by Joan Hess
Mason found a bottle in a kitchen cabinet and came back to the sitting room, still wishing he were upstairs in bed. “If she’s dead, why don’t you arrange a seance and see what all she has to say about the other world?”
“Do you think that amuses me, Mason? Do you see me smiling? Do you hear me laughing? Am I dressed in a clown suit?”
“I was just making a little joke, Sam. Lighten up, why don’t you?”
“Do you think what I do is a joke?” She filled her glass and drank half of it. “It is not easy, you know. I have many feelings that you and the others cannot understand. I see auras; I hear voices. I know things that do not always make people happy, but I tell them the truth because I know the truth.”
Mason figured that the truth was he was tired and she was drunker than a boiled owl. But, being the good brother that he was—and depending on her for his substantial allowance—he sat back and took a swallow of beer. “So, Celeste, did you have a good day?”
“No, I did not. My first client was late, and although she listened and asked questions, I could see that she was skeptical. This disturbed me. It ruined my day, in fact, and made it impossible for me to put aside her condescending smile and concentrate on more cosmic things.”
“One of those biddies from the beauty shop?”
“Those women believe in my powers and pay very promptly for my services. Of course, I am worth every penny of it,” Madam Celeste said, pouring yet another six inches of sherry into her plastic tumbler. “No, this was a woman not older than you. The daughter of one of my clients; she has been away on a vacation for several months. I took her as a favor, but now I think I should not have done so.”
“Single?”
“She did not wear a wedding ring, but there was a faint mark as if she’d worn one once. The sand said she had been treated badly not too long ago; perhaps a divorce. I could not be sure.”
This time Mason leaped to his feet and, with a small bow, filled Celeste’s glass. “Allow me, Sis; I can see you’re tired. This new client client—she’s my age and single? Does she have warts or anything?”
“She was pretty, in a cool way. Dark hair in a bun, dark eyes, the high cheekbones so common in the Slavic aristocracy. But why are you asking all these questions, my little brother? I can smell cheap perfume on you, so I know you have been with a woman. Are you still so very desperate?”
Mason squirmed as her eyes bored into him; he wondered if maybe she did have a line to an inky universe he sure couldn’t dial direct. “Lay off it; I told you about that already. It was just a group having dinner and barhopping. Why does that make me desperate?”
“Because she’s a cop, dammit.” Celeste shot him an unfathomable look, then banged down her tumbler and left the room.
The beeper was an interesting little critter. Black, so it’d go with both my uniform and my cocktail dress. Two buttons, and a grill that covered its mysterious organs. The idea was that I’d leave the PD telephone on call forwarding so folks would end up with the sheriff’s dispatcher. She’d beep me, and I’d know to call her for a message. Damn thing had a range wide enough to cover the county, so there weren’t too many places I could hole up or hide.
I was sitting behind my desk playing with it when the door banged open. Mrs. Jim Bob marched into the room, her expression more rigid than Edwina Spitz in a bargain-basement girdle. There was a righteous glint in her eye, and her mouth was a white line. Mrs. Jim Bob is also known as Mizzoner, but only to a select few who have nothing better to do than to idle away the hours in the PD making up feeble puns.
Mrs. Jim Bob is not one to waste her precious time on pleasantries. Ungluing her lips, she said, “Arly, it has come to my attention that a most dreadful event has taken place.”
“Jim Bob knock up Raz’s oldest girl?” I flipped over the beeper to study its serial number and arrangement of tiny, shiny screws.
“My husband is in Hot Springs at a municipal league convention, thank you. He takes his responsibilities more seriously than some city employees around here, and he and the other members of the town council went to the meeting despite any personal or financial sacrifice.”
“Raz’s oldest girl is out of town, too. You don’t think he took her along, do you? She’s just the type to be impressed by a snooty hotel and a real live convention. I hate to imagine what she’d be willing to do for one of those laminated name tags. What do you bet she’s never even heard tell of room service?”
She gave me a beady look. “I’ll be sure and ask him about it when he gets home next week. He’ll think your remark was real funny, Miss Chief of Police.”
