Chapter 6 – The Alarm
Shepard Krausse worked nights. He exploited his hot-molasses baritone as host of a late-night radio program called Sheep Counters. His shtick was that his purpose in life was to serve the insomniacs whose conspiracy theories were keeping them awake. When the old trick of counting sheep didn’t work, the sufferer could call in and commiserate with a shepherd—in this case, Shepard.
Yeah. Ha. Ha.
It was corny, but in rural north-central Florida the show was a staple and had a loyal following. Get it? Following? Sheep?
Well, it was what it was, and for Shep and Dave it was a living. Dave could come to work with his best friend, and Shep didn’t have to cut his hair to work at a “real job” in the big city.
Of course, the silliest puns and the most regrettable jokes on the program were always attributed to Dave. Dave also served as purported researcher and all-around consultant on “the issues,” which were whatever Shepard said they were.
This particular day was different in only one way: today Shep and Dave had talked to a castor bean tree, and they would never be the same. (Dave was totally smitten.) Who could have known that the dawn’s routine after-work run would be a life changer?
Most days the pair worked their on-air shift from 11 p.m. to 3 a.m., commuted from Live Oak back home to Minokee, ran a few miles, then showered and collapsed into the deep sleep of the pure in heart. Today, Shepard had lain awake all day, hands behind his head, face toward the ceiling, debating with himself.
Despite his joking with Miranda about the foibles of Fearless Phyllis, Shep and his late neighbor, the elder Miss Ogilvy, had been on very friendly terms. She had worked days, and he had worked nights. Still, their ships had passed in the twilight from time to time, and even with, say, thirty years’ difference in their ages (that’s giving old Phyllis the benefit of significant doubt), they enjoyed one another’s company.
Even when, as a child, Shepard had visited his grandparents’ house—in which he now lived—he had never missed a chance to cross the two back yards to Phyllis’ kitchen door. Phyllis had always greeted him warmly but very seriously. She was the first person in his life who had treated him like a responsible, self-sufficient human being with a good head on his shoulders. He was eight at the time.
Did he still have a good head on his shoulders? He wondered, blue eyes wide open as they had been for hours. Phyllis may have mentioned relatives in Miami. Shepard couldn’t remember. He certainly didn’t recall any prior knowledge that would have prepared him for Miranda Ogilvy, the transplanted, inheriting niece.
Assuming he was correct, that he had known nothing about Miranda until today, how could he be...? Well, he couldn’t, that’s all. But then, why did he feel so positive that he, that she, that they...? Well, he couldn’t be positive, could he? And wasn’t he a grown man with a normal, productive, contented life? He couldn’t suddenly be incomplete because he had crossed paths with a stranger today.
Sure, he could.
No, he couldn’t.
And what about Miranda? What would make him think that he impressed her as anything other than a consummate dolt? Nothing, that’s what.
And so it went, round and round, hour after hour, and would have continued except that Dave, lying on the cool tile floor beside the bed as usual, suddenly raised his head and ears and whuffed. A second later, Shep heard someone enter through the back door.
“Sleep!” he whispered to Dave.
Dave dropped his chin onto his outstretched front paws and closed his eyes. Shepard rolled onto his side and curled into the fetal position under the covers. It was a stellar performance and did no good at all.
The bedroom door crashed back against the wall, shattering the quiet, and that was only the beginning.
“Get up, Goldilocks!” a man thundered from the doorway.
Shepard’s only reaction was to yawn theatrically and turn over onto his back, eyes closed. Immediately Dave yawned theatrically and rolled over, lifting all four feet into the air, eyes closed.
“Everybody’s a comedian,” the man said without humor and with a pronounced Italian accent. “Quit playing and get outta da bed right now. I made lasagna, and by my grandfather’s beard, you gonna eat it before we go. And we gonna leave on time. You late one more time, you gonna have to go out and find serious work!”
Eyes closed, Dave whined.
Shep translated, one eye open. “The lasagna, it’s not vegetar—?”
“Not vegetarian,” the man interrupted. “No, itsa not vegetarian, I learna my lesson.” The man turned to leave the room, muttering over his shoulder, “I’ma waste my considerable, considerable talents on you ungrateful barbarians.”
Shep sat up in bed and shouted down the hall, where the man had gone. “Hey, did you lay out my clothes?”
Dave rolled right side up, stood, and shook himself awake.
From the kitchen the man’s voice rasped loudly, “Hangin’ in the bathroom, Pretty Boy! Get a move on!”
“Thank you, Pietro,” Shepard called in a syrupy sing-song.
“Whuff aruh,” barked Dave.
….
