Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 09 (17 page)

Instead of answering, she leaned against her car and began to sob. Ruby Bee patted her on the back, then turned to me and in a low voice, said, “She isn’t wearing her glasses because Malachi Hope cured her astigmatism last night. He told her to come up on the stage, put his hands on her shoulders, and prayed that Jesus should restore her vision. He carried on until I thought he was going to blow her off the stage. Then he announced that she was cured, and she fell backward into Seraphina’s arms.”

“That’s it?” I said. “Somebody ought to give him a shot at the federal deficit.”

“This is not the time for wisecracks, Miss Glib Lips. After Seraphina got Lottie steadied on her feet, she told Lottie to throw away her glasses and prove she was cured by reading the Twenty-third Psalm. Lottie took a card and read it, although she was so choked up that it was hard to hear her.”

“Lottie Estes could recite the Twenty-third Psalm while undergoing a triple bypass. For that matter, so could you.” I looked up as I heard a siren. “I don’t want Lottie to drive until she either replaces her glasses or has her eyes tested by a professional. Can you take her home and fix her some tea?”

“I’ll see to her. You might drop by the bar later and find out what else went on last night at the revival. Malachi Hope performed more than one so-called miracle.”

“Hallelujah,” I said as I went to speak to the paramedics, get traffic rolling, and call the county home.

—==(O)==—

“That comes to two hundred and eighty-six dollars and seventeen cents,” the clerk said, wishing her manager would come back from lunch and deal with this unbalanced woman who’d just about cleared three shelves—and here it was only August.

Mrs. Jim Bob slapped down a credit card.

—==(O)==—

Joey came out of the tent in time to see Chastity get out of a battered car with fins high enough to scrape an underpass. The car itself dishonored the entire automotive industry.

“Thanks for the lift, Arnie,” she said to the unseen driver and waved as the car careened back toward the road. Then she came across the pasture. “Where’s Malachi?”

“He and Thomas went into Farberville to look for Seraphina. They’re worried about her, so they decided to cruise by some motels and restaurant parking lots in hopes of spotting her car. Where have you been?”

“Around.”

Joey grimaced. “You’d better come up with a more plausible explanation by the time Malachi gets back. He raised all kinds of hell about you taking off this morning while he was in the shower. If I were you, I’d think twice before I did something calculated to infuriate him.”

“I don’t give a shit about him,” Chastity said, pushing back her bangs and staring angrily at the road that led down the hill. “And I don’t give a shit about Seraphina, either.”

“What happened between you and her last night?”

She went past him into the tent and sat down on the end of a metal bench. “She yelled at me, so I yelled back at her. When we got here, she practically shoved me out of her car and told me she was going for a drive to cool off.”

“She was in a real bad mood,” Joey said, sitting across from her. “Right after the show, she stormed into the van and fired me, but I had enough sense to wait until this morning to make my dramatic exit. Malachi ended up having to double my salary.” He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, wondering what Chastity was up to. Instead of asking the obvious question, she extended her hand. “Gimme one, Joey.”

“Get rid of it damn fast if you hear a car coming,” he said as he handed her the pack and a lighter. “Did you hear about the basketball coach killing herself last night?”

“I heard about it.” She lit a cigarette, dropped the pack and lighter, and walked out of the tent.

Joey watched her until she’d disappeared down the hill. Agreeing to stay might have been a bad decision, he thought as he finished his cigarette. When he took a vacation next week, he might take off for Mexico and points south. The five-thousand-dollar bonus he’d demanded to stay through the weekend could buy a lot of enchiladas.

—==(O)==—

Darla Jean was staring at the dashboard, her expression reminiscent of a possum paralyzed by headlights. I got back in the car, handed her a cherry limeade, and said, “Do you want to stay here and talk, or go for a drive?”

“Not here,” she whispered. “Somebody’ll see us.”

I pulled away from the Dairee Dee-Lishus and turned north. If Darla Jean was responsive, we might not make it all the way to the Missouri line, but I had a full tank of gas and as much time as it took.

As we passed the remains of Purtle’s Esso, I said, “Where would you like to begin, Darla Jean?”

“I’d like to begin by asking you to turn around and take me back to my car, but I don’t guess that’s going to happen anytime soon.”

