Merry Wives of Maggody (30 page)

“Are you sure you won’t have a drink?” He pulled a pint bottle out of his suitcase and took a gulp. “Not going into another room, no. Natalie and that young man were disappearing around the far end of the building. I was puzzled ’cause there’s nothing out there but an overgrown pasture.”

“Kale Wasson?” I said, sitting up.

“No, a local fellow. I don’t recollect his name. He was here a couple of hours ago, drinking whiskey and putting the make on Amanda. She wasn’t crawling all over him, but she didn’t object when he patted her fanny.”

I ran through the cast. A tidbit of a conversation popped up like a prairie dog. “Luke, right? Dark curly hair, muscles, wearing a T-shirt and jeans.”

“Yeah, that’s his name.”

“Did Dennis object?”

“Poor fellow. I don’t think he noticed. He was sprawled in the chair you’re sitting in, sucking down scotch like he’d found a water fountain in the desert. He looked more likely to burst into tears than throw a punch. after a while, he staggered out of the room. That was the last I saw of him. What happened to him?”

“Go back to last night,” I said. “You saw Luke with Natalie?”

“He had his arm around her, like she was too plastered to walk on her own. It’s lucky for her that Janna wasn’t standing outside with a strap. That woman reminds me of my great-aunt Sapphire. She had a sharp tongue, and we were terrified of her. after she died, the police discovered four corpses in trunks in her attic. She had a thing about meter readers.”

“Did you see Kale on his way to his room?” I asked.

“No,” Proodle said, “but I wasn’t paying much attention. All I wanted to do was go to bed. If you’re finished, I need to call Patty. She’s going to an organ recital at the church this evening. How long do you intend to detain us?”

“Not one minute longer than necessary. I can promise you that.”

“What about the tournament? It should be called off before somebody else is killed.”

“Or before somebody else makes a hole-in-one?” I suggested brightly.

He looked away. “That’s not what I meant, although it would be easier if I just had the damn boat towed back to my lot. When will it be released?”

“Beats me. I’m going to talk to Mrs. Jim Bob, then meet with all of you in the barroom. Be there in forty-five minutes.”

I drove once again to the mayoral abode. Thus far, the tournament had been on, off, on, off, and set to be switched back on in the morning. My reading light got less action in a week. I parked and went up to the porch.

Mrs. Jim Bob threw open the door. She had a smudge of flour on her cheek, but she lacked Betty Crocker’s warm smile and twinkly eyes. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Arly. The Missionary Society is going to arrive in less than an hour, and I’ve got a cake in the oven. I need to set out the china and silverware. State your business.”

I obliged. “There’s been another murder.”

Her face turned as white as the flour. She wobbled so wildly that I caught her arm and steered her into the living room. Once she was settled on the sofa, I said, “Shall I get you a glass of water?”

“No, I’m fine. It’s just that—that on top of everything else, I don’t know what to do. I always know what to do. The tournament was supposed to be a modest fund-raiser for the needy golf widows. It wasn’t supposed to be—to be a bloodbath! Tell them to take their corpses and leave town!”

Mrs. Jim Bob was still drunk, I realized. She may have been able to bake a cake on instinct, but she was in no condition to think straight. Lucky me. I sat down next to her, and in a soothing voice, said, “I can’t let them leave town. Don’t you want to know who was murdered?”

“I don’t care,” she whimpered. “It doesn’t matter. I’d just as soon they all kill each other, then drive home. I’ll be at the side of the road to wave good-bye.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue. I was prepared to let her linger in her blissful, inebriated universe when she abruptly threw the wadded tissue on the floor and snapped, “Yes, of course I want to know who was murdered! I’m waiting, missy. Are you going to sit there like a petrified frog or are you going to croak it out?”

Jekyll and Hyde had found room on the sofa. “Dennis Gilbert was the victim,” I began. “His body was discovered in Tommy Ridner’s motel room earlier this afternoon. Same cause of death. I’m working on a motive.” She gazed blankly at me. “You have to decide about the golf tournament, Mrs. Jim Bob. I think it’s time to cancel it once and for all. The perp’s out there. Nobody should be on the golf course tomorrow.”

