by Joan Hess
Déjà vu and pay-per-view.
“Hi,” I said, trying to appear excited as I gazed at the card tables covered with dishes, jars, plastic kitchen utensils, and costume jewelry. “I’m looking for Jicama Drive. Can you help me?”
“You know somebody that lives there?”
“I don’t know Deputy Harraldson, but his partner gave me the address. It’s about an old investigation.”
“That Frankie Norton is one sick puppy,” she said. “He used to date my sister’s daughter, a sweet girl and popular at school. She was on the honor roll, too, until she took up with him. He kept her out half the night, sometimes brought her home drunk or high. Her grades went all to hell, and instead of going to college on a scholarship, she works at a church daycare center and takes night classes.”
“How sad,” I murmured.
“Don’t go feeling sorry for her. Everybody in the family, including yours truly, tried to talk some sense into her, but she’d just sit there like a bumpkin on a log. You could see your words go in one ear and float out the other. Kids these days think they can have whatever they want just for the asking.”
“Kids,” I said, shaking my head. “Now, if you could please tell me how to find Jicama Drive, I’d appreciate it.”
“My brother’s stepson is a real mess. He’s not but fourteen, and he’s already been arrested twice for DWI. It’s his mama’s fault. She feels guilty about the divorce and tries to make it up to him by letting him do as he pleases.” The woman pulled off her sunglasses to wipe her eyes. “The boy needs discipline, and I mean with a belt. Poor Houston is afraid to raise his voice, much less his hand.”
I’d underestimated the social dynamics of yard sales. Vowing to avoid them in the future, even if it involved risking a limb, I said, “Jicama Drive?”
“Why don’t you sit for a spell? We all have problems, and talking about them can help sometimes. When my youngest was born, I got so depressed I stayed in my bed for seventeen weeks. It was all I could do to nurse the baby. You ever been depressed like that? So tired all you want to do is cry yourself to sleep?”
I was heading that way. I gave her my most sympathetic smile and said, “I wish I could stay, but I’m in a dreadful hurry. As soon as I’ve spoken to Deputy Harraldson, I need to rush home to take care of my daughter. She has scurvy.”
“Scurvy?”
“That’s what she told me.”
“I didn’t think folks got that these days.” She sucked on her upper lip, trying to decide if I met her criteria for a sick puppy. A quick glance at the street indicated I was the best she had for the time being. “Then again, who knows what these kids are capable of catching. In my day, all we worried about was diarrhea and gonorrhea.” She waited for me to laugh, and after I forced out a chuckle of sorts, gave up on me. “Go back to the highway, turn right, and take the next left. It’s just past where the mobile home park used to be before the tornado got it. It was a doozey. Some of its residents are in Oz these days, others at the cemetery. My husband and I got our plots booked in advance. We’re going to spend eternity under a persimmon tree, if you can imagine.”
“It sounds lovely.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew my husband.”
I snatched up a lopsided picture frame lacking glass. “How much?”
“You can have it,” the woman said. “Ain’t worth a plug nickel. Neither is my husband. Sumbitch is carrying on with Leon’s wife. Everybody in town knows about it, except Leon. He fell off the roof of his house when he was putting up Christmas lights four years ago, and he’s been humming ‘Jingle Bells’ ever since.”
I retreated to my car, picture frame in hand, and drove back to the highway. I turned right, and then turned left at a vacant lot strewn with branches and skeletal metal. There was a car in the carport of Deputy Harraldson’s house. Trying hard not to look like a missionary, I went to the front door.
The middle-aged woman who answered the door could barely find the energy to raise her eyebrows. “Yes?” she said.
“Is Deputy Harraldson at home? I’d like to speak to him about an old investigation. I was at the sheriff’s department earlier this afternoon and was given this address.”
“Frankie Norton is way too big for his britches. Yes, my husband is home. No, you can’t speak to him. Have a nice day.”
I inserted my foot before the door closed. “It will just take a couple of minutes. It concerns the Sarah Swift case. Her trial begins Tuesday.”
