The Apple Pie Knights Read online

  Lucy: No! Best left alone. Pills work. I’m floating. You didn’t mean to. I know.

  Tal: All right. But only because your aura is turning back to banana cream. You will always be banana-scented to me, just like the day we met last fall up on the Trace. A herd of sheep, Tagger the bear, Alberta the Hun, Macy the Adorable, me lost and on the run with Eve, and there was Doug, a big Scottish shepherd’s pie of wonder, and you, the elf who guided me and Eve down the mountain into the Cove while eating a monkey poop cupcake I made.

  Lucy: I just threw up. Urp. Panic attack. Just like that day.

  Tal: Your banana cupcake scent covered the odor of the vomit.

  Lucy: I thought you were brave. And very strong and Celtic and amazing and sexy and that Doug was brought to his knees in goddess worship. The look in his eyes when he looked at you . . . I envy that. Gus . . . Gus. Change the subject. I must not talk about this anymore. Gus.

  Tal: Gus would understand. He’s going to come home on leave one day, and he’s going to come straight here to the Cove to find the beautiful little blond pen pal who sends him scarves and pictures of herself looking like an Amish Holly Hobbie, posing with sheep. You have to tell him what happened to you.

  Lucy: Nope, nope. No. Nuh-no. Zombie to zombie only. That’s how we roll.

  Tal: You’re saying only other PTSDers know the code? Only they can sympathize?

  Lucy: Yup. Yep. Yes. It’s a no pity zone. Zombie to zombie. Outcasts unite. I have to go take air now.

  Tal: Lucy, hon, Calm down. Breathe.

  Lucy: I need time in the barn. Talk with the sheep. Better in a few. Bye.

  An hour later

  Via cell phone

  Lucy: Where were we? Tell me more about these apple pie knights.

  Tal: Your voice sounds good. These what?

  Lucy: I’m giving them a new image in my mind. It’s a therapy technique. Like propaganda and marketing. That’s how the Patagonian Toothfish became the Chilean Sea Bass. So I’m calling them The Apple Pie Knights.

  Tal: The leader’s code name is Night Owl. He’s the one from the local family. We’ve got to keep the group out of sight at least until we can come up with a plan. None of them are criminals. They’ve been in bar fights, they’ve been caught with illegal drugs, and one of them is wanted in three states for threatening state patrol officers then outrunning them on the back roads.

  Lucy: Which one is that?

  Tal: Her nickname is Gutsy.

  Lucy: Look, I know I’m not the best advisor on how to help them get back to some kind of normal, whatever that is. But I know this much: if I had loved ones who desperately wanted to find me, I’d want someone to tell them where I am.

  Tal: Then you’ll be glad when I give Gus directions to your doorstep?

  A long silence.

  Lucy . . . I can hear your wool spinning. And your aroma is now grilled banana.

  Lucy: I’m going to yarn bomb a hidden spot in your Bronco with worsted three-ply spun from the fur of an agitated skunk.

  Tal: But you’ll help us. You’ll help us protect The Apple Pie Knights. Protect them from the outside world and protect them from themselves. Agreed?

  Lucy: Yes. I will. My word of honor. But you have to tell me this: who Night Owl’s family is, and if anything bad happens to him, how are you going to explain to them?

  Tal: Nothing bad’s going to happen to him, but if it does, I’ll walk into the kitchen at the café, and I’ll tell Cleo and Bubba the truth. That their son is a hero who tried to help others like him and that he came home to them the only way he knew how.

  Lucy: Oh, Tal.

  Chapter Two

  The JabberTalk

  Welcome to the Community Bulletin Board for the Crossroads Cove, Ten Sisters Mountains, and Wild Woman Ridge Districts of Jefferson County,

  North Carolina

  Dr. Doug Firth, moderator

  DougFirthDVM

  “Beware the JabberTalk, my child! The jaws that flap, the words that quack!

  “Beware the Hearsay bird, and shun the farteous BanAllfacts!”

  On bended knee, Mr. Lewis Carroll, I hope you’re square with this admiring fun. DF

  There’ll be no cursing nor politics in this online establishment, nor any preaching, nor nude pictures (even of preachers), nor sales of goods that appear to have fallen off trucks headed to some distant Walmart outside these mountains, nor feuds about world events, nor professional sports, excepting those that involve my native Scotland.

