Merry Wives of Maggody (12 page)

“All them golfers deserve to be in a gutter,” Ruby Bee said.

“They’d go down the drain and I wouldn’t have to put up with them a day longer.”

“You should have called me,” I said to her.

“I didn’t want to mess with it. Yesterday was a bad dream from dawn ’til I fell in bed. Estelle missing, people checking in all afternoon, an overflow crowd at lunchtime and suppertime, lots of complaining about the golf course—as if it had anything to do with me—and two groups checking out and demanding a refund, even though I had to clean their rooms again. Oh, you’ll never guess who showed up at about six o’clock. I was so flabbergasted that I nearly dropped a tray in the middle of the dance floor.”

“I myself choked on a peanut,” said Estelle, making it clear that Ruby Bee wasn’t the only one with a fragile nature, “and was gasping for air. Bopeep’s boyfriend had to pound me on the back.”

“Tiger Woods?” I said.

“No, I seem to think his name is Luke something.”

“The person who came in last night,” I said, spearing another bite of sausage.

“Tiger Woods?” Ruby Bee’s brow crinkled. “Is he any relation to Woodrow Woods that lives out the dirt road past where Hiram’s barn burned?”

“I doubt it. So who came in?”

“Phil Proodle,” Ruby Bee said grandly. “My eyeballs liked to pop out of my head when I recognized him, and my heart was fluttering.”

I poised my fork above my plate. “Of all the beer joints in all the towns in all the world he walks into mine…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

“Who’s Phil Proodle?”

Estelle stared at me. “You don’t know who he is? Why, he has a big boat store and is always advertising on TV. He did one where he was a superhero in a cape and mask, dangling from a crane. He must have been forty feet above his lot. It was so windy that he was flipping and flopping every which way.”

“It sounds silly, but I held my breath every time it came on,” added Ruby Bee. “It had to do with how he was gonna save Stump County from high prices, I think.”

“Oh, yeah, he donated the bass boat,” I said, resuming my attack on the biscuits and gravy. “His name’s on a tournament on the bulletin board at the Suds of Fun.”

“According to Elsie McMay’s second cousin’s sister-in-law in Starley City, poor ol’ Phil didn’t have a chance once Mrs. Jim Bob showed up,” Estelle said. “after she finished her spiel, he was practically on his knees begging her to take the boat. You’d think a celebrity like him could stand up to her.”

Ruby Bee sniffed. “From the way she carries on, you’d think she redecorated the Garden of Eden to suit her fancy.” She snatched my plate from under my nose. “You keep eating like that, you’ll end up looking like a blimp.”

I was almost finished, so I didn’t bother to argue. “What did the renowned Phil Proodle want last night? Applause for his generosity?”

“I ain’t sure,” Ruby Bee said. “He asked if I had any rooms available, which I did. after he got settled in, he came back in here and started buying pitchers like they cost a nickel apiece. He ran a tab over three hundred dollars. The thing is, when nobody was watching him he’d get a pissy look on his face, like he wanted to beat ’em senseless with a crowbar. Then he’d be all smiling and wishing ’em luck.”

“Maybe he was assessing his competition,” I suggested.

“Not according to Millicent,” Estelle said. “She came by early this morning for a trim. Darla Jean kept track of everybody who registered to play. Millicent took a peek at the list Thursday and didn’t see his name. She was sure she would have noticed, since he’s so famous.”

“Then he’s a spectator,” I said. “If anybody wins the boat, he’ll present the key and get his picture in the paper. If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have to go arrest someone. I’m behind on my monthly quota.”

“Most everybody’s at the golf tournament,” Estelle said. “Even the geezers from the barbershop and the pool hall. Who’re you planning to arrest?”

“I’ll work on it.” I walked down the road to the PD, flipped through the mail, and leaned back in my chair. Under different circumstances, I would have taken off the rest of the weekend and driven to Springfield to see Jack. I was crazy about him, and he seemed to reciprocate. We shared a somewhat odd sense of humor, we could talk endlessly, we were more than compatible between the sheets (and in a sleeping bag, alongside a creek, on the rug in front of the fireplace, and once, quite recklessly, in a canoe). He had custody of his two children, but they were happy to see me when I visited—or did a fine job of pretending they were. As soon as I told him I was pregnant, he would be cleaning out half of his closet and pricing cribs online. Marriage was a given. Springfield was only a two-hour drive, so Ruby Bee and Estelle could show up with crocheted booties and embroidered bibs whenever they liked.

