It's like peanut butter, jelly and bananas with an infused ambiance of anchovy paste, he thought. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Beau headed towards his old worn out cruiser and glanced up at the flashing neon sign under which he'd parked.
Fat Sally's Eats
"Be Better Fed and Be Better Read"
All You Can Eat Home Cooking
Beau never knew the original Fat Sally. Even though he'd been born and reared in Cherry Creek, Fat Sally had come and gone before his time. Folks say she ran off with some fast talking carpetbagger, travelling shoe salesman. Just one day before Pumpkin Faulk's bank foreclosed on the diner. The Faulk never did find out what had happened to all the restaurant fixtures that were supposed to be inside securing Fat Sally's loan. And because he faithfully observed his great-grandfather's edict to have no dealings with Miss Dolly nor any of her descendents, he had no way of noticing the improved equipment at the Pale Rider Saloon and Restaurant.
The diner's present owner was Miss Abigail Louise French. Comely and pretty in a plain sort of way, Abbey was a retired English Literature and Arts teacher from back east somewhere. She'd arrived in Cherry Creek going on ten years ago, and bought the empty diner from Faulk. The two garage mechanics had put her onto a good deal in used fixtures from the Pale Rider and she was in business.
Miss Abbey believed her mission on earth was to bring the great works of literature to the common people. She added the library to the diner in an inspired moment of capital investment that nearly bankrupted her. It was hard those first few years. Abbey and the diner nearly went under half a dozen times. Fact is, if Cadlin and Scotty hadn't scheduled the twice-weekly dinner meetings of the Cherry Creek Knights of Salt Wash into the diner she would have gone bust.
Abbey's biggest trouble in the early days was the tendency of long-haul truckers to check out books and never return. But her boundless love, enthusiasm and faith in the power of great art to improve the human spirit were borne out in the end. News of Fat Sally's spread far and wide until now gear-jammers the length of the country knew of the place. At first, the truckers trickled in. Big, tough, highway-faced men and hard looking women drivers would order their meals and glance sheepishly at the book shelves. They'd wolf down an all-you-can-eat meal of meat, gravy and bread then slip out with a Michael Crichton or maybe a Len Deighton page-turner hidden under an arm.
In time, with Miss Abbey's encouragement and tutelage, they found themselves devouring weightier repasts like "Steak and Black Bread Pancakes with Tolstoy," or a "Canterbury Chef's Salad and Cranberry Pot Roast with Chaucer." Then almost before Miss Abbey could notice it, her shelves started filling back up with books whose disappearance was causing a stir of concern in almost every library within a thousand miles. These far flung librarians were at a loss to track down such borrowers as Big Red, Pedal Mama, Rubber Duck and Pig Pen.
Deputy Beau paused in the gravel parking lot before climbing into the patrol car. He rolled a toothpick with his tongue. He gazed at the rutted, oil stained gravel. The neon sign all dressed up in spider webs and dead insects. He sniffed in the cool, sharp air leavened with the scents of fresh baking bread from the diner and diesel exhaust from the idling big rigs. He liked to think of this as soaking up the ambiance. Thoughts like this took up much, some say too much, of Beau's mental processes. Too often, as now, he portrayed himself to himself as the steely-eyed champion of law and order fighting the hordes of social decay.
Beau had been a deputy for twenty years, and was not likely to ever be anything else. Yet, he saw himself first and foremost as J. Edward Beauregard, great American writer. His total lack of talent and small Mountain of rejection slips would have defeated a lesser man. But small details like that fell from J. Edward as leaves from a dead tree.
This is not to say his writing had not attracted attention. It had. There wasn't a judge or prosecutor in the county that didn't dread his cases just as every defence lawyer and criminal prayed for them. Beau's artistic wont to add colour to witness statements and crime reports was what attracted the notice. In his hands, a simple speeding ticket became a thousand word essay on the quality of light as a perpetrator sped past.
"He came flying past the diner in a cloud of black smoke as if he were fleeing the fires and the very hounds of hell with the grim and ashen look of a haunted man," is how Beau described young Judd Hansen's race down the highway and into town. This, he thought, gave a truer picture than what his radar gun merely and boringly reported as 96 miles per hour.
