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December 25, 2024

“Starter’s End”

A Longmire Christmas Story

by Craig Johnson

“Maybe the um, stuff here would like to go on a cruise, too?” Ruby, my stalwart dispatcher stared at me, not giving an inch between sourdough starter and a hard place. “It really needs to be fed and taken care of?” She leaned forward, sliding the Ball mason jar with a rubber band at its midriff across my desk toward me, the off-white, goopy contents sloshing inside. “Yes, it does.” I glanced at Dog, asleep and snoring on the floor. “Like a pet?” She took off her glasses with the string of pearls connected to them -- I was sure, thinking about strangling me with the things. “It’s very simple, Walter. You just give it a stable temperature and feed it flour and water.” “Can’t somebody else do this?” “There isn’t anybody else.” It was true, we were coming down to the wire of the holidays at Christmas Eve and most of the staff was preparing to leave this very night. I leaned down at worm’s eye view and stared at the bubbly slime, fingering the purple rubber band. “To the purple born, huh? How old is it?” “Over a hundred and fifty years old; it was brought here on the Bozeman trail by my ancestors just after the Civil War.” Ruby had won another all-expense paid holiday cruise that was to start the next day, the problem being that the members of the Methodist Ladies Baking League needed portions of said starter for their own Christmas treats -- and no sacrament was higher in the Methodist Church than baked goods. “Why can’t you just give it to them now?” “There’s only one jar and I can’t separate it just yet.” “What about one of the Methodist ladies, can’t they take this on?” “They’re all busy.” I tipped my hat up, peering at her from under the brim. “I’m the Sheriff of Absaroka County on a holiday weekend -- you don’t think I’m going to be kind of busy?” “You don’t have to carry it around with you, Walter. You just have to feed it and get it to Barbara at the two appointed times.” I stared at the jar and was sure the thing had just burbled at me. “What about Dorothy down at the Busy Bee, surely she could do it?” “She’s leaving too, visiting her children over in Jackson. Besides, the timing is crucial, it has to be fed, separated, kneaded and baked.” I rose and slumped back in my chair. “By the way.” Standing, she started out into the outer office but called over her shoulder. “His name is Abraham.” *** I sipped my coffee and looked up at the chief cook and bottle washer of the all but empty Busy Bee Café. “There are starters that are four thousand and five hundred years old? How is that even possible?” She refilled my mug as I sat down on a stool at the counter. “They recovered the yeast microbes from archeological digs in Egypt and just added water and flour and they sprang back to life.” “Sounds like a recipe for disaster.” I sipped my coffee. “Like one of those Drive-In movies from the 50’s or something -- The Sourdough that Ate the World.” She leaned down in my eye’s view, glancing conspiratorially at the jar to our right. “It’s bread, Walter.” “Right.” “You can do this.” “Right.” “Who’s the chief Methodist League lady on the list?” “Barb Graff.” “Oh, God.” I looked up at her. “Not helpful, Dorothy.” “She’s the original Daughters of the American Revolution Harpy.” The late mayor’s wife, Barbara Graff was a legend in Absaroka County and not a good one, known for her strident views on religion, politics and every other hot-topic issue you could think of. “She’s supposed to help me do the two separations tonight, and I’m hoping she’ll take the whole thing and relieve me of duty.” “I wouldn’t count on it.” The phone began ringing and I watched as Dorothy moved behind the counter, replacing the coffee urn and picking up the receiver. “Now, drink up and get out of here.” There was only one other customer at the café, the proprietor from the Hitching Post Gallery across the street sat at a table by the windows overlooking a frozen Clear Creek possibly wishing for warmer days. “Merry Christmas, Hugh.” “You too, Walt.” “Walt?” I turned to find Dorothy holding the phone out to me. “It’s for you on line one.” I reached out and took it, stretching the cord. “You only have one line.” She breezed by me, clearing Hugh’s table as he headed out the door with a wave. “That was a joke.” I held the phone up to my ear. “Longmire.” “Hey Chief, it’s Barrett and it’s Friday. You weren’t answering your radio, so I took a chance you were at the Bee. Sancho says they’ve got a 10-31A at Lynn’s Superfoods.” I rolled my eyes at my part time dispatcher. “Remind me again, what’s a 10-31A?” “Burglary.” “Somebody’s robbing the IGA on Christmas Eve?” “Well, kind of... I guess some kids saw the skylight at the grocery store was open and decided to do a little Mission Improbable. When Saizarbitoria got there he hit ‘em with the spotlight and they all ran, all but one -- the seven-year-old they lowered into the store with a rope. He’s still in there trying to get out.” “Did you call Shelia McAlpin, the manager?” “Yeah, she’s on her way but Sancho says he’s supposed to be on the road to Rawlins in about an hour, and wanted to know if you’d like to catch this one?” “Where’s Vic?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you...” *** It was my grocery store, at least the one I shopped at when I remembered to buy food. I sent Sancho on his Merry Christmas way and shined my flashlight inside, where sure enough a kid was jumping up and down, trying to grab the rope end that swayed just out of his reach, ducking away into the aisles when he saw me. The manager, Shelia arrived and unlocked the door. “Any other way out of the place?” “Nope, other than the skylight, that is.” “Well, you’re going to know the store better than me, so do you want to go in and flush him out and I’ll try and intercept him here?” “Sure.” She smiled. “You gonna loan me your gun?” “He’s seven, Shelia.” I watched as the manager went in and down the aisle, but not before flipping the switch and turning on the flickering lights throughout the grocery store. I looked back at Dog, seated in the passenger seat and watching the action unfold, Abraham the sourdough starter resting on the dash, noticeably nonplussed. Pulling out my pocket watch, I noticed it was getting close to the time when I was supposed to meet Barb Graff, suddenly hearing a crashing noise and a measure of hubbub from inside the grocery store. The seven-year-old appeared with a bundle of paper towels at the far end of the aisle, rounding the corner and then placing them on the floor and stepping up to try and grab the rope but then Shelia appeared and made a beeline for him, and I watched as the kid abandoned that idea and leapt off the makeshift platform, heading straight for the front door and me. Making use of my old offensive tackle days, I spread my arms and caught the little bugger as the automatic door slid open and he attempted to dart to the left. Sweeping him up in my arm, I felt him bite my hand and then carried him, kicking and screaming back into the store, where I sat him on the bagging portion of the checkout area as the manager approached with an armload of groceries, dumping them on the beltway as I stooped to pick up a battered paperback that had fallen out of the kid’s coat pocket. The lawbreaker tried to scramble off the counter as I stuffed the book under my arm and reseated him, kneeling down to identify the subject. “Howdy.” He said nothing in return, wiping a running nose with a stained puffy, insulated sleeve and staring at me. “Got a name?” I glanced at Shelia and then straightened, pulling out the paperback and studying the pulpy cover with a snarling gunsel aiming a pistol at a provocatively dressed dame in a slinky outfit. “You have the right to remain silent, but I’d advise against it because if you do, you’ll be spending the night in jail and Old St. Nick won’t know where to find you.” The suspect wiped his nose with the sleeve, again. “There ain’t no such thing as Santa Clause, flatfoot.” I sighed, leafing through the book and then closing it and stuffing it back in my pocket. “I’m beginning to think you might be right, kid.” “It’s funny...” Shelia continued pulling items from a canvas, newspaper delivery bag and placing them on the belt. “It’s all staples, fruit, rolls, vegetables and a canned ham -- pretty much all the makings for