Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 09 (3 page)

Thinking about that was enough to keep her entertained as she sat down at the kitchen table and waited for the casserole to burn.

Dust was hanging in the soupy heat as I drove past the Grappers’ house, bounced up a lane to a pasture, and parked behind the bus. Two dozen men in jeans and sweaty shirts were unloading the trucks. As I climbed out of my car, I was treated to wolf whistles that brought to mind a Manhattan construction site. It was not a warm memory.

“It’s a cop,” one of them said as he paused to stare. “Can I spend the night in your cell, honey? I’ll bet you got the hottest little cell in town.”

“Hey, cop,” said another, “want to charge me with exposing myself in public?”

“If she saw your prick, all she’d give you is a ticket for loitering.”

“I’d sure like to have the long arms of the law wrapped around me tonight.”

“Enough of this,” said an older man as he appeared from behind one of the trucks. “This is a pasture, gentlemen. It’s going to be dark in two hours, and you will be unable to see what you’re stepping in.”

“Bullshit,” said one of my admirers.

“Precisely.” The man approached me with an apologetic smile. Despite the temperature, he wore a tweedy jacket and a dark tie; he looked so straitlaced that he might have been the headmaster of a prep school on Parents’ Day. He was tall; expensive tailoring minimized his bulk. His face was benignly wrinkled and worn, but his eyes, alert behind wire-rimmed bifocals, focused on my badge.

“May I help you?” he asked with a trace of wariness.

“I’m Arly Hanks, the chief of police down the road in Maggody. Are you Malachi Hope?”

“No, I am not. Are you here in your official capacity, Miss Hanks? Has there been a violation of a local ordinance?”

“I’m not aware of any violations. I just dropped by to see what’s going on.” I stepped back as two men carried by a massive bundle of canvas. “If you’re not Hope, who are you?”

“The drive from Little Rock was so tiresome that I have forgotten my manners. I am Thomas Fratelleon, the business manager of Hope Is Here, Incorporated. I handle all the paperwork, including whatever we might require in terms of local permits and variances. It’s my understanding that we are outside the city limits, but we certainly desire to cooperate with the authorities in every way we can.”

“Oh, really,” I said, unimpressed. “I was told you’re staging a tent revival out here. Where do you and all these gentlemen plan to stay for the next ten days?”

“Once they get the site prepared, they’ll be at a motel in Farberville except when we need them here. Some of them will undoubtedly have encounters with the local police, obliging me to hire others others of their ilk, but that should not concern your department. Our special-effects man and I will set up cots in an area behind the stage in order to discourage trespassing.”

“And Malachi Hope?”

“He and his family will stay here, too, but in the RV until we can arrange for something more permanent. Once we get it hooked up to the generator, it’s self-contained and more spacious than you’d suspect. It has a small bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room with a kitchen area. The sofa converts into a bed.” He gestured at the residence under discussion. “Would you like to meet Malachi and Seraphina?”

I considered his question while I moved out of the way to allow another large bundle of canvas to be carried by. “Maybe at another time,” I said. “Why don’t you give me a tour of the site, Mr. Fratelleon? How big is this tent they’re putting up?”

“Quite large,” he said as he took my elbow and guided me between the trucks. “We can seat a thousand worshipers on benches, and another two hundred on folding chairs at the back if necessary. Our stage and equipment take up nearly eight hundred square feet, but we’re hardly an old-fashioned tent show making its way around the salvation circuit. People are too sophisticated these days to be satisfied with a single charismatic preacher and a dozen choir members. Our special-effects man used to work for rock bands out in California; he’s a real wizard when it comes to adding elements of drama to the service.”

In front of us an enormous tent was rising as if it were a sienna mountain. Hydraulic winches were stationed at strategic corners, and cables thicker than my wrist strained as the tent poles inched skyward. Canvas sagged, then snapped into symmetrical lines. The workers barked orders at one another, but the exchanges were perfunctory (and vulgar, even by Maggody standards). Other workers walked unconcernedly beneath the listing poles, intent on their own assigned duties.

“When do you bring out the clowns and elephants?” I asked.