Beau paused as an artistic battle raged inside him as to whether he should "gun the engine into life and speed of in hot pursuit," or if he should "hit the lights and siren and floor the gas pedal as he manoeuvres to give chase to the reckless desperado." Whichever it was, Beau spun out of the gravel lot and sped down the road after Judd.
Main Street, Cherry Creek, mid-morning. The day was turning hot and sultry. A gaggle of old timers were already playing checkers, whittling and spitting tobacco juice out front of the remade Sav-A-Lot Market and Convenience Store. A couple of hounds were in under the front steps waiting for someone to drop something tasty or rotten, which was the same thing to a hound. The morning was so quiet even the dust was too bored to do anything but lay on top of everything.
Down the street, Sheriff Pat Wallace had just finished a light snack of Miss Dolly's very good cherry pie inside The Pale Rider Saloon and Restaurant. Out the front window and across Main Street was the three-storied edifice of the courthouse cantered in the lawn and trees of the town centre.
Sheriff Pat watched a flock of pigeons paint a bronze statue of Colonel Abner Joseph Lafayette Faulk. This was the founder of the Faulk & Company Bank, and Pumpkin Faulk's great-grandfather. The sculptor depicted the old colonel astride his favourite mount Tecumseh. Never mind that the original Colonel Faulk never got far enough outside of New Orleans to ever see a real cavalry mount, let alone any part of the Civil War. That was the statue he wanted and he got what he paid for.
Miss Dolly was a direct descendent and namesake of the Miss Dolly who fought off that original Colonel Faulk and prospered when all the rest of the town burned down in Cherry Creek's early days. She was famous for her pies. In fact, Sheriff Pat was regretting not having ordered a larger piece. But he had his ever-improving waist to consider. With a last mournful look at the empty plate, he rose to leave. He exchanged a few polite words with Miss Dolly and headed for the door.
This was when Judd Hansen came roaring down Main Street trailing an immense cloud of black smoke. Somewhere back in the smoke was Deputy Beau in hot, soaking up the ambiance, pursuit. Judd's old pickup was rattling and screeching like a bucket full of steel cats getting their tails pulled. Judd paid the sounds no mind if he even heard them. He was in a flat out dead-body panic. Wasn't nothing short of judgment day going to stop him before he got to the Sheriff's Office at the courthouse.
Sheriff Pat stepped out onto the sidewalk just in time to see Judd's race from hell and hear the mournful call of Deputy Beau's siren. Suddenly, with a shriek, the engine in Judd's pickup fused into a solid mass of metal. Judd was now in a hopeless out of control skid. This didn't do much to improve his state of mind. Neither did it have much effect on his speed. What it did do was take any pretence of control right out of his hands. It all took on the surreal quality of a slow motion movie disaster.
Sheriff Pat watched the old men jump and run. Checkers and boards flying, hounds howling. Judd's locked tires pouring out clouds of white smoke burst into flames. The pickup hit the curb, rocketed across the courthouse lawn and took the statue of Colonel Faulk head on like a canon shot. The bronze Colonel shuddered as the equally bronzed Tecumseh wobbled from the blow. But the memorial fantasy of horse and rider held on. They might just have made it except for Deputy Beau who was right in the middle of being J. Edward Beauregard absorbing the sudden transition from coal black exhaust to the acrid white smoke of skidding rubber tires. Beau had just hit on using the adjective "acrid" when all of a sudden the only noun he had time for was "Oh Fuck!" The curb took both axels out from under the patrol car and it ploughed through the lawn right into the rear of Judd's pickup. This was one too many for the Colonel and Tecumseh.
The last thing Judd remembered before he passed out was the Confederate Colonel's bronze sabre slicing through the cab roof, missing him by a fraction as the rider and horse smashed down onto his hood. Judd never told anyone, but he’d have sworn that old bastard Faulk was smiling, as if to say, nearly had you that time boy.