  No threats, no name-calling, and keep the virtual head-butting to a minimum.

  I’m not breaking up another fight between the Namaste Preppers and the Bikers For PETA.

  Cordially meaning it, Doug

  Team Delta added five new photos

  January 6

  BiscuitQueen, 10:00 a.m. I swear on the Lard’s own bag of White Lily flour, it’s really me this time, not some hired pretty talker from the Kitchen Stars staff. It’s Delta. I escaped this morning with Ivy and Cora’s help. It took Cathy’s teenage daughters to come up with a plan that outwitted a whole pack of security people who keep the show’s finalists corralled up here in a New York City hotel.

  I know they don’t want us to tell who won last week’s round before that show airs. But gol dag, I gave my word when I signed a stack of contracts. My word’s good enough. This gol dag competition was supposed to be done with a gol dag month ago. Me and Pike got to get back home. He’s the sheriff! And you all know that a worthless somebody I’m not gonna name (stick that up your troublemaking empire, you fake hymn-singer) is saying that Pike’s not fit to be sheriff of our county anymore because he’s run off to New York City with me for so long.

  Even before the Kitchen Stars people locked us all up, I couldn’t go outside the hotel with my bare face hanging out ’cause people recognize me from the show—you know how I love folks, but it’d gotten so bad they’d steal my lunch napkins for souvenirs and follow me into the toilets. I had one lady from Russia ask if I’d autograph the roll of toilet paper for her. I said “What the hell,” and did it.

  It got worse since my brother-in-law Joe pulled that stunt that got him arrested. People love him. Love him. We shouldn’t have sent him home. They still ask about him. They have pictures of him on their phones in his underwear and boots in the middle of Times Square in handcuffs.

  Besides, now he’s home, running wild.

  Joe! We know you’re selling autographed underwear on eBay! Do you think Pike and me fell of the turnip truck yesterday? It’s not even your underwear, it’s Pike’s. I recognize it because it turned purple when I washed it last fall with some socks the grandkids stuffed full of berries. Your brother’s coming home to snatch a knot in your tail.

  So anyhow, this morning, I had to get out and breathe some fresh air. So Ivy and Cora borrowed some clothes from the maids. No, they didn’t steal them, they borrowed. I’ve made quite a few friends among the maids here. I’ve done some cooking, and we’ve shared recipes.

  Turns out that I look good in a maid’s uniform. And a fuzzy wig. I stepped into a service elevator, rode down to the bottom, and walked off into the hotel laundry. That’s when I got recognized by one of the real maids. I whispered, “Hola, sweetie, ¿dónde está the way out?”

  Next thing I knew, I was free as a bird on a big ol’ New York City street and there was Ivy and Cora throwing one of Cathy’s big hooded capes over me—one of those things she wears when she doesn’t want people gawking at her. And we climbed into a horse-drawn carriage, and we took off!

  And I tell you, we are a sight! Here we are, riding around the city, eating duck egg and buffalo sausage burritos in a horse cart. That probably sounds as strange as it is, plus it’s colder than Nancy Grace’s TV stare, and the wind could knock the torch off the Statue of Liberty. But at leas
t I get a chance to type this on Ivy’s computer and say hello to you all MYSELF.

  Love you all. Delta.

  DougFirthDVM, 2:00 p.m. If I hadn’t been out at Burry Dan’s place sewing up Chester’s ear again after yet another to-do with a fellow donkey, I’d have removed m’lady Delta’s “private” message from this open bulletin board right away. Though I know all 300 or so of us here in the Cove can keep it to ourselves, ahem, the babble-billion or so who check every day to see if she gets free to file another report have already caught it by the tender parts. I see that it’s flown with the Twitter birds in flocks so big they’d darken the skies of Narnia. Mind what you say, Cove Folks. Big ears are listening.

  LawrenceTPotterJRMgmtAssistantTheCrossroadsCafé, 2:05 p.m. Dr. Firth, I am assuming “babble-billion” is one of your made-up words? Just checking. I am on my break after washing the pots and dishes from the morning rush. I can research “babble-billions” for you if you want me to do so. Sincerely, Lawrence T. Potter Jr., Management Assistant, The Crossroads Café.

  Reply DougFirthDVM, 2:06 p.m. Larry, thank you, but it is indeed another one of my silly made-up words. You’re the best at research, though!