“Yeah, I remember her. She shot her husband in the barn, right? There’s nothing my husband can tell you that’s going to help her or you.” She again attempted to close the door.
“Please let me speak to him,” I said, although it sounded more like a pathetic bleat than a request. “Sarah may be innocent. If she’s found guilty, she’ll die in prison.”
The woman shrugged. “All right, but it’s not going to do any good. Richard was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s at the first of the year, and he’s been going downhill like a kid on a sled. Most days he knows who I am, but he drifts in and out. I was hoping you were from Social Services. They said they were sending someone to keep an eye on him so I can have a few hours off. I haven’t been to the beauty shop for months.”
I wanted to hug her, assure her that her hair looked fine, and offer to spend the afternoon with her husband. I restrained myself and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Harraldson.”
“You may not be thanking me after you try to get information out of him. Come on in.” She stepped back and gestured for me to follow her.
We went into the living room, where an unshaven man in a bathrobe was watching a baseball game on the TV. He glanced up at me. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Claire Malloy,” I said as I sat down across from him. “I’d like to ask you about the Sarah Swift case.”
“Shot her husband in the barn,” Mrs. Harraldson inserted. “About a year ago, Richard, when you were still working for Sheriff Dorfer.”
“He was a good man,” murmured Deputy Harraldson. “He kept a bottle of bourbon in his desk drawer. Many an afternoon we’d sit in his office, drinking and smoking cheap cigars. LaBelle had a fit every time she came into the room, claiming it was what she called a ‘hostile work environment.’ Damn silly woman.”
I leaned forward. “Do you remember anything about the investigation?”
He gave me an annoyed look. “Of course I do. Wife shot her husband in the chest with a twelve-gauge shotgun and then waltzed off to bed.”
“You interviewed the neighbors, right?” I said, doing my best to suppress my eagerness. “They had a grandson, Billy, staying with them.”
“Yeah, cute kid but a real pest. He followed me out to my car and told me some gobbledy-gook about dead men lurching out in the field. Claimed to have evidence. I made a couple of notes just to shut him up. He wasn’t much more than three years old, with a helluva imagination. Maybe he’ll grow up to be the next Stephen King.”
“You didn’t follow up on it?” I asked.
“Are you asking me if I walked across a field on a blazing hot day to search for evidence of zombies?”
Even Mrs. Harraldson had a problem with that scenario. “Well,” I said slowly, “the little boy might have seen something.”
He clamped his lips together and scowled at the floor. After a minute, Mrs. Harraldson sat down next to him and squeezed his hand. I did not move. Finally, he raised his head and gazed at me.
“Do I know you?”
* * *
Once I was in Farberville, I stopped by a café and ordered a sandwich to go. I carried the sack into the Book Depot, where Jacob, my overly conscientious clerk, was seated behind the counter. He acknowledged my appearance with a curt nod and then pointed at the rack of paperback fiction. I assumed he was attempting to convey something of grave significance.
“What’s up?” I whispered, willing to play along for lack of anything better to do. “Am I interrupting a holdup? I don’t have tim
e to be taken hostage today.”
“A potential shoplifter,” Jacob whispered back. “He may be armed and dangerous.”
“Have you been reading Dostoevsky? Raskolnikov may have begun his career by stealing a volume of Pushkin’s poetry, but I doubt he was into science fiction and fantasy. If so, he deserved punishment for his crime.”
Jacob failed to appreciate my wit. “I’m waiting until he steps outside, then I’ll grab him while you call the police. I’ve been going over the ledgers, Ms. Malloy. You lose approximately fourteen percent of your stock to shoplifters.”
“We do go through a lot of yellow study guides,” I said as I went behind the paperback rack. My scruffy science fiction hippie, who’d taken one too many hallucinogens in the seventies, grinned at me. The pockets of his army jacket bulged, as usual. “Put them back,” I said, as usual. “Do you know anything about this current zombie nonsense?”
He retrieved half a dozen books from his pockets and replaced them on the rack. “I prefer to stick to the classics, although I may have flipped through a couple of graphic novels about zombies. You thinking about getting one for a pet? Way cool.”