Less than thirty minutes had passed when Dave preceded Shepard into the kitchen. Shep took a seat at the dark, heavy wooden table that had been his grandmother’s pride. He could have seen himself in the polished surface, but he didn’t. Pietro set a plate of steaming lasagna between the utensils laid at Shep’s place.
“Thank you,” said Shep.
Dave sat, eyes bright, ears upright, and tail wagging, in the corner nearest the kitchen sink. A vinyl placemat and stainless steel dish of cool water occupied the corner tiles. Pietro set a stainless steel bowl of kibble topped with lasagna on the mat beside the water dish.
“Whuff aruh,” barked Dave, but he didn’t move from where he sat.
“Let’sa pray,” said Pietro. Dave lowered his chin, Shep bowed his head, and Pietro intoned toward the ceiling, “For what we are about to receive, gracious Lord, make our selfish hearts truly grateful. May this food and your Holy Spirit fuel us to live for your glory. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Shep, then picked up his fork and began eating.
“Whuff,” said Dave, then dove snoot-first into the food bowl.
Pietro brought a plate for himself and took a seat across the table from Shepard. Forks scraped, and mmm’s of appreciation bespoke deliciousness, complimenting the cook. Moments later Shep swallowed a bite and cleared his throat.
“What?” said Pietro.
“Had a visitor waiting when I got back from my run this morning.”
“And...?”
“In the house, sitting on the couch.”
“You leave-a da house unlocked?”
“Wouldn’t have mattered to this guy. Is there bread, please?”
Pietro’s chair scraped. “Jiminy Christmas, I forgetta da oven!”
“Explains the charcoal smell.”
Pietro yanked on an oven mitt and jerked a smoking pan of garlic bread from the oven. He slammed the oven door and dropped the pan in the sink. Removing his oven mitt, he resumed his seat at the table. “No, we don’t-a got bread, Smarty Trousers. Now you quit da stallin’ and tell me what da guy want in you house on you couch before da sun even come up good.”
“Is there more sweet tea, please?”
“Talk, or you be wearin’ all the sweet tea we got!” Nevertheless, Pietro retrieved a pitcher from the fridge and refilled his and Shep’s glasses.
“Seems somebody’s not a fan of the Shep and Dave show. I mean, they like Dave just fine, but they think I’m sharing too many personal opinions about things I know nothing about. The guy wasn’t too specific, but I got the feeling he meant opinions about things that could hurt a certain governor’s chances of becoming vice president of the United States.”
Pietro slapped the tabletop. “I told you! I told you, you mother told you, you uncle told you, and now you gotta bad, bad people telling you. Stay outta politics! You
got a show dat’s number one with all the insomniacs and hillbillies and conspiracy loonies. You got friends and relatives who love you. You got a good life—even got a house in Minokee, and almost nobody got dat. You riska too much, talkin’ about the governor. And you gotta no proof. You gonna get sued and lose all you money. Or worse, some bad guy gonna be waitin’ for you some mornin’ and you gonna lose you life! You gotta stop it now. Dis da last turkey in the straw, you gotta stop!”
“Yeah, I thought that’s what you’d say,” said Shep, munching the last bites of his lasagna. “The turkey part was a surprise, though. That’s new.”
Pietro put his elbows on the table and dropped his forehead into his hands. “You not gonna stop.”
“Nope.”
“You know, the ravings of one demented old lady ain’t important enough to risk you life!”
“Phyllis was the least demented person I ever met, and she never raved. Ranted plenty, ranted like a street preacher sometimes, but she never raved. Phyllis was no lunatic. I know that as well as I know my own name.”
“I tell you what I know,” said Pietro. “I know Phyllis Ogilvy is dead. You thinka dat?”
“I think of that a lot. I wonder if Fearless Phyllis had a visitor in her house, on her couch, who wanted her to stop. Stop calling the talk shows. Stop writing letters to the editor. I wonder if someone stopped Phyllis.”
“Iffa you think dat, you calla da police. You don’ta get involved and get stopped you own self.”
Shepard rose, picked up his empty plate and dirty flatware, and carried them to the sink. “Long drive ahead of us. Don’t wanna be late. Would you let Dave out in the back yard while I brush my teeth, please? Then we’ll hit the road.” Shep left the kitchen and headed to his bedroom and en suite bathroom.
Dave stood at the back door and looked over his shoulder at Pietro, who was placing the last dirty dishes in the sink.
“I’ma come, I’ma come, Dave. Gimme one minute.” Then he shook his head and murmured, “He ain’t gonna stop, you know. He talk to so many crazies, he gone crazy his own self.”
“Whupff,” said Dave.