Madness In Maggody (14 page)

As I headed out of Farberville, I realized I could save myself a trip the next day. Jim Bob's potential checker lived across from the airport, and I was in the landing pattern, so to speak.

The parking area was a weedy expanse of gravel, with a few dented cars and a pickup truck set on concrete blocks. A large metal dumpster was filled to overflowing; the smell of rotting garbage and stale whiskey competed with the fumes from heavy traffic on the highway. The two-story building was in need of paint, new railings, screens, and trash disposal—or perhaps demolition. There were half a dozen units on each story, some with battered mailboxes beside the door and others without. Most of the tenants who'd settled for the Airport Arms Apartments had little hope of mail, not even the sort addressed to Occupant.

I went up the creaking stairs and down the balcony to the last unit. If the doorbell worked, I couldn't hear it, so I knocked on the door.

"Yeah, what?" a female voice called.

"I'm a police officer, and I'd like to have a word with you," I answered in polite professional lingo.

"Bugger off. I'm washing my hair."

"In the living room? Look, I'll have to ask you a few questions sooner or later, and it will save us both time if we do it now. If I have to come back, I'll have time to think of a lot more questions, ma'am." Not true, of course. Jim Bob's whereabouts after he'd left the SuperSaver the previous evening were of no importance (except to Mrs. Jim Bob—but not necessarily), and I really wasn't sure why I was standing in front of a blistered apartment door when I could be drinking espresso and gazing at Notre Dame. "Let's just get this over with," I added.

The door opened to a slit, and a heavily lined eye regarded me. "Yeah, go ahead."

"Are you Cherri Lucinda Crate?"

"I ain't Mrs. Santa Claus. She lives up north somewheres."

"Could I step inside, Ms. Crate? I don't want to disturb your neighbors."

"They ain't the kind to be easily disturbed. What do you want to know?"

I felt rather silly conversing with a disembodied eyeball, but I was certain I wasn't going to be invited in for tea and cookies. "Could you please describe what you did last night from approximately eleven o'clock on?"

"You're kidding, ain't you?" she said, laughing. "You planning to write a porn novel or something?"

"That's not what I meant," I said coolly, although I was grateful for the darkness hiding my face. I rephrased the question. "Did you have a visitor last night? If so, what was his name and how long did he remain here?"

"I didn't see a living soul last night. I watched a movie and did my nails. See?" The door opened wide enough for a hand to slink out. The bright red talons would have shamed an eagle.

"A witness in a murder investigation told me he came here last night. Are you denying his story?"

"Whose story?"

"Listen, Ms. Crate, as much as I'd like to stand here half the night and exchange witticisms with you, I've got other things to do. Either answer my questions or be prepared to file your nails in a nasty little cell."

The eye blinked several times. Finally, the door opened and the woman came outside, closing the door behind her. She wore a flimsy white peignoir that was stained around the collar and had seen better nights. On the other hand, her body was voluptuous enough to distract all but the keenest observers. Her heavy-handed makeup extended to red lipstick, pink blusher, and penciled eyebrows that gave her a faintly startled look. Her hair was hidden by a terry-cloth turban that reminded me of some of Estelle's more fanciful styles.

"Can we get on with it?" she demanded.

"I'd love to get on with it. Tell me about last night and I'll let you get back to washing your hair."

She patted the turban and shrugged, sending ripples all the way down to the bottom hem. "Well, I was just getting ready to wash it when you interrupted me. I like had the shower on and was getting the shampoo out of the cabinet. Whatta ya want to know, honey?"

"Did you have a visitor last night?"

"No. As sure as a goose goes barefoot, I was here by my lonesome all night." She looked down at her bare feet and giggled. "As sure as we all go barefoot, I guess."

"Jim Bob Buchanon didn't come here sometime before midnight?" I asked, wishing the light were better so I could observe her reactions more accurately.

"Jim Bob? I haven't seen him in a coon's age. How's he doing, by the way? Still strutting around like a banty rooster?"

"Not at the moment," I said. "But you're willing to swear under oath that he wasn't here, right?"

She held up two fingers in a mock scout salute. "Jim Bob didn't show his little bulldog face last night. I watched a movie, did my nails, and went to bed like a good girl. By that, I mean all by myself I read the Bible, said my prayers, and went to sleep dreaming about a gold Le Baron convertible."

Her voice was a sugary drawl, and she was doing her best to be an ingenuous ingenue doing her damnedest to help the police. I nodded and waited until the deafening roar of an airplane taking off abated. "But what about your remark earlier about me doing research for a porn novel? Your version of last night's hardly hot copy, Ms. Crate. It won't even sell at Times Square."

"Just a little joke, honey. I always like to kid with the cops." She wiggled her fingers at me and went inside. The lock clicked into place.

