Free Gone to Green by Judy Christie Page B

matter
if they’re Hanes or Wal-Mart brand.”
     
—The Green News-Item
     
    A tall African American woman sat behind the counter in the Lakeside Motel office, reading a Bible. She didn’t notice me until I said, “Excuse me,” and then she jumped and shrieked. “Oh, child, you scared me! I didn’t hear you come in. May I help you?”
    The woman was stately. She was dressed nicely in a casual shirt and skirt and wore glasses that she took off as we spoke and let dangle around her neck by a chain. I introduced myself and asked to extend my reservation. “I also wanted to let you know how much I have enjoyed my stay so far,” I said. “I hope you will let the owners know how much I appreciate the room.”
     
    “I expect I can do that,” she said with a smile and held out her hand. “I’m Pearl Taylor. My husband and I own the Lakeside. I think you left a message for my husband, by the way. He's the head of the Lakeside Neighborhood Association.”
     
    I was mortified. I assumed she was hired help. I knew from reporter Alex that her husband was an influential man in town, one I needed to get to know. I stammered and told Mrs. Taylor I was happy to meet her and looked forward to hearing from Mr. Taylor and practically ran backward out of the room.
     
    “Monday week,” she said as I was leaving. “He hopes to meet with you Monday week about five o’clock. Will that work? Maybe you could stay for supper?”
     
    I stopped. “Monday week? This coming Monday?”
     
    “Next Monday,” she said. “The week after this coming week.”
     
    “That's a new one for me.” I tried to stop myself from frowning.
     
    “I believe I have bumfuzzled you,” she said with a laugh. “But I do hope you’ll come anyway. Not this Monday but the next.”
     
    “I’d love to come. Thank you.” I accidentally spun gravel while leaving the parking lot. Bumfuzzled? Monday week? With everything else I had to keep up with, I clearly needed a lesson in talking Southern.
     
    Downtown on a weekend was as deserted as it had been on New Year's Day, with the exception of a couple of pickups and minivans at the antique mall. The News-Item building was eerily empty. I roamed through each department, trying to get a better sense of the place. This reeked of snooping, but I considered it the new owner's prerogative.
     
    In the advertising-marketing area, a huge ivy sat on a filing cabinet with a big sign that said, “Do Not Water This Plant.” I tried to imagine stealth employees coming in and secretly watering the plant. The same person who made “Flush after Using” signs for the women's bathroom probably wrote this sign. Or maybe it was the person who had changed the bathroom signs to read, “Blush after Using.”
     
    The news area was the most interesting, of course. If journalists put the same creativity into the paper as they did into their cubicles, newspapers would be in much better shape. Horror action figures and funky postcards of oversized mailboxes and rocking chairs and a giant pickle on a train covered Alex's desk. The work area next to his was covered with stacks of books and oddities, including what looked to be the entire cast of Star Wars made out of Peeps, those bright colored marshmallows you get at Easter. Baffled, I sat down at the desk to study this bizarre work of art.
     
    “Like my sculptures?” a deep voice asked close to my ear.
     
    I gasped at a high-pitched inhuman sound. When I turned around, a frumpy old guy who needed a shave stood within six inches of me. He was wearing a green eyeshade, the kind newspaper editors wore in the old days. His clothes were wrinkled with bits of dried food on them. His sweatshirt said, “Nothing goes right when your underwear's tight.”
     
    He held out his hand. “Tom McNutt, weekend cops reporter, copy editor, and classified advertising layout person. You must be the new owner.”
     
    I stood up, slowly took his hand, wishing it were just a bit cleaner and