Mary-Jemma Huckaby

For the record, everything that happened is entirely his fault for
choosing to move in next door to me. I was here first.

The painful sound of my alarm clock woke me at 6:30 that Thursday
morning, in order to have time for a run and breakfast before work. I
put myself into a pair of black spandex shorts and a white men's
undershirt and headed out the door. I ran down Main Street and by the
docks, listening to assorted whistles as I passed the little mom and
pop restaurant where the various workmen congregated every morning to
feast on the things their wives wouldn't let them eat. I looped through
the old navy housing, and made it to my little two-story in near-record
time.

A shower was my next priority, followed by my breakfast. I had a bowl
of spaghetti noodles with salt, pepper and olive oil along with a big
glass of peach juice. Coffee stains my teeth. Surry, my chocolate lab,
eagerly awaited my leftovers after finishing her own bowl of kibbles. I
scratched her head and I left for work an amazing three minutes
early.

I'm a cop. A detective. One of two in the force, the town is so small.
The other detective is my partner and good friend, Sam Wilson, who is
fifteen years my senior, putting him at 47, although anybody who asked
him would be told 42. Due to the lack of crimes requiring
investigation, we seem to spend most of our time at the station playing
Texas Hold 'em. Generally, I win.

Unfortunately for the town, and for my purse, there has been a rash of
burglaries over the past few weeks, and the perp is very elusive. At
first, our guess had been teenagers or kids, but the crimes are too
well organized and executed, and there has been no report by any of the
parents of the children and teens in town of strange behavior. Now, Sam
thinks it's the Boogie Man, and I'm nearly inclined to agree.

"Good morning Miss Mary-Jemma Huckaby. How are you on this fine day?"
Sam greeted me as I walked in, Donut Hole coffee and donuts in
hand.

"Peachy keen, jelly bean. Anything new?" I handed off breakfast and sat
down in my chair across from him. A handsome man, of course, well
groomed, well dressed and with terrific manners. Never been arrested,
never even gotten a ticket. He knows how to cook and his house is
always clean, the garden well-weeded and cared for. He is also single.
He does have a maid and a gardener who come to help him care for his
home, possibly on of the reasons his place always looks so great. He is
what many people would call "The Token Gay Guy". Perfectly fits all the
clich?s. Except he's straight, just a commitment-phobic. Oh well. He's
a great detective.

"Not a whole lot. Nothing reported over night. Nobody called in
reporting suspicious behavior, and no thugs in black turning themselves
in begging for my mercy."

"Well damn, and I had a good feeling about today."

"Day's just starting. We have a couple of interviews to do today, plus
some digging back into old newspapers to see if this ever happened
before."

"Oh joy. You know, I almost wish somebody would get murdered or
something else would happen. I'm getting real sick of this damn case."
The phone rang and the receptionist picked up. Her name is
Charlene.

"Hello, Alora, Maine Police Department. How may I help you?"

"Well, doll, I hope you didn't almost wish too hard"

"If I had, they'd call 9-1-1, not here" And to prove my point, I stuck
out my tongue at him, then turned my attention back to Charlene.

"Well, you have a nice day" She said, hanging up the phone. Looking
back towards us, "Wrong number."

"Well damn."

"You want the interviews or the newspapers?" Sam asked.

"Gee, I don't know. The interviews, of course. Have to make sure my
people skills are still intact"

"What people skills?" Charlene piped from the desk, looking back at me
over her glasses.

"Oh poo. Give me the list, Sam. I'll call if I come up with anything
worth anything. Be careful"

"You too"

The first name on the list was Neila Bunker. She lived on Mark Lane, a
short little dirt road that really was her driveway that she had named
after her late husband. Rumor has it that she had something to do with
his death, but nobody in town cared, as he was one of the biggest
assholes the town had ever seen. Anyway, her home was a double wide
trailer, very nice compared to her neighbor's trailers, and it was
painted blue. I parked my car next to her old Buick and walked up her
rickety wooden steps. Children's toys, long neglected and cracked by
the sun and salt air were strewn about the lawn amongst the broken lawn
chairs and various lawn ornaments. A dog, an old beagle, was laying
underneath a toy ride-on purple VW Bug and barked halfheartedly at me
as I knocked on her door.