a holiday meal.” She glanced up at me. “No candy or toys, just real food.” After loading the suspect up in the front seat, I waved goodbye to McAlpin and wheeled around in the parking lot and headed for Barb Graff’s house in the well-heeled part of town. “So, where do you live?” “None of your business, loogan.” “Loogan?” He glanced at me, gesturing toward my sidearm. “A bull with a roscoe.” I shook my head. “Who in the world are you?” He ignored me, glancing at the Mason jar now in the cup holder of the center console. “What’s with the dingus, McGee?” I gestured toward the jar. “Abraham, meet Al Capone.” *** The Graff home was a sprawling Victorian on the north side of town near the golf course, with turrets and circular, covered porches festively decorated, the windows glowing a tawny holiday warmth with a single candle in each one. I parked in the front and shut off the motor, picking up the jar and then turning to look at the culprit who finally glanced up at me as he scratched at his stocking cap. “What’s the grift goon? Go climb up your thumb ‘cause I ain’t spillin’ the beans.” I threw a look to the back where Dog sat, watching the kid. “Alright, Dillinger, you see Rin-Tin-Tin, here? “Yeah, I made the nipper.” “Well, I don’t have handcuffs small enough to fit you, but if you try and make a run for it, he’ll nab you. Savvy?” “Yeah, I won’t take the air.” I stared at him, finally shaking my head and climbing out, taking Abraham with me. I pushed the bell on the extravagant home and was rewarded with a chime version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. It opened and a fireplug of a woman stood holding the door in a flour-dusted apron, her hair piled up on her head, looking at her wristwatch through a pair of cats- eyeglasses. “You’re late, Sheriff.” She said my title like it was contaminated. “It’s been a busy night, Mrs. Graff.” I followed her in the house, the smell of gingerbread and peppermint wafting the air as we walked by a hearty fire burning on a big-screen TV. She pushed open a swinging door and circled around a center island in the frighteningly equipped kitchen that seemed more like an operating room than a place to prepare food. “You were supposed to be here at nine; now I’m behind.” “Sorry.” I sat the jar on the counter. With a great show of disgust, she took out some flour and what looked like a filtered pitcher, unscrewing the lid of Abraham like removing a small crown and adding a little of both ingredients. “I hope that when you fed it, you didn’t use tap water.” “No, Ma’am.” Which wasn’t a lie in that I hadn’t fed the concoction at all. Gently swirling the jar, she crossed to a massive refrigerator, then returned to look at me. “From the looks of it, you haven’t fed it at all.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “You know Sheriff, Ruby wouldn’t have entrusted you with this if it wasn’t important.” I nodded, adding solemnly as I pulled the paperback of James M. Cain’s The Cocktail Waitress from my pocket, noticing the markings from the Absaroka County Library and the discard stamp with the penciled-in price of twenty-five cents. “You know, I was thinking about that and figured that maybe you could take over the duties in that you’re much more knowledgeable about this stuff?” She stared at me as she produced a large, stainless steel mixing bowl and poured a portion of Abraham into a measuring cup and then into the container. “This, stuff, as you call it is the reason mankind has made it as far as it has, Sheriff.” “The staff of life, or so they tell me.” “Do you think Moses and the Lost Tribes of Judea would’ve made it out of the desert after forty years if they hadn’t discovered unleavened bread?” “I’m sure the bread helped, but I’m thinking a compass might’ve been a better idea, huh?” She studied me. “You know, that’s why my husband and I never voted for you.” I cleared my throat, unsure if I really wanted to ask the next question. “And why, pray tell, is that?” “You’re not a serious man.” Wiping her hands on her apron one last time, she re- crowned Abraham and slid the jar toward me. “I think that the job requires a certain amount of solemnity for the man to be taken seriously, and I think you lack that gravity, yes.” “And you don’t think that hauling around a jar of yeast as a sidekick on a very busy Christmas Eve doesn’t require a certain amount of humor?” I picked up the jar, noticing that the rubber band was now missing and tucked it under my arm. “Just like the rest of the job?” “I believe humor is an overrated quality in a man.” I nodded my head and then turned, heading through the swinging door. “You know, Mrs. Graff, I believe you.” *** “You had one job.” When I got back to the truck, there was only a single occupant, and I stared at the hairy ruffian. “Did you at least see which way he went?” Dog turned his head and gazed back up the street. “Right.” Resting the jar of starter back in the center console, I plucked the mic from my dash and keyed it. “Barrett, are you there?” Static. “Roger, that.” Pulling the paperback from my pocket, I thumbed through it, seeing how many times the battered pulp had been checked out. “Hey, look up the number for Lindsey Belliveau and call her up for me, would you?” Static. “The librarian?” “Yep, and ask her to do me a favor, see if there are any kids who’ve been buying a lot of pulp crime novels out of the discard rack, and I mean a lot. Suspect is about seven to eight years of age, brown hair, green eyes, a nose that runs like a faucet and a vocabulary like John Garfield. I need a name and an address.” Static. “Roger that, Chief.” I keyed the mic again as I spun the Bullet around and slowly crept up the street with my spotlight illuminating the rows of brightly decorated houses. “Where’s Vic?” Static. “Still refereeing the altercation at the apartment building next to the Kum & Go.” “Still?” Static. “Yeah.” Spotting a figure ducking between houses, I hit the gas and turned a corner, sliding to a stop and leaping out and following the little hoodlum into a dead-end drive that led to one of those tiny, Model-A garages. Seeing he was trapped, I watched as he attempted to climb up the fence but couldn’t quite make it. “Long night to be a short criminal, huh?” Falling against the fence, he turned to look at me, once again wiping his nose. “Why don’t you just blow?” Taking him by the scruff of the neck, I carried him to the passenger side door and popped him inside, attaching his seat belt. I then came around, climbed in and backed out of the driveway, heading east toward the main drag. After a moment, he mumbled to himself. “I almost made the clean sneak. So, what’s the Chinese angle?” “We’re going to the fights.” He slumped back in his seat. “Personally, I prefer the bangtails, but we can take in some chin music.” He gestured toward the windshield with a flicking of his smallish fingers, urging me onward and into the night. “Drift, gumshoe.” *** In my law-enforcement career, I have seen many, many strange things, but nothing as strange as the young, intoxicated woman wrestling with a large, inflatable snowman. Periodically, the embattled lawn decoration holding a sign that read HAPPY HOLIDAYS would get in a lucky and unintentional shot, whereupon the aggressor would be sent sliding down the hillside near the edge of the Kum & Go parking lot where I now sat in my truck beside Vic’s unit. Struggling to her feet, the woman would scream obscenities at the snowman and then charge up the hill as if it were San Juan to engage the inflatable again. Dog, the child/felon and I had watched this display through the windshield three times in a row, now. “Gimme your foot.” The kid looked at me. “What’s the buzz?” Pulling my handcuffs from my belt, I attached one side to the steering wheel and then reached down, taking the kid’s leg and raising it until I could attach the other end to his ankle. “You copping me to this tin lizzie?” “Just until I get this situation under control. I’ll be right back.” Getting out, I watched as the snowman scored another inadvertent blow, sending the drunk woman down the hill once more where she rolled to my feet and lay there muttering language that would’ve made a stevedore blush. Victoria Moretti was above on the balcony of the apartment building with a crowd of merry makers enjoying the show. Looking up, I shouted. “Hey, Vic!” Hanging over the railing, Moretti called down. “Buon