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Pudding makes everything better. Especially thinking. And the three of them needed to think about this latest development. No one in Sinful made bread pudding the way Marge’s mom did, so while her parents were in the living room watching Leave it to Beaver, she, Gertie and Ida Belle sat in the kitchen and fortified themselves with some brain food.
“We need to make this guy talk,” Marge said, after savoring a spoonful of the luscious dessert. “Find out why he’s here and why he has a photo of my aunt from outside of her house and why he’s been following us. I mean, it doesn’t make sense. I say we go over to the Sinful Motel now and beat it out of him.”
Gertie sighed. She looked at Marge and opened her mouth, then closed it and dipped her spoon in her pudding. “What?” Marge asked.
Gertie licked the spoon and sighed again. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but... There’s a possibility that your aunt might have gotten mixed up with something. There I said it.”
Marge folded her arms. “And what’s the right way of taking it?”
“I don’t mean she’s a criminal or anything.”
“Well, good, because I don’t think you’d look good with my bowl of pudding smashed in your face.”
“I’m just saying she’s not like anybody else in Sinful. I mean, most aunts teach their nieces how to dress up their baby dolls and put on makeup. Your aunt taught the three of us the game of Undercover and how to sneak up on somebody and pick a lock. As much as those skills have come in handy at times, you have to admit that was a little strange to teach a child.”
“Okay, fine, but what does that have to do with us beating the crap out of a stranger who’s stalking all of us?”
“Well, she could have gotten herself mixed up with some shady characters over the years. It could be some international intrigue. We don’t really know where she goes on her photo shoots. She never shows us her photos. Maybe they’re not even photo shoots. Or maybe she attracted the attention of the Feds for her moonshine operation and they think we’re involved. Maybe this guy’s a crooked Fed and he’s trying to blackmail us. We need to know more about him before we go over and beat the crap out of him.” Gertie sighed. “Back me up on this one, Ida Belle.”
Their friend had been strangely quiet the past several minutes, staring intently at a needlepoint of Jesus tacked up on the opposite wall. Marge’s great-grandmother had stitched it. Her vision had been poor, but she’d been too proud to wear glasses, even while following the pattern, which is how Jesus ended up with bangs and an earring. It was the thought that counted, Marge’s mother had always said. But Marge didn’t think Ida Belle was focused on Jesus. She’d seen that look many times over the years. Her friend was in her own world, coming up with a plan.
Finally, Ida Belle spoke. “Gertie’s right. He could be anybody. We need to get into his motel room and find out who he really is, so we can present the evidence to your aunt. For that we’re going to need church-lady dresses, some wigs, glasses, pancake makeup and two Bibles.”
Okay, maybe the needlepoint did contribute some to her thinking.
* * * * *
The Swamp Team 3 met early the next morning at Marge’s house. Marge’s mother was working in her Aunt Louanne’s shop and her grandmother, who lived with them, was visiting other family members in Texas. This meant the three girls had the house to themselves, as well as two closets full of church dresses to choose from and a collection of wigs that Granny Boudreaux used to cover her thinning hair.
Marge slipped into one of her grandmother’s dresses. Her granny called it her time’s a wastin’ dress because the pattern was a bunch of clocks against a pistachio-colored background. She always wore it to church to remind Pastor Ray that women had Sunday supper to get started on, so skip the boring parts.
A giggle came from the doorway of her grandmother’s room. Marge knew that giggle anywhere. It always made her feel good to hear it. Their friend Marie leaned against the door frame. “Hope you don’t mind I just let myself in.”
She was a slim gal with legs to rival Betty Grable’s. They’d asked her to come over and lend a hand, since they discovered Marge’s mother and grandmother were low on pancake makeup. Marie was a couple of years older than they were and worked at the Sinful Funeral Home, making the newly deceased look more alive than when they were alive. They knew if anyone had an overabundance of pancake makeup, it would be Marie.
“I hope you’re not going out looking for a man dressed in that,” Marie said, looking at Marge.
“No, not looking for a man,” Marge said, blushing.
“Good. Because I don’t think you’ll get one with that on.”
“You’re overestimating the standards of Sinful men,” Ida Belle said.
“I wouldn’t know.” Marie sighed. “I haven’t been out and about lately.”
Not that Marie couldn’t get a date. Marge thought she was the prettiest girl in Sinful. She was just too busy working a variety of odd jobs around town so she could provide care for her little brother, Charlie. People around town said Charlie was born “slow.” Helping her mother care for Charlie had consumed much of Marie’s free time in high school. It turned out there was a group home in Mudbug that was geared to helping people like Charlie. But it was expensive. So now Marie’s time was consumed with saving enough money to send Charlie there.
