The Arly Hanks Mysteries Volume One

by Joan Hess

  “You might say that.” Merle let out another round of cackles. “It’s a dead body, so I’d say it was likely to be police business.”

  “I am on assignment for the chief,” Kevin said in his best official voice. He pulled himself up and ordered his Adam’s apple to stop bobbling like a yo-yo. “You better tell me what you found, Merle Hardcock. You just tell me whose body you found and where you found it—and for your sake, I’d like to hope you didn’t tamper with the scene. I’ll report to Arly.”

  “From your tree phone?” Merle put on the helmet, muffling the cackles. The motorcycle came to life with a thunderous roar, then edged past the jeep and plummeted down the trail.

  “Well, holy shit,” Kevin said in disgust.

  Dahlia unwrapped a pimento cheese sandwich.

  Celeste lay in her bed, surrounded by plump feather pillows in lacy cases. A satin cover was pulled to her chin, but she was awake and staring at the ceiling. Mason eyed her from the doorway, then came a few feet into the room. “Would you like a glass of sherry or a cup of tea, Sis? You’re looking a bit pale.”

  “Can you do nothing but play waiter? Do you realize that you spend a great deal of time in doorways asking me if I should like something to eat or drink? Do you aspire to be a waiter in a ritzy New York restaurant?”

  “I don’t mean to offend you,” he said soothingly. “I just feel responsible for you at times. Besides, you’re always occupied with important things like giving readings and—”

  “Shut up, Mason.”

  He hung his head, trying to look properly chastised while he decided how to escape her room. “I was just trying to help,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, you will help. Tomorrow morning, as the sun first rises, you must go to this Arly Hanks and bring her back here. Although she is skeptical, she will listen to what I have to say to her. The miasma of violence grows like a cancer in this putrid village. She is the chief of police, and she must do something before it is too late.”

  “Now, Celeste, we don’t want to get involved with the police, not after what happened back in Vegas. You were six inches from jail, and damn lucky the judge’s wife turned out to be one of your clients.”

  “I will not discuss that incident, Mason. You and I both know that I took money from the child’s mother only because she insisted. I provided the information. I had no knowledge of the location until I saw it in a trance.” Celeste gave him a cold look. “Do you understand what you are to do, my little brother? Knock on this woman’s door before dawn and bring her to me.”

  “I don’t even know her. I can’t go banging on her door at dawn, demanding that she come with me. That’s crazy, Celeste. She’s liable to pull out a gun and shoot me in the stomach.”

  “I want her here,” Madam Celeste said, her eyes narrowed to slits. “One of my clients came this morning to tell me how some local woman has disappeared. It seems this policewoman is too proud to ask for my help, but I shall give it to her despite her petty jealousy. And I must see her immediately. Death is very near. We cannot waste one minute.”

  “Does this have something to do with the face you saw?”

  “Mason, I have known asparagus stalks more perceptive than you. Will you do what I tell you to do, or will you return to Hickory Ridge, Mississippi, to sell used cars?”

  Mason’s hand curled into a fist, but he prudently kept it behind his back. “This is crazy,” he persisted. “She’s not going to go wandering off with a total stranger, especially at that hour of the morning. Nobody in her right mind would.”

  Madam Celeste closed her eyes and put her fingers on her temples. “I am having a vision, Mason. It is of…of a ’77 Chevy with less than ninety thousand miles. It has had only one owner. The interior is immaculate. The price is painted on the windshield, and it is an excellent deal.”

  “All right, all right. That’s not real funny, you know. I will go over to this policewoman’s house and ring the bell. After I explain why I’m there, she can decide for herself if she’s willing to come back here with me. But I’m not going to drag her out the door and into my car. That’s called kidnapping or assault or something, and I’m not having anything to do with it.”

  “I shall be in the solarium when you return with her. Now, I must rest because it will be most difficult for me in the morning. Stop fidgeting and leave me alone.”

