by Joan Hess
Mason stared at the card, reminding himself he didn’t believe in this crap. “Is someone going to die?” he heard himself say with a gulp.
“It does not always mean that someone will die. There will be changes, however, and not necessarily for the best. And the King of Swords, reversed, speaks to me of violence. I do not like what I see, Mason, but the cards do not lie to me.”
He couldn’t think of much to say, so he settled for a nod and repeated his offer to fetch her something to eat or drink. He was relieved when she ordered him away with an irritable demand to be left alone. Fine with him, he thought as he went out to his car. He’d go over to Ruby Bee’s and see if anybody wanted to discuss pro football over a beer. As he backed out of the driveway, he spotted the red-haired beautician coming toward the mailbox. He rolled down the car window and said, “Good morning, Miss Oppers. How are you this fine autumn morning?”
“Did you tell Madam Celeste that Arly wanted an appointment tomorrow morning?”
“You have my deepest apologies, because I forgot all about it. Do you want me to run back inside and ask her if that’ll be okay?”
She stood there chewing her lipstick for a long while. “No, that’s real kind of you, Mason. But I can see you’re leaving, so I’ll just tap on the door and have a word with Madam Celeste myself. Things are a little more delicate than I’d first thought they’d be.”
Mason considered warning her about his sister’s present mood, since her moods weren’t all that good even when she wasn’t upset. He settled for a smile and another comment about the crisp sunshine and glorious foliage of the trees. He then got the hell out of there and went in search of a beer.
My beeper beeped sporadically all afternoon. That was the only thing that happened, except for a minor heart stopper over a six-foot black snake and a slight sensation of paranoia that came from being alone in the middle of nowhere, with only squirrels, birds, gnats, mosquitoes, and a horde of unseen critters for company. I didn’t spot any pay phones among the scrub oak, so I didn’t call the dispatcher. Maybe I was psychic, since I knew precisely what the message would be. No still, no ginseng patch. No sign of Robin Buchanon. No sign of anyone else, for that matter. I spent an hour working my way to the top of the ridge in a zigzag. I sat down on a log until the sweat dried, then moved half a mile east and zigzagged back down to the cabin. Robin hadn’t come back in my absence. A spider had started a web in the jeep. A bleached sow with an amiable expression ambled out of the brush and went past me without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. The hen, perched on the porch rail, watched me closely as I eased the spider out with a stick, started the engine (I will admit to a small word of prayer as I turned the key), and drove down the road to town.
As I went past Ruby Bee’s, I noticed a silver BMW parked among the pickup trucks, but I was too sore and itchy to waste more than a second wondering why anyone with that sort of income would have such wretched taste in his choice of watering hole. I did feel obligated to stop at the PD, despite the knowledge that Kevin Buchanon might stumble through the door while I was there.
The beeper chirped as I parked out front. I told myself I was going to have to grit my teeth and do the right thing, but I wasn’t feeling any tingles of anticipation as I called the dispatcher, who told me that Mrs. Jim Bob Buchanon had left eleven messages concerning the escalating state of emergency.
I was about to call her when Kevin did indeed stumble through the door. Telling myself I really ought to adopt this psychic stuff and set up shop in some distant city, I managed a civil greeting. “You look downright awful, Arly. Did something happen to you?”
“I look like someone who spent more than three hours fighting briars and mosquitoes up on Cotter’s Ridge. As soon as I make one call, I’m going home to clean up.” I picked up the receiver, hoping he’d take the hint.
Subtlety was not his forte. “Was you looking for Robin Buchanon? Dahlia says the dirty slut done run off and left her babies all alone. Dahlia says the littlest baby was near starved to death. Dahlia says you ought to lock Robin up and swallow the key.”
“I’ll take Dahlia’s suggestions into consideration. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to make a call.”
“Sure thing. Don’t pay me no mind, Arly.” He sat down and stared at me as though prepared for small green antennas to slither out my ears.
“You can sweep the back room.”
“Okay.” He didn’t move. Well, his Adam’s apple bobbled and his eyes blinked and his lips twitched and his fingers plucked at the hem of his plaid shirt. His rear end, on the other hand, might as well have been epoxied to the chair.