Natale!” Making a show of pulling out my pocket watch, I held it up. “You know you’ve got a flight in about ninety minutes, right?” “Yeah, I’m fine.” The young woman attempted to stand again, but I placed her back in a sitting position as she cursed at me, swatting at my leg, possibly mistaking me for the snowman. “Doing what?” My undersheriff produced a large roll of bills, counting. “My money is on Frosty, but the losers in #23 here are having a party and all their money is on Amy Sue Barnes down there.” Bringing a hand to the side of her mouth, she mocked whispering. “I think they’ve been drinking, ‘cause I’ve pretty much paid for my flight back to Philadelphia.” Still grousing, Amy Sue Barnes attempted to get up again, but I planted her once more. “Throw me your wrist irons?” Pocketing the roll, Vic pulled her cuffs from her belt and tossed them down to me. “Catch!” I caught the hardware and then assisted the exhausted, feather-weight inflatable champion to her feet, cuffing her hands behind her back as Vic arrived and glanced up at me with a playful salute. “Amy Sue here barged into the apartment…” “23?” “No, ground floor #19, unwelcomed and uninvited by the occupant, Paul Birkholz who heard someone banging on his door and allowed her entrance, whereupon said Amy Sue Barnes began cursing and told Mister Birkholz to -- and I quote, “Shut the hell up and sit down”. Mister Birkholz at that point, picked Amy Sue up and deposited her outside, shutting and locking the door before calling us.” She glanced at my truck and then back at me. “Reporting officer arrived and observed Ms. Barnes pummeling an inflatable snowman before slipping and sliding down the hillside in an increasingly intoxicated and agitated state, screaming profanities. By this time partygoers in #23 had decided to occupy the balcony from the perspective above where they began placing bets with the attending officer over who would win the fight.” She looked past me, again. Patting the roll of bills, she smiled, the oversize canine tooth on full display. “Four-hundred and eighty-three dollars and fifty-six cents.” She glanced around me, even again. “Do you mind if I ask what it is you keep looking at?” She leaned to the side. “Why is that kid in your unit holding a jar out the passenger- side window?” Spinning around, I started toward my truck in time to see the hand of the diminutive felon holding Abraham, the sourdough starter by the lid, out and suspended above the asphalt surface of the Kum & Go parking lot. He swirled the jar, making sure he had my attention. I stopped. “Kid, whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t.” He shouted. “Spring me, or I deep-six the dingus.” Vic was at my side with the cuffed snowman fighter, her hand on her sidearm. “What’s a dingus?” “I’ll tell you later.” I took a step forward, moving slowly toward the window. “What’s in that jar is very important to a lot of people, and if you drop it then I’m going to be in a lot of trouble.” He swirled the jar some more and in the dim light of the parking lot and I watched as Abraham burbled. “So, let’s talk turkey, shamus. Don’t gonif me and I’ll take it on the lamb, leaving the dingus over near that boiler at the end of the lot.” I could feel Vic closing in behind me as I blocked the kid’s vision, textbook in armed hostage situations. “He’s cuffed?” I mumbled over my shoulder. “Ankle to the steering wheel.” Her voice muffled against my back. “Agree, then I’ll duck down by the front of the truck with Amy Sue as you move right and distract him, and then I’ll come around the corner and snatch the dingus.” Raising my hands, I took another step forward and spoke in a reassuring tone. “Okay kid, you got me. I’m going to uncuff you, okay?” He nodded and I headed in the direction of the driver’s side, keeping my hands where he could see and distract him. I opened the door and then carefully pulled the keys from my pocket, slowly reaching down and around the wheel and unfettering the kid. I’d just released him when Vic made her move, and she probably would’ve got it if Amy Sue hadn’t decided at that precise moment to take another crack at the inflatable Frosty. As Vic moved around the corner of the truck, Amy Sue bolted for her arch adversary, tripping my undersheriff as she fell forward, reaching for the jar. The kid, feeling the pressure must’ve thought he was dropping it and yanked up as Vic pulled down, sending Abraham spinning in the air. It was one of those horrific, slow-motion moments, like a car crash, the ones that last a lifetime and a half. I watched as the starter spun in the thin air of the Kum & Go sparking like a Christmas kaleidoscope, the glass sending off silver sparks and the golden glow of the lid and cap in an absolute festive flash of twirling light. Abraham was at the center of it all, perhaps having the time of his one-hundred-and fifty-year-old life, never having had the opportunity to shake a leg in holiday dance but here he was, doing just that. I like to think he was having a good time in those last moments and that he’d been having a joyous time on his entire Christmas adventure, but I guess I’ll never know. Vic’s face appeared for an instant in the window, but then disappeared as she leapt after the jar as it spun away, the only sound the laced profanity of Amy Sue as she began round twelve with the inflatable snowman -- along with the loud pop of a glass breaking on the hard asphalt surface of the parking lot. *** “There’s still some in the unbroken part of the jar.” “How much?” Vic held the punt up to the light as she leaned in the open window of my truck. “Maybe four tablespoons?” “Think that’s enough?” “How the hell should I know? I might’ve scooped up some snow with it, but I did get rid of the cigarette butt and the bottle cap.” She held the bottom of the jar at an angle, collecting the mass at one corner, carefully handing it over to me. “Sorry to leave you like this, but I’ve gotta catch a flight.” “Coward.” “You’re damn right, I don’t want anything to do with the wrath of Ruby.” Looking at the sickly goop in the shattered jar, I could feel my hopes sinking. “This is not good.” “No shit, Sherlock.” I turned and looked at the kid in the back. “You really need to pipe down.” A slurred voice joined the fray. “You need...” She hiccupped. “A quata... A quarter to a half-cup per loaf of ac... Active starter.” Both Vic and I turned to look at Amy Sue Barnes. “According to the recipe.” She hiccupped, again. I swirled the remains in the partial jar. “Well, we haven’t got that here.” “Ge... Got some in my refrigerator, at...” She hiccupped, even again. “At home.” I glanced at Vic and then back at Amy Sue. “...You have sourdough starter in your refrigerator?” “Swat...” Hiccup. “S’what I said.” “Are you willing to give up a cup or two?” She nodded, her chin finally resting on her chest as she spoke into her lap. “Youlet... You me sleep at home tonight?” I glanced at Vic still hanging in the open window, who shrugged. “Well, I don’t think the inflatable snowman is going to press charges.” *** “It’s her mother’s starter, but I don’t think she’ll mind if it keeps her daughter out of jail on Christmas Eve.” Taking the open jar from the elderly gentleman in the sweater, we both stood on the porch and listened to a great deal of screaming and yelling coming from in the house where, evidently, Amy Sue was not being readily welcomed back into the loving holiday bosom of her family. “I ran what you had through a filter to make sure there weren’t any glass shards in it.” The man cleared his throat, trying to drown out the angry voices. “But make sure you leave the jar open so that it can breathe, it’s been through a lot.” “Right.” There were some crashing noises and more yelling as he glanced back in the house. “You better go, Mister Barnes.” He smiled as he closed the door. “Happy holidays.” As I walked back to the truck, I thought I could hear Barrett on the radio. Opening the door, I fished in my pockets for the keys and unlocked the mini felon from the steering wheel. “Was that my radio?” He slouched against the passenger side door giving me the stink-eye, but seemingly having lost a bit of his steam. “Mum’s the word, chopper-squad.” Sighing, I started the truck up and then keyed the mic as I lodged the jar on the dash against the windshield behind the handle for my spotlight, far from his grasp. “Barrett, are you there?” Static. “Hey