Needling Mrs. Jim Bob was not enough of a challenge to merit the effort. “So what dreadful event has taken place?” I asked.
“Robin Buchanon is gone.”
“And that’s dreadful? I think we ought to buy a bottle of champagne—no, let’s get a whole dadburn case of champagne and invite the neighbors over for a celebration. I’ll stop by the Kwik-Screw for a box of Ritz crackers and some onion dip, and we’ll party ’til the sun peeks over the tallest tree in the national forest. What’s more, you can offer the first toast.” Good thing I hadn’t made a New Year’s resolution to stop needling her. Those who claim the copyright to half the Bible are such easy targets.
“It is not a source of amusement—and neither are you. You know perfectly well that I wouldn’t touch alcohol with a ten-foot pole. I am a good Christian woman. Now, are you going to stop being a smart aleck and listen, or do I have to call Jim Bob long distance all the way to Hot Springs and tell him that you’re shirking your duty as chief of police?”
“Gee, do the telephone wires go all the way to Hot Springs?”
“You listen to me, Ariel Hanks! I am fed up with your remarks. Now once and for all, are you going to hear me out or not?”
I put the beeper away and took a pad out of the middle drawer. “Do you want to file a missing persons report, ma’am? We can have the FBI here within the hour.”
She nibbled on her unsullied lips (cosmetics being a vanity that led straight to you-know-where). “Well, I suppose so. But that’s not the reason I—”
“Victim’s full name and address, please. Date of birth. Physical description, including any and all warts, moles, tattoos, and scars. Next of kin in case something terrible has happened. Name of dentist, should we need dental records for purposes of identification. When last seen and by whom.” I poised my pencil and gave her a bright smile. “But you feel free to take your time, Mrs. Jim Bob. It’s a long report, but if we hang in there, we can do it.” If she wanted officiousness, she was going to get it. Ad nauseam and then some.
“I don’t know those things any better than you do, Arly.”
I threw the pencil in the trash can, scoring two points along the way. In an aggrieved voice, I said, “Then why don’t you just tell me how I’m supposed to fill out the report and put it on the telex to the FBI? I’m trying my damndest to follow procedure, but I’m not getting any assistance from you, if you don’t mind me saying so. Those FBI fellows get hotter than a peck of parsnips if they get called in on some wild-goose chase.” I toyed with suggesting that Robin was shacked up in a Hot Springs hotel room, but lost my nerve at the last minute.
I could see she wasn’t quite sure whether I was ribbing her or not. She twisted her gloves for a full minute, then concluded that I was and gave me a hundred watt frown. “You want proof? Well, you just sit there and I’ll be back with proof!” She stomped out the door.
I was trying to unscrew the back of the beeper when she stomped back in the door, dragging a small figure who looked mighty miserable under a tangle of black hair.
“This,” she said triumphantly, “is one of Robin Buchanon’s bastard children.” She shoved the figure forward. “You tell the policewoman what happened and be quick about it. Take your finger out of your m
outh while you speak, so’s she can understand you. And speak up nice and loud.”
The child looked to be about nine or ten, and was blessed with the simian features of the Buchanon clan. He/she wore dirty, ragged overalls, with neither shirt nor shoes. “I ain’t talking to no police,” he/she said in a mumble I could barely hear from four feet away. I could, however, smell a sourness that was clear evidence of lack of familiarity with soap and water for quite a while.
Mrs. Jim Bob prodded a shoulder. “Stop that nonsense and tell the policewoman your name. If you don’t, she’ll lock you up in a dark, wet cell and let the rats eat your face until you feel more obliged to talk.”
“I ain’t talking.”
You’ve got to admire spunk. Smiling, I said, “I’m fresh out of dungeons and rats today. Why don’t you at least tell me your name? It can’t hurt. In fact, I’ll bet you have a real pretty name.”
“Like shit you do.”