Marge looked in the full-length mirror and frowned. “I look like Aunt Bee on Andy Griffith.”
“No, you don’t,” Gertie said, buttoning the last button on a pale-yellow, shirt-waist dress belonging to Marge’s mother. “You don’t have that droopy neck all those older gals get. Your granny has that neck. Sometimes during church, I find myself mesmerized watching it jiggle all over the place while she’s singing.”
Marge could feel Ida Belle staring at her backside. “I think you need some stuffing to expand your bottom. Give you that middle-aged spread thing,” Ida Belle said.
Gertie shook her head. “I hope they discover a pill to cure all this old-age jiggle and spread before we stop being young. I don’t care if the side effect is an extra arm growing out of my butt. That I can hide.”
Marie looked at Ida Belle, who wore denim shorts and a white sleeveless top. “You’re not getting dressed up?”
Ida Belle shook her head. “What I’m going to be doing is best done in shorts.”
Marie nodded. “What are you up to?”
“You don’t want to know,” Ida Belle said.
Marie shrugged, accepting her answer.
“Do you have the makeup?” asked Ida Belle.
Marie nodded and came into the room, handing a small suitcase to Ida Belle. “It’s official mortuary issue. I hope you don’t mind.”
Ida Belle shook her head as she set the suitcase on the bed and opened it. “I did the makeup for the drama club my senior year of high school. We’d always go to the funeral home and steal some when we were running low.”
“There are a lot of brushes and sponges in there. I can help if you like.”
“Do me,” Marge said. “I’m going for a church lady in her fifties.”
Marie shrugged. “Well, I usually try to make people look younger, but I’ll try.” She sighed. “You know, I’m really going to miss y’all when you go in the Army. We always have a good time when we get together.”
“You could join with us,” Marge said. “They pay you. Then you could help with Charlie’s care.”
“Don’t think I didn’t think about it. But momma needs help with him. Nope. I’ll be in Sinful forever.” She brushed some powder foundation on Marge’s face. “I’m a little jealous, though. You three’ll probably find some Army men and fall in love and settle down when your time is up and forget all about me.”
“No, I won’t,” Marge said.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about those Army men,” Marie said, adding some blush.
“Add a mole to my chin while you’re at it,” Marge said, hoping to get Marie off the topic of Army men. She knew what, and who, dominated her thoughts lately. But she thought it wise to keep that to herself. Some things were just better left unsaid.
* * * * *
The only car parked in the Sinful Motel parking lot, besides motel owner Stinky Lemieux’s beat-up Chevy, was a new, red Pontiac Grand Prix with Georgia plates parked on the far side of the motel, hidden from the street.
“Has to be him,” Ida Belle said from her spot in the back seat of Marge’s grandmother’s old Packard. “I called up Walter last night and asked if any other out-of-towners have stopped in at the General Store and he said ‘no,’ just this guy.”
Marge and Gertie exchanged a glance. “You spoke with Walter, huh? And did he whisper sweet nothings in your ear?” asked Gertie.
“No. We talked about the weather.”
“Then why did you just blush?” Marge asked, looking back at her.
Dumb face! Ida Belle thought. “I didn’t blush.”
“Did so,” Gertie said. “So was the weather hot and steamy?”
“Can we just keep our minds on the task at hand?”
“Are you going to kiss Walter before we leave for Alabama?”
“Why would I kiss him?”
Gertie shrugged. “You’re not even curious how he kisses?”
Yes, her heart said. “Not really,” her mouth said.
Marge snickered. “She’s blushing again.”
Ida Belle pursed her lips. “If you two are so curious about how Walter kisses, then you kiss him.”
“Well, I might be tempted,” Gertie said, “except Walter likes you. He’s just too shy to let you know. But before you go off to Alabama, I just think you should sample the best Sinful has to offer. So you can compare.”
Ida Belle cleared her throat. “At the moment, I have more important things to consider. Like what room our mystery man is staying in. And why he parked on the other side of the motel and not in front of his room. He obviously doesn’t want his car to be seen by anyone driving by.”
She turned her attention back to the row of motel rooms. “So how do we know which room he’s in?”
“Aunt Louanne would say, look at all the rooms and spot the one thing that’s different.”
They gazed at the rooms in silence.
“The curtains,” Marge said. “Look how the blackout curtains in room number three look like they’re pushed in toward the window, but in all the other rooms the curtains are hanging straight down. I’m thinking our mystery man couldn’t get the curtains to close tight and the full moon last night bothered him. So he shoved a chair up against the curtains to hold them shut.”