Chief. I’ve got a residence for Jimmie Rowan, the alleged Frozen Food Kid.” I turned and looked at the gremlin. “Is that your name, Jimmie Rowan?” He turned his head, staring at the dash. “Buzz-off, copper.” Static. “Also, Shelia McAlpin called and asked if you’d stop by.” He read off the kid’s address and then paused. “I think she wanted you to swing by the grocery store before you take Jimmie home.” Slipping the truck in gear, I pulled out and headed toward the IGA. When I got there the manager was standing in front of the store with four bags of goods, walking over to the window as I pulled up. “What’s the story, Shelia?” She glanced at the little lifer. “Can I speak with you for a moment?” “Sure.” I climbed out, but not before giving Jimmie a warning look. “I’m right out here, so if you try and make a run for it, I’ll catch you.” Taking the keys and the jar of starter with me, I followed Shelia to the rear of my truck and out of ear shot. “What’s up?” “Walt, your dispatcher gave me the address of that kid and I know that neighborhood, those half-numbers are in the alley and they’re old carriage houses and chicken sheds.” She gestured with the bags. “This is the stuff the kid was trying to steal and its all just regular food, staples of a simple holiday dinner. I know we shouldn’t reward breaking the law, but I’d be okay with just letting the kid have this stuff... I even threw a few extra things in.” I stared at her. “What?” Stepping aside, I dropped the tailgate and relieved her of half the bags, tying them off as she joined me in doing the others. “You know Shelia, every time the possibility of losing my faith in humanity rolls around somebody like you does something like this.” We both smiled at each other as we finished the job and I closed the tailgate, squeezing her shoulder as I climbed back in. Setting the jar full of partial Abraham in the center console, I started for the Rowan address. I glanced over at the alleged. “You ever hear the saying crime doesn’t pay?” Refusing to look at me, he studied the floor mat. “Don’t be a bunny, that stuff’s the bunk.” Ignoring him, I continued. “Listen up you little fakaloo. Shelia McAlpin, the butter and egg gal just made a gift of all the stuff you were trying to scoot with and in my book that makes her a really cool cat, you catch my grift? Now, you on the other hand are a clammed-up chisel headed for the cooler if you don’t cut crossways.” I turned the corner into the alley and drove by some of the tiny, rundown houses. “I’m going to keep the peep on you, so you better lay dormy, or I’ll be the elbow tagging along and you’ll be in dutch.” Lurching to a stop, I glanced at him. “Capisce?” He studied me, his mouth hanging open. “...Uh, yeah.” I hopped out, coming around and getting him from the passenger side, holding my hand out to keep Dog from following us. I closed the door and then had Jimmie join me at the rear of the truck where I gave him two of the bags and then carried the rest. There was a small cyclone fence that sagged between the poles, and we made our way to the door on a well-trodden sheet of ice. I reached up to knock on the door, but the kid just turned the knob and walked in as I stood there in the opening, holding the remaining bags. A woman appeared from around the door, she was young, but high on mileage with a thin and harried looking face. “Can I help you?” “Ms. Rowan?” She noted the badge on my coat. “Yes?” “I just brought your son Jimmie home.” She glanced around for him, but he’d disappeared. “Has he done something wrong?” I cleared my throat. “Well, he was involved with a little trouble at the grocery store, but everything turned out all right.” I held out the bags. “Shelia McAlpin was kind enough to donate these groceries to your household.” She looked genuinely surprised. “And why would she do that?” “I guess she thought you could use some assistance.” She swallowed, and then burst out in tears, covering her face with her hands and leaning against the doorjamb. I would’ve reached out and patted her shoulder or something, but my hands were still filled with the bags. “Um, do you have a place where I can put these?” She took a second to compose herself and then wiped her eyes, reaching out her hands to take the bags. “I am so sorry, but the place is kind of a mess and it’s getting late...” “Certainly, I can imagine how busy you are this evening.” I handed her the bags, then placing my hands in my coat pockets, rediscovered the pulp novel. “Oh, this belongs to your son.” She sat some of the bags down and took the paperback, studying the lurid cover. “Oh... I wish he would read something else.” She looked up at me. “But at least he’s reading, right?” “And expanding his vocabulary.” I pulled my pocket watch from my jeans, staring at the time. “Oh, crap.” Still holding the novel, she stared. “Excuse me?” “Um, I’ve got to go -- happy holidays." Careful to not take a header, I waved and slid down the walkway as she closed the door. Climbing in, I hit the starter and began to pull the thing in gear when I looked down at Abraham, the mason jar in the center console. Empty. I sat there in abject horror, staring at the thing and then turned to look at my boon companion and partner as he cocked his head and rumbled out a very loud and yeasty burp. *** Climbing up the steps of the Victorian house with the all but empty jar, I tried to look on the bright side but couldn’t really envision one. It was five minutes past midnight, but for the first time this evening it really didn’t matter. I pushed the doorbell button again and once more The Battle Hymn of the Republic chimed from inside and I stood there, prepared to face the music. Barb Graff snatched open the door and once again looked at her wristwatch. “You are late again, Sheriff.” “Where the heck do you get a doorbell that plays The Battle Hymn of the Republic?” Rearranging her bouffant with a swipe of a flour covered hand, she placed her fists on her hips. “It’s computerized, so you can program it to play anything.” I made a face. “And you chose The Battle Hymn of the Republic?” “I did.” “And you don’t find that a bit... Odd?” She crossed her arms. “I find it odd that more people don’t have a sense of patriotism in this country, Sheriff.” “Hmm...” I lifted the empty jar, presenting it to her. She studied it. “And this is?” “The remains of the late, great and much-storied Abraham.” She adjusted her glasses on her nose and leaned in to examine it. “There’s nothing there.” I tipped the jar to one side. “There’s a good eighth of an inch, but I can’t vouch for how much of it is Dog backwash.” She straightened, peering over the top of her glasses at me. “You have lost Ruby’s one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old heritage sourdough starter?” “All but the part Dog’s tongue couldn’t reach.” I took her hand and forced her to take the jar. “Mrs. Graff, you have no idea what kind of an evening I’ve had. So, we can hit the doorbell again for musical accompaniment and you can give me your very worst dressing down and I’ll just stand here and take it, because I truly and honestly don’t give a damn.” She stared at me for a moment longer, slowly raising an eyebrow like a striking snake and then did something I found surprising, crooking her finger and bidding me to enter into the inner sanctum. I did as instructed, following her past the televised yule log and through the swinging doors to the nerve center of the house, where she plucked a blushing round loaf from a pile and handed it to me. I examined the rune-like markings in the crust. “What’s this?” “A loaf of walnut/cranberry sourdough bread just for you.” I held it to my nose, sniffing the intoxicating and mouthwatering fragrance. “What, you’re rubbing it in?” “I’m thinking that I’ve been a little harsh with you, and I wanted to apologize.” She studied me for a moment more and then crossed to the massive, double-door, stainless steel refrigerator and extracted a perfect replica, Ball mason jar complete with the purple rubber band, placing it on the raised portion of the counter beside it’s depleted twin without a rubber band. “You switched the jars.” She crossed her arms again and examined me, not unlike Dog. “No offense, but did you honestly think I would rely on you in a situation as exacting as this?” She took the loaf from me, wrapping it up in a plastic wrap and handing it back. “Merry Christmas, Sheriff.”