“So what the hell’s the problem?” I said aloud, thoroughly frustrated with myself. A spider building its web in the corner of a window failed to weave any insights. Out back a blue jay scolded an interloper. A pickup drove by. Sunlight illuminated the motionless dust in the air. Where were the felons when you needed them?

I wiggled around in the chair until my butt was aligned with the saggy seat, leaned all the way back, and closed my eyes. I was envisioning myself rowing up the Amazon, piranhas darting at the surface, giant snakes slithering into the muddy water, fiercely colored birds watching me from thick branches above me, when I fell asleep.

When the phone rang, I nearly fell out of the chair. It took me a moment to realize that I was no longer chatting with Tarzan. I grabbed the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Mercy me, Arly, you sound like a rusty transmission. This is LaBelle. I got to speak to Sheriff Dorfer. I don’t suppose he’s there, is he?”

I blinked. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“He’s not cowering under my desk or sitting across from me, smoking one of his cigars and flicking ashes on the floor. He could be in the back room, but there’s not much to do in there. I’ll look if you want me to.”

“There’s no call to get snippety,” LaBelle said.

“Does that mean you do want me to look or you don’t want me to look?” I raised my voice. “Harve? You back there? Sorry I’m out of coffee. I’ve cut back on office amenities because I’m saving up for another bullet.”

“This ain’t funny,” LaBelle said huffily. “You just go rustle him up and tell him to call me. Lemme give you my home phone number. I don’t know when we’ll be able to go back in the building, so there’s no use him calling that number.”

“What happened?”

“About two hours ago most of the inmates were in the lounge, watching TV. Deputy Murtle had to leave for a minute to… well, to see a man about a horse. Soon as he was gone, the scumbags set the couch on fire. The alarm went off. Nasty black smoke was pouring down all the halls. My eyes were streaming so bad I could barely call nine-one-one. We had no choice but to evacuate the building.”

“Was anybody hurt?” I asked.

LaBelle harrumphed. “No, but three of ’em escaped in the confusion. It being Saturday afternoon, only Deputy Murtle and Sergeant Beluga were on duty. I was there on account of needing overtime pay. The fire engines showed up, as well as ambulances, municipal police cars, the local TV station van, and reporters. Lights were flashing, everybody was hollering. One of the firefighters accidentally turned the hose on Deputy Murtle and flattened him against the fence like a bug on a windshield. The paramedics insisted on treating me and some others for smoke inhalation. Keeping the inmates together was worse than trying to herd squirrels.”

“You still can’t get back in the building?”

“Would I be trying to call Harve if all the inmates were in their cells and it was business as usual? The fire chief sez we can’t do anything until they inspect for damage. There’s water and foam all over the walls and floors, and it smells to high heavens. Right now we’ve got the inmates stashed over at the city jail. The ones we got left, anyway. Harve is gonna have a fit, but there ain’t much anybody can do.”

“What about the three inmates who escaped?” I asked. “I don’t suppose they were locked up for unpaid parking tickets.”

“Two of ’em were involved in a brawl at the Dew Drop Inn last night. Ugly sumbitches, with oily hair and tattoos. The third one was picked up for a parole violation. He’s headed back to the state pen on Monday.”

“What was he in for?”

“How should I know? I ain’t their guidance counselor, for pity’s sake. The deputies take ’em in and out the door at the back. I just process the paperwork when I’m not too busy making coffee or fetching doughnuts for Sheriff Dorfer. If he doesn’t stop gulping down those jelly rolls, he’s gonna bust out of his britches one of these days.”

“Hold that thought, LaBelle,” I said. “I assume you called here because Harve’s playing in the golf tournament.”

“Mrs. Dorfer ain’t pleased about it. She had plans for the two of them to drive to Caligula to visit her niece’s family.”

“Give me your cell phone number and I’ll hunt down Harve.”

I checked the time and realized I’d napped for more than an hour. If there’d been any stickups at the Dairee Dee-Lishus or antiwar demonstrations at the Pot O’ Gold, I’d missed them. However, the town appeared peaceful as I drove toward the road that led to Raz’s place. The bass boat was chained to the sign in the SuperSaver parking lot, but no pilgrims were gazing rapturously at it.

Parking did not present a problem. Many of the cars and trucks that’d been here earlier in the day were gone. As I got out of my car, Raz came out on his porch.