Sheriff Pat stood still. His face was caught somewhere between surprise, anger, fright, hysteria and bawling. In under a half minute his town had been transformed from a peaceful half asleep haven into a scene from "Apocalypse Now". People started to shout and the hounds essayed a few howls. But mostly it was everybody waiting for everybody else to admit they'd all just seen the same impossible thing. A couple of bindle-stiffs who'd just got out of the county lockup were the only ones with sense enough to start laughing.
Sheriff Pat heard the sirens of the fire engine and the town ambulance approaching from opposite ends of Main Street. This pretty much guaranteed that neither was going to hear the other. The thick cloud of black and white smoke entwined with the steam pouring from the wrecks eliminated any hope of them seeing each other. The Sheriff turned and quietly stepped back inside the Pale Rider and closed the door. He shushed Miss Dolly with a finger to his lips. He paid no mind to the new sounds of a colliding fire truck and ambulance. He asked Miss Dolly for a big piece of her cherry pie, and he suggested she top it with a generous decantation of brandy. Miss Dolly brought the bottle, and they shared the pie.
"You know, Dolly," Sheriff Pat said. "My great-grandfather always said that horse was too much stallion for the old Colonel to handle. Damned if he weren't right." Miss Dolly swirled a cherry in the brandy on her plate. She popped it in her mouth and fetched a smile.
"Damn fine pie, Dolly," the Sheriff said. "Damn fine."
7: Swampy Boy and Fen, by Mike
MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK
EPISODE 7
BY: Mike
Swampy Boy and Fen
From about a mile away, above sound of the truck motor, James Cornelius Radcliff heard the old fire hall bell ringing. Puzzled he switched his truck's motor off. Seconds after the engine died, the ringing stopped in a finale of crunching, and rending of metal.
“What the devils going on?” he said aloud to himself. “This place is normally as quiet as a brother at a clan meeting.”
A second crashing sound a few moments later made up his mind, he’d come back tomorrow.
“Don’t want to attract too much attention,” he mused.
Turning the truck, he started driving back up the dirt road to the town he’d left earlier that morning.
About a mile further away from the town just as he was approaching the old hanging tree that stood by the road, a wild eyed figure seemed to come from nowhere into the middle of the track, and began running towards him, its arms were waving frantically.
He braked as hard as he could, and stopped a couple of feet from the onrushing man, whom he now recognized.
With both hand resting on the hood, seemingly oblivious to the heat of the radiator the panting man looked up at the driver, and gasped.
“Dang me Swampy Boy, I thought I’d missed yuh.”
Radcliff cringed inside, it was bad enough being called the Swampy Kid but this old degenerate Fen kept calling him “Swampy Boy!”
“Where the hell have you come from anyway?” he whispered more to himself than the old man outside the truck.
He hadn’t seen him on his approach to the town or departure, and he could see for miles on the barren prairie all around.
He leant out of the open window, put on his best hale and be hearty face, and with a smile as false as a nine dollar bill spoke to the old man.
“Don’t you worry any Fen? “ “I was just going back to Samson Flats. I left some stock there by mistake. I’ll be back tomorrow."
Some of the madness left the old mans eyes on hearing this news. His shoulders relaxed but he didn’t move from the front of the truck. A cunning flicker came into his eyes, and he gasped out with exaggerated breathing.
“Yuh could have stampeded me with this truck of yours!”
The old man didn’t know why but he felt there might be a free drink in this affair somehow. Of course he was almost always hoping for a drink of something, somewhere, somehow. He slumped forwards, his face almost touching the radiator.
Radcliff thought quickly. Yes he could take advantage of this, give the old fool a bottle of good stuff, and he would be drunk for a few days, and forget all about seeing him!”
“Here you have a bottle of this Fen,” he smiled through gritted teeth as he produced a two-pint bottle of amber liquid from beneath the driving seat.
“Thet's mighty nice of yuh Swampy Boy.”
The old man gasped as he staggered around to the driver's door. He reached up with a claw like hand, and clutched the proffered bottle, before backing away from the truck. “Yup mighty nice.”
Satisfied he had everything now under control, Radcliff restarted the engine.