"Yes, dear?" She said in her weak voice when she appeared behind the
screen.

"My name is Mary-Jemma, and I'm from the police department. Can I ask
you a couple of questions?"

"Well, I'm sure you CAN, but I don't know if I'm going to let you or
not yet."

"Uh, why wouldn't I be able to ask you questions?"

"You just did, dear, and you did before too. You have one more
question, and then I'm going to have to ask you to leave. And, while
I've got you here, have you seen Jackie-Sue?"

"I don't believe I know who Jackie-Sue is. Perhaps if you told me about
her, I could help you."

"Well, you see dear, I don't know too much about her, really. Just that
she isn't here."

"Jackie-Sue. I don't think that I've ever heard that name before. It is
rather odd."

"Yes dear, I suppose that it is. Would you like to come in and have a
glass of fresh lemonade?" She asked me, sweet as sugar. I accepted, and
she led me into her abode.

The sofa was a brown plaid fabric with various hand sewn pillows and a
crocheted throw over the back. It stood against the far wall of the
living room, perpendicular to the wall separating that room from the
kitchen. A big, fluffy cat played with a felt mouse on the floor,
living life to the fullest. I sat down at her table as she instructed
me, and she set a pink glass in front of me a moment later. The
lemonade was very good, just as good as you buy at the expensive stands
at the Bangor State Fair.

"This is very delicious."

"Why thank you, dear. It was my mother's recipe that she got from, oh,
I don't know. Some foreigner, probably. How did you get into police
work? It doesn't seem like a fitting job for a nice girl like
you"

"Well, my parents always wanted me to be a cop. They thought that it
would be good for me, because I was so rebellious as a teenager. You
probably remember reading about me in the paper or the folks down to
the soda fountain talking about me."

"I thought your name sounded a little familiar. Please, go on"

"And then, when I was old enough, I joined up. I've been at it for ten
years last month"

"Well isn't that nice, dear. But what does your husband think of your
job?"

"I'm not married, and, actually, I'm a little surprised that you didn't
know that."

"Guess my mind must be going?it happens, you know, when you get to be
my age. Sometimes I can't even remember what I had for breakfast, but
then I can always remember what I had for dinner on the first night of
my honeymoon."

"That's very interesting. It's a shame your husband passed away. He was
a valuable?"

"Oh, no dear, he wasn't, and I know you know that. He was the lowest,
filthiest, worst man ever lived. I did have a very nice honeymoon,
though. You should get married. It would do you good. What's your name
again?"

"My name is Mary-Jemma, Neila. May I call you Neila?"

"Well, I don't see why not. But you've just used your last question, so
I'm going to have to ask you to leave now, dear. I think that I may be
about to have company to expect. Have a nice day" She turned and walked
away, closing the door behind her after she showed me out. Neila was
sharp as a tack, for 83, though, sometimes I think there is a reason
for aging people to lose their minds. When they get that old, they've
learned too much and are too smart for the rest of the world. I kicked
myself for being so stupid as I walked back down the steps to my
car.

"Howdy Sam. How's the research?" I said from the pay phone next to the
5&;amp;10.

"Oh, you know. Very fun. Nothing like this ever before. Three in one
week fifty years ago, but that's unlikely to be connected. What about
you?"

"Ugh. Well, visited Neila Bunker first thing after I left, about ten
minutes ago. Boy, is she sharp as a tack. She gave me three questions,
and by that time I'd already used up two. Then the third slipped out,
and she kicked me out. She played me like a fiddle"

"I wish I could have been there."

"Oh, you WILL be there. You're going next time."

"I can do that. I'll see you later. Buh-Bye."

"Bye" I hung up and sat down on the bench next to the phone.