“Is there anything else, Kevin?”
“Whatcha going to do about finding Robin? Do you want me to go with you next time to help you search for her? I could ask Dahlia to pack some samwiches and RC colas so we could search all day.”
I held back a shudder. “No, but thank you for the offer. I realized this afternoon just how futile it is to think I can find anything in that many square miles of woods. I’m going to take the jeep back to the sheriff in the morning and see if he can send over some deputies to help. If we have to, we can try for a helicopter from the state boys. By noon tomorrow, the whole case will be out of my hands.” I’d decided all that on the drive home—while scratching the innumerable red spots and watching the blood well up in some of the deeper lacerations on my hands.
“But we can find her ourselves, Kevin protested. “I know we can.”
“There is no ‘we,’ Kevin. I am paid to serve as chief of police and you are paid to sweep the floors and empty the wastebaskets. Those are entirely different job descriptions.”
“I’ll be a deputy for free. You don’t have to give me no extra money. It’s my civic duty, and—”
“Please sweep the floors,” I said with a sigh.
“But I know we can find out where Robin’s holed up. Mebbe Dahlia can come with us to help search. If you want, I can call her right now and ask her if she can come along.”
“The search is over,” I said in a stern voice, trying not to even imagine Dahlia O’Neill trudging through the woods. It was an ecological nightmare. “I am going home. When you finish your chores, you go home and spend a quiet evening in front of the television with your ma and pa.”
“But gee, Arly, don’t you—”
“Good night, Kevin.” I let the door slam for emphasis.
I heard his whines as I cut through the parking lot and waited on the side of the highway while a battered pickup truck ran the light. Then, clutching my coat tightly around my shoulders, I trotted across the street and took sanctuary in my apartment. With the door locked and the telephone off the hook.
7
I took a bath that lasted as long as I’d vowed it would. I put on jeans and a shirt, stuck a few bobby pins in the bun on my neck, took it down and did it again, applied some makeup, and remembered that I hadn’t called Mrs. Jim Bob. I was debating whether to call or drive over there when I heard a timid tap on my front door.
Hammet stood on the landing. “Howdy, Arly,” he said, giving me a smile meant to disarm me via candor and charm. “I thought to come by and see how you was doin’.”
I took him inside and put him on the couch. “That’s neighborly of you, but I suspect there’s more to it than a sudden urge to pay a social call. Does Mrs. Jim Bob know you’re here?”
“Her? Course she does. She done telled me to visit you as long as I wanted to. She said I could stay here all night iffen I wanted to.”
“What’s going on over there, anyway? Are your brothers and sisters raising hell?”
“My siblings happens to be behavin’ like they’s supposed to,” he said indignantly. “Last night ever’body took baths and had some grub. Today we jest hanged around, mostly a-playin’ and things like that. What do you think we’d be liked to do? Skin
the hide offen that kindly ole woman or somethin’?”
Something like that, yes. “I’ve been getting frantic messages all day. It was reasonable to assume she was having problems,” I said, looking down at him. He gazed up with a dopey, angelic expression that almost—but not quite—convinced me he wasn’t lying through his teeth. Which I suspected he was. “Why don’t I call Mrs. Jim Bob and let her know you made it over here safely?” I suggested.
“She done knows that. I ain’t going to get et by a bear in town.”
“Let’s tell her anyway.” I headed for the telephone, but before I could dial the number, there was another knock on the door. Pretty soon I had David Allen on the sofa next to Hammet, who was delighted to make the acquaintance of this unexpected (read: timely) visitor.
David Allen grinned at me. “I was going to surprise you with an invitation for an exotic cocktail at a bar in Farberville. Something with seven kinds of liqueurs in a plastic coconut shell with lots of fruit and an umbrella. But I’ve got a better idea: how about a hot fudge sundae with oodles of hot fudge sauce, whipped cream, nuts, and a maraschino cherry? What do you say to that, Hammet?”