“See you tomorrow Fen” He waved at the old man who didn’t reply he was rolling around on the side of the track busily occupied trying to bite the cork free, Radcliff thought he saw one hand come off the bottle, and wave in his direction, but he couldn’t be sure.
Radcliff drove away shaking his head, after a hundred yards or so he looked in the rear view mirror, the old man had disappeared!
He stopped the truck got out, and looked carefully there was no sign of him.
Reaching back into the cab he got his binoculars out, these were the best U.S Government Issue. “Can read a book at two miles,” he’d been told.
He saw the tooth marked cork as big as a football, he checked the surrounding area-- nothing. Even the trees shadow held no human silhouette.
“Where’s that old bastard gone?”
Unwilling to waste any more time he climbed back into the truck and drove off.
“Swampy Boy!” he spat the words out aloud as he drove. His mind went back to when it all began.
8: Ode to Cherry Creek, by Lady Deb
MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK
EPISODE 8
BY: LADY DEB
Ode to Cherry Creek
Deb walks into her room after a full night downstairs at the bar. She flips on the lights and sits at her dressing table, takes down her long hair and begins her nightly ritual of brushing out the long tresses until they shine. She changes into her nightie and looks at the clock, 3:30 AM.
Lady Deb crosses her room and looks out the window down onto Main Street. The Street lights are giving off an eerie glow. The moon is shining brightly, the night sky is filled with stars, the town is so quiet. There is no one on the streets here. It’s nothing like the hustle and bustle of the big cities she had grown accustomed to before.
She turns and surveys her room and smiles. It is so nice to have a place of her own. It may just be a hotel suite but it is her own little niche. Miss Dolly told her when she decided to stay that she could decorate it, hang a few pictures, a few knick-knacks, just nothing too extreme. She has a few paintings, landscapes, with hues of yellows, greens, and browns with skies so cloudless and blue. She began to collect music boxes, so now it does show a bit of her personality.
She walks over and runs her finger across the top of the antique writing desk she had to have. Seeing it in the shop window, it caught her eye, she had turned to go but she couldn’t. Lady Deb walked into the shop and left only after purchasing the piece, arranging for delivery and making a new friend. Deb sighs at the memory; that was a great day. She seats herself at the desk, pulls her journal out and begins to write.
The job is good. I manage “the Pale Rider” saloon. As long as no one calls in sick all I have to do is be there to rake in the profits. Miss Dolly owns the place and she knows the saloon brings in most of the money. But she didn’t enjoy running it, that’s why I got the job. The hours suit me and I do love people.
Miss Dolly is much happier in the kitchen baking her pies. They are famous state wide. She asked me to help a couple of days ago. I managed to cover myself in flour and destroyed a dozen pies! We laughed but I haven’t been invited back into the kitchen again.
In the few weeks that I have been a true resident here, I have met quite a few colorful characters. The two that stand out most in my mind tonight are Scotty and Cadlin. They are the town’s mechanics. Any time trouble appears you can be sure those two are nearby. I guess that’s why I like them; hanging out with them I’m sure to find adventure.
I think I’ll sign off tonight Journal with an ode to Cherry Creek;
Ode to Cherry CreekI’ve found a home in Cherry Creek.
A place to belong;
The people accept me for who I am.
I can be strong;
Life is good and I am happy here.
I no longer fear;
In the wee morning hours I close my eyes.
The voices I hear;
I find comfort in my dreams now.
No longer wake screaming;
I wake each day with a smile on my face.
Am I still dreaming;
I wander the streets of the quiet little town.
A song in my heart;
Visiting friends and making new ones.
A brand new start;
Deb closes her journal and crosses to the bed and is quickly asleep without a care in the world.
9: A Dark Man Cometh, by Cat
MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK
EPISODE 9
BY: CAT
A Dark Man Cometh
Just as Abbey was about to poke her head outside Fat Sally’s in a search of Robbie, the front door was shoved right into her. Scotty was making all kinds of apologies to her for not watching where he was going. He appeared so flustered and embarrassed that Abigail stepped aside and let him fall right into the diner.