  FancyBranchFreeMethodistChurch, 3:00 p.m. If anyone saw something or someone(s) suspicious around the church last night, please call Pastor Jackson with information. The back door lock was broken, and someone(s) entered the sanctuary with muddy boots. So far, nothing seems to be missing.

  SantaJoeWhittlespoon, 3:30 p.m. Thnx dudes for the shout out on my ebay store. Only two pairs left on the special Sheriff Pike Whittlespoon collection. That picture of Bro nekkid . . . man it helps. Bidding war at $1,500 for one and $1,625 on the other. Closes at 6 p.m. so don’t wait! Sis-in-law Delta, she’s a hoot ’n a half with that joking. Me and Bro are cool on me autographing his tighty whities, I mean the tighty purples. I go commando, meaning I don’t have undies to sign, see? Anyhow I’m donating half the $ to the county sheriff fund for keeping kids off drugs. ’Cause I sure don’t want kids on my drugs.

  TickleRanchAngoraGoats, 3:47 p.m. If I catch whoever mohawked four of my goats last night, I’ll cut more than some hair off the b*&t*rd’s hide. I filed a report with the sheriff dept. and I’ll be waiting with the dogs and the shotgun next time. Myrt Pleasant is my name, and you’ll rue the day you crossed me.

  BahSpaSuzanneAldersonMgr, 4:01 p.m. Myrt, someone mohawked five sheep at Rainbow Goddess the other night. No harm done, just the weird clip job. BTW, we’re sold out of TickleSoft Angora Pillow Stuffers at the shop.

  LucyParmenter, 4:02 p.m. Hello! Suzanne, that weird clip job was done by me. The ewes got into a blackberry briar thicket and came out looking felted! So I had to perform an unfortunate winter intervention. I’m betting what happened to Myrt’s goats is some prank. I’ll keep an ear out and report any rumors.

  LawrenceTPotterJRMgmtAssistantTheCrossroadsCafé, 4:03 p.m. Miss Parmenter, our native wild blackberry, Rubus fruticosus, dies back to the ground in wintertime. Among the native brambles of the Appalachian mountains of North Carolina, there are no thorny plants that would be a threat to livestock in January. I can do more research and help you decide what your sheep did get into.

  LucyParmenter, 4:04 p.m. Thank you, Larry. In many ways I’m still a city girl from the flatlands of Charlotte. Whatever it was, it surely matted their wool!

  LawrenceTPotterJRMgmtAssistantTheCrossroadsCafé, 4:10 p.m. But Miss Parmenter, as I’m sure you know, bulletin 502.17A of the North Carolina Agricultural Extension Service instructs how to wash a badly matted sheep. I can e-mail you the exact instructions.

  HolloTruckTowing, 4:15 p.m. Would somebody at the café throw a dirty dish at my nephew so the idiot will STFU and get back to work?

  (Post removed five minutes later by Doug.)

  ———

  The JabberTalk Private Group Message

  4: 30 p.m.

  LucyParmenter + TalMacBride + LawrenceTPotterJRMgmtAssistantTheCrossroadsCafé

  TalMacBride: Larry, don’t pay any attention to your uncle. LawrenceTPotterJRMgmtAssistantTheCrossroadsCafé: Mrs. Firth . . .

  TalMacBride: Dr. Firth and I aren’t getting married until springtime, Larry. You can still call me Miss MacBride.

  LucyParmenter: Larry, I should have thought about washing those ewes. You’re right. Thank you.

  LawrenceTPotterJRMgmtAssistantTheCrossroadsCafé : I’m not sure what Uncle Alward meant by his comments. Am I supposed to be offended? Can you explain?

  TalMacBride: I’m on my way back to the café after running some errands. I’ll talk to you in person. Bye.

  LucyParmenter: Bye, Larry, and thanks again for that information.

  LawrenceTPotterJRMgmtAssistantTheCrossroadsCafé : Miss Parmenter, I know what really took the wool off your sheep. And off Miss Pleasant’s goats. But Doug swore me to secrecy so that I could pursue the research we need to do without people getting nervous. It’s very important to gather all the facts on something like this. We don’t want to frighten people. You can trust me to preserve the scientific integrity of the mission.

  TalMacBride: What . . . mission?

  LucyParmenter: Mission?

  LawrenceTPotterJRMgmtAssistantTheCrossroadsCafé : Proving that Rockycockers exist in the woods at Free Wheeler.