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December 25, 2024

“Starter’s End”

A Longmire Christmas Story

by Craig Johnson

“Maybe the um, stuff here would like to go on a cruise, too?” Ruby, my stalwart dispatcher stared at me, not giving an inch between sourdough starter and a hard place. “It really needs to be fed and taken care of?” She leaned forward, sliding the Ball mason jar with a rubber band at its midriff across my desk toward me, the off-white, goopy contents sloshing inside. “Yes, it does.” I glanced at Dog, asleep and snoring on the floor. “Like a pet?” She took off her glasses with the string of pearls connected to them -- I was sure, thinking about strangling me with the things. “It’s very simple, Walter. You just give it a stable temperature and feed it flour and water.” “Can’t somebody else do this?” “There isn’t anybody else.” It was true, we were coming down to the wire of the holidays at Christmas Eve and most of the staff was preparing to leave this very night. I leaned down at worm’s eye view and stared at the bubbly slime, fingering the purple rubber band. “To the purple born, huh? How old is it?” “Over a hundred and fifty years old; it was brought here on the Bozeman trail by my ancestors just after the Civil War.” Ruby had won another all-expense paid holiday cruise that was to start the next day, the problem being that the members of the Methodist Ladies Baking League needed portions of said starter for their own Christmas treats -- and no sacrament was higher in the Methodist Church than baked goods. “Why can’t you just give it to them now?” “There’s only one jar and I can’t separate it just yet.” “What about one of the Methodist ladies, can’t they take this on?” “They’re all busy.” I tipped my hat up, peering at her from under the brim. “I’m the Sheriff of Absaroka County on a holiday weekend -- you don’t think I’m going to be kind of busy?” “You don’t have to carry it around with you, Walter. You just have to feed it and get it to Barbara at the two appointed times.” I stared at the jar and was sure the thing had just burbled at me. “What about Dorothy down at the Busy Bee, surely she could do it?” “She’s leaving too, visiting her children over in Jackson. Besides, the timing is crucial, it has to be fed, separated, kneaded and baked.” I rose and slumped back in my chair. “By the way.” Standing, she started out into the outer office but called over her shoulder. “His name is Abraham.” *** I sipped my coffee and looked up at the chief cook and bottle washer of the all but empty Busy Bee Café. “There are starters that are four thousand and five hundred years old? How is that even possible?” She refilled my mug as I sat down on a stool at the counter. “They recovered the yeast microbes from archeological digs in Egypt and just added water and flour and they sprang back to life.” “Sounds like a recipe for disaster.” I sipped my coffee. “Like one of those Drive-In movies from the 50’s or something -- The Sourdough that Ate the World.” She leaned down in my eye’s view, glancing conspiratorially at the jar to our right. “It’s bread, Walter.” “Right.” “You can do this.” “Right.” “Who’s the chief Methodist League lady on the list?” “Barb Graff.” “Oh, God.” I looked up at her. “Not helpful, Dorothy.” “She’s the original Daughters of the American Revolution Harpy.” The late mayor’s wife, Barbara Graff was a legend in Absaroka County and not a good one, known for her strident views on religion, politics and every other hot- topic issue you could think of. “She’s supposed to help me do the two separations tonight, and I’m hoping she’ll take the whole thing and relieve me of duty.” “I wouldn’t count on it.” The phone began ringing and I watched as Dorothy moved behind the counter, replacing the coffee urn and picking up the receiver. “Now, drink up and get out of here.” There was only one other customer at the café, the proprietor from the Hitching Post Gallery across the street sat at a table by the windows overlooking a frozen Clear Creek possibly wishing for warmer days. “Merry Christmas, Hugh.” “You too, Walt.” “Walt?” I turned to find Dorothy holding the phone out to me. “It’s for you on line one.” I reached out and took it, stretching the cord. “You only have one line.” She breezed by me, clearing Hugh’s table as he headed out the door with a wave. “That was a joke.” I held the phone up to my ear. “Longmire.” “Hey Chief, it’s Barrett and it’s Friday. You weren’t answering your radio, so I took a chance you were at the Bee. Sancho says they’ve got a 10-31A at Lynn’s Superfoods.” I rolled my eyes at my part time dispatcher. “Remind me again, what’s a 10-31A?” “Burglary.” “Somebody’s robbing the IGA on Christmas Eve?” “Well, kind of... I guess some kids saw the skylight at the grocery store was open and decided to do a little Mission Improbable. When Saizarbitoria got there he hit ‘em with the spotlight and they all ran, all but one -- the seven-year-old they lowered into the store with a rope. He’s still in there trying to get out.” “Did you call Shelia McAlpin, the manager?” “Yeah, she’s on her way but Sancho says he’s supposed to be on the road to Rawlins in about an hour, and wanted to know if you’d like to catch this one?” “Where’s Vic?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you...” *** It was my grocery store, at least the one I shopped at when I remembered to buy food. I sent Sancho on his Merry Christmas way and shined my flashlight inside, where sure enough a kid was jumping up and down, trying to grab the rope end that swayed just out of his reach, ducking away into the aisles when he saw me. The manager, Shelia arrived and unlocked the door. “Any other way out of the place?” “Nope, other than the skylight, that is.” “Well, you’re going to know the store better than me, so do you want to go in and flush him out and I’ll try and intercept him here?” “Sure.” She smiled. “You gonna loan me your gun?” “He’s seven, Shelia.” I watched as the manager went in and down the aisle, but not before flipping the switch and turning on the flickering lights throughout the grocery store. I looked back at Dog, seated in the passenger seat and watching the action unfold, Abraham the sourdough starter resting on the dash, noticeably nonplussed. Pulling out my pocket watch, I noticed it was getting close to the time when I was supposed to meet Barb Graff, suddenly hearing a crashing noise and a measure of hubbub from inside the grocery store. The seven-year-old appeared with a bundle of paper towels at the far end of the aisle, rounding the corner and then placing them on the floor and stepping up to try and grab the rope but then Shelia appeared and made a beeline for him, and I watched as the kid abandoned that idea and leapt off the makeshift platform, heading straight for the front door and me. Making use of my old offensive tackle days, I spread my arms and caught the little bugger as the automatic door slid open and he attempted to dart to the left. Sweeping him up in my arm, I felt him bite my hand and then carried him, kicking and screaming back into the store, where I sat him on the bagging portion of the checkout area as the manager approached with an armload of groceries, dumping them on the beltway as I stooped to pick up a battered paperback that had fallen out of the kid’s coat pocket. The lawbreaker tried to scramble off the counter as I stuffed the book under my arm and reseated him, kneeling down to identify the subject. “Howdy.” He said nothing in return, wiping a running nose with a stained puffy, insulated sleeve and staring at me. “Got a name?” I glanced at Shelia and then straightened, pulling out the paperback and studying the pulpy cover with a snarling gunsel aiming a pistol at a provocatively dressed dame in a slinky outfit. “You have the right to remain silent, but I’d advise against it because if you do, you’ll be spending the night in jail and Old St. Nick won’t know where to find you.” The suspect wiped his nose with the sleeve, again. “There ain’t no such thing as Santa Clause, flatfoot.” I sighed, leafing through the book and then closing it and stuffing it back in my pocket. “I’m beginning to think you might be right, kid.” “It’s funny...” Shelia continued pulling items from a canvas, newspaper delivery bag and placing them on the belt. “It’s all staples, fruit, rolls, vegetables and a canned ham -- pretty much all the makings for a holiday meal.” She glanced up at me. “No candy or