Tale #003 — The Masons Cricket Investigation
As told by Betsy LeAnne Broussard
The first thing you need to understand is that nobody in Katy Bill had been spying on the Masons.
Not the sheriff’s department. Not the federal government. Not the Methodists.
And most certainly not the crickets.
I feel obliged to establish that right up front, because by Monday evening Elbert Dale Hoss had six mason jars full of alleged insect criminals, the Masonic lodge had been evacuated twice, and Sheriff Bert Grant was threatening to arrest anybody who so much as said the word bug.
All because two old men had a conversation at Frank’s Farm & Feed.
That’s how most of our disasters start. Somebody says somethin’ perfectly ordinary within earshot of Elbert Dale, and the Lord turns His face away for a minute.
It was about nine Monday morning when Elbert went to Frank’s for a sack of chicken feed, a new shovel handle, and a bag of those little orange peanut candies nobody under seventy admits to eating.
Frank was behind the counter, helping Mr. Hollis Fontenot and Mr. Raymond Pitre, both longtime members of the Katy Bill Masonic lodge.
The lodge was an old white building on Cypress Street with green shutters, a tin roof, and a porch that had been sagging on the left side since I was in high school.
Hollis was talking about the lodge’s upcoming meeting.
“Reckon we oughta keep that business behind closed doors,” he said.
Raymond nodded.
“Ain’t no tellin’ who’s listenin’ these days.”
Now, what Hollis meant was that the lodge was discussing repairs to the roof and didn’t want half the town arguing over the estimate before the members had voted on it.
What Elbert heard was something else entirely.
He was standing by the front door, where a cricket had been chirping under the soda machine.
He looked down at it.
Then he looked at Hollis.
Then he looked back at the cricket.
“Y’all got somebody listenin’ to your lodge?” he asked.
Hollis chuckled.
“Not that I know of, Elbert.”
“Well, you might oughta check.”
Raymond smiled. “What for?”
Elbert pointed at the cricket.
“There’s one right there.”
Frank stopped counting change.
“One what?”
“Listener.”
Everybody looked at the floor.
The cricket chirped.
Frank sighed.
“Elbert, that’s a bug.”
“Well, hell, Frank. That’s what I’m tellin’ you.”
Hollis laughed so hard he had to grab the counter.
Elbert didn’t laugh.
He bought his feed, shovel handle, and peanut candies, then asked Frank if crickets could testify in court.
Frank was busy wrestling a stuck receipt out of the register.
“Hell, Elbert, I don’t know.”
Elbert nodded like he’d just received legal advice.
“Reckon I’ll find out.”
At eleven-thirty, I was working the lunch rush at Betsy’s Burger Barn when Bernice Thibodeaux came in and asked whether I’d seen Elbert.
I was halfway through wrapping a cheeseburger.
“Not since Saturday. Why?”
“He’s crawling underneath the Masonic lodge.”
I set down the burger.
“Why?”
“He’s got a flashlight and a bunch of mason jars.”
I closed my eyes.
“Bernice, tell me he ain’t got a shovel.”
“Not that I saw.”
“Thank Jesus for small mercies.”
She leaned over the counter.
“Hollis says Elbert told him the lodge was full of informants.”
I looked at her.
“Informants?”
“That’s what he said.”
“People?”
“Crickets.”
I stood there a moment, listening to the grill hiss behind me.
“Of course it’s crickets.”
Bernice nodded.
“Thought you’d want to know.”
“I don’t particularly want to know, Bernice. But I appreciate you tellin’ me.”
I finished the lunch rush, left Darlene in charge, and drove over to Cypress Street.
The lodge was quiet when I arrived.
Except for the crickets.
And Elbert.
He was lying flat on his stomach beneath the porch with his boots sticking out, hollering into a mason jar.
“ALL RIGHT, NOW. WHO SENT YOU?”
I parked.
“ELBERT DALE HOSS!”
His boots twitched.
“Hey, Betsy.”
“Get out from under that building!”
“Can’t right now. I’m interrogatin’.”
“Interrogatin’ WHAT?”
“Suspect.”
I bent down and looked under the porch.
He had five jars lined up in the dirt. Four contained crickets. One contained a leaf and what looked like half a dead moth.
“Elbert, what the hell are you doing?”
“Investigatin’ a listenin’ operation.”
“Those are crickets.”
“Crime crickets.”
