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Felony Fruitcake

By Linda P. Kozar

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Chapter One

Fruit Good. Cake Good. Fruitcake—Ugh.

In a rush to close up the salon, I hurried out the back door and across the dark parking lot to do one last chore. As if I didn’t have enough to do!
I was “hotter’n a hen on a hot rock,” as my best friend Lovita would say. Slipping in and out of my kitten heels because of the lotion I’d slathered on my feet earlier, I muttered and complained out loud all the way to the dumpster.
“Aack! I can’t believe that woman. Telling me, Sue Jan Madson, the mayor’s wife, I have to haul the garbage out. And in my good Christmas clothes! The last thing I need is garbage juice all over my new dress. I own the place. I shouldn’t have to haul out the trash.”
Suddenly my right foot thudded into something solid. Then my knee buckled and I almost tripped over it. Peering down, past the heavy garbage bag in my hands, I couldn’t make out what was in my way. So I did two things.
Now, you would think that one of those things would have been to drop the bag easy peas-y, but I didn’t. For some reason, putting the bag down never occurred to me. The first thing I did was squint ‘cause I didn’t have my reading glasses handy. And the second thing I did was use the flashlight feature on my cell phone to make out what was in my way.
I probably sucked in at least a gallon of air at the sight. A man’s body was sprawled out on the gravel, facedown. A man’s body? My mind worked in a sort of slow motion from that point. Like them Ninja fighters you see in movies when they’re fixing to karate chop the bad guys only they freeze frame up in the air for what seems like forever.
The black bag slipped from my hand like a giant prune. My mouth came unhinged, and to my surprise a shrill sound, kind of like a steamboat whistle came out of it. I’m not kidding.
By the time the rest of the folks lingering at the Christmas party came to my rescue, I was fixing to hyperventilate. Maybe it had something to do with all that air I sucked in. But I was thankful to see Wachita’s brand new sheriff among the crowd. Somehow the sight of a lawman made me feel better even though a dead body was only a kitten heel away.
Sheriff Rufus Bodeen crouched down next to the body. The man on the gravel was dressed in a red sweater and plaid pants, a combo that tripped a memory switch in my mind. But while I was thinking, the sheriff hefted the body over and a collective gasp from everyone vacuumed all the air away.
The sight of the man’s face made my stomach do a tilt-a-whirl. But I took a deep breath and found my voice. “Bubba Bustalet--dead? No, it can’t be. I just can’t be.”
Charla, Jolene, Rose, Lula Mae and a handful of others gathered for a closer look.
The sheriff looked up at me, two fingers pressed on the man’s neck. “The man ain’t dead. He’s knocked out cold for sure though.”
“Oh, thank God he’s alive.” Jolene clutched her hands together. “Poor Bubba. What happened? Did he slip or something?”
“I got 911 on the phone.” Charla pointed to the phone at her ear, swiping away tears with her free hand.
“Tell them he’s suffered a head injury.” The sheriff looked up. “Anybody got something I can use to apply pressure to his head?”
Old Man Finney pulled what looked like a Modge-Podge’d handkerchief from his pocket. “I got this but it’s slightly used. I don’t think it’s big enough for a tourniquet though.”
Slightly used? What an understatement. That handkerchief was crumpled in place and stiffer than a statue.
Jolene gripped his arm, eyes wide. “No thanks, Mr. Finney. Besides, we ain’t gonna be twisting a tourniquet ‘round his head. We want him to keep his brains working right.” She gestured to the sheriff. “How about my knit scarf? I was just about to put on my coat when I heard Sue Jan bellow.”
Lula Mae brought her hands to her cheeks and began to cry. “Bubba? Not my Bubba.”
“Bellow?” I looked at her. “Jolene, I didn’t bellow. There’s a big difference. A scream don’t sound nothing like a bellow. What bellows anyway? A moose? I ain’t no moose.”
Rose interrupted. “Why are you two arguing when there’s a man lying on the ground in front of you half-dead?”
Jolene grimaced. “You’re right.” She handed the sheriff her scarf and he began to wrap it around Bubba’s head, turban style.
Lula Mae cried. “He looks like an A-rab now. Oh Bubba…”
“Now, now Mother.” Rose shot a glance my way. “I think I’d best get mama home.”
Lula bared her teeth. “I ain’t going nowhere till I know my boyfriend’s okay.”
“Boyfriend? But Mother.”
“You heard me Rose Jean!” Lula folded her arms and kept her eyes focused on the ground where Bubba was.
Lula Mae sure had it bad for Bubba. Since I became a parent I realized when a mother uses the first and middle name or the first, middle and last name, she means business. Rose knew her mother wasn’t going anywhere.
The sheriff squinted at something near the man’s head. “Hmmm.”
I folded my arms. “Hymn’s belong in church. What do you see?”
“Well, I don’t think this man slipped.” He flashed his utility flashlight at a nearby object. “See the trail of blood. Looks like that brick over there was the weapon used against the victim.”
I leaned in for a closer look, aiming my phone flashlight directly on it. Blinking back my surprise, I replied. “Uh, sheriff, that ain’t no brick.”
“Well if it’s not a brick, what is it?” he asked.
“It’s a fruitcake.”

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