  ———

  Doug’s Veterinary Clinic

  Conference call

  Via speaker phone

  Noon

  Doug: You know how Larry ’tis. If I didn’t give him a bone to chew, he’d keep talking about sheep and goats ’til this time next year, and if more woolies get mohawks he’ll add to people’s noticing. So I told him that in Scotland there’s beasties of legend called Rockycockers. They’re said to meddle with the stone walls of the fields and scrape long lanes in the dirt while huntin’ for grubs to eat. And they’ll pluck the wool off sheep and goats to line their dens. I said no one’s sure what they look like but that they don’t hurt people nor livestock. And . . . I said the old folks around here told me such a thing was seen in these parts, too. From Cherokee times up until even now.

  Lucy: This has to stop.

  Doug: Well, I dunno, I think the notion of Rockycockers is pretty fun, myself.

  Lucy: I mean the wool stealing. Why are the Knights stealing wool?

  Tal: We don’t know. We’ll talk to Night Owl.

  Lucy: His real name is Trey. Trey McKellan. Can’t we call him that?

  Tal: No. He’ll walk away.

  Doug: The poor lad says “Trey McKellan died in Iraq.” Rumor has it than when he came home for rehabilitation, Cleo saw him at the hospital and told him he lost his leg for naught. Whatever she meant by that, he left as soon as he could walk away. And even now, he’ll ne’r come back.

  ———

  January 9

  Kandahar Province Afghanistan, 8:00 a.m.

  Asheville, 11:30 p.m.

  Via text

  G.MacBride: Gabs, r u there? Need 2 tlk. Private. Phone?

  Picklequeen: Am here. Call me in 5.

  Five minutes later

  Via phone

  Gus: Sorry, I know it’s late, Sis.

  Gabs: I smelled liver before I read your text message. Bad mojo. Jay’s asleep, and I’m in his office. I’m your go-to. Talk.

  Gus: We took out one of the warlord’s lieutenants today, but we killed the family who were hiding him, too. All the children and old people. Everyone except the mother.

  Gabs: Oh my God. It was an accident.

  Gus: I knew enough Pashto to tell her intel said they weren’t supposed to be there, but what good was a goddamned apology?

  “I have sisters,” I wanted to say instead. “I don’t hurt women and children. I protect them. My whole life is about being a man who takes care of others.”

  I took
off my helmet and dropped it in the sand and blood between my boots. How I must have looked to her, a red-haired, ruddy-skinned killer from the other side of the world. I wanted to tell her I came from dirt-poor Scots-Irish immigrants who built cabins in wild southern mountains covered in blue-green forests, a place of tough but kind people who did not send their men to kill women and children.

  “I have sisters,” I wanted to tell her.

  Gabs: Aw, Gus. Aw, honey. We love you. You have sisters, yes. Don’t forget that. It’s time for you to come home. I knew that when I talked to you last month. You can’t change this war, you can’t fix it, and you’ve served your time. Come home.

  Gus: I have some leave coming in March. I’m going to take it. I’m worried about Luce.

  Gabs: Why?

  Gus: Something’s upsetting her. I can feel it. Taste it. Her brew has gotten hoppier. She’s lost her blueberry undertone.

  Gabs: Gus, she’s . . . you know we keep telling you she has some issues . . . but she wants to talk to you about them herself. She’ll tell you when she’s ready. Come home. In March. See if she’ll open up, in person.

  Gus: I’ll be there.

  ———

  The JabberTalk

  Community Bulletin Board

  January 10

  CDMitternich, 9:00 a.m. Hello, friends and neighbors. Cathy Deen Mitternich, here. Delta asked me to update everyone on some unfortunate consequences of her well-intentioned practical joke from a few days okay, when she slipped out of the hotel here in New York to have breakfast with my daughters. Even though that violated the terms of her contestant agreement with the Kitchen Stars producers, they’ve been generous in their acceptance of her apology.

  Since she revealed nothing about the results of last week’s competition—which hasn’t been broadcast to viewers yet—the producers are not going to disqualify her. So all’s well. At least in that concern.

  However, as Delta attempted to return to her hotel room in her maid disguise, she realized that getting back upstairs would be harder than going downstairs had been. Without an employee badge, she couldn’t get past hotel security to reach the service staff area, where the staff loves her and would have come up with a plan to get her discreetly to her room.