Before she could ask, Scotty was denying knowing anything about any commotion from the middle of town. “Scotty, slow down.” Abbey urged. “What commotion?” What is happening on Main Street?” Abbey was worried her mission that afternoon might be delayed by whatever was going on in town.
Scotty pulled out a dirty blue paisley sheet of cotton from his hip pocket, and wiped his brow while shaking his head in disbelief. Not a sound was coming from his mouth. Sometimes that man could be irritatingly mute.
“Scotty?” Abbey prompted a second time. "What’s going on?"
Scotty walked to the cooler and helped himself to a cold bottle of Dr Pepper with the hands of the clock label at ten, two and four, just about washed off. Scotty always went for the Dr Pepper when he was in need of a lift. He swore he was privy to the soda pop’s secret ingredient-prune juice. Collapsing in the nearest booth, he concentrated on the church key in his hand and the bottle cap. He raised his eyes to Abbey and simply waved her away. She knew it was useless trying to get anything from Scotty until he was ready to talk.
“Was Robbie in town with you? I need to see if she can watch the store while I go see the Sheriff this afternoon.
Scotty pointed out the window toward the garage. Peeking through the aluminum-lined window, at first all Abbey could see was a big black Buick with the hood raised. On closer inspection she recognized Cadlin’s backside with its grey pinstriped ticking, poking out from beneath the hood. Standing next to Cadlin was a tall dark-skinned man. He stood out in his expensively cut three piece suit and spit-shined loafers. Abbey watched as the colored man pushed his gray porkpie further back on his forehead and grimaced at something Cadlin was reporting.
Cherry Creek was proud of its diversity with its share of America’s melting pot. The town’s heritage could be traced to a mixture of Mexicans, American Indians, Germans, French, Canadians and the English contingency from the pub just east of town. But colored people were not a common sight in the district. Especially one driving a big monster of a car like this one and dressed to the nines.
Abbey’s watched the animation between the short man and Cadlin; The taller one shaking his head with real regret and the dark man shrugging his shoulders and reaching for his wallet.
Abbey finally spotted Robbie with her nose pressed up against the front passenger side of the buick. Her hands were blocking the glare from either side of her eyes as she peered intently into the front seat. Abbey knew she should admonish Robbie later for invading another’s privacy, but her own curiosity had the best of her. She also knew rather than scold Robbie, she’d be quizzing her about what she had found there.
Opening the front door, Abbey called out to Robbie. All three in front of the garage looked in the direction of the diner. Abbey waved Robbie to come over.
As Robbie hurried away from the Buick, Abbey noticed an insignia on the door of the car. A circle with the American bald eagle emblazoned on it. The man and Cadlin appeared to be handing something back and forth, and arguing about something.
10: Ads Pay the Bills, by Cadlin
MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK
EPISODE
10BY: CADLIN
Ads Pay the Bills
Ron Jackson stomped out the front of the Cherry Creek Times building with all the refined petulance of his nineteen and one-half years. He could not believe the idiocy (and that was the only possible word for it), of his boss. Right here in front of him, in the very center of town was the biggest hard news story to have ever hit Cherry Creek.
There was Judd's pickup with the feet of Colonel Faulk's statue sticking up through the roof. And Deputy Beau's squad car smashed into the rear end, lights still flashing and siren slowly moaning up an down.
And if that wasn't enough, out on the street the Fire Department's new pumper and the county ambulance crashed up together in a tangle of metal and hissing steam.
That was enough news to run even a city newspaper for a week. But to top it all off, rumor was all over town that Judd had found a dead body out at the lake.
And what did that idiot editor Trotter tell--in fact order Ron to do? Go take a picture of a new icebox at Fat Sally's diner!
"Scooter," Trotter said in that boring flay voice of his. "Writing stories about things that everyone in town already knows all the details about doesn't sell papers nor pay the bills. You take this Argus rangefinder camera and get on over to Fat Sally's. I want a picture of her new cold box. Make sure she's in the picture. Mrs. Abbey buys lots of advertising and that's what keeps this paper afloat."
Geesh, crimeney! Can you believe it?