“How about Chastity’s current whereabouts?”

“She called me this morning, all upset, and begged me to give her a ride to Farberville. Heather and I picked her up by the low-water bridge around nine.”

“Did you bring her back?”

“No, she insisted that we let her out on Thurber Street, down at the railroad tracks. She said she’d hitch a ride back when she was ready. The last I saw of her, she was walking up the hill in the direction of the college campus.”

“Did she say where she was going or what she was going to do?”

Darla Jean slurped the last of her drink before she answered. “We asked her, of course, but she told us to shut up. She can be pretty hateful when she’s a mind to.”

“And after you were nice enough to give her a ride,” I said. “I don’t know why you put up with her.”

“Well, we’re just about her only friends, and I feel sorry for her having to live in that RV and sleep on a sofa and be bossed around all the time like she’s a little kid. She’s nearly sixteen, but Malachi won’t let her learn to drive or date or do anything except stand up on the stage in an angel costume and make a fool of herself. She tried to run away once, but he sent a private detective after her. I’d have been so humiliated I would have died.”

“Is that what she’s doing today?” I asked, watching Darla Jean as best I could while navigating the narrow road. It occurred to me that it might be wise to find a wide shoulder and pull over before I plowed into a chicken truck. “Did she take a suitcase with her?”

“She’s not running away.”

“What is she doing?”

“I told you that she wouldn’t say,” Darla Jean muttered as she crumpled the cup and dropped it onto the floorboard of the car. It fit in nicely with the existing decor (twentieth-century landfill). “I don’t understand why you’re so concerned about Chastity. Going into Farberville isn’t against the law, is it?”

“Not that I know of,” I said mildly. “Nor is having an affair when you’re married, but I wouldn’t recommend it. It can lead to divorce—or even murder.”

“Murder?”

“Coach Grapper didn’t hang herself. Someone strangled her and hung her body on the steel supports that hold up the backboard.” I took a breath and went in for the kill, metaphorically speaking. I wasn’t especially proud of myself, but I needed to jolt Darla Jean into a more forthright disposition. “Her face was beet red, and her eyes were bulged out. Her feet were dangling about three inches off the floor.”

“Stop the car! I’m gonna be sick!”

It probably wouldn’t have been a catastrophe, considering the debris on the floorboard, but I pulled over. Before I’d come to a full stop, Darla Jean scrambled out of the car and fell to her knees in the yellowed weeds. I waited for a moment, then grabbed a handful of napkins from the glove compartment and took them to her.

“Better?” I said.

“Yeah,” she said as she cleaned her face and stood up. “How could somebody do something awful like that? Coach Grapper could be mean sometimes, but she was just doing her job. We were third in the conference last year, and we won the tournament down in Pine Bluff.”

“Her credentials weren’t the cause of death. She was having an affair with Cory Jenks, and you and your teammates knew it.” So I was bluffing. I’m a firm believer in the “the end justifies the means” school of thought, and I was after a murderer, not a bowling trophy.

Darla Jean looked as if she might repeat her performance of a few minutes earlier. “Did Coach Jenks kill her?”

I crossed my fingers and said, “I doubt it. All I’m trying to do is get an idea of what was happening in Coach Grapper’s life. But it’s really important that you stay quiet until I’ve finished my investigation, so please don’t repeat what I said about her being murdered. You know how garbled gossip can become, especially when it’s gruesome like this. Now tell me what you know about Coach Jenks and Coach Grapper.”

Ten minutes later, I had the story—or at least what Darla Jean suspected had taken place between Norma Kay and Cory in motel rooms and cabins during the previous basketball season. The county prosecutor wouldn’t be eager to file charges based on what amounted to adolescent speculation, however, and it sounded as if the two had been discreet enough to avoid being seen slipping in and out of each other’s rooms in the wee hours.

She looked so dejected that I didn’t ask any more questions as we returned to Maggody. I made her promise not to say anything about the murder, dropped her off near her station wagon, and went to the PD to call Harve with an update. I was opening the door when Kevin Buchanon drove up and almost fell on his face in his haste to get out of the car. (Buchanons are mechanically challenged.)

“Arly! You got to do something!” he gasped, his arms waving like branches in a windstorm. “You got to come with me!”

