Bluegrass Christmas. Allie Pleiter
pie.” Mac recognized the forced cheerfulness she’d used when telling him it was “okay” that a maniac bird attacked her in her living room.
“Hi, Mary.” Mac waved and she waved back, but it was a weak, wobbly gesture. “Hello, Howard,” Mac said more formally.
Howard had become extremely formal with Mac since he’d announced his candidacy. “Good afternoon, MacCarthy.” Howard had begun calling him Mr. MacCarthy or just MacCarthy whenever they met now. He didn’t even turn around, just twisted his head half a turn in Mac’s direction and puffed up as though they were on podiums debating issues instead of just eating in the same diner.
“Apple as usual, Mac?” Gina interjected. Her tone of voice seemed to imply that all conflicts could easily be solved with the right slice of pie. “I’ll even heat it up for you, how’s that?”
“Perfect.” He settled more peaceably onto his stool and inhaled the rich aroma rising out of his wonderfully enormous coffee mug. “I refuse to let a stuffed blue bear steal my holiday.”
“Good plan,” Drew Downing offered. “But I know what you mean. My sister e-mailed me yesterday, and she wasn’t too subtle about asking me what strings I could pull to get my hands on one of those for her daughter. The old ‘Can’t you do this ’cause you’re famous?’ ploy.”
Mac smiled. While Drew still made occasional appearances for his former Missionnovation television show, Mac had taken to ribbing him about his “has been” status. And really, Downing had just walked head-on into another teasing with that remark. “You’re just not famous enough anymore, sport,” he taunted, digging into the pie Gina had just placed in front of him.
Drew caught onto the game and cracked a wide grin. “Hey, I still rate. I still have fans. My Web site got six hits last week.”
“Wow. Maybe I should ask you to endorse my candidacy.” Mac thought he’d said it quietly enough to escape Howard’s hearing, but the man seemed to have radar for that sort of thing, and Mac saw his head incline slightly in his direction again.
Drew caught the exchange. “I’ve stayed a star as long as I have because I know which battles not to get into.”
“You’re a Middleburg resident now, you’ll have to vote soon enough.”
“A gratefully private matter, Mr. MacCarthy.” Drew poured more cream into his own coffee. “God bless democracy.”
Mac leaned in on one elbow. “Why do I get the feeling if Howard wins, you’ll tell him you voted for him, but if I win you’ll say I had your vote?”
Howard wasn’t even pretending not to listen now. He’d turned halfway around to face Mac and Drew, his attention openly on the conversation.
“Eat your pie, gentlemen,” Gina cut in, brandishing the pie-cutter knife she was holding. She tilted the spatula in Howard’s direction. “All of you.”
Drew straightened in his chair. “Don’t anger the pie lady,” he declared as if he and Mac had been caught passing notes in class.
“Good policy,” Mac whispered back loudly, glad to have enough humor to still make a joke. Honestly, his short fuse was way too short lately. He needed to remember to get out more. The combination of year-end workload and campaign tasks on top of his new commission as Bippo Bear procurement agent had gotten to him fast. I’m going to need an easy nature and a mile-long fuse to be mayor, he told himself. That’s a tall order for the likes of me. Are You listening, Lord?
Chapter Four
It couldn’t be. I mean, yes, it was Kentucky, and it wasn’t like they didn’t have snakes in Illinois, but they didn’t take up residence under the kitchen sink. That was the beauty of living five stories up in a city. The wildlife stayed in the wild. Mary stood very still, both hands vise-locked onto the broomstick she now pushed against the cabinet door. Nothing, no one could get her to stop holding that cabinet door shut and keeping that lethal creature inside. Mary heard something shuffle behind the door and swallowed a scream.
Think. You’re a smart girl, think.
No coherent thought came to mind.
If she screamed, surely someone in the building would hear her. Did birds have good hearing? Would Curly be able to hear her even if Dinah or Mac couldn’t? The scene of Curly getting Mac’s attention, “Lassie, what do you mean Timmy’s stuck down the well?”-style, flashed absurdly through her head. Town newcomer saved by vigilant cockatoo. It’d be out over the Internet in seconds, along with a photo of herself being loaded, pale and shaking, into a Woodford County ambulance. Sunflower seed reward for snake-killing bird.
Not helpful, Mary. Think. Think rationally.
I can’t think rationally, there’s a python under my sink.
You don’t even know if it’s venomous. There are perfectly harmless snakes, her rational side argued.
It will eat you in one gulp, her terrified side rebutted, very successfully.
“Mac!” she yelled, trying for some ridiculous reason to sound calm. When no reply came, she tried “Dinah!” After half a minute and another sinister sub-sink shuffle, Mary cried, “Curly!”
Nothing.
Well of course he can’t hear you, it’s winter and the windows are shut. A building as old as this must have thick walls. Lord Jesus! I haven’t even had a year as a Christian, I can’t be ready for Heaven yet! Save me!
The floor. She could use the floor. Forcing in a deep breath, Mary tried to mentally compare the floor plan of her apartment with Mac’s office below. She’d only seen it once, but it was enough to be reasonably sure that his office was directly below where she was standing. If she just thumped, it would only sound like she was moving things. It had to sound deliberate. Somewhere, out of the dark trivia-hoarding recesses of her brain, Mary retrieved the Morse code for SOS. Three short beeps, followed by three long beeps, followed by three short ones again. While the concept of long beeps didn’t directly translate into foot-stomping, Mary guessed she could come close enough. If that didn’t work, she could still reach the toaster and begin throwing it on the ground until Mac was convinced the walls were caving in up here.
Tap-tap-tap. STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. Tap-tap-tap.Mary dug her heel into the floor to produce the loudest possible staccato taps. Lord Jesus, please let Mac know Morse code and not let him think I’m an amateur flamenco dancer. She repeated the sequence again.
Curly noticed first. Mac looked up from his papers, only barely noticing an unusual noise. Mary sure was doing a lot of banging around up there. Rhythmic, too. Exercise?
Tap-tap-tap. BANG-BANG-BANG. Tap-tap-tap. Curly came down off his perch in the window to stand on Mac’s desk lamp. “Your new friend is a bit odd,” Mac remarked, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Even for city folk.”
The succession of noises repeated again, louder. Folk dancing? Some jumpy new Chicago fitness fad? Morse code? Mac reached for his calculator, chuckling.
Until the bangs repeated.
Morse code? He knew Morse code. He knew the signal she was banging out, or knew it once. Mac stared at Curly, trying to pull the information out of the back recesses of his memory until…
Tap-tap-tap. BANG-BANG-BANG. Tap-tap-tap. SOS. That was Morse code for SOS.
No way. That was absurd.
The series of bangs came faster and louder now. Quite clearly three short taps followed by three more big bangs followed by three more short taps. SOS. Or something too close to it to ignore. But really, how many people knew Morse code, much less stomped it on their floors? Still, he’d never forgive himself if something really had been wrong and he’d dismissed it. Dashing up there would make him look like a complete idiot—if she was fine. “You think?” Mac said to Curly, pushing back his desk chair.
Curly was already