And that stupid name--Scooter. What kind of name is that for an aggressive young reporter. Scoop Jackson was what Ron kept asking everyone to call him. That's how his mom and dad greeted him when he came home every night. "Mother, Scoop Jackson, ace reporter's home for his dinner!" That's what his dad said every night.
Ron crossed the walk and climbed onto his Moped scooter. Why did that dim witted, washed-out Trotter keep calling him scooter? What kind of name is that for an ace reporter? Ron started pedaling the Moped, the engine caught. He rattled and pop popped off towards Fat Sally's.
Except that he was going out to interview Mrs. Abbey, Ron would probably have thought of quitting Trotters two-bit newspaper. In Ron's virginal nineteen and one-half year old mind, Mrs. Abbey was as close to a goddess as any mortal woman could be. Ron knew Mrs. Abbey was a phtography buff. He was hopping she'd be impressed with the new Argus Super 75 range-finder camera that Trotter had bought for him.
For some reason, Ron could never get the focus right on the old Speed Graphic camera. Eldridge Trotter had Doctor Burnett examine Ron's eyes. He said the boy's eyes were fine. So whatever was keeping Ron from focusing the large-format Speed Graphic camera was something other than his eyes.
That didn't really surprise Trotter. It was just one more thing about Scooter that'd he'd make allowance for. So he bought him the new range-finder camera. Looking through the view finder, you saw two images. Turning the focus slowly brought the two together. Trotter figured even Scooter could manage that.
Back inside the Cheery Creek Times building, Trotter turned away from the front window, rounded the end of the counter and sat. He glanced at the blue penciled layout sheet for this week's paper. With the room he'd already allotted for the story and picture of the new cold box at Fat Sally's, and his front page editorial excoriating the new rock-a-billy music the kids were playing, he had about six column inches left open. He figured that would be more than enough for the great vehicle crash and dead body stories.
11: Morning in Over Creek, by Tree
MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK
EPISODE 11
BY: TREE
Morning In Over Creek
The whirr of the alarm clock key rotating backwards and the metallic sound of bells woke her. Jayme Cordillera slapped at the wind-up alarm, but only succeeded in catapulting it off the night table, where it continued its rattling complaint. She dropped her pillow on top of it to muffle the sound until it stopped. She sighed and turned on her side collecting the last echoes of her dreams in the mid-morning stillness, filing them away in her brain in case they proved interesting enough to write down later.
After a while, she flopped the clock and pillow unceremoniously onto the bed, took a sleeveless blouse from the closet and pulled a patched, but clean pair of size 14 dungarees down off the back of the chair.
9:10 a. m.-- she had to get going so she could put the last touches on that sideboard for Mrs. Greyhaven, who lived in the very last Cherry Creek residence up the road. As Jayme padded barefoot into the kitchen, birdsong drifted in on the slight summer breeze. Until around ten, things were always on the quiet side in this cast off outskirts of Cherry Creek that people called Over Creek.
The outskirts were where the colored folk lived, along with a few spanish families. Many of her town friends told her that she ought to mind living 'way out here', but the fact was, she didn't. Cherry Creek was nowhere near as bad as many places in America. Times were, that even if you did mind your own business in some remote place, some fool'd still come by with a brick or a noose, or even some torches to burn a body out of an honest living or worse, an honest life. But none of that had ever happened here, far as she knew.
Oh, of course, the usual condescension and strange looks reserved for 'her kind' was prevalent in a few of the town's social circles. She was sometimes referred to as the town's 'colored carpenter', or as the 'town cuckoo', seeing as how she first arrived. Nothing worse was said to her face.
She was well aware that elsewhere she might have been refused treatment when she turned up four years ago and three towns out of place--some strange Negro woman having a catatonic episode on the Poets and Writers Colony steps. But they'd taken her in, been kind enough to notify her family. The doctors had even encouraged her writing during as part of the treatment.
She'd had relatives here, so she found it easy to stay when they'd released her on the condition that she check back at the Colony on a regular basis. She went into town maybe three or four times a week.
