Free Downhome Crazy by Cammie Eicher

represent the nearby river, with eye-popping pink catfish dancing around in the background, it is indeed a sight to behold.
    By the time we corner the house, Dwaine has everything under control. Tony, thank goodness, has his bottom half covered again and his ex is clutching BooBoo to her breast and cooing like a dove. I assume Tony is giving his side of the story because his arms are flailing, and he keeps shooting angry glares at BooBoo’s mama.
    “All good here?” Carson calls and Dwaine nods. Rather than wait for a ride home in the cruiser, we begin to walk.
    Carson takes my hand, and we stroll along without speaking. The peace is so welcome after the events of the day. I suspect Carson shares my feelings because every so often he gives my hand a squeeze, which I interpret as “I still love you even though everyone around you is nuts.”
    That peaceful feeling slips away as we walk past Miz Waddy’s empty shop. It’s only been two days, but it seems as if the place is already losing the feeling it’s always had. Seeing the quiet shop makes me think of Miss Priss, who is stuck with me as much as I’m stuck with her. And thinking of Miss Priss makes me think of Eugene, who I still think would be more trouble than the cat.
    “What’s wrong?” Carson asks as I slow.
    “They wouldn’t kill Miz Waddy, would they?”
    “Who?”
    “The people who took her.” Seriously, sometimes that man can be so dense.
    “We don’t know yet that anyone took her.”
    “Oh for Pete’s sake.” I drop Carson’s hand and plant my hands on my hips. “Her family were practically founding fathers of Fortuna, she’s involved in everything and besides, she wouldn’t have left her makeup behind if it was voluntary.”
    “Her makeup?” Carson asks with a baffled guy look on his face.
    “She just got her fall set.”
    He still looks confused, so I have to explain. You’d think at his age he would already know that women in small towns—and cities, too, for all I know—change makeup with the seasons. Here in Fortuna, where there’s no handy cosmetics counter, everyone goes to everyone else’s beauty parties. In the privacy of a living room with a dozen or so other eager women, we have our color checked and try all the new products. Then we order the kits that have the perfect makeup to get us to the next season.
    He pretty much gets it then, except for the color thing. His eyes glaze over when I tell him that I’m a summer, which means I need coral lipsticks and makeup with a pink undertone, but that Miz Waddy is a definite autumn. See, there’s another thing about men. They truly believe women live to listen to a forty-five-minute dissection of some stupid play in some stupid football game because we’re so good at faking it. You’d think they’d figure out to mimic interest for ten minutes or so when a woman talks about a dress hem or makeup undertone.
    “I still don’t understand,” Carson says as we begin to walk away. He immediately interrupts as I try to tell him once again why I’m a spring and Miz Waddy is an autumn.
    “I meant why it matters about the makeup. She can buy more.”
    I stand and stare at him, aghast. “You have no idea how expensive that stuff is or that we have to compliment the refreshments that are served afterwards. This isn’t a simple purchase, Carson. It’s an investment. Like your black suits. Would you run away and leave your suits behind?”
    The man wisely leaves well enough alone. We begin to talk about the bank records we’ve been poring over and where Miz Waddy was getting the money she moved from bank to bank. I must admit I’m woefully behind on town gossip when I can’t answer even the simplest of Carson’s questions. I don’t know if she has a gambling addiction, sends money to causes that e-mail her begging for help, or supports a starving child in Africa. I have no earthly idea whether she is hiding money from the IRS, keeping it as a nest egg in case the store fails,