“There’s no such thing as a crime cricket.”
“Well, there wasn’t till I caught ’em.”
He crawled out, brushing dirt off his overalls.
His notebook was sticking out of his back pocket.
I took it.
“What’s this?”
“Evidence.”
The first page read:
FRONT PORCH — TWO LISTENERS.
BACK STEPS — ONE WITH AN ATTITUDE.
UNDER FLOOR — POSSIBLE RINGLEADER.
I looked at him.
“How’d you decide that one’s the ringleader?”
“Biggest one.”
“Elbert, that ain’t how criminal investigations work.”
“Well, how you reckon they pick who’s in charge?”
I opened my mouth.
Then I shut it.
There was no answer I could give him that wouldn’t make things worse.
Mr. Hollis Fontenot came around the corner carrying a toolbox.
He was sixty-eight, retired from the electric company, and about as patient a man as you’d find in Katy Bill.
“Elbert,” he said, “I need you to stop crawling under our building.”
“Can’t do that, Mr. Hollis.”
“Why not?”
“Y’all got bugs.”
“We know we’ve got bugs. It’s Louisiana.”
“Not regular bugs.”
Hollis looked at the jars.
“They look regular to me.”
“That’s how they get away with it.”
Hollis took off his cap and rubbed his forehead.
“Elbert, we have a meeting tonight. I need this porch clear.”
“Meeting about what?”
“Private lodge business.”
Elbert’s eyes widened.
“See, Betsy? They already know too much.”
Hollis stared at him.
“What?”
Elbert pointed at the jars.
“These fellas been listenin’ to y’all’s private business.”
“Those fellas are crickets.”
“Well, I ain’t established their names yet.”
Hollis looked at me.
I looked at Hollis.
Neither one of us had the strength.
“I’ll call Bert,” Hollis said.
“Please do,” I told him.
Elbert perked up.
“Good. Need somebody with arrestin’ authority.”
Biggun arrived fifteen minutes later.
Sheriff Bert Grant climbed out of his patrol car wearing his uniform, his badge, and the particular expression he reserved for discovering Elbert Dale Hoss at the center of something that ought not require law enforcement.
He looked at me.
“Betsy.”
“Biggun.”
He looked at Hollis.
“Hollis.”
Then he looked at Elbert and the jars.
“No.”
Elbert waved.
“Hey, Biggun.”
“No.”
“Got us a case.”
“No, you do not.”
“Six suspects.”
Biggun stared at the jars.
“Those are crickets.”
“That’s what they want you to think.”
“ELBERT.”
“What?”
“Crickets cannot commit espionage.”
Elbert considered that.
“Reckon that’s why they keep gettin’ away with it.”
Biggun took a slow breath.
“Hollis, did he damage anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Did he threaten anybody?”
“Only the insects.”
Biggun looked at Elbert.
“Pick up your jars and go home.”
“Can’t. They’re evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Listenin’.”
Biggun pointed at the lodge.
“Elbert, this is private property. You cannot crawl underneath a building and collect things without permission.”
Elbert frowned.
“Well, I ain’t got a warrant.”
“Exactly.”
“Didn’t think I needed one.”
“You do.”
“Even if I ain’t a cricket?”
Biggun closed his eyes.
I watched a vein appear in his forehead.
“Elbert, take your jars off this property.”
“Can I put the crickets in protective custody?”
“No.”
“Can I question ’em at the sheriff’s office?”
“No.”
“Can I get ’em a lawyer?”
“NO.”
Elbert looked genuinely troubled.
“Well, Biggun, how’s a cricket supposed to turn his life around if the law won’t help him?”
Biggun pointed toward the road.
“GO.”
Elbert gathered his jars.
As he walked past me, he leaned close and whispered, “They don’t want this investigation goin’ nowhere, Betsy.”
“Elbert, there is no investigation.”
“That’s what makes it suspicious.”
He went home.
Or so I thought.
At six-thirty that evening, the lodge members gathered for their meeting.
Hollis had set out folding chairs. Raymond was checking the attendance book. Mr. Armand Boudreaux, who’d been elected to preside over the meeting, was reviewing the roof repair estimates.
They had important business to conduct.
The lodge roof leaked in three places, the contractor’s price had gone up, and half the members wanted to replace the porch steps before somebody broke a hip.
Nobody wanted a cricket investigation.