Ida Belle leaned in toward the front seat. “You’re right. He’s in room three. Okay, church ladies. You’re up.” She opened the back-seat door. “Remember, keep him occupied so I have time to break in through the bathroom window and look around. Before I leave his room, I’ll signal you by opening his curtains just a little. Just keep his back to the rooms.”
Ida Belle dashed to the end of the row of motel rooms and disappeared around the corner to the back, where she would have access to the mystery man’s bathroom window.
––––––––
Gertie and Marge stepped out of the Packard and smoothed their dresses. They’d agreed ahead of time that just knocking on Mystery Man’s door and preaching the Gospel wasn’t enough to get him out of the room and give Ida Belle time to search for clues to his true identity. For that they’d need to add a heaping of helpless female to the mix, something most men were powerless against.
Marge moved to the front of the car and lifted the hood, resting it on a metal rod inside. She’d been raised by a daddy who was a mechanic. She’d shown what some in Sinful had whispered was an unnatural interest in the internal workings of cars. Her daddy must not have thought it was so unnatural, because when her momma wasn’t looking he’d teach her all the things he knew about keeping cars in good running condition.
To Marge, these cars she worked on were her babies, which was good because Gertie had a sneaking suspicion that those would be the only babies she was ever going to have. Marge knew how to make a car purr like a kitten just by fiddling with and tightening a few things under the hood. That also meant that she knew how to loosen a few things to make a purring kitten sound like an ancient cat taking its last breath.
Placing a handkerchief over her hand, Marge reached inside and fiddled with whatever mechanics fiddle with before withdrawing her hand and lowering the hood. She tossed the greasy rag on the floor in the backseat.
“Why, Miss Priscilla,” Marge said, using the name they’d agreed upon, “I do believe our automobile is having the fits. Why, whatever can we do?”
“Well, Miss Clover,” Gertie answered, “I think we’ll have to find a man to help us.” She handed Marge one of the Bibles. “And maybe we can further occupy his time with a message from the Lord.”
They walked up to room number three. Gertie adjusted the cloche hat she wore and then knocked on the door.
“Yes, just a minute,” a man’s voice called from inside.
They heard some movement in the room. Soon, Mystery Man opened the door, wearing slacks and an undershirt.
“Why for heaven’s sake,” Gertie said, shielding her face with her Bible. “We didn’t mean to catch you half dressed.”
Marge reached over and patted Gertie’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Miss Priscilla. You just take a moment to calm yourself down.”
“Where are my manners? I’m sorry,” the man said. He disappeared from the door and reappeared with a blue buttoned-down shirt over his undershirt. “I thought you were the motel manager.” Was it Gertie’s imagination, or did his hair look a bit askew? Was it a wig? The mystery man’s brows pulled together as he scrutinized Marge’s face. She yanked a tissue from her dress pocket and proceeded to blow her nose. Miss Louanne had always taught them that if you think your mark is about to see through your disguise, give them a reason to look away.
Marge’s honking into her tissue did the trick. He looked over at Gertie, who hoped her wig, fake glasses and mole (or wart, she wasn’t sure what Ida Belle had built on her face) was enough of a disguise.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Why yes you may,” she said. “My friend, Miss Clover and I were on our way to a ‘Scripture and Sausage’ breakfast at the Sinful Baptist Church when our car started making an awful noise.”
“It scared the living daylights out of us, yes it did,” Marge said, shoving the tissue in her dress pocket. “Well, seeing as how we are just females and know absolutely nothing about cars, we decided to pull into the motel and seek the assistance of the manager.”
Gertie sighed. “True to his name, however, Stinky Lemieux was reeking of moonshine. But we noticed the key to room number three was missing from its peg and took a chance that a man was staying in the room.”
“Would you please be a dear and help two defenseless women out, please?” Marge asked.
He smiled. “Of course. I happen to know a thing or two about cars.”
“Well, of course you do,” Gertie said.
He closed the motel door behind him and walked with them to the old Packard. “Why don’t you go start the car so I can see how it sounds?”
Marge hopped in the front seat and started the car. The combination of her having loosened some things under the hood and not turning the key properly produced a dreadful screeching noise. He held up his hand and Marge turned the engine off.
“I’m going to have to look under the hood,” he said.
Marge exited the car and came up beside them. “The what? Now what in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“Under the hood,” he said. “Where the engine is.”
He reached his hand just below the hood and pulled at the latch, popping the hood up slightly. He then secured it upright with the metal rod.
Marge and Gertie both gasped.