toys, just real food.” After loading the suspect up in the front seat, I waved goodbye to McAlpin and wheeled around in the parking lot and headed for Barb Graff’s house in the well- heeled part of town. “So, where do you live?” “None of your business, loogan.” “Loogan?” He glanced at me, gesturing toward my sidearm. “A bull with a roscoe.” I shook my head. “Who in the world are you?” He ignored me, glancing at the Mason jar now in the cup holder of the center console. “What’s with the dingus, McGee?” I gestured toward the jar. “Abraham, meet Al Capone.” *** The Graff home was a sprawling Victorian on the north side of town near the golf course, with turrets and circular, covered porches festively decorated, the windows glowing a tawny holiday warmth with a single candle in each one. I parked in the front and shut off the motor, picking up the jar and then turning to look at the culprit who finally glanced up at me as he scratched at his stocking cap. “What’s the grift goon? Go climb up your thumb ‘cause I ain’t spillin’ the beans.” I threw a look to the back where Dog sat, watching the kid. “Alright, Dillinger, you see Rin-Tin-Tin, here? “Yeah, I made the nipper.” “Well, I don’t have handcuffs small enough to fit you, but if you try and make a run for it, he’ll nab you. Savvy?” “Yeah, I won’t take the air.” I stared at him, finally shaking my head and climbing out, taking Abraham with me. I pushed the bell on the extravagant home and was rewarded with a chime version of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. It opened and a fireplug of a woman stood holding the door in a flour-dusted apron, her hair piled up on her head, looking at her wristwatch through a pair of cats-eyeglasses. “You’re late, Sheriff.” She said my title like it was contaminated. “It’s been a busy night, Mrs. Graff.” I followed her in the house, the smell of gingerbread and peppermint wafting the air as we walked by a hearty fire burning on a big-screen TV. She pushed open a swinging door and circled around a center island in the frighteningly equipped kitchen that seemed more like an operating room than a place to prepare food. “You were supposed to be here at nine; now I’m behind.” “Sorry.” I sat the jar on the counter. With a great show of disgust, she took out some flour and what looked like a filtered pitcher, unscrewing the lid of Abraham like removing a small crown and adding a little of both ingredients. “I hope that when you fed it, you didn’t use tap water.” “No, Ma’am.” Which wasn’t a lie in that I hadn’t fed the concoction at all. Gently swirling the jar, she crossed to a massive refrigerator, then returned to look at me. “From the looks of it, you haven’t fed it at all.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “You know Sheriff, Ruby wouldn’t have entrusted you with this if it wasn’t important.” I nodded, adding solemnly as I pulled the paperback of James M. Cain’s The Cocktail Waitress from my pocket, noticing the markings from the Absaroka County Library and the discard stamp with the penciled-in price of twenty-five cents. “You know, I was thinking about that and figured that maybe you could take over the duties in that you’re much more knowledgeable about this stuff?” She stared at me as she produced a large, stainless steel mixing bowl and poured a portion of Abraham into a measuring cup and then into the container. “This, stuff, as you call it is the reason mankind has made it as far as it has, Sheriff.” “The staff of life, or so they tell me.” “Do you think Moses and the Lost Tribes of Judea would’ve made it out of the desert after forty years if they hadn’t discovered unleavened bread?” “I’m sure the bread helped, but I’m thinking a compass might’ve been a better idea, huh?” She studied me. “You know, that’s why my husband and I never voted for you.” I cleared my throat, unsure if I really wanted to ask the next question. “And why, pray tell, is that?” “You’re not a serious man.” Wiping her hands on her apron one last time, she re- crowned Abraham and slid the jar toward me. “I think that the job requires a certain amount of solemnity for the man to be taken seriously, and I think you lack that gravity, yes.” “And you don’t think that hauling around a jar of yeast as a sidekick on a very busy Christmas Eve doesn’t require a certain amount of humor?” I picked up the jar, noticing that the rubber band was now missing and tucked it under my arm. “Just like the rest of the job?” “I believe humor is an overrated quality in a man.” I nodded my head and then turned, heading through the swinging door. “You know, Mrs. Graff, I believe you.” *** “You had one job.” When I got back to the truck, there was only a single occupant, and I stared at the hairy ruffian. “Did you at least see which way he went?” Dog turned his head and gazed back up the street. “Right.” Resting the jar of starter back in the center console, I plucked the mic from my dash and keyed it. “Barrett, are you there?” Static. “Roger, that.” Pulling the paperback from my pocket, I thumbed through it, seeing how many times the battered pulp had been checked out. “Hey, look up the number for Lindsey Belliveau and call her up for me, would you?” Static. “The librarian?” “Yep, and ask her to do me a favor, see if there are any kids who’ve been buying a lot of pulp crime novels out of the discard rack, and I mean a lot. Suspect is about seven to eight years of age, brown hair, green eyes, a nose that runs like a faucet and a vocabulary like John Garfield. I need a name and an address.” Static. “Roger that, Chief.” I keyed the mic again as I spun the Bullet around and slowly crept up the street with my spotlight illuminating the rows of brightly decorated houses. “Where’s Vic?” Static. “Still refereeing the altercation at the apartment building next to the Kum & Go.” “Still?” Static. “Yeah.” Spotting a figure ducking between houses, I hit the gas and turned a corner, sliding to a stop and leaping out and following the little hoodlum into a dead- end drive that led to one of those tiny, Model-A garages. Seeing he was trapped, I watched as he attempted to climb up the fence but couldn’t quite make it. “Long night to be a short criminal, huh?” Falling against the fence, he turned to look at me, once again wiping his nose. “Why don’t you just blow?” Taking him by the scruff of the neck, I carried him to the passenger side door and popped him inside, attaching his seat belt. I then came around, climbed in and backed out of the driveway, heading east toward the main drag. After a moment, he mumbled to himself. “I almost made the clean sneak. So, what’s the Chinese angle?” “We’re going to the fights.” He slumped back in his seat. “Personally, I prefer the bangtails, but we can take in some chin music.” He gestured toward the windshield with a flicking of his smallish fingers, urging me onward and into the night. “Drift, gumshoe.” *** In my law-enforcement career, I have seen many, many strange things, but nothing as strange as the young, intoxicated woman wrestling with a large, inflatable snowman. Periodically, the embattled lawn decoration holding a sign that read HAPPY HOLIDAYS would get in a lucky and unintentional shot, whereupon the aggressor would be sent sliding down the hillside near the edge of the Kum & Go parking lot where I now sat in my truck beside Vic’s unit. Struggling to her feet, the woman would scream obscenities at the snowman and then charge up the hill as if it were San Juan to engage the inflatable again. Dog, the child/felon and I had watched this display through the windshield three times in a row, now. “Gimme your foot.” The kid looked at me. “What’s the buzz?” Pulling my handcuffs from my belt, I attached one side to the steering wheel and then reached down, taking the kid’s leg and raising it until I could attach the other end to his ankle. “You copping me to this tin lizzie?” “Just until I get this situation under control. I’ll be right back.” Getting out, I watched as the snowman scored another inadvertent blow, sending the drunk woman down the hill once more where she rolled to my feet and lay there muttering language that would’ve made a stevedore blush. Victoria Moretti was above on the balcony of the apartment building with a crowd of merry makers enjoying the show. Looking up, I shouted. “Hey, Vic!” Hanging over the railing, Moretti called down. “Buon Natale!” Making a show of pulling out my pocket watch, I held it up. “You know you’ve got a flight in about ninety