“I haven’t considered that,” I said. “I’m curious to know how they’re portrayed. Are they up on technology?”
“Maybe you ought to get a vampire instead. Of course, feeding either of them would be a problem unless you can find a specialty pet store that carries blood and brains. I don’t think there’s one in Farberville, but I don’t get out to the mall very often.”
“Would a zombie be depicted with a flashlight?”
He scratched his beard, freeing crumbs and bits of dried vegetation. “I don’t think so. They mostly stumble around in the dark.”
“Okay,” I said. I took one of the paperbacks off the rack and handed it to him. “This is on the house. You have to buy the other ones.”
“You could get a werewolf,” he said, his eyes flickering, “but you should make sure it’s housebroken.”
I caught his arm and escorted him to the door. “Have you ever considered getting books at the library?”
“Yeah, but when I tried, an alarm went off when I went out the door and this Valkyrie came whooping after me. This place is a lot more civilized.”
“Librarians can be scary.” I watched him amble across the street, oblivious to traffic, and disappear into the beer garden.
Jacob did not look pleased as I came back inside the store. “You shouldn’t reinforce his larcenous behavior, Ms. Malloy. He’s a menace to all retail establishments.”
“And he has deep pockets.”
I sat at my desk and ate while I tried to come up with a logical course of action for the next two days. Not that I had two days, I corrected myself glumly. Peter’s mother would arrive at noon on Monday. I pictured myself in a sundress and high heels, greeting her on the porch. We would exchange air kisses. I would have to serve lunch. Sandwiches were unthinkably rustic. My attempts at making a soufflé had been abysmal, as in inedible. Chicken salad was safe, I supposed, but uninspired. Curried chicken salad, with almonds, dried cranberries—
“Did you get any help from Sheriff Dorfer?” Peter said from the doorway.
I was pleased to be interrupted. “He went fishing. I had to trample over a dispatcher to talk to a deputy, who’s a jerk. The deputy who interviewed the neighbors wasn’t able to help. I want to ask Sarah about the green van, but she’s disappeared. Her lawyer is already thinking about her appeal.” I pushed aside the half-eaten sandwich. “Why don’t we go fishing somewhere in Mexico? We have valid passports. Jacob can book the tickets and we can head straight to the airport. I don’t care if we go to Los Cabos or Cancún, as long as we leave within the hour.”
Peter sat on a corner of the desk. “You’re admitting defeat?”
“I’ll work on the appeal.”
“My mother may be disappointed.”
“Oh, I totally forgot that she’s coming. Why don’t you call and invite her to come next month, or the next. The foliage will be breathtaking.”
“She isn’t coming for the foliage,” my darling husband said. “Are you truly so terrified to meet her? She’s a bit eccentric, but she doesn’t raise rats in the basement and bats in the attic. The chef does that. The parlor maids make minimum wage, and the footmen have all been screened for criminal records. I never believed there were alligators in the moat, but my pony did disappear under mysterious circumstances.”
“Shall I assume you think I’m making a fuss over nothing?”
“I think you’re making a fuss over nothing. She’s merely my mother.”
I teetered on the brink. “And I’m merely your wife?”
He looked at the clock on the wall. “I told the captain I’d swing by and review the latest bulletins from Homeland Security. Would you like to discuss the case before I leave? Up to you.”
I considered my options and then eased away from the brink. “I can use your insight. You’re merely my husband, but you can be useful.” I told him everything I’d heard about the green van from Zachery Barnard and Miss Poppoy. “It may have been spotted a month ago, so whoever is driving it is still in the area. The problem is I have no information about its make, age, or license plate. I doubt the sheriff will issue an APB for it.”
“The description’s vague,” Peter said, his eyes narrowed. “You did say that the police in one of the small towns questioned suspects about the burglaries and the home invasion. I’ll lean on the deputy at the sheriff’s department to get that report. If one of them owns a green van, we can follow up on it. You need to keep in mind that it’s Saturday, and a three-day weekend. It’s not going to be easy to get anything from what may well be the only police officer in the particular town. He may have gone fishing, too.”