4
Don’t think for a minute that Hammet Buchanon spilled out his little heart to me. For one thing, I wouldn’t have bet a dollar that he had one; for another, he was about as credible as a televangelist claiming a hotline to God and requesting help with the phone bill. Hammet finally admitted he and his brothers and sisters had been alone for four or five days, and hadn’t had much of anything in the way of vittles. When last seen, their mother was going ’seng hunting. I inquired where her patch was. He shot me a suspicious look and told me it weren’t none of my goddamn business. What a cutie.
I considered various responses, then settled for a sigh. “Let’s get you something to eat, Hammet. I’ll call the sheriff’s office to see if we can borrow a four-wheel and run up to the cabin. If your mother’s still missing, I suppose we’ll bring your siblings back to town and deal with the situation then.”
“Ain’t got none.”
“None of what?” I said absently as I clipped on my beeper.
“Them that you said.”
I thought about it for a minute, then realized what he meant. “Siblings are brothers and sisters, Hammet. How about a big, greasy cheeseburger and a glass of milk?”
He didn’t budge. “Why ain’t they brothers and sisters?”
“It’s another word that means brothers and sisters, I said, taking his shoulder strap to propel him toward the door.
“Why din’t you jest say brothers and sisters?”
Cursing Mrs. Jim Bob under my breath (although I doubted I used any words not an integral part of the child’s vocabulary), I dragged him out the door while explaining that there were often several words that meant the very same thing. I could tell he didn’t believe a word of it.
We were still exploring the delicate issue of semantics as we went into Ruby Bee’s. The proprietor’s mouth fell open as I put Hammet on a bar stool, then hopped up on the next stool and gave her a bright smile. “Why, Arly,” she said, “whoever is your little friend here?”
“Hammet Buchanon. He’s one of Robin’s children, and he’s starving. How about a cheeseburger and a glass of milk?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Well, he’s welcome to something to eat, but don’t you think he might like to wash up first?”
I could tell she was thinking of a prolonged session with a sandblaster rather than a cursory encounter with soap and water in the rest room. “He hasn’t had anything to eat in several days,” I said. “Let’s get him fed; then I’ll take him back to my apartment and bathe him.”
“The hell you will,” contributed the object of the conversation. “Sure as cow shit stinks I ain’t taking no goddamn bath. Done took one a while back.”
Ruby Bee blinked, first at Hammet and then at me. “He has quite a colorful vocabulary, doesn’t he? I’ll start the cheeseburger right away. Would he like a bag of chips while I’m fixing it?”
“Would you?” I asked Hammet.
“Yeah, what the fuck,” he conceded with a shrug.
Ruby Bee had enough sense not to roll her eyes and demand a “please” from this customer. She marched away, but I could hear her mutters all the way through the kitchen door. After a minute I heard her shrilly repeating the conversation, presumably to Estelle. I wanted to escape to the kitchen and explain that none of this was my idea to begin with, but I settled for yet another sigh, then said, “I’m not asking you where the ginseng patch is. All I want to know is if you know where it is.”
“Nope. Her never did say. Somewhere on t’other side of the ridge. It were grandpappy’s once upon a time.”
“How long does your mother stay gone when she’s ’seng hunting?”
“I dunno. Don’t care neither. She’s a mean ole sow and I hope the bears et her for supper.”
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” I asked, hoping this sudden loquaciousness would last. I’d been at Robin’s cabin on another matter, and I’d seen children hovering in the shadows. But at that time I was too concerned with an escaped convict, a kidnapped bureaucrat, and all sorts of crazy shenanigans to try to count those shifting, feral creatures.
“I has four”—he paused to give me an unfathomable look—“siblings, being Bubba, Sissie, Sukie, and Baby. Baby don’t count for much ’cause he’s too little to do anything exceptin’ cry and shit in his britchins. He’s about as useless as tits on a boar hog. You reckon we can jest leave him in the baby trough?”
“I doubt it, Hammet.” I tossed him a bag of corn chips and spent the next five minutes praying Robin would be at the cabin when we got there. I could hand over Hammet, compliment her on her ginseng, and scoot right back down the mountain. Alone.
Ruby Bee came through the door, a plate in her hand and a disapproving expression on her face. “Here’s your food,” she said, banging down the plate in front of Hammet.