If he expected Hammet to clap his hands in childish glee, he was in for a long wait. Hammet studied him, then said, “What be all those things you says?”
“You’ve never had a hot fudge sundae?” David Allen said, clearly dismayed. “But that’s disgraceful. Criminal. Unforgivable. Come on, you two. I have a paternal obligation to get this child into the presence of seven thousand calories. To the wagon!”
Somehow I got bustled out the door, put inside his wagon, admonished to buckle my seat belt, and swept away into the sunset. I had a quick glance at the PD as David Allen dove around the corner, and something was not right. Before I had a chance to pinpoint it, Hammet Buchanon draped himself over my shoulder from the backseat and demanded to know why anybody’d be fool enough to put hot stuff on ice cream, which was supposed to be cold stuff. And who invented it, anyways? One of those Eye-talians, he bet. David Allen was clucking like a hen.
“When we get where we’re going, I aim to sit right here in the jeep,” Dahlia said. “I don’t aim to wander around in them woods and get spiders in my hair like I did last time. But you better hurry, cause it’s getting dark. Arly’s going to kill you if we run into a old log and wreck the jeep.” She gazed at her beloved, feeling a twinge of sadness on account of his inescapable fate. “She’s going to kill you, anyways, for stealing the jeep. It’s not even hers.”
“I didn’t steal the jeep. I borrowed it so we could help in the investigation of the missing woman what got lost in the woods, which is my civic duty. Yours too, honeybun. All we have to do is find Robin Buchanon and bring her back to her poor little baby. Arly won’t be mad, ’cause it’ll mean me and her solved the case without having to call the sheriff.” He gunned the engine, sending the jeep bouncing up the trail like a clubfoot rabbit.
“How do you know how to go about finding her, Kevin? There’s a lot of trees and bushes. She could be anywhere on the ridge, you know, unless she’s over at Starley City a-whorin’ on a street corner. How’re you gonna find her?”
“I don’t rightly know, angel,” Kevin admitted, beginning to wonder if his plan was a might shaky. “But Arly must’ve searched by the cabin, so I figgered we ought to take one of the trails from the other side of the ridge.”
“It’s gettin’ dark, Kevin.”
“I see that, sweetie pie, but we cain’t turn around now. We just got to hope this trail will take us to the ridge road.”
“Why cain’t we turn around?”
Kevin gave her a manly smile, since he was a man who was brave and fearless and willin’ to take a risk now and then in the name of civic duty. “Because the trail’s too narrow. Now you hang on real tight. We’ll get somewhere before too long, and you just wait and see if we don’t find Robin Buchanon.”
Dahlia took a sandwich out of the basket between her feet. She disposed of it in three mouthfuls, licked her fingers, then carefully folded the wax paper into a neat square and tucked it back into the basket. “I trust you, Kevin,” she said with a bovine gaze of deep emotion. And a dainty belch. Kevin took one hand off the wheel to pat her knee. The jeep promptly hit a rut deep enough to drown a mule. Before either of them could so much as shriek, the jeep lunged across the weeds and buried itself in a thicket of firs and scrub oaks. Branches slashed at arms and necks. Fir needles slapped faces with the fury of a spinster schoolmarm. The engine, which had squealed in midair, died as the jeep bounced into an unyielding tree. The silence was louder than anything preceding it.
“Oh, lordy!” Kevin gasped. He looked wildly at his beloved, who seemed to have lodged herself on the floorboard in front of the seat. All he could see was her broad back and one leg hanging out the side of the jeep like a fat white salami. “Dahlia! Are you okay?”
“Git me outta here,” came a muffled voice. “I got my face in the chicken salad and it’s trying to get up my nose and kill me.”
It was not easy, what with her being wedged so tightly, but Kevin managed to get her free and settled back on the seat. Her face was bright red, her cheeks puffing in and out at an alarming rate, and her hands fluttering with distress. “What happened?” she demanded when she got her breath back.
Kevin tried to explain, but he could tell she wasn’t impressed. In fact, right when he was describing how he’d battled the steering wheel like their lives depended on it, she bent down to see if the sandwiches had been squashed beyond eating. Luckily, they had not, and that was the only reason Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon was allowed to live.