At six-forty-five, Elbert Dale Hoss walked through the front door carrying six mason jars in a wooden feed crate.
He’d cleaned himself up.
He’d put on a button-down shirt.
And he’d tied a necktie around his collar so crooked it looked like a snake trying to escape.
Hollis met him at the entrance.
“Elbert. What are you doing here?”
“Got a development.”
“We’re about to start our meeting.”
“Good. Got witnesses.”
Hollis looked into the crate.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Elbert stepped around him.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Hollis. I got their statements.”
He hadn’t.
What he’d actually done was put a piece of paper beside each jar and wait to see if the cricket chirped.
If it chirped, he wrote YES.
If it didn’t, he wrote REFUSED.
One jar had HOSTILE written on it because the cricket jumped against the glass.
Elbert considered that a threat.
Mr. Armand Boudreaux stood up.
“Elbert, this is a private meeting.”
“I know. That’s why I brought ’em.”
“Who?”
“Whistlechirpers.”
Nobody said anything.
Elbert held up a jar.
“These fellas been listenin’ to y’all’s secrets. But I reckon they’re ready to tell the truth now.”
Armand looked at Hollis.
Hollis looked at Raymond.
Raymond looked toward the door, possibly considering escape.
“Elbert,” Armand said carefully, “you need to leave.”
“Can’t yet. Got to give ’em cath are sis.”
“Give them what?”
“Cath are sis.”
Armand blinked.
“Do you mean catharsis?”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Elbert waved that away.
“Frank said folks gotta get their feelin’s out before they can move on.”
“Those are insects.”
“Well, they been holdin’ a lot in.”
Hollis stepped forward.
“Elbert, put those jars down and go.”
Elbert set the crate on the meeting table.
“That’s what I’m fixin’ to do. But first I gotta let ’em speak.”
He unscrewed the first lid.
“Elbert,” Hollis said.
He unscrewed the second.
“Elbert, don’t.”
Third.
Fourth.
“ELBERT!”
Fifth.
Sixth.
Then he tipped the jars over.
Six crickets scattered across the table.
One jumped onto the attendance book.
One disappeared beneath the presiding officer’s chair.
One landed on Raymond Pitre’s trouser leg.
Raymond slapped at it.
The cricket went up inside his pants.
Raymond made a noise I have never heard a grown man make before or since.
He jumped out of his chair, grabbed his belt, and began hopping sideways across the meeting room.
“GET IT OUT! GET THE DAMN THING OUT!”
Armand stood up so fast his chair tipped backward.
Hollis lunged for the jars.
Elbert spread his arms.
“EVERYBODY QUIET! THEY’RE TESTIFYIN’!”
A cricket chirped beneath Armand’s chair.
Elbert pointed.
“THERE! THAT ONE’S A WHISTLECHIRPER!”
“ELBERT, GET OUT!”
“HE’S CONFESSIN’!”
“HE’S A CRICKET!”
“THAT DON’T MEAN HE AIN’T SORRY!”
Raymond was now standing on one leg, trying to shake the cricket out of his trousers without taking his pants off in front of the entire lodge.
Two other members were on their hands and knees, attempting to catch insects with paper cups.
Armand was trying to restore order by banging a wooden gavel on the table.
Every time he struck it, Elbert shouted, “ORDER IN THE COURT!”
It was not a court.
Nobody had said it was a court.
But Elbert had decided that if witnesses were speaking, there ought to be a judge.
And if there was a judge, somebody ought to call for order.
A cricket landed on Armand’s gavel.
Armand dropped it.
Elbert gasped.
“HE’S TAMPERIN’ WITH THE EVIDENCE!”
Hollis grabbed Elbert by the elbow.
“OUT!”
Elbert planted his boots.
“Can’t leave yet. They ain’t finished their cath are sis.”
“THEY DON’T HAVE FEELINGS TO GET OUT!”
“Well, hell, Mr. Hollis. Neither does Clyde half the time, but we still let him come around.”
Hollis didn’t know who Clyde was.
That was probably for the best.
I was at the Stop-N-Go when Biggun called.
He didn’t say hello.
He said, “Come get him.”
I leaned against the counter.
“What’d he do?”
“Crickets.”
I sighed.
“How many?”
“Six.”
“Any damage?”
“One overturned chair, a broken gavel, and Raymond Pitre may need new pants.”
“Is Raymond hurt?”
“No. Just humiliated.”
“Well, thank God.”