"Wait, excuse me mister, what the hell are you doing?" A woman yelled
behind me. I lept up and turned to look in the gas station parking lot.
A young woman was standing behind an old Buick, and a man was taking
pictures of it.

"Just a sec, I'm almost done, so lay off the yelling. I'm trying to lay
low."

"You can't tell me what to do, and you certainly CANNOT take pictures
of my car without proper restitution!"

"Give it a rest, I'm done. Thanks." And he walked away from her,
leaving her standing there, looking confused. I jogged across the
street towards him.

"Sir, would you like to tell me what you were doing just now?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm a cop. What were you doing?"

"I was taking pictures of her car. I wasn't doing anything wrong, she
was just complaining too loud. Nice meeting you." He turned away from
me and began to walk away.

"Stop. I still need to talk to you. Why were you taking pictures of her
car?"

"I'm a private investigator, just doing my job. Isn't that what you
should be doing? Catching criminals? Like the serial burglar?"

"We don't know that it is a serial burglar, as they could all be
completely unrelated incidents. Now, I would appreciate it if in the
future you first asked to photograph cars, and please go apologize to
that woman."

"Yes ma'am" he replied sarcastically. He looked over his shoulder as he
heard the squeal of tires behind us. "Well, darn, I guess she left.
Guess I can't go apologize now. See you later."

"Don't go yet. I don't think I'm quite done with you."

"Why, miss police officer, I'm shocked! I thought doing those things in
public were illegal!"

"Let's go sit." I pointed to the bench I had just left, across the
street. Once we got there, I asked "Who are you?"

"I'm a private investigator"

"What's your name?"

"Brown."

"That's it?"

"That's all you need to know. And I am perfectly justified in taking
those pictures, so I don't need to explain that. And I am a legal US
citizen, I'm not carrying, and I'm not drunk. What else could you need?
Unless you're just?"

"Probably I could find something to arrest you for. Or at least ticket
you."

"Great, but while you're doing your job, I have to get back to mine. Ta
ta!" and he was gone. What a bastard.

When I got home that night, a U-Haul was blocking my driveway, and a
man with dark hair was carrying a box into the house next door. I
pulled in behind the truck and casually strolled up to him.

"Excuse me, sir, but your truck is blocking my driveway."

"That's not my truck" He replied without even turning. His voice
sounded a bit familiar, but I couldn't place it. Probably I had just
overheard him talking someplace.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've heard 'Oh, that's not
mine'?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. But it's still not my truck."

"Well, will you move it anyway? I want to go home."

"So go home. The truck doesn't care."

"Look," I put my hand on his shoulder and spun him around to face me.
He had blue eyes, and hadn't shaved in a couple of days. "I want to
park in my driveway, and the truck is keeping me from doing so. If you
move it now, you will keep from being on my bad side, which would not
be fun if you're going to be my neighbor. Now, Move. The. Truck."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No!"

"Because if you are?"

"I'm not threatening you. Will you please just move your truck?"

"Sure thing, sweet little missy."

"Huh?"

"Shoulda used 'please' the first time"

"Gee, thanks for the lesson in manners." I smiled sarcastically at him
and turned toward my home, hoping that I could just go inside and eat
my TV Dinner without any further interruption.

"Hey" He called when I was about halfway up my walkway. I turned to
face him, and he was leaning against the truck with his thumbs hooked
in his belt loops.

"What?"

"You wanna order a pizza and drink some beer? You're to skinny and need
to gain weight"

"No thank you, but I'm just going inside to eat a huge gourmet dinner
and then I'm gonna puke it all up"

Ten minutes later I was sitting at my kitchen table, eating my much
less than gourmet dinner, pondering what I was going to do tonight.
Surry looked at me expectantly, but one of her ears had flipped over,
showing the inside of her ear, and I burst out laughing. She looked
offended.

"Sorry, hon, but you just look so silly when you do that." I reached
down and fixed her ear, and she stood up, jumping around on the floor.
"Ok, ok, I suppose. Now go start the car while I finish eating." She
raised her little doggy eyebrow at me "I'm nearly done! See, come on,
lets go!"