“Or she,” I said, being a dedicated supporter of equal opportunity (although any woman willing to take the role of chief of police in the grubby little towns in the county could stand some serious therapy). “Sarah’s lawyer pointed out that even if we locate two men in a green van, we have to convince them to confess, which may be tricky.”
“After you convince Sheriff Dorfer to take them into custody and interrogate them. There’s nothing inherently illegal about owning a green van. They could have been looking for a lost dog or admiring the organic farms. Maybe they’re hunters, checking out the area for posted property. Deer season opens in November.”
“Or casing the joint. I don’t have a lot to work with, Peter, so let me have my demented theories. The only other thing I can think to do is to go on a zombie hunt.” His reaction suggested that I needed to expound on the remark. I related what Billy had told me about the zombies battling over carrots across the field. With flashlights. Both of us were relieved when my cell phone beeped.
“I found out where Sarah is,” Evan said, bypassing standard pleasantries. “You won’t believe it. She’s been taken into custody by the FBI. Wessell’s called a press conference on the courthouse steps. I’m going there now.”
Stunned, I looked at Peter. “The FBI has Sarah. Will they talk to you?”
“If they’re in the mood, maybe, but I’ll have to make a lot of calls. They’re not known to play well with others.”
He had a point, as he often did. “Okay,” I said as I grabbed my purse, “then call the chauffer and tell him we need to go to the courthouse immediately. I’ll explain on the way.”
Jacob, who probably had listened to the entire conversation, watched us go past him with nary a smirk. I made a mental note to give him a bonus at Christmas.
* * *
The scene on the steps of the courthouse lacked drama. Prosecutor Wessell, flanked by two minions, was addressing a TV camera and crew. Half a dozen pedestrians were watching, but they seemed disinclined to organize themselves into a mob. Thomas Pomfreet, who’d reported (and distorted) my dismissal from the jury, clutched a microphone as if it were the Olympic torch. The analogy was appropriate, since Wessell’s chest was puffed up in expec
tation of a gold medal.
“We intend to cooperate fully with the FBI,” he said, “but this atrocious murder took place in Stump County, and justice must be served. After Mrs. Swift—or whatever her real name is—has been found guilty of murder, she will be turned over to face charges of unlawful flight to avoid prosecution, conspiracy to commit murder, destruction of government property, and whatever other charges to be determined by the federal authorities. I will have more information later today.”
“Where is she now?” asked Pomfreet.
“Her bond has been revoked, and she will be detained in the county jail for the duration of the trial.”
I saw Evan cowering in the doorway of a dress shop and went over to him. “What on earth is going on?”
“I don’t know much. Sarah was picked up this morning by FBI agents. She hasn’t been allowed to make a telephone call.” His face was flushed, and he was sweating copiously. His necktie hung like a limp noose. “I can’t get hold of any of the other attorneys from the office. I’ve never dealt with the FBI.”
I squeezed his arm. “You can’t fall apart now, Evan. My husband has FBI contacts.” I looked at Peter, who promptly took out his cell phone and moved down the sidewalk. “If Sarah didn’t call you, how did you find out about this? Don’t tell me Wessell informed you out of professional courtesy, because I’ll assume you’re having a heatstroke and are in need of immediate medical aid.”
“An anonymous tip,” he said. “I called you and then came here to find out what the hell’s going on. Once Wessell stops pontificating, I’ll try to talk to him. This is ridiculous. The trial will have to be postponed, maybe for months.”
“The trial,” Wessell announced in a thunderous voice, “will commence Tuesday morning as scheduled. The defendant’s past crimes in no way mitigate her culpability in the death of her husband, an elderly man in poor health. I have spoken to Judge Priestly, who has made it plain she will not entertain any motions for a continuance. As the county prosecutor of Stump County, I have a sworn duty to demand justice. The FBI agents have requested that I avoid any further explanation until later today, but I will say that Sarah Swift has been on their most-wanted list for forty years. We can all sleep better tonight, knowing that she is no longer an imminent threat to the citizens of Stump County.” He posed briefly for the camera and then, ignoring Pomfreet’s squeaky pleas, went into the courthouse.