“What about the bass boat? That’s why they came, you know. They pretend to care about golf widows, but I see right through them. They don’t give a whit about faith, hope, and charity. They’re here out of greed. As it says in the daily devotional book in the guest bathroom, ‘who being past feeling have given themselves over unto lasciviousness, to work all uncleanness with greediness.’ I think that sums it up nicely.”

I was having trouble following her logic. “What do you want to do about the golf tournament?”

“We’ll cross that fairway when we come to it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Then the tournament continues?”

“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t play golf.”

“The tournament is canceled?”

“A fool and his golf ball are soon parted,” she said. “You must excuse me. I have to de-ice the cake before the ladies arrive.” She wafted out of the room.

After a few seconds to pull myself together, I wafted out of the house and sat in my car, my forehead on the steering wheel. Every last soul in Maggody was a liar and/or an idiot. There was not one person I could trust. Jack was five thousand miles away, photographing cockatoos. I felt as if I were in a rain forest as well, although mine was of my own making. If he weren’t incommunicado, I would have arranged to meet him on the beach in Rio de Janeiro. And never come back. Our child would be bilingual and tan. I would contribute to the house hold bud get by carving coconuts to resemble Buchanons, right down to the squinty eyes and sneers.

When I had exhausted my store of self-pity, I drove back to the highway and ran the stoplight out of spite. I parked between a couple of familiar pickups and went into Ruby Bee’s. The proprietress promptly went into the kitchen. The suspects from the motel (sans Amanda) were seated in several booths, apparently having failed to bond. Bony and Earl were eating burgers at the bar. The lone figure in the corner was seeping into the faux leather upholstery.

The rest of them stared at me. I was thinking of how to begin when Jim Bob, Jeremiah, Kevin, and other members of the tontine came in.

“What about the tournament?” Jim Bob demanded.

A sticky question. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Mrs. Jim Bob is mulling it over. I think it’s a bad idea to continue, but I won’t interfere. Thing is, nobody is to leave town for the time being. That includes all the locals who are involved in the tournament in any capacity. Nobody drives to the co-op for layer grit without my consent. Nobody runs into Farberville to shop.” I stopped for a minute.

“Does everyone know about Dennis Gilbert’s murder?”

I wasn’t surprised when they all nodded, since the grapevine was more efficient than the Internet in the dissemination of information.

The CIA could take lessons from the Missionary Society.

“All right,” I continued, “are all of you clear about what I said? No exceptions. If you leave town without a hall pass, I’ll issue an APB and have you taken into custody.”

“For what?” Proodle said. “This is not a police state. We’re American citizens and you’re violating our constitutional rights.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Any more questions?”

Everyone who was standing sat down, and those who were seated resumed what ever they had been doing. I assumed Ruby Bee would reappear to take orders and dish out soup made from the noon special. Chicken noodle soup sounded like an excellent idea, but not in an environment chillier than arctic water.

I stopped at the PD to make a couple of calls, then at the Dairee Dee-Lishus to fuel myself with a cherry limeade. The drive to Farberville gave me time to think.

• • •

Once Ruby Bee got everybody served, she took a quarter out of the cash register drawer and went down to the pay phone at the end of the bar. She’d looked up the number in her address book. The jukebox was playing a sentimental ballad. Nobody was so much as looking in her direction. All she had to do was pick up the receiver and dial the number.

She glanced around as she squeezed the quarter in her sweaty palm. It wasn’t like she was calling Buckingham Palace to chat with the queen, or the Vatican to speak to the pope. If someone else answered, she figured she could disguise her voice. Why, she could make herself sound exactly like a Mexican, having learned a few words in Spanish a while back. “Buenas nachos,” she whispered.

“My llama Rosita.”

It was a stupid idea. She put the quarter back in the drawer and wiped down the bar with a dishrag. Luke asked for a refill, but she gave him a dark look. He had enough sense not to repeat his request. The song on the jukebox was now an oldie from the 1970s, painfully familiar. She continued making wide shiny circles on the black surface, her lips barely moving as she sang, “You’re so vain…” She pictured herself singing it to him, since he’d thought everything was about him.

She took the quarter out of the drawer and returned to stand in front of the pay phone. This time it
was
about him, but also about her and a whole lot more. She’d almost rallied the courage to pick up the receiver when the phone rang. It was so startling that she ducked into the ladies’ room and locked the door.