Fratelleon gave me a wry look. “There is a certain similarity, I must admit, but selling religion takes showmanship as well as a calling. Don’t make any stereotypic assumptions about Malachi until you meet him. You may be surprised.”

“What about you, Mr. Fratelleon? Surely you haven’t done this all your life.”

“I was an accountant in a large manufacturing firm for more than thirty-five years. When I neared retirement, the board of directors chose to discharge me rather than give me a gold watch and a pension. I found it impossible to find steady employment and was doing menial temp work when I met Malachi two years ago. His offer was too tempting to turn down.”

“Peddling miracles,” I said.

“I was earning no more than fifteen thousand dollars a year as a temp. Now I earn a hundred thousand in salary and bonuses. I live frugally and invest prudently, and should the future unfold as we envision it, I will retire in five years as a multimillionaire. That, Chief Hanks, is a miracle.” I was about to ask him for the name of his broker, when an olive-skinned young man in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather vest came over to us. His dark hair was combed back into a 1950s ducktail, and a pack of cigarettes bulged in a rolled-up sleeve that partially covered a tattoo. He obviously fancied himself as a latter-day James Dean-or a character from a production of Grease.

“I’ve got to go into the nearest big town and find an electronics store,” he said to Fratelleon. “A fuse blew in the dimming-control panel. I was gonna take my bike, but if you want me to pick up other stuff as long as I’m there, I’ll take one of the cars.”

“Miss Hanks, this is Joey Lerner, the special-effects wizard I was telling you about a minute ago. Joey works some amazing miracles through electronics.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said as I realized he’d been the black-clad motorcyclist in the caravan and that his bowed legs were not the result of years of riding the range. He had Harley-Davidson legs, as well as a cute derriere.

“Me, too,” he said without interest, then looked back at Fratelleon. “So what do you want me to do, Thomas? I’d like to get the fuse right away so I can start fixing the panel.”

“I haven’t spoken to Malachi since we arrived,” said Fratelleon. “If they need groceries or such, I shall send someone back to that supermarket we passed. Take whichever vehicle you prefer.”

“Joey!” cried a girl as she came down the steps in front of the RV that purportedly housed Malachi Hope and his family. Waving frantically, she stumbled across the weeds, ducking under cables and barely avoiding collisions with the workmen. “Wait a minute!”

“Shit,” hissed Joey. Fratelleon looked no more pleased then he, but settled for a sigh.

I studied her curiously as she neared us. She was in her middle teens, with brown hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail and a scattering of acne on her forehead that the heavy pancake makeup failed to conceal. Her halter and skimpy shorts made no attempt to conceal a well-endowed bustline, a somewhat thick waist, and heavy thighs. With an afternoon at Estelle’s Hair Fantasies and a supervised trip to a department store, she might have been attractive. At the moment, a scowl did nothing to enhance her appearance.

“I gotta get out of here,” she said, grabbing Joey’s arm. “It doesn’t matter where-just any place but here.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled unhappily.

Fratelleon put his hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Chastity, I’d like you to meet-“

She jerked away from him. “Did they tell you about my having to go to some gawdawful little high school? Were you in on this, too?”

“Malachi and Seraphina only want what’s best for you. You don’t want to put on a tinsel halo and sing to the unwashed for the rest of your life, do you? You need to finish high school so you’ll have some options.”

“Yeah,” Joey inserted. “I mean, I had to go back to college and get a degree in electrical engineering before I could get any decent gigs. Before that, I was stringing lights in bars for minimum wage.”

Chastity was not in the mood for career counseling. “Nobody’s gonna make me go to some crappy school where everybody’ll whisper about me behind my back and cut me dead in the halls. And it’s all Seraphina’s fault. Malachi was on my side at first and said something about getting some textbooks so I could study at home, but she dragged him back into their bedroom to talk, and when they came out he said he’d changed his mind. He didn’t change his mind-she changed it for him!”

As the resident keeper of the peace, I smiled at the girl and said, “I can introduce you to some of the high school kids before school starts. That way you’d have some friends on the first day of class.”

She glanced at me, then leaned against Joey and said, “Please take me for a bike ride or something. We could grab a blanket and a couple of beers, and find a nice, quiet place where we’d be all alone.” He tried to back away from her, but she stuck to him like a thistle seed. “Come on, Joey. It’ll be fun.”