Biggun went quiet for a moment.
Then he said, very slowly, “Betsy, he turned insects loose in the middle of a private meeting because he said they needed emotional release.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“That sounds like Elbert.”
“He called them whistlechirpers.”
“That sounds like Elbert too.”
“He tried to appoint me special prosecutor.”
“Did you accept?”
“BETSY.”
“I’m comin’, Biggun.”
When I got to the lodge, Elbert was sitting on the porch steps with his empty jars.
Biggun stood beside him, arms folded.
Hollis was inside sweeping crickets out from beneath the chairs.
Raymond had gone home.
I didn’t ask about his pants.
“Elbert Dale,” I said, “what in the name of all that’s holy have you done?”
He looked up.
“Helped the Masons.”
“How?”
“Got rid of their crime crickets.”
“By turnin’ ’em loose inside the building?”
“Well, they weren’t crime crickets no more.”
“Why not?”
“Gave ’em cath are sis.”
Biggun made a sound like somebody stepping on a rusty hinge.
“Elbert,” he said, “you have disrupted a lawful private meeting, trespassed after being warned, and refused to follow direct instructions from a peace officer.”
Elbert nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you going to do it again?”
“No, sir.”
Biggun relaxed about half an inch.
Then Elbert added, “Not unless I find more crime crickets.”
Biggun’s shoulders went right back up.
I stepped between them.
“Elbert, get in my truck.”
“But Betsy—”
“GET. IN. THE. TRUCK.”
He got in.
Biggun leaned toward me.
“If he comes back here with another jar, I’m charging him.”
“I understand.”
“And tell him to stay away from my office.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Biggun looked toward the lodge.
A cricket chirped from somewhere beneath the porch.
He shut his eyes.
“Lord give me strength.”
I drove Elbert home in silence.
He sat beside me with his empty jars on his lap, looking pleased with himself.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Elbert.”
“Ma’am?”
“Why’d you turn them crickets loose?”
“Had to.”
“Why?”
“They was ready to tell the truth.”
“How do you know?”
“They started chirpin’.”
“Elbert, crickets chirp all the time.”
“Well, reckon they got a lot to get off their chest.”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“And how’s anybody supposed to know what they witnessed?”
He looked at me like I’d asked whether water was wet.
“They’ll tell everybody.”
“ELBERT, THEY’RE CRICKETS.”
“Well, Betsy, they been chirpin’ about it all day.”
I pulled into the farmyard.
Clyde was sitting on the porch of the shed in his fedora, cleaning the dirt out of his fingernails with a little stick.
Paul was asleep inside.
Elbert climbed out, collected his jars, and walked toward the shed.
“Night, Betsy.”
“Night, Elbert.”
He stopped.
“Oh, and Betsy?”
“What?”
“Don’t tell Biggun, but I reckon one of them whistlechirpers followed him home.”
I stared at him.
“Why would you think that?”
“Saw one jump in his patrol car.”
I looked at the darkening sky.
“Elbert, leave the sheriff alone.”
“I ain’t botherin’ Biggun.”
“Then who’s botherin’ him?”
“The crickets, Betsy. I already told you.”
He went inside.
I drove home.
Tuesday morning, Biggun called me at seven-fifteen.
Again, no hello.
“Betsy.”
“Morning, Biggun.”
“There’s a cricket in my patrol car.”
I closed my eyes.
“All right.”
“It’s chirping behind the dashboard.”
“All right.”
“I can’t get it out.”
“All right.”
He took a breath.
“Elbert told Hollis yesterday that the crickets were conducting a second investigation.”
I said nothing.
“Betsy.”
“Yes, Biggun?”
“Tell me he doesn’t think I’m under investigation by insects.”
I looked out my kitchen window.
The sun was coming up over Katy Bill.
Somewhere across town, a perfectly good sheriff was sitting in a perfectly good patrol car listening to a cricket sing behind his dashboard.
And somewhere out on a thousand acres of inherited farmland, Elbert Dale Hoss was probably eating orange peanut candies and congratulating himself on reforming six hardened criminals.
“Biggun,” I said, “I don’t think you want me to answer that.”
He hung up.
I finished my coffee.
And for the rest of that week, every time a cricket chirped anywhere near the Stop-N-Go, I checked the parking lot for Elbert Dale Hoss.
Because the last thing Katy Bill needed was another goddamn witness protection program.