Fourteen

I
parked in front of the Farberville PD and went to the front desk. A middle-aged woman with streaky blond hair and dark roots gazed at me without interest. I was charmed, since I was accustomed to LaBelle’s snoopiness. It often took ten minutes of feints and lunges to get past her to Harve’s office.

“Arly Hanks,” I said briskly. “Sheriff Dorfer called about me.”

“Yeah, I got it somewhere.” She pawed through the clutter on her desk until she found a memo. “Okay, yeah, an officer to get you inside a residence. You’re supposed to fill out a form, which means I have to dig one out of the filing cabinet. We’re always short-handed on weekends. Can’t this wait ’til tomorrow?”

“I’m working a double homicide,” I said less briskly.

“Good for you. I’m working a double shift to pay my medical bills. I was diagnosed with bursitis in both knees six weeks ago. Last year it was gallstones, and the year before that I had an emergency appendectomy. I spent my birthday on an operating table. I can hardly wait for next year.”

“Do I need to talk to the chief?” I said.

“Chief Turbutt’s lucky to be able to work. He practically lives on antacids and milk. His doctor blames it on smoking and stress. My sister-in-law had the same thing, bloody stools and all, but she finally said to hell with it and had the surgery. You should have seen the staples on her belly. I told her next time the surgeon could just unzip her.” She chuckled. “Get it? The staples looked like a zipper.”

“Is there an officer waiting for me?”

“You should have asked me that right off the bat, instead of prying into personal medical problems.” The woman scowled as she picked up the receiver, punched a few buttons, and told Officer Davies to report to the desk.

Officer L. Davies strutted in, his thin lips so tightly pursed that he resembled a bloated badger. “Chief Hanks?” he barked.

“Officer Davies here. I’ve been assigned to assist you.” It was clear that he would have preferred to beat me senseless with a nightstick.

I told him what I needed him to do. He seemed disappointed that he would not have the opportunity to bully little old ladies or arrest teenagers for skateboarding in the park. We did not make amiable conversation as he drove to a neighborhood in the historic district. The houses were old, the yards immaculate, the sidewalks swept. I wondered why Tommy had chosen a neighborhood where parties revolved around cupcakes and balloons.

I followed Officer Davies onto the porch of a gray-shingled house with white gingerbread trim. The porch swing had a fresh coat of paint. He fiddled with a set of lock picks, then opened the door. “Wait here while I search the premises,” he said, fondling his handgun in a leather holster. “Once I’m sure it’s safe, I’ll allow you in while I stand guard on the porch.”

“I think not,” I said. “I’ll call the PD when I’m finished. They can track you down.”

“I advise against that, ma’am.”

“Maybe I should speak to Chief Turbutt and let him deal with you, Officer Davies. I understand he’s in a bad mood these days.”

Officer Davies’s eyebrows merged like a slather of mud. “If you insist on disregarding my advice, the Farberville Police Department will not take responsibility for what ever may happen to you.”

“Run along.” I fluttered my fingers in dismissal. “This shouldn’t take more than an hour. You have plenty of time to bust senior citizens whose dogs poop on the sidewalk.”

I closed the door to emphasize my point, then turned around to survey the territory. Tommy’s living room contained a leather couch, a matching recliner, and a flat-screen TV the size of a twin mattress. There were a couple of beer cans on the coffee table, but otherwise it was surprisingly tidy. The kitchen was unremarkable except for a wineglass rack and cabinets crowded with bottles of top-label liquor. The refrigerator contained standard bachelor fare: a jar of mayonnaise, a package of baloney, a carton of milk, and a case of beer. An adjoining room served as an office. It was crammed with a metal desk, filing cabinets, computer equipment, cardboard storage boxes, and piles of folders and disks. It had a semblance of organization, however, and I decided it hadn’t been searched in recent days. Or dusted in recent years.

Upstairs, I took a quick look inside a guest room, then went into the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made, and clothes hung in the closet. A biography of Cardinal Woolsey lay on the bedside table. The bookshelf held more biographies, classic literature, and a couple of gardening books. One should never judge a golfer by the cut of his shorts, I told myself.