minutes, right?” “Yeah, I’m fine.” The young woman attempted to stand again, but I placed her back in a sitting position as she cursed at me, swatting at my leg, possibly mistaking me for the snowman. “Doing what?” My undersheriff produced a large roll of bills, counting. “My money is on Frosty, but the losers in #23 here are having a party and all their money is on Amy Sue Barnes down there.” Bringing a hand to the side of her mouth, she mocked whispering. “I think they’ve been drinking, ‘cause I’ve pretty much paid for my flight back to Philadelphia.” Still grousing, Amy Sue Barnes attempted to get up again, but I planted her once more. “Throw me your wrist irons?” Pocketing the roll, Vic pulled her cuffs from her belt and tossed them down to me. “Catch!” I caught the hardware and then assisted the exhausted, feather-weight inflatable champion to her feet, cuffing her hands behind her back as Vic arrived and glanced up at me with a playful salute. “Amy Sue here barged into the apartment…” “23?” “No, ground floor #19, unwelcomed and uninvited by the occupant, Paul Birkholz who heard someone banging on his door and allowed her entrance, whereupon said Amy Sue Barnes began cursing and told Mister Birkholz to -- and I quote, “Shut the hell up and sit down”. Mister Birkholz at that point, picked Amy Sue up and deposited her outside, shutting and locking the door before calling us.” She glanced at my truck and then back at me. “Reporting officer arrived and observed Ms. Barnes pummeling an inflatable snowman before slipping and sliding down the hillside in an increasingly intoxicated and agitated state, screaming profanities. By this time partygoers in #23 had decided to occupy the balcony from the perspective above where they began placing bets with the attending officer over who would win the fight.” She looked past me, again. Patting the roll of bills, she smiled, the oversize canine tooth on full display. “Four-hundred and eighty-three dollars and fifty-six cents.” She glanced around me, even again. “Do you mind if I ask what it is you keep looking at?” She leaned to the side. “Why is that kid in your unit holding a jar out the passenger-side window?” Spinning around, I started toward my truck in time to see the hand of the diminutive felon holding Abraham, the sourdough starter by the lid, out and suspended above the asphalt surface of the Kum & Go parking lot. He swirled the jar, making sure he had my attention. I stopped. “Kid, whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t.” He shouted. “Spring me, or I deep-six the dingus.” Vic was at my side with the cuffed snowman fighter, her hand on her sidearm. “What’s a dingus?” “I’ll tell you later.” I took a step forward, moving slowly toward the window. “What’s in that jar is very important to a lot of people, and if you drop it then I’m going to be in a lot of trouble.” He swirled the jar some more and in the dim light of the parking lot and I watched as Abraham burbled. “So, let’s talk turkey, shamus. Don’t gonif me and I’ll take it on the lamb, leaving the dingus over near that boiler at the end of the lot.” I could feel Vic closing in behind me as I blocked the kid’s vision, textbook in armed hostage situations. “He’s cuffed?” I mumbled over my shoulder. “Ankle to the steering wheel.” Her voice muffled against my back. “Agree, then I’ll duck down by the front of the truck with Amy Sue as you move right and distract him, and then I’ll come around the corner and snatch the dingus.” Raising my hands, I took another step forward and spoke in a reassuring tone. “Okay kid, you got me. I’m going to uncuff you, okay?” He nodded and I headed in the direction of the driver’s side, keeping my hands where he could see and distract him. I opened the door and then carefully pulled the keys from my pocket, slowly reaching down and around the wheel and unfettering the kid. I’d just released him when Vic made her move, and she probably would’ve got it if Amy Sue hadn’t decided at that precise moment to take another crack at the inflatable Frosty. As Vic moved around the corner of the truck, Amy Sue bolted for her arch adversary, tripping my undersheriff as she fell forward, reaching for the jar. The kid, feeling the pressure must’ve thought he was dropping it and yanked up as Vic pulled down, sending Abraham spinning in the air. It was one of those horrific, slow- motion moments, like a car crash, the ones that last a lifetime and a half. I watched as the starter spun in the thin air of the Kum & Go sparking like a Christmas kaleidoscope, the glass sending off silver sparks and the golden glow of the lid and cap in an absolute festive flash of twirling light. Abraham was at the center of it all, perhaps having the time of his one- hundred-and fifty-year-old life, never having had the opportunity to shake a leg in holiday dance but here he was, doing just that. I like to think he was having a good time in those last moments and that he’d been having a joyous time on his entire Christmas adventure, but I guess I’ll never know. Vic’s face appeared for an instant in the window, but then disappeared as she leapt after the jar as it spun away, the only sound the laced profanity of Amy Sue as she began round twelve with the inflatable snowman -- along with the loud pop of a glass breaking on the hard asphalt surface of the parking lot. *** “There’s still some in the unbroken part of the jar.” “How much?” Vic held the punt up to the light as she leaned in the open window of my truck. “Maybe four tablespoons?” “Think that’s enough?” “How the hell should I know? I might’ve scooped up some snow with it, but I did get rid of the cigarette butt and the bottle cap.” She held the bottom of the jar at an angle, collecting the mass at one corner, carefully handing it over to me. “Sorry to leave you like this, but I’ve gotta catch a flight.” “Coward.” “You’re damn right, I don’t want anything to do with the wrath of Ruby.” Looking at the sickly goop in the shattered jar, I could feel my hopes sinking. “This is not good.” “No shit, Sherlock.” I turned and looked at the kid in the back. “You really need to pipe down.” A slurred voice joined the fray. “You need...” She hiccupped. “A quata... A quarter to a half-cup per loaf of ac... Active starter.” Both Vic and I turned to look at Amy Sue Barnes. “According to the recipe.” She hiccupped, again. I swirled the remains in the partial jar. “Well, we haven’t got that here.” “Ge... Got some in my refrigerator, at...” She hiccupped, even again. “At home.” I glanced at Vic and then back at Amy Sue. “...You have sourdough starter in your refrigerator?” “Swat...” Hiccup. “S’what I said.” “Are you willing to give up a cup or two?” She nodded, her chin finally resting on her chest as she spoke into her lap. “Youlet... You me sleep at home tonight?” I glanced at Vic still hanging in the open window, who shrugged. “Well, I don’t think the inflatable snowman is going to press charges.” *** “It’s her mother’s starter, but I don’t think she’ll mind if it keeps her daughter out of jail on Christmas Eve.” Taking the open jar from the elderly gentleman in the sweater, we both stood on the porch and listened to a great deal of screaming and yelling coming from in the house where, evidently, Amy Sue was not being readily welcomed back into the loving holiday bosom of her family. “I ran what you had through a filter to make sure there weren’t any glass shards in it.” The man cleared his throat, trying to drown out the angry voices. “But make sure you leave the jar open so that it can breathe, it’s been through a lot.” “Right.” There were some crashing noises and more yelling as he glanced back in the house. “You better go, Mister Barnes.” He smiled as he closed the door. “Happy holidays.” As I walked back to the truck, I thought I could hear Barrett on the radio. Opening the door, I fished in my pockets for the keys and unlocked the mini felon from the steering wheel. “Was that my radio?” He slouched against the passenger side door giving me the stink-eye, but seemingly having lost a bit of his steam. “Mum’s the word, chopper-squad.” Sighing, I started the truck up and then keyed the mic as I lodged the jar on the dash against the windshield behind the handle for my spotlight, far from his grasp. “Barrett, are you there?” Static. “Hey Chief. I’ve got a residence for Jimmie Rowan, the alleged Frozen Food Kid.” I turned and looked at the gremlin. “Is that your name, Jimmie Rowan?” He turned his