Merry Wives of Maggody (17 page)

“If you won’t tell me, you have to tell Chief Hanks,” Janna said grimly as she turned up the road to the golf course.

“Yeah,” Natalie said.

Janna sighed and switched tactics. “You were too upset to talk about it last night, and I understand that. I’ve seen the same thing with soldiers after a deadly encounter with the enemy. The worst thing you can do is bottle it up. Post-traumatic stress syndrome is a very real disorder.”

“What’s my tee time?”

“I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with Tommy Ridner’s death. Is he the one who…?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Did you clean my clubs last night?”

“They were so covered with muck that I ended up using a hose at the back of the motel. Kathleen Wasson was doing the same thing. She’s so dull that I’d rather converse with a rock. All she could talk about was her son’s lucky blue shirt and how sure she was that she’d packed it. If I had that punk at boot camp, I’d slap that smirk off his face so hard his head would spin. Their kind don’t belong on a golf course.”

“Do I?”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” Janna said.

• • •

Bony graciously allowed Aunt Eileen to drive him to the tournament site. He’d asked for a glass of orange juice and, when her back was turned, had spiked it with vodka. Since he was a little fuzzy about what all had happened the previous night, he didn’t know if he was drinking the hair of a pit bull or a chihuahua. The one thing he remembered vividly was that smug asshole Ridner strutting around the barroom, crowing about the goddamn bass boat. Anyone could have lucked out and made a hole-in-one, he thought darkly. All of the holes would be par threes at a real course. The so-called ladies’ tees were halfway down the so-called fairways. At least the blond chick had the decency to play from the men’s tees. Now it was a brand-new game, and he was confident he’d walk away with the trophy and the boat. What ever had happened in the previous twelve hours was history, but it would be nice to know exactly what
had.

“I think it’s my left elbow,” Eileen said as she whipped around a tractor that was barely moving. “I don’t know how much to bend it on my backswing. Halfway through my swing, I second-guess myself.”

“Hmmm,” said Bony. He had a vague picture of whacking balls in the middle of the road, although he couldn’t recall why it seemed like a fine idea.

“Earl hit three balls into the middle of the boggy bottom,” Eileen continued more cheerfully. “I was hoping he’d jump in to fetch them and be attacked by giant leeches. Can you imagine the gall of him saying that I belonged at home, cooking and cleaning! If golf is such a manly game, why do they have the LPGA? Is that supposed to be like the PTA? You don’t hear about Michelle Wie organizing a bake sale for the boys.” She turned so abruptly that half of Bony’s drink splashed onto his trousers. “I’m going to make the first hole-in-one today, and Earl can throw his clubs in the pond along with his balls.” She veered toward a squirrel, but it scampered into the woods.

“That’s the attitude. You have to think positive.” There was something about the stoplight. An argument about whether it had to be green. That only made sense if they were driving. Bony took a gulp of orange juice. But if they were driving, where did they go?

Eileen smiled as she imagined herself accepting the key for the fancy bass boat. Earl’s face would crumble like a dried mud daubers’ nest. He could beg all he liked, but she was gonna sell the boat, turn over the hefty tithe, and spend the rest of the money exactly as she chose. Not one penny of it would go for a bucket of bait.

• • •

Brother Verber hadn’t given much thought to his sermon, even though the blessed hour would be upon him pretty darn quick.

’Course there wouldn’t be enough worshippers at the ser vice to get up a game of canasta—not that he condoned playing cards on Sunday. The majority of the congregation was involved in the golf tournament, either playing or volunteering. The rest probably knew about the murder in the bass boat, or would shortly, since the grapevine missed only the most remote house holds. He’d heard it from Chikeeta Buchanon when she stopped by to get the key to clean the Assembly Hall before the morning ser vice. She’d heard it from her ex-brother-in-law, who was sleeping with her niece. He’d heard it from his fishing buddies, and so on. Everybody else who could drive, walk, or crawl would be drawn to the golf course in hopes of more violence.

He was itching to follow them. Before the first person teed off, he could offer a prayer for the deceased, and then a homily about the sin of envy. “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his slaves, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is thy neighbor’s, including his bass boat,” he intoned solemnly. “For the Almighty Lord will smite you with a bolt of lightning afore you reach the first green!”