Once she finished a tuna salad on rye and a pimento cheese on white, Dahlia gazed at Kevin. “What d’ you aim to do now? We’re stuck plumb in the middle of the woods, and I reckon the jeep’s busted. It’s miles and miles to town, no matter which way we go. And I ain’t gonna walk.”
“I never said you had to walk,” he protested.
“Ain’t no bus service.”
“I never said there was bus service, my lamb chop.”
“Then what do you aim to do?”
Kevin studied the woods all around them. All tangled and snarly, and on the shadowy side. Getting darker by the minute. Estimating was not his forte, but he hazarded a guess they was more than ten miles from town. He eyed his beloved. She wasn’t going to walk, and he doubted he could carry her more than a couple of inches.
She plopped a sandwich in her mouth, and through the chicken salad said, “It’s getting cold, Kevin. I heard tell more than one time there was bears and wolves in these here woods. I’m supposed to be at work at nine o’clock. Call for help on the radio; tell them they got to come get us.”
Gripped with ambivalence yet unwilling to disobey, Kevin fiddled with the knobs, but the radio remained silent. “It’s broken, my angel. Lemme see if I can fix the jeep. There’s a toolbox under the seat.”
Dahlia worked her way through the remainder of the tuna sandwiches while Kevin crawled around under the jeep. She had just decided to tackle the pimento cheese when she heard a droning noise from somewhere up the ridge. She thought about telling Kevin, but chose not to interrupt him. She also thought about pimento cheese but ultimately chose chicken salad, and was on her third as the noise grew so loud it started to alarm her. “Kevin! Something’s coming.”
He wiggled out from under the front of the jeep and got to his feet. “You’re right, my darling. I hear it, too. But what do you reckon it is?”
“I was thinking that it sounds like that crazy lunatic in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre when he commenced to cutting off everybody’s head. Now what do you aim to do?”
He came around to the passenger’s side, a wrench held in his decidedly sweaty hand. “I ain’t going to let some crazy lunatic attack you. If he so much as makes a move in any of your directions, I’ll bash him on the hea
d until he sees stars and begs for mercy.” He could see she was impressed, although he had a few doubts himself. However, there wasn’t anything to do but stand there, prepared to defend his woman from a chainsaw lunatic.
A light cut across the tops of the firs. The drone, now a heart-chilling buzz that implied decapitation and worse, grew louder and louder. Kevin sucked in his gut and raised the wrench. The light bounced in the branches. Dahlia solemnly ate the last of the chicken salad, wondering if she’d ever see pepperoni pizza or cherry cobbler again. The buzzing became a million angry hornets. Kevin stepped forward. Dahlia let out a belch of sheer terror.
A motorcycle crashed through the underbrush. The driver, disguised by a bubble helmet, wore a black leather jacket and boots. Kevin stumbled backward, lost his balance, and sprawled across Dahlia’s lap. The driver leaned over to cut off the engine. Dahlia goggled, just knowing in her heart this madman from hell was reaching for the chainsaw. He came up emptyhanded. Taking off the helmet, he said, “Kevin Buchanon and Dahlia O’Neill? What in blazes are you two a-doin’ up here?”
“Merle?” Dahlia said as she tried to remove Kevin’s shoe from her rib cage. “Merle Hardcock? What are you a-doin’ up here?”
“I was practicing my cross-country technique,” Merle said. He smoothed down his wispy white hair and gave Dahlia a conspiratorial wink. “Got to get ready for the big one, you know.”
Dahlia didn’t know anything, including why Merle was winking at her like he had a gnat in his eye. “For goodness’ sakes, Merle; you liked to give me a heart attack. Kevin and I came up here for a picnic, but we had a small variety of problem with the jeep.”
“Like running into a tree?” Merle cackled. “You two can get on with your picnic, but it’s getting dark. I got to hustle ass back to town and find Arly.”
Kevin freed his head from under the steering wheel to peer across Dahlia’s broad thighs. “Why do you have to find Arly? Is it police business?”