  Mason went downstairs and into the kitchen, wishing he had stayed in the army long enough to learn something more useful than how to hurl grenades at gooks. He’d been offered further electronics training if he reenlisted, but he was too eager to get as far away from the army as he could. So now he was qualified to sell used cars, dig ditches, twiddle his thumbs, or do as Sarah Lou Dickerson Grinolli Vizzard, a.k.a. Madam Celeste, ordered.

  He looked out the window at the chicken house across the pasture. The roof had caved in on one end, and the sides were boarded up with scrap lumber, old signs, and sheet metal. There hadn’t been a chicken there for twenty years, but it still reeked so badly of manure that he could smell it on sultry days when the wind came up the valley. He was about as useful as an old chicken house, he thought as he took a can of soda pop from the refrigerator and went to the living room. He fiddled with the TV controls until he picked up a sumo wrestling match from Tokyo. The lack of action lulled him to sleep before the soda was half gone.

  Hammet, David Allen, and I ended up at the drive-in movie, where we were treated to nonstop violence, bloodshed, an improbable storyline that included the removal of vital anatomical attachments of almost everyone in the cast, and enough fake blood to fill a swimming pool. Hammet adored it. He ended up in the front seat, crouched in a ball and yelling encouragement to the mass murderer. David Allen kept the popcorn coming.

  In the middle of one of the more grisly scenes my beeper beeped. “Damn it,” I said under my breath, remembering that I still hadn’t called Mrs. Jim Bob. Approach avoidance at its zenith.

  David Allen reached across Hammet. “Let me have that insidious cricket. I know the perfect place for it.”

  “You can’t throw Jiminy out the window. He’s official police equipment, I’m sorry to say.”

  He took the beeper, wrapped it in a handful of napkins, and stuffed the bundle in the glove compartment. “See? No violence to the little chap.”

  “I wish I could ignore it, but I’ve been ignoring it for too long. I need to find a telephone to get the message. I was about to do it earlier, but you two abducted me.”

  “You’re going to miss a particularly fine decapitation.”

  “The sacrifices we have to make in the line of duty. Can I bring back anything from the concession stand?”

  “I wants some more candy bars,” Hammet said, not taking his eyes off the screen. “And another sody and a hot dog.”

  I went to the concession stand and asked where to find a pay telephone. I listened to concise directions, and made it halfway to the door before hearing that the phone was out of order. I inquired if I might use the office phone. I was informed that only the manager could permit it. I asked to speak to the manager. I learned the manager was home with a stomach virus. I showed my badge. I was told that only the manager could permit the use of the office phone by an unauthorized party. I argued some more. I gave up when told that the manager with the stomach virus who was the only one who could permit the use of the office phone by an unauthorized party also had the only key, so it wasn’t going to do a damn bit of good to stand around and argue the point. Did I wish to purchase anything before the concession stand closed? Wishing I had a chainsaw, I bought drinks, candy bars, and a hot dog, then went back to David Allen’s wagon and watched the last dozen people get their heads cut off. It suited my mood perfectly.

  Brother Verber, dressed in pajamas and a robe, stared at the simulated walnut paneling above the television set, unmindful of the chatter from the sitco
m. He kept trying to convince himself that he wasn’t being cowardly, but he was losing the argument. Poor Sister Barbara had come to him in her hour of need. He’d comforted her and offered spiritual guidance—or at least he’d intended to do a bushel of comforting and guiding until he’d learned the name of the mother of the poor little orphan bastards. Just thinking the name made him a mite sweaty under his elastic waistband.

  But, he told himself as he peeked at the television on the off chance that the blond girl in the miniskirt might cross her legs, Sister Barbara was a strong woman, with a solid Christian sense of duty and a pair of fine, muscular thighs from all that pious praying. She could handle those awful bastards, and instill in them a healthy fear of the Lord and a feverish desire to battle the wickedness of their souls. Why, she didn’t need any help from him. She was a battleship armed with cannons of righteousness. She was a rock of piety. She was an army tank that could run right over Satan and squish him into the mud. It was arrogant of him to think she needed his help. Sinfully arrogant.