There were a couple of places that served her just like everyone else when she wanted a lunch on her way to the PWC. Although she knew the general store clerks would cheat her at times, Jayme only had to go there twice a month for supplies she couldn't find in Over Creek.
And Jayme knew very well that if it hadn't been for Cadlin and Scotty getting a hold of some of the electrical tools she'd needed and putting her in touch with a good and fair distributor to supply lumber, she wouldn't be doing half as well. Heck, she might have had to skip town broke, PWC agreement or no. Far as she could tell, as long as you stayed away from the wrong settlements and establishments, you could get to feeling just like a normal human being.
It was just the same here, in this small, rather isolated colored neighborhood called Over Creek because it sat over the other side of the creek from the town proper. True, seldom did her folks visit Cherry Creek, many preferring the more exciting city-like atmosphere of other towns two or three times the distance away. And seldom did 'genuine' Cherry Creek citizens visit here. But, if you stayed away from the wrong social circles, you'd find yourself as welcome here as her friends had made her feel back in town.
Once in a while, she reflected that she ought to feel ashamed about how good a life she led when other colored folks had it so bad. And yet, things had been the way they were, wherever it was that way, for a longggg time. She didn't see that there was anything anyone outside of God could do about it.
One of her city uncles had suggested that maybe her father had beaten all the fight, wit, spine and half the life out of Jayme a long time ago, and that there wasn't any way that she'd be a help to anybody else ever. But, here she was, on her own, doing well and making enough money to send some back to her mom and siblings besides.
When it came to the rest of the world -- what she knew was that she was was asleep. What good would she be to anyone running around crashing into walls before she'd gotten herself mentally straight and strong enough to lean on? So she didn't reflect on doing anything for now but living and healing until the Lord saw fit to show her what other good she might do.
There was a soft rustle of feathers as she started the coffee. A large crow flew in and perched sideways on the handle of the kitchen cabinet door, one leg balancing, waiting for the half teaspoon of Bustelo he always got whenever she filled the percolator. He cocked a round, amber eye at her and slowly outstretched glossy basalt wings, beak parted in a manner of subtle flatter.
She had named him 'Riven' for this reason, an acknowledgement of the old myth that if you split a raven's tongue it would gain the powers of speech. Jayme could swear the bird did so through his often-odd mannerisms. She put the last half teaspoon into his tipped back beak and began breakfast.
* * *
She and her cousins had put up the barn in the backyard themselves, this is where she awled her trade; she had several projects in progress at the moment. Twenty feet away was her modest garden, with a stand of corn (which had attracted Riven in the first place) and assorted fruits, vegetables, and flowers. Jayme shrugged Riven off her shoulder as she walked, the sign between the crow and her that he could go and raid the garden for breakfast.
It gleefully flew off into the stand of corn as she waved to Mr. Halwell and Mr. Tucker, graying men off on their usual morning constitutional. She knew later that they'd be playing dominos and cards, on Mr. Tucker's porch (as it was his turn to host), jawing and laughing with some of the other outskirt elders. The sound of children chanting songs for double dutch reached her ears as she fished the key for the barn padlock out of her dungarees.
Jayme tipped her head back to the gorgeous blue sky. Her big brown eyes took in lazy clouds wreaths. Four birds skimmed the sky and she felt her innards levitate with that quick flight in a kind of dreamy elation as she forgot the world. Then she opened the door; shoved her white headband further back, moving her shaggy, black, below the shoulder length mane out of her face.
She'd put on some Ella Fitzgerald or Thelonious Monk on her mother's record player, rub some WD-40 into the screws and hinges, give the vine and flower wood burning art work a once over, and polish Widow Greyhaven's handsome new side-board till it shined. She'd hitch the makeshift, but sturdy two-wheeled cart Cadlin and Scotty had helped her build to the back of her modified Indian Scout, carefully cover and secure the sideboard onto it for delivery.
As she'd ride off, Jayme would hear the sounds of sirens in the distance. She'd say three quick prayers: one for the lives of those that needed the help of those sirens, one for the strength and wisdom of those that would provide it. And one that the sirens had nothing to do with her missing best friend from the Poets and Writers Colony.
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