#11                                 “House Guests”

If I had known how yesterday was going to end, I would not have gone out for dinner. Instead, I would have sat patiently in the kitchen with a shotgun across my knees, and saved myself a lot of cleaning.

 My mother and sister are arriving in a few days. It’s mother’s first visit. She missed my husband’s funeral, because Dad was only a week out of bypass surgery.  Mother is aware of my untimely pregnancy, which surfaced two weeks after Herb’s death. She knows I have a job at the sheriff’s office, with medical benefits and free housing. It is a unique home, actually twin houses with at common wall, encircled by a spacious wrap around porch.  I live in the left house. Olivia, the gracious owner in her 70’s, lives in the right.

 My mother assumes a white lie, which I haven’t corrected. She thinks I’m an office clerk, in actuality, I’m the sheriff.

 Bruce Ford, my deputy, covered the office today, while I prepared the guestrooms and spot cleaned the neglected living room carpet. The tension is building. Mother does that to me. I love her, but she is quite protective and outspoken. When she discovers that I’m sheriff, there will be a scene, which I dread. I’d rather wrestle a criminal, than my mother’s tongue.

 Bruce stopped by with some paper work, and helped me push an old metal bed against the wall in the computer room, to make more guest space.

 The phone rang showing a blocked number. A raspy voice, probably talking through a piece of cloth, warned,  “Keep your nose out of my business.”

 Assuming it was a dealer angry about a recent drug bust, I snapped back. “Ah, take an overdose!” and hung up.

 Bruce heard me. “Nice talk.”

How embarrassing! I’ve been working to save the lives of kids on drugs, then I made such a stupid comment. “Bruce, it’s my mother’s fault, she’s making me crazy.”

 “You need to take a break, Jenny. Let’s go to the diner.”

 In minutes after arrival, we had ordered the specials. The homey atmosphere and Bruce’s easygoing manner was relaxing.  Just as our meals were served, my cell phone rang.

 It was Olivia, “Oh, Jenny, were you expecting company? I keep hearing strange noises from your side of the house.”

 “I’ll be right there. Keep your door locked.” I cautioned.

Jumping up, I saw Bruce eyeing his plate sadly.

“Someone’s in my house!”

He grabbed his jacket and followed me, telling the cashier, “Box our meals, I’ll be back. And add some German Chocolate cake.”

 Outside my house, Bruce waited near the sidewalk while I checked the front door. Still locked. There was no obvious movement through the curtain. I motioned for him to go around back to the kitchen door. After a few minutes, I quietly opened the door and stepped inside, keeping low. I positioned myself with the staircase to my left and the archway to the dining room straight ahead.

Above I heard drawers opening and crashing to the floor. Well, the guestroom was no longer ready for Mother!

 From the kitchen, a scuffle and cursing confirmed a “pigeon” had been guarding the back door. Bruce shouted, “I’ve got him!”

 Heavy footsteps descended the stairs, revealing a profile from the local wanted list. Aiming my gun, I cautiously waited noting a knife glistening in his hand. Let him crawl into my web, not run back upstairs for hide and seek. With his back toward me, he approached the arch gingerly.

 “Put the knife down slowly, Mac,” I ordered. “I have a gun.”

 He started to lower the knife and I moved closer. Bruce stepped through the archway, just ten feet from him, shoving a guy with cuffed wrists. Mac lunged at Bruce just as his accomplice kicked back, sending Bruce sprawling. Everyone was too close. The knife missed its mark and entered the kicker. I slammed my pistol hard against Mac’s head, sending him to La La Land.

 The kicker was bleeding like a stuck pig on my beige carpet. The carpet I just had cleaned for my mother’s visit.

 Bruce called for assistance, and I cuffed my “sleepy head” before he stirred. “You have the right to remain silent,” I rattled.

 Our brawny rescue squad would escort them, and Bruce and I would meet them at the jail infirmary.

 We took the squad car. I drove, swinging by the diner for our take-outs on the way out of town. Bruce ate en route. I nibbled a bit while we waited for processing, with thoughts on my rug.

 It was late when we returned. Bruce offered to help. The guestroom could wait. We focused on the rug. Using every cleaning product I had, we scrubbed it down to a faint brown stain. However, the area around the spot was no longer beige.

 “I’ll buy a throw rug to cover it.” I resolved.

 Bruce built a fire in the fireplace. We were exhausted. I curled up on the sofa covered with an afghan. He sat in the overstuffed chair finishing the second piece of cake.

 One minute I was watching a comfy fire, and the next thing I know, my nose is cold, the sun is coming up, and Holy Mackerel! Bruce is still here! Sound asleep in the chair.

 I jumped up, “Get out of here, quick!”

Initially startled, he then began to chuckle.

 “How can you laugh? By noon, everyone in town will know you were here all night. What can we do?”

 “I’m just going out the front door,” he replied, “I’m innocent, until proven guilty.”

 Wait! I said. “Comb your hair.”

 I emptied a large brown envelope of baby product coupons. “Carry this under your arm, don’t whistle, don’t smile.” I instructed. “If anyone questions you, tap the envelope and say you needed my signature.”

 He pulled out his comb, and with a sheepish grin responded, “You know how your Mama makes you crazy?

 I nodded.

 “Well, it’s hereditary.”