It had a nice ring to it, he decided, but he was gonna have to stretch it out into a thirty-minute sermon for what ever church members showed up. He sat down on the couch to wait for further inspiration, idly looking at the three trophies lined up on the coffee table. He’d never won a trophy. The best he’d ever done in a competition was a second-place ribbon for Bible drill in Sunday school. He had a certificate for perfect attendance in high school and a diploma from the seminary. But never a trophy, not even an itsy-bitsy one.

He went to the kitchen and buttered a square of cold cornbread, slathered it with raspberry jam, and took a bottle of sacramental wine out of the refrigerator. When he sat back down, he realized that he’d forgotten to get a glass. He looked at the largest trophy, a plastic loving cup atop a fake marble base.

“ ‘Therefore God give thee of the dew of heaven, and the fatness of the earth, and plenty of cornbread and wine.’ ” He filled the cup and picked up the base with trembling hands. “And the winner is Willard Verber for his outstanding leadership in the Lord Almighty’s war against Satan hisself!” after the riotous applause died down, he drank the contents.

• • •

By nine forty-five, a diminished number of golfers had arrived at the tent. The vast majority were locals, since most of the visitors had left as soon as Tommy made the hole-in-one. Mrs. Jim Bob admitted she hadn’t mentioned the rule until after supper because she was too busy overseeing the buffet line and reprimanding those who’d imbibed to excess. I had my doubts. after all, the fewer the eaters, the more bountiful the leftovers. I wasn’t surprised as other locals drifted in, some of them with coolers, blankets, and folding chairs. Mothers smeared bug repellent on their children’s bare arms. Men slapped each other on the back and remarked on the likelihood of rain. Middlin Buchanon pulled his wizened granny in a little red wagon, ignoring her squawks.

Constant Squirtty led her blind husband to a picnic table and parked him so she could continue to mingle. The unsavory crowd from the poolroom had taken over a picnic table and were stuffing doughnuts in their mouths. Someone had brought a radio but turned it off after a withering stare from Mrs. Jim Bob. I found Darla Jean, who produced a folder with photocopied forms that included disclaimers for injuries on the course received from a boggling array of flora and fauna. Rules forbade the use of alcohol, inappropriate attire, obscene language, threats of physical intimidation, weapons, and violence. I could barely make out the last line that required winners to be present at the final ceremony.

“They’re all signed and dated,” Darla Jean said proudly. “I thought I’d wait to see who showed up this morning before I alphabetized them. Mrs. Jim Bob wants everything alphabetized.”

“From armadillos to water hemlock,” I said, nodding. “Would you and your friends try to figure out who was still here when the meal was served yesterday evening? I’ll need their registration information.”

“Gee, I dunno. You’d better ask Mrs. Jim Bob.”

“I’m the chief of police, Darla Jean. Mrs. Jim Bob can bawl you out. I can arrest you for impeding an investigation.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

I regarded the remaining players. No one appeared to be in mourning for Tommy, but conversations were muted. The husbands and wives of Maggody were again seated on opposite sides of the tent, and hostile looks were flying hard and fast. I wondered how many husbands had slept in tool sheds or pickup trucks for the last three nights. None of them seemed well rested. Jim Bob had sneaked into his kitchen, but only after Mrs. Jim Bob left.

Kevin was sitting by himself, nursing a cup of coffee. “Did you and Dahlia make peace?” I asked him as I joined him.

“Not ’xactly. She packed up the younguns, and they’re staying with Ma. I reckon I should have told her about the golf practice, but she cain’t keep a secret for ten minutes. She’d have called my ma, and then my pa’d be in boiling water. It jest seemed safer to say I was working late.”

“Not your best decision, Kevin.”

“Ma said she’ll buy us new tires after she makes a hole-in-one. Pa was there to pick up a clean shirt and overheard her. They got into it and she ended up hauling all his clothes out to the driveway and running over ’em with the lawn mower. He’s staying with his third cousin Byle in Hasty. Bony’s still there, though. I saw him sneakin’ sideways looks at Dahlia. If he so much as tries to lay a finger on my wife, I swear I’ll knock him clear to the Missouri line. He thinks his poop don’t stink jest because he can play golf better than me.”

“Then go try to talk to her now,” I said, although I hardly qualified as a marriage counselor. When I’d finally caught on to my ex-husband’s extracurricular activities in Manhattan, he had frequent flyer miles with an escort ser vice.