I went down to my car, but as I glanced up, I saw a curtain in her window fall back and a shadow move away. I drove back to Maggody on automatic pilot, trying to decide which of the two had lied. Jim Bob had crawled way out on the limb—and had encountered a polecat. He must have figured I'd check with Cherri Lucinda, if only to have it to dangle over him during town council budget sessions. It was a damn odd lie, if indeed it was a lie. But why would she lie about it?

I'd made no progress as I parked behind the antique store and went upstairs. As I reached for the door, I heard a muted gasp and a scuffling noise, but when I got inside, Hammet was sitting contentedly in front of the television. The fact that the screen was blank was a bit suspicious.

"I'm back," I said lamely.

"Did you visit with Lissie's brother?"

"No, he was asleep and the nurse wasn't about to allow me to wake him. Have you had supper?"

"Miz Lambertino gave us some stuff. Tuna fish all yucked up with peas and goop." He yawned, reached for the button on the television, and realized his mistake. "Guess I dun already turned it off. I'm so worn out, I must've been sitting here like I was deaf and dumb and too slow to whistle."

I'd had my fill of lies for the day. "No, you were doing something else when you heard me outside. What, Hammet?"

"Jest sittin' on my hindquarters. I weren't doin' nuthin', nuthin' at all. How come you're all the time trying to make me say things and saying I tell you lies, 'cause I don't tell no one lies—except for the schoolmarm, but she's fat as a sow and a hunnert times stupider."

"Calm down," I said, bewildered. "I didn't say anything about lies. Let's go to bed, shall we?"

He slunk into the bathroom and slammed the door. I had no idea what was wrong with him, but he hadn't been off the mountain all that long. His mother had been the orneriest mountain woman to ever make moonshine and turn tricks in the Ozarks. For the first ten years of his life, Hammet had never seen a book, watched television, or uttered a sentence that could be repeated in church. His hair had been cut with a pocketknife. His clothing had come from cardboard boxes left at the edge of the yard by timid dogooders from charitable organizations. He'd shared a straw pallet with his siblings and fought with them over food. Wolf cubs probably had easier lives.

"You've come a long way, baby," I said to the closed door.

*****

Brother Verber was
crawling around under the mobile home when he saw feet. In that the feet were shod in sensible heels and walked with a missionary's determination, he was pretty sure he knew what all there was ankle upward. Rather than emerge to greet his caller, he scuttled into the shadows.

Mrs. Jim Bob rapped on the front door. "Brother Verber, it's Sister Barbara. Are you in there? I got something to discuss with you."

He shrunk farther into the shadows, where it was damper but darker and therefore muddier but safer. He felt as if the shower'd turned icy cold and he was buck naked in the spray. There wasn't any way she could know, he told himself. There wasn't any way anybody could know, not even Kevin and Dahlia, who'd looked a little confused when he'd ordered them to go pray for their forgiveness—somewhere else.

Her knuckles hit the door with such insistence, he could feel the mobile home vibrating. "Brother Verber?" she repeated stridently. "Brother Verber...?"

He put his knees right up to his chin and closed his eyes. He didn't bother to ask for divine guidance.

*****

The next morning
, I drove to Dahlia's house. She was sitting on the porch, a glass of tea and a box of cookies nearby, but her hands were folded in her lap and her eyes were vacant.

"I need to ask you a few questions," I said as I opened the gate and went up the sidewalk.

"Okay," she murmured without looking up.

I sat on the edge of the porch and took out a notebook and pencil. "Let's start with the preparations for the grand opening on Saturday. When did you"—I consulted my list—"Erma Jean, and Feebie start fixing the food that was later passed out as free samples?"

"The night before. We went in at five and cooked till ten or so. There was some stuff that had to be fixed the next morning, like the ham rolls and cheese squares. That Petrel fellow was real strict about when we was to do what."

"What about the tamales?"

"I didn't do the tamales," she said dully. She took a cookie from the box, studied it for a moment, then put it in her mouth and chewed pensively. "I fried chicken wings until I was ready to scream. That's what I did. Everyone said they was real tasty. Did you try one?"

"I'm afraid I missed those. Who did the tamales? Erma Jean or Feebie?"

"I think it was Erma Jean. She opened the cans, cut them into pieces, and put them out nice and neat in a roasting pan. The sauce was simmering on the stove. The first thing next morning, she dumped it on the tamales and put the pan in the oven to heat up."

"So the tamale sauce was in the refrigerator all night?"

"She didn't take it home with her, if that's what you're asking."

"Did anyone come into the kitchen the next morning?"

"Nobody." This time Dahlia managed to transport three cookies to her mouth. Once she'd dealt with them, she said, "Can I ask you something, Arly?"

"Sure," I said, hoping it was relevant to the case but not optimistic.