“You tell them goddamn trespassers to stay the hell away from my barn!” he yelled at me. His scraggly beard, never a pleasant sight, was sprinkled with crumbs. Flies and gnats hovered around his head. His overalls had the look of stone-washed denim, but his were undoubtedly stone-washed in a creek (if they’d ever been washed, that is). “Iff’n one of them steps foot in it, I’m gonna blow ’em to smithereens! I ain’t fooling, neither. I got my shotgun right by the door.”

“Is there something in the barn you don’t want anyone to see?”

I asked.

He spat tobacco juice in my direction. “No, there ain’t, and iff’n there is, it ain’t any of their damn business.” He pointed a grimy finger at me. “Ain’t none of yers, for that matter. They been comin’ and goin’ all day long, squealing at each other, tromping on my vegetable patch like cross-eyed heifers. Marjorie was so discombobbled that she had to take a seltzer tablet. I ain’t gonna have them assholes in my barn!”

He was hopping with fury. As much as I wanted to linger and see if he exploded, I went around his shack to a good-sized open tent. Darla Jean sat at a card table covered with tidy piles of papers and shoe boxes. Heather Riley and a few other high school girls stood behind a table laden with plates of plastic-wrapped sandwiches, cookies, and pitchers of tea and lemonade. Supervising them were the members of the Missionary Society who’d avoided the rigors of golf lessons. Lottie was poking sandwiches to make sure they were tightly wrapped, while Eula counted cups.

The ne’er-do-wells from the barbershop were stuffing their faces and surreptitiously passing a jar of Raz’s premium hooch.

One long table was occupied by disgruntled wives. Millicent gave me a bleak smile. Lucille was dabbing her eyes with a tissue while Eileen blew her nose in a napkin. Crystal examined a plastic fork as though she were wondering if it might lend itself to hara-kiri. None of them appeared to have an appetite. What energy they had left was being expended on glares aimed at a table in a far corner.

There was no joy at the table commandeered by the partners in the tontine, either. Jim Bob’s flask was being passed in plain sight.

Roy, Big Dick, Ruddy, and Tam sat like cheap concrete statues, moving only when the flask was stuck under their noses. Kevin’s hands were clasped on the table, as if he were praying to be struck by a meteorite.

In that I was a trained investigator, I cleverly deduced that none of them had made a hole-in-one. I glanced at unfamiliar people eating sandwiches or studying a poster while they spoke in low voices. There were a lot of red faces, sweat-stained shirts, and muddy shoes in the group. Harve was not among them. Out in the pasture behind swaths of scruffy pines and skeletal oaks, I caught glimpses of moving figures.

Mrs. Jim Bob was seated at a table at the front of the tent.

Across from her was Frederick Cartier, who was nodding sympathetically as she spoke. Her lips were almost invisible, and her eyes lacked their usual flicker of resolution to shove piety down the throats of anyone within a mile or two.

I went over to them. “Is everything going well?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Mrs. Jim Bob said tartly. “We’re right on schedule. I’m disappointed that we didn’t have more players, but their fees are nonrefundable. after we’ve paid expenses, we’ll be able to donate roughly seventy-five hundred dollars to the golf widows. It’s not much, I know, but I’d like to think they’ll be grateful all the same.”

Frederick patted her hand. “I’m sure they will be very grateful.”

He stood up. “Would you like to join us, Arly? May I bring you a cup of lemonade and a cookie?”

“No chocolate chips for me. I’m on duty. Mrs. Jim Bob, do you know if the sheriff’s on the course?”

“A sheriff?” Frederick abruptly sat down. “Why on earth would you be in need of a sheriff?”

“Not just any sheriff. I need to speak to Stump County’s one and only sheriff, Harvey Dorfer.”

Mrs. Jim Bob looked at her clipboard. “He’s on the back nine somewhere. Everybody should be done within the next hour. There’s no reason for you to dawdle. As you said, you’re on duty. I can assure you there’s nothing of an illegal nature taking place here.”

“How about offering alcohol to minors?”

“That has been dealt with and will not happen again. When Sheriff Dorfer turns in his scorecard, I’ll tell him that you’re looking for him.”

“I’m afraid it can’t wait,” I said with a sigh. The fairway in front of us was not a lush green carpet that had been unfurled on a gentle slope. It looked more like a bed of nails that a yogi might walk on to demonstrate his power of concentration. In some areas, the mower’s blades had scraped down to bare rock. Grasshoppers whirred aimlessly. Raucous cowbirds had taken possession of a dead tree. The course looked as inviting as a Siberian summer camp.