Read Online 3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 by Frederick Ramsay - Free Book Online Page B

that oh zee meant ounces and el bee ess meant pounds. For reasons he could not understand but he guessed some fancy-pants psychologist could, he had taken a liking to the boy. By the time they met Rose and her sister at the front of the store they were as chummy as two ice fishermen in a small hut on a frozen lake in Minnesota.
    ***
    “So, T.J., you think we can get this buggy dug out?” Colonel Bob asked. His vision had cleared up a bit. He knew it would not last, that the blurriness would return soon. The doctor had said macular degeneration. He knew enough about that to know he would be blind in a matter of months, a year at the outside. He looked at his stranded car and wondered if it made any sense to dig it out. He could barely drive it now. And without the car, he would be alone, isolated, unable to get to the store, or anywhere. His heart sank.
    “Yes sir, Mister Colonel Bob, we can get her out.”
    “T.J., drop one or the other of those titles, will you? Either no colonel or no mister.”
    “Okay, which one?”
    “Drop the mister. Now, how about I back up a little—see if it can move.”
    “No, don’t back up.”
    “Why not? The front is on solid ice. Back is the only way she’ll go.”
    “No back up, Colonel Bob. Let me dig out the front.”
    Colonel Bob walked to the rear of the car to explain to T.J. why backwards was preferable to forwards. The blurred image of his mailbox swam into view. It hung at a thirty-degree angle off dead center, snug against his rear bumper. Back would have flattened it.
    “Oh, I see,” he said. “Listen, T.J., I’m going to get my mail out of that box and go inside. Here are the car keys. You dig it out and park it in the driveway. Then come in. We’ll figure out what I owe you. Oh, and if you see my gloves anywhere, bring them in, too.”
    “Okay, Colonel Bob,” T.J. said and slid the shovel under a pile of ice and snow.
    Inside, the colonel could make out the fire flickering on the grate. Its warmth cheered him a bit. He always left the television on when he went out. He had an idea that anyone thinking about breaking in would assume that there must be someone home if the TV was on. He did not watch much television anymore except the news. He mostly listened. News programs were talking heads and he could hear them. If he turned his head sideways and looked at a spot a few feet to the left of the screen he could make out faces on it. Occasionally he managed to watch an old movie, one he had seen many times before so that the images were familiar and he did not miss the focus.
    Colonel Bob snapped off the television and turned his attention to the fistful of mail. It consisted of a stack of Christmas cards the senders of which he probably would not be able to identify, bills with sums he could not read without his magnifying glass, and a letter from the Department of Motor Vehicles. He retrieved his glass. This would not be good news. He read and reread the letter. Then, a decision made, picked up the phone, and carefully punched in the number on its oversized buttons.
    ***
    Nearly an hour had passed when T.J. pushed through the kitchen door. Colonel Bob waved in the general direction of a packet of cocoa mix on the table and the steaming tea kettle. T.J. blew on his hands and sat momentarily unsure what Colonel Bob wanted him to do.
    “Colonel Bob, I found these gloves in the snow. They must be yours because mine are not this color.”
    “Thank you. They’re mine. T.J., I want to make you a proposition.”
    “Make me a proposition?”
    “A deal, an offer. I just talked to Miz Garroway, and she said it would be fine. She said you are one heck of a driver and handy. She hopes you will be living over her garage in a month or so, and helping her and your great aunt Minnie. But she can’t pay you anything. I need a driver and a helping hand right now. This is a letter I received from the Department of Motor Vehicles. It says I have to take a retest to renew my