"Is it blackmail when you tell someone they have to do something or you'll make them regret they was ever born?"

I perked up. "It could be, Dahlia. You'll have to tell me more details before I can be sure."

She sighed morosely and dipped back in the box. "I don't reckon I can. It's mighty personal, if you know what I mean."

"But I don't know what you mean," I said, trying not to sound too eager. If someone had coerced her into dumping ipecac in the tamale sauce, I didn't want to alarm her into silence. "If you'll give me a hint, I'll try to help you. Blackmail is illegal. If you've been forced to do something out of fear, then it's not really your responsibility. You're a victim."

"I am?" Her lips formed a tight circle and began to pucker in and out as she thought. Both cheeks and several of her chins inflated until I was worried about an explosion. "You're saying I'm a victim, right? I don't have to pay any mind to their threats? You can put them in jail?"

"Who're we talking about?"

"I can't say just now," she said, relieved enough to take a handful of cookies.

"Does this have anything to do with the problems at the SuperSaver?" I persisted. "If it does, you've got to tell me, Dahlia. You heard about Lillith Smew, didn't you? What may have started as a prank has taken a serious turn, and whoever's behind it has to be stopped."

All this sincerity wafted right over her head. She shook her head (chins and all) and said, "I can't say no more."

I lacked the physical superiority to shake it out of her, and I'd lived in Maggody long enough to learn the futility of arguing with certain people. There are some horses you can't even lead to water. "Let's go on to Monday evening," I said. "You went by the store to talk to Kevin. Did you see anyone else?"

"I saw Buzz Milvin. He came to the back of the store and was right unfriendly. He told me to leave, so I did." She was trying to sound haughty, but it didn't ring quite true. Watching her closely, I said, "Right away?"

Dahlia picked up the box of cookies, squeezed it so hard that I could hear crumbling inside it, then put it down and let out another sigh. "I may have detoured to the break room for a few minutes. Kevin and I had things to discuss."

"Wedding plans?"

"Not hardly."

There was something wrong with the story, but I couldn't quite get hold of it. Dahlia's veiled remarks about blackmailers—"them"—should have made some sense, should have done something besides confuse me all the more. But if her mind moved, then it did so in deeply mysterious ways and she wasn't about to offer me a map. I thanked her for her invaluable assistance and drove back to the PD to make a few notes.

*****

"Now this is
just between you and me," Barbie Buteo said over the telephone to Joyce Lambertino, who was stirring eggs with one hand, buttering toast with the other, and keeping an eye on Larry junior, who was feeding the baby pieces of cereal.

Holding the receiver with her shoulder wasn't making life any easier for Joyce, but Barbie had called long distance and it wouldn't be polite not to listen. "What's between you and me?" she said, doing her best to sound intrigued.

"You got to promise not to tell another soul. This was told to me in the strictest confidence—and it could cost someone her job."

"Then don't tell me." Joyce tossed pieces of toast to Saralee and Traci, dumped milk on Lissie's cereal, and snatched up Larry junior's glass of orange juice just as the baby lunged. "Maybe I ought to call you back," she added.

"It's about that Petrel fellow. I just wanted to warn you to lock all your doors and windows, Joyce. I know Larry Joe's gone all day, and I hate to think you and the children would be at the mercy of a madman."

The glass slipped out of Joyce's hand and splattered the floor in a yellow-orange explosion that delighted the spectators. "Mommie did a boo-boo," Larry junior cackled. Saralee, Lissie, and Traci giggled, and the baby threw a handful of Cheerios in the air. Everyone thought it was festive, except for Joyce, who'd turned rigid and was gulping like crazy.

She snapped at Larry junior to clean up the mess, then took the telephone and moved around to the far side of the refrigerator. "What on earth are you talking about, Barbie?" she whispered. "Petrel is Jim Bob's partner, isn't he?"

"I wouldn't know about that," Barbie said. "I'm only telling you this for your own good, Joyce, cause we were best friends in high school and I'm worried about you. The police arrested him for raping a bunch of girls, but he escaped from their clutches and is hiding in Maggody somewhere, waiting for a chance to brutalize some innocent girl or housewife. That kind don't stop until someone puts a bullet through their hearts—if they have hearts, anyway. He's an animal, a crazed wild animal out there watching and waiting." Joyce looked out the kitchen window at the tire swing, the sandbox with its collection of plastic trucks, buckets, and shovels, Larry junior's deflated basketball, and the usual crap she saw every day through that same window. A robin hopped across the yard and a squirrel was hanging from the bird feeder. Their dog, a scrawny tan mutt with a fondness for plastic trucks, lay on his side in the sun. It looked pretty normal, and it was hard to think of a rapist squatting behind the forsythia bushes.

"He is?" she finally said about the time Barbie was starting to get alarmed.