He bent down to sniff over the plate like a leery polecat. “What be this stuff?”
“A cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, onions, pickle relish, and mustard. I might add that I am often told I fry the best cheeseburger this side of Starley City,” Ruby Bee said. She didn’t sound real friendly.
“I ain’t eating this crap.” Hammet pushed the plate away and lunged for another bag of corn chips.
I caught his wrist and explained that he was going to eat the cheeseburger, one way or another, and that one of those ways included physical acts on my part and a great deal of discomfort on his. He offered a comment that implied I had engaged in a series of unnatural sexual encounters with various barnyard animals. Ruby Bee cut in with a few comments that might have come from the prissy lips of dear Mrs. Jim Bob. Hammet repeated the terse yet effective witticism that gave Mrs. Jim Bob the bout of hyperventilation. Ruby Bee slapped her hand to her heart and started hyperventilating. I suggested everybody shut up. Nobody did.
We were going at it real good when the kitchen door opened and out waddled Dahlia O’Neill. She was wearing her customary tent dress (which could have slept six—and probably had on more than one occasion) and an apron embroidered with daisies and her name. The sight stopped me in mid-word. Even Hammet broke off with a gasp, giving Ruby Bee the golden opportunity to swoop in for the last word. A favorite hobby of hers.
“I have never in all my born days heard such filthy language. You just eat that cheeseburger right now, young man!” She stepped around Dahlia and vanished into the kitchen.
“How ya doing, Arly?” Dahlia said.
“Fine,” I croaked. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the new barmaid. Madam Celeste—do you know her? Well, anyways, she told me that I needed to make what she called a career move, so I quit my job at the Kwik-Screw. Ruby Bee done hired me as a barmaid, and it’s working out right nice. She, meaning Madam Celeste and not Ruby Bee, told Kevin the exact same thing, which is why he’s cleaning the commodes at the high school and sweeping nights at the PD. You must of seen him, Arly, you b
eing the chief of police and all.”
“I’ve seen him,” I admitted. Maybe Madam Celeste would counsel a career move for me. Something in the range of five hundred miles.
Dahlia beamed. “I figured out you had. You want I should get you a beer or something?”
“I’ll take coffee, and Hammet’ll have a glass of milk.”
She figured out how to open the refrigerator under the bar for milk and, after a few false moves, how to coax coffee from the urn. All this in less than five minutes, too. Hammet tore into the cheeseburger with the grace of a hyena, splattering his bare torso and a goodly part of the immediate area with grease. By the time Dahlia put a glass in front of him, he’d polished the burger off and was peering from under his brow at the chips.
“I’ll ask this woman to bring you a piece of pie if you agree to a bath afterward,” I said.
“Don’t need no goddamn bath.” He rubbed his palm across his glistening front and carefully licked it.
“But are you willing to submit to one in exchange for a piece of Ruby Bee’s homemade apple pie with a scoop of ice cream?”
“I don’t need no goddamn bath ’til next year. Creek’s colder’n a well-digger’s ass.”
“My creek is not, however. My creek is warm, and it doesn’t have any crawdads, snapping turtles, minnows, or rusty cans in it. Deal?”
He nodded without enthusiasm. Dahlia, who’d been listening to all this with a perplexed look, served the pie and even remembered the ice cream. His enthusiasm restored, Hammet tore into it.
“Why’s he with you?” Dahlia asked, her cheeks puffed out like a bullfrog’s on a summer night as she watched Hammet slurping his way through dessert.
“In the metaphysical sense, I have no idea. Mrs. Jim Bob gave him to me, and I haven’t figured out how to pass him along to someone else.” I nudged my ward. “You ready for a bath and an exciting ride in a jeep?”
We went to my apartment, and he did indeed take a bath while I washed his overalls in the sink, then dashed over to the Suds of Fun and stuck them in a dryer for a few minutes. When I returned, I threw them into the bathroom. I then called the sheriff’s office to arrange for a vehicle worthy of logging trails, dried-out creek beds, animal carcasses, and whatever else I expected we’d encounter.