“Listen,” he said, shooting a panicky look at Fratelleon, “you can ride into town with me, but all we’re gonna do is get a few things at an electronics store and come right back here. We’re not stopping anywhere else.”

“We’ll see,” she said, her scowl replaced by a coquettish simper.

Fratelleon watched the two walk away and then said, “This is not good, but I could see no way to intervene. Despite his penchant for affectation, Joey is a decent young man. Chastity, on the other hand, seems destined for trouble. Seraphina may have erred when she took the child from a foster home and became her legal guardian last year.”

“Seraphina is Malachi Hope’s wife?” I asked.

“Yes, and Chastity is her younger sister. Ten years ago the girls were abandoned by their mother and put into foster care. Seraphina was sixteen at the time, and Chastity was only five. As soon as Seraphina felt as though she could offer a home to her sister, she tracked her down and petitioned the state to allow her to assume guardianship. The problem arises from the fact that Chastity deeply resents being taken away from her friends and obliged to participate in our revivals. She’s not yet adjusted to a migratory life in the Bible Belt.”

“Apparently not,” I said. “Should I go ahead and call a couple of the local high school girls and have them come out to introduce themselves? I can’t promise they’ll keep her out of trouble, but it might help.”

“She needs more help than any of us can give her,” Fratelleon said, then forced a smile and extended a large, well-manicured hand. “Thank you for dropping by, Miss Hanks. There are countless details awaiting my attention, so if you’ll excuse me, I’d better see to them. Will you be attending the first night of the revival? I’ll gladly arrange front row seats for you and any guests.”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead, being more intrigued by the dynamics of what sounded like a full-blown family crisis. “Thanks, Mr. Fratelleon, but I wouldn’t want any preferential treatment. If I come, I’m sure I can find a seat somewhere.” Such as in the last row, next to an exit.

—==(O)==—

Dahlia’s face was blotchy as she trudged across the yard and into the house. She was wheezing something awful, too, which only increased her misery. The nurse at the clinic in Farberville had been right cheerful when she was dishing out the orders, but she wasn’t the one that had to walk a dadburned mile every day-or try to get by on a half cup of boiled this and two ounces of baked that. The “this” and “that” weren’t gravy and scalloped potatoes, neither. They were more like lettuce and brussels sprouts. Dahlia figured she was getting to the point where she was gonna throw up if anyone so much as mentioned yellow squash.

She wasn’t even sure she believed all this nonsense the doctor had tried to explain about diabetes and how it was caused by having a bun in the warmer. (The doctor hadn’t used that particular phrase, but she herself thought it had a nice ring, being fond of hamburger buns with peanut butter and grape jelly for lunch.) He’d spent a good fifteen minutes telling her how serious it might turn out to be if she didn’t stick to a diet and an exercise program, and then he sent in the nurse to give Dahlia brochures and lecture her like she was back in school.

At least when she was in school, she could have a couple of pieces of pie and an orange Nehi when she got home. Now, according to the nurse, she was allowed celery sticks and a glass of water.

To make matters worse, Kevin had alerted everybody in town, so when she’d dropped by Ruby Bee’s for a blue plate special, she’d been served green beans, plain rice, and a sliver of dry turkey. The cocky foreigner that ran the Dairee Dee-Lishus had flat-out refused to serve her a chili dog and offered her a free diet limeade. Even her own mother-in-law had turned on her and served such a dreary mess of vegetables and broiled fish that her father-in-law had jammed on his hat and left the house.

Of course she realized it was important if she and Kevvie were to be blessed with a bundle of joy with tiny fingers and toes and maybe a dimple. Then again, Dahlia thought as she hauled herself up and headed for the kitchen, it couldn’t be too awful if she had a Twinkie every once in a while. A cookie when she was feeling blue, a little fried pork chop or two on Sunday after church, a scant handful of chips with onion dip while she and Kevvie watched television.

There was nothing in the refrigerator worth bothering to chew, so she went into the bedroom that would be the nursery and tried to distract herself by admiring the lacy nightgowns and crocheted booties all neatly set out in the pine crib that Kevvie’s grandfather had made.