“I do?” I continued inside, ascertained that the air conditioner was producing a cool if placid breeze, and sat behind my desk, where I was in less danger of being knocked over by his frenzied outburst.

“It’s all that Malachi Hope feller’s fault! Now she’s bakin’ a cake and eatin’ cookies and drinkin’ orange soda pop. I been on my knees in the kitchen for over an hour, but I cain’t make her stop, and when I told her I was gonna make her go to the clinic iff’n I had to drag her like a skinned mule carcass, she liked to—”

“Stop,” I said as the telephone rang, “but hold that thought.” I picked up the receiver. “Arly Hanks.”

“I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever track you down,” LaBelle said accusingly. “You really should stay in your office more, Arly. It’s bad enough around here without me having to call you back over and over—”

“Hold that thought,” I said to her, put my hand over the mouthpiece mouthpiece, and looked at Kevin. “You have five seconds to tell me what’s wrong. Go.”

“Dahlia sez Malachi Hope cured her of diabetes and she don’t have to stay on her diet. I made an appointment at the clinic, but—”

I pointed a finger at the door. “Time’s up. If you want, you can wait outside for me and we’ll discuss this further.” I removed my hand and said, “Why have you been calling me over and over, LaBelle?”

“Harve wants you to meet him out on County 102, about a quarter mile past the low-water bridge.”

“Should I bring a fishing pole and a bucket of bait?”

“You shouldn’t joke about these things,” she said in a hushed voice. “Some kids playing in the woods found a car, and there’s a dead body in it.”

—==(O)==—

“Did you and Fergie happen to be watching television last night at 12:30?” Ruby Bee asked as she took a swallow of iced tea and smiled brightly. Leslie Bidens wasn’t sure what all to make of her unexpected visitor, who’d never before stopped by in the middle of the afternoon—or any other time, for that matter. At best they had a nodding acquaintance. “No, Fergie has to be at work at seven o’clock, so we always turn in early. Why?”

It was a poser. Ruby Bee hastily finished her tea and picked up her handbag. “There was a real amusing commercial, that’s all. I happened to see it and was just wondering if you and Fergie did, too.”

“What kind of commercial?”

“A real amusing commercial. I suppose I’d better be running along, Leslie. Thank you kindly for the tea.”

Once she was safely outside, Ruby Bee paused to think about the exchange. Leslie had said they always turned in early, but she hadn’t specifically said they’d done so last night. And she’d looked suspicious, even worried, as if she had an inkling of the significance of the time.

She made a cryptic note (in case her copy of the list fell into the wrong hands) next to Fergie’s name, checked the time, and drove out Finger Lane to find out if Lewis Ferncliff’s wife, Besseya, was home.

—==(O)==—

Across town, Estelle was faring better. As she sat in Eddie Joe Whitbread’s driveway, she drew a heavy line, and then another for good measure, right through his name. Once Kirsten had stopped blubbering about her hair and thanking Estelle for doing everything humanly possible short of shaving her head, she’d admitted that she was up until well after two, talking to her boyfriend who lived in Starley City and was in the process of divorcing his third wife. There was no way Eddie Joe could have gotten a phone call from the president of the United States, much less from Norma Kay.

Estelle considered her next move. Ruby Bee had said she’d think of a way to question Mrs. Jim Bob, and she was welcome to try. John Robert Scurfpea could wait until she and Ruby Bee could go together. The only other name on the list was Cory Jenks. The high school was closed and the gym locked, so it was possible she might catch him at home. There was a small problem of what to say to him if she did, but she figured she’d think of something by the time she got there.

—==(O)==—

“The total’s three hundred and sixteen dollars,” the clerk said, warily keeping an eye on his customer. The last time someone like this had come into the store, a weapon had been brandished and the cash register drawer cleaned out. “And fifty-five cents,” he added.

Mrs. Jim Bob slapped down a credit card.

—==(O)==—

“What do you have, Harve?” I asked as I walked down the edge of the road.

Sweat had spread across his shirt like an oil slick, turning the khaki fabric dark. He pulled off his hat, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and sighed. “We ran the plate first thing. The car’s registered to Malachi Hope. I was kinda surprised that’s his real name; it sounds fake to me.”