head, staring at the dash. “Buzz-off, copper.” Static. “Also, Shelia McAlpin called and asked if you’d stop by.” He read off the kid’s address and then paused. “I think she wanted you to swing by the grocery store before you take Jimmie home.” Slipping the truck in gear, I pulled out and headed toward the IGA. When I got there the manager was standing in front of the store with four bags of goods, walking over to the window as I pulled up. “What’s the story, Shelia?” She glanced at the little lifer. “Can I speak with you for a moment?” “Sure.” I climbed out, but not before giving Jimmie a warning look. “I’m right out here, so if you try and make a run for it, I’ll catch you.” Taking the keys and the jar of starter with me, I followed Shelia to the rear of my truck and out of ear shot. “What’s up?” “Walt, your dispatcher gave me the address of that kid and I know that neighborhood, those half-numbers are in the alley and they’re old carriage houses and chicken sheds.” She gestured with the bags. “This is the stuff the kid was trying to steal and its all just regular food, staples of a simple holiday dinner. I know we shouldn’t reward breaking the law, but I’d be okay with just letting the kid have this stuff... I even threw a few extra things in.” I stared at her. “What?” Stepping aside, I dropped the tailgate and relieved her of half the bags, tying them off as she joined me in doing the others. “You know Shelia, every time the possibility of losing my faith in humanity rolls around somebody like you does something like this.” We both smiled at each other as we finished the job and I closed the tailgate, squeezing her shoulder as I climbed back in. Setting the jar full of partial Abraham in the center console, I started for the Rowan address. I glanced over at the alleged. “You ever hear the saying crime doesn’t pay?” Refusing to look at me, he studied the floor mat. “Don’t be a bunny, that stuff’s the bunk.” Ignoring him, I continued. “Listen up you little fakaloo. Shelia McAlpin, the butter and egg gal just made a gift of all the stuff you were trying to scoot with and in my book that makes her a really cool cat, you catch my grift? Now, you on the other hand are a clammed-up chisel headed for the cooler if you don’t cut crossways.” I turned the corner into the alley and drove by some of the tiny, rundown houses. “I’m going to keep the peep on you, so you better lay dormy, or I’ll be the elbow tagging along and you’ll be in dutch.” Lurching to a stop, I glanced at him. “Capisce?” He studied me, his mouth hanging open. “...Uh, yeah.” I hopped out, coming around and getting him from the passenger side, holding my hand out to keep Dog from following us. I closed the door and then had Jimmie join me at the rear of the truck where I gave him two of the bags and then carried the rest. There was a small cyclone fence that sagged between the poles, and we made our way to the door on a well-trodden sheet of ice. I reached up to knock on the door, but the kid just turned the knob and walked in as I stood there in the opening, holding the remaining bags. A woman appeared from around the door, she was young, but high on mileage with a thin and harried looking face. “Can I help you?” “Ms. Rowan?” She noted the badge on my coat. “Yes?” “I just brought your son Jimmie home.” She glanced around for him, but he’d disappeared. “Has he done something wrong?” I cleared my throat. “Well, he was involved with a little trouble at the grocery store, but everything turned out all right.” I held out the bags. “Shelia McAlpin was kind enough to donate these groceries to your household.” She looked genuinely surprised. “And why would she do that?” “I guess she thought you could use some assistance.” She swallowed, and then burst out in tears, covering her face with her hands and leaning against the doorjamb. I would’ve reached out and patted her shoulder or something, but my hands were still filled with the bags. “Um, do you have a place where I can put these?” She took a second to compose herself and then wiped her eyes, reaching out her hands to take the bags. “I am so sorry, but the place is kind of a mess and it’s getting late...” “Certainly, I can imagine how busy you are this evening.” I handed her the bags, then placing my hands in my coat pockets, rediscovered the pulp novel. “Oh, this belongs to your son.” She sat some of the bags down and took the paperback, studying the lurid cover. “Oh... I wish he would read something else.” She looked up at me. “But at least he’s reading, right?” “And expanding his vocabulary.” I pulled my pocket watch from my jeans, staring at the time. “Oh, crap.” Still holding the novel, she stared. “Excuse me?” “Um, I’ve got to go -- happy holidays." Careful to not take a header, I waved and slid down the walkway as she closed the door. Climbing in, I hit the starter and began to pull the thing in gear when I looked down at Abraham, the mason jar in the center console. Empty. I sat there in abject horror, staring at the thing and then turned to look at my boon companion and partner as he cocked his head and rumbled out a very loud and yeasty burp. *** Climbing up the steps of the Victorian house with the all but empty jar, I tried to look on the bright side but couldn’t really envision one. It was five minutes past midnight, but for the first time this evening it really didn’t matter. I pushed the doorbell button again and once more The Battle Hymn of the Republic chimed from inside and I stood there, prepared to face the music. Barb Graff snatched open the door and once again looked at her wristwatch. “You are late again, Sheriff.” “Where the heck do you get a doorbell that plays The Battle Hymn of the Republic?” Rearranging her bouffant with a swipe of a flour covered hand, she placed her fists on her hips. “It’s computerized, so you can program it to play anything.” I made a face. “And you chose The Battle Hymn of the Republic?” “I did.” “And you don’t find that a bit... Odd?” She crossed her arms. “I find it odd that more people don’t have a sense of patriotism in this country, Sheriff.” “Hmm...” I lifted the empty jar, presenting it to her. She studied it. “And this is?” “The remains of the late, great and much-storied Abraham.” She adjusted her glasses on her nose and leaned in to examine it. “There’s nothing there.” I tipped the jar to one side. “There’s a good eighth of an inch, but I can’t vouch for how much of it is Dog backwash.” She straightened, peering over the top of her glasses at me. “You have lost Ruby’s one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old heritage sourdough starter?” “All but the part Dog’s tongue couldn’t reach.” I took her hand and forced her to take the jar. “Mrs. Graff, you have no idea what kind of an evening I’ve had. So, we can hit the doorbell again for musical accompaniment and you can give me your very worst dressing down and I’ll just stand here and take it, because I truly and honestly don’t give a damn.” She stared at me for a moment longer, slowly raising an eyebrow like a striking snake and then did something I found surprising, crooking her finger and bidding me to enter into the inner sanctum. I did as instructed, following her past the televised yule log and through the swinging doors to the nerve center of the house, where she plucked a blushing round loaf from a pile and handed it to me. I examined the rune-like markings in the crust. “What’s this?” “A loaf of walnut/cranberry sourdough bread just for you.” I held it to my nose, sniffing the intoxicating and mouthwatering fragrance. “What, you’re rubbing it in?” “I’m thinking that I’ve been a little harsh with you, and I wanted to apologize.” She studied me for a moment more and then crossed to the massive, double-door, stainless steel refrigerator and extracted a perfect replica, Ball mason jar complete with the purple rubber band, placing it on the raised portion of the counter beside it’s depleted twin without a rubber band. “You switched the jars.” She crossed her arms again and examined me, not unlike Dog. “No offense, but did you honestly think I would rely on you in a situation as exacting as this?” She took the loaf from me, wrapping it up in a plastic wrap and handing it back. “Merry Christmas, Sheriff.”

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• November 2024 - North To Alaska • May 2024 - Twenty For Twenty • March 2024 - Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingle • Christmas 2023 - “Recidivism”