“Miss Priscilla, would you look at that,” Marge said.
“Well, for heaven’s sake,” Gertie said, fanning herself with the Bible. “There’s an entire factory in there.”
He leaned in. “It’s called an engine, and I think I see one problem right here.”
“What might that be?” Marge asked.
“Well, it’s a bit technical,” he said.
Gertie held up her hand. “Oh, then stop right there. We are women, remember. You’re going to have to talk real slow.”
“Something. Was. Loose,” he said, talking slowly. “And I think I see something else.” He reached in again and tinkered a bit. Marge glanced at Gertie, who peeked over at the row of motel rooms. Ida Belle hadn’t given her the signal it was safe to let the stranger back inside. She shook her head at Marge as the man pulled his head out from under the hood.
“Go start it now.”
Marge got back in the car and turned the key, grinding the engine. She stopped the car and got out. “I’m afraid it’s still not sounding good.”
“Well, maybe it’s because you’re not starting it properly. Let me try.” He got in the car and started it. “Hear that?” he called over the engine. “Sounds purrrrfect,” he said, trying to be cute. He stopped the car and then stepped out. “Just don’t keep turning your key. Problem solved.”
Not for them, Gertie thought. Ida Belle was still in his room. They had to continue to stall him. Marge looked back inside at the engine. “Are you sure? Because that doesn’t look good.”
He frowned and stuck his head once again under the hood. Marge yanked at the rod holding the hood upright, causing it to crash down on Mystery Man’s upper body.
“Hey!” he yelled. He tried to push the hood up, but Marge and Gertie held it down on top of him.
“Do you need our help?” Gertie asked.
“Lift the hood up!”
“We don’t have much strength, but we’ll try,” Marge said, giving the hood one strong shove downward.
They heard a clunk and Mystery Man cursed. Marge pulled up on the hood and he straightened. His face was streaked with grease. A small gash dented his forehead as blood began to bubble up from the cut.
“I certainly hope you don’t use those words in front of your mother,” Gertie said with great indignation.
He wiped at his forehead.
“Why, Miss Priscilla,” Marge said, “I do believe he’s hurt.”
The two slapped their Bibles against him and began to pray for his speedy recovery.
“This is unnecessary,” he said, backing away from them. “A bandage will do the trick. Your car is fixed, so I’ll just be on my way.”
He turned to go back to his room, but Marge grabbed onto him and spun him back toward her, so that his back was to the motel. “Unnecessary? Miss Priscilla, I think we have a nonbeliever on our hands.”
Gertie opened her Bible and started reading the first thing she saw. Proverbs 5:18-19. “Let thy fountain be blessed and rejoice with the wife of thy youth. Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts satisfy thee at all times...” She stopped, realizing what she’d just read, feeling her face reddening. “Okay, maybe not that one.”
Marge cleared her throat and subtly tipped her head toward the motel. The curtains had been parted. Ida Belle had given her signal.
Mystery Man placed his hand on Gertie’s shoulder. “Look, Miss Priscilla—”
Gertie screamed. “Are you trying to flirt with me, sir?”
“Flirt with you? No, I—”
Marge slapped him in the face. “A Bible verse mentioning lady parts got you all excited, is that it?”
“All excited? No, I—”
Gertie worked up her best voice of indignation. “You’d better leave now before I go and borrow Stinky’s phone and call Sheriff Lee. We don’t take kindly to a man flirting with a woman holding the Bible.”
“Especially on a Thursday.” Marge folded her arms. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Mystery Man threw his hands in the air. “I’m going. I’m going.” He turned and scurried back to his room, his beer belly bouncing up and down.
Marge burst out laughing. “You should have seen your face when you said the word, ‘breasts’ in front of that man. I had to bend my finger backward till it almost broke so I wouldn’t laugh.”
“The Bible’s tricky like that,” said Gertie. “You’ll be reading out loud to your grandparents about cute little lambs and birds in the sky and then suddenly you’re in Sodom and Gomorrah and everyone’s having relations with anything that’ll move.”
Marge and Gertie hopped in the car and drove to the north side of the motel where Ida Belle was waiting. The look on her face said she’d struck oil.
Ida Belle slid into the backseat. “I saw his driver’s license. His Virginia license,” she emphasized. “Not Georgia. His real name is Cole Parker. And he doesn’t look like the guy we saw. For one thing, he doesn’t have a beard. And he doesn’t wear glasses. And I’m thinking that’s a wig on his head.” She took a deep breath before she delivered the next bit of news to Marge. “And he has a hand-drawn map to your Aunt Louanne’s house.”