“I cain’t cross Jim Bob,” Kevin bleated. “Yesterday some of my balls landed on the greens. He thinks I have a chance to make a hole-in-one today. Iff’n I do, I wouldn’t put it past him to hogtie me and keep me in his truck until the ceremony. He wants that boat so bad he’s sweating diesel. He ain’t the only one, neither.”

I would have pursued this had he not started sniveling. It was more than I could handle on an empty stomach. I filched what proved to be a very stale doughnut, and was forcing it down when Mrs. Jim Bob positioned herself at the front of the tent and clapped her hands until she had our attention.

“I’m pleased to see so many of our citizens have taken an interest in our golf tournament,” she said in a voice icy enough to counter global warming for a millennium. “As you know, our goal is to raise money for golf widows. Those of you who are here as spectators will be expected to donate ten dollars each as your contribution to our cause. The high school students will be around to collect money from anyone who’s still here in three minutes. Time starts now.”

The stampede was reasonably well mannered, although I could hear Middlin’s granny carrying on long after they had disappeared.

Children bawled as they were hustled into cars and the backs of pickup trucks. Whoever had brought the radio turned it back on in a parting display of bravado.

Mrs. Jim Bob watched with a grim smile until the last of the pickup trucks and cars bounced down the road. “Now, I have an updated list of those who intend to play today, and I’ve reassigned the foursomes and tee times on the poster behind me. Since we have so few players, everyone will start at the first hole. leftover sandwiches and barbecue will be available for lunch, for a small fee. We’d like to provide a free lunch, but you have to remember that this tournament is a charity affair to raise money for the less fortunate. Before we begin, I think we should observe a moment of silence for Thomas Ridner, who died in a tragic accident late last night. Had he been a God-fearing Christian, he would have been safely tucked in bed, but he chose to engage in wantonness, vanity, and gluttony. Let this be a lesson for all of us.” She clasped her hands and lowered her head.

Her comment evoked guilty grimaces from the local men and pious nods from the women. Dennis took off his sunglasses and looked down, his eyes closed. Amanda frowned at a distant rumble of thunder. Phil Proodle seemed to be offering a prayer, although it could have been of gratitude instead of for the salvation of Tommy’s soul. Kathleen Wasson gazed at the table, while the teenaged boy next to her drummed his fingers as if squashing ants. A trio of college boys tried to catch the attention of a girl with ash blond hair (Natalie, I assumed), but she was seated next to Kevin, listening to him with a sympathetic expression. I hoped she had a stronger stomach than I did. At another table, Janna finished a doughnut and licked her fingers.

“Amen,” Mrs. Jim Bob said briskly. “The current rankings for those who have chosen to continue are as follows: Bonaparte Buchanon is leading the field at three below par; in second place is Natalie Hotz; in third is Kale Wasson; and in a tie for fourth are Dennis Gilbert and Luke Smithers. The college boys from Farber College turned in respectable scores. Kevin, Jeremiah, Crystal, and Bopeep did nicely. Other players need to improve their technique and concentration. Mayor Jim Bob Buchanon was at the bottom of the list with a miserable score of one hundred and seventy-three. He also received two warnings for profanity. A third offense will result in expulsion.”

From the direction of the men’s tables, someone muttered, “Fuck you.”

She deigned not to hear it. “As you know, the bass boat is once again available for the first hole-in-one. Mr. Phil Proodle is looking forward to presenting the keys to the proud new owner, should there be one. Let’s give him another round of applause for his generosity.”

The applause was enthusiastic. Phil stood up and cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Jim Bob. We at Proodle’s Fine Boats are proud to do our part to benefit such a worthwhile charity. And if today ain’t your lucky day, come on by and have a look at our incredible inventory and unbelievable prices. We have everything from outboards to party barges.” He slapped on a bright orange cap. “Hunt me up and we’ll talk turkey.”

“More like gobbledy-gook.”

“I heard that, Roy Stiver!” Mrs. Jim Bob snapped.

I hurried to the front of the tent. “I am, believe it or not, Chief of Police Arly Hanks. I need to get a statement from everyone who is involved in any capacity in the tournament. Most of them will take only a few minutes. Anyone who doesn’t make a statement will be guilty of impeding a police investigation, which can result in a fine and jail time. Subpoenas will be issued. I’ll be here for a while, and at the PD the rest of the day. Any questions?”