  Brother Verber got on his knees to beg the Lord’s forgiveness for his arrogance. He glanced a bit nervously at the telephone receiver dangling below the coffee table, then closed his eyes and settled his knees on the braided rug. It might well take hours of seclusion and prayer to regain his humility, he thought with a windy sigh. If the Lord chanced to be occupied with more important things (like striking down evolutionists and homosexuals and feminists), it might even take days.

  It was nearly one o’clock before we got back to Maggody. Hammet, bloated from an incredible amount of junk food, was snoring in the backseat, while visions of blood-drenched sugarplums danced in his head.

  “What do we do with him?” David Allen asked as we drove past the Emporium.

  “I don’t know. He’s supposed to be staying with Mizzoner, but it’s pretty late and supposedly she knows he’s with me.” I looked back at the little liar. “I guess I’ll let him sleep on my sofa tonight. Tomorrow morning I’ll go by there and find out what’s happening, but I’m too tired to face it now.”

  David Allen slammed on the brakes as a blackclad figure on a motorcycle roared from out of a side street and vanished down the highway. “Officer, arrest that maniac!”

  “I prefer to let that sort self-destruct,” I said, turning around to make sure Hammet hadn’t rolled off the seat. He hadn’t. “I feel sorry for Hammet and his siblings. I’ve given up trying to find his mother. I searched part of the ridge today and realized how absurd it was to think I might find her. I’m going to call the sheriff and request assistance, which is what I should have done in the first place. If his posse has no luck, he can contact the state police for a helicopter. I should have called Social Services, too, and had them take responsibility for the children. Mrs. Jim Bob’s on the anal-retentive side, but her gesture was generous. However, she and I are both amateurs and way out of our league. The professionals have institutions and foster homes for this situation.”

  “I think you did the right thing. This Buchanon woman may show up at any moment to demand her children. If they had been placed in foster care by an agency, she might never unwind the red tape in order to get them back.”

  “I know.” I closed my eyes as we drove past the PD so I wouldn’t have to think of all the things I was busily doing wrong.

  David Allen parked beside my stairs. He took Hammet’s inert form from the backseat and carried him to my door. Once we got him settled on the sofa with a blanket, I walked downstairs with David Allen.

  He took his keys out of his pocket and gave me the look that meant he was deciding whether to risk a good-night kiss. I gave him the look that said no, don’t even try, and thanked him for the ice cream and the movies. The look faded, and he told me I was more than welcome. Neither one of us could come up with anything more, so I said good night and went up to my apartment to lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling.

  Ruby Bee padded to the refrigerator and took out a plastic baby bottle. She ran some water into a pan, set the bottle in it, and turned on the burner of the stove. Baby continued to howl as she waited a few minutes, then picked up the bottle to sprinkle some droplets on her wrist.

  Once she was satisfied, she padded on into the living room and picked up the red-faced, screaming baby and retreated to the sofa. She managed to cut off the cries by inserting the nipple in the appropriate orifice, then sank back to gaze through befogged eyes at the level in the uptilted bottle. In that it was the third time that night that she’d fed the little darling, she was feeling less than charmed by the button nose, perfect flower-petal ears, and tiny clenched fists.

  Maybe, she thought as she put Baby back in the bassinet and padded to bed, maybe Estelle should have an opportunity to have a sweet overnight guest tomorrow night. After all, she and Estelle were good friends, and it wasn’t fair not to share all those special moments. It would mean so much to Estelle, especially since that foreigner with the mustache hadn’t shown up as of yet. Why, it would be a big help in taking her mind off her disappointment.

  A smile on her face, Ruby Bee drifted to sleep.

  Celeste threw back the satin cover and switched on the bedside light. Despite the lateness of the hour, she pulled on a robe over her negligee and went downstairs to the solarium. She sat down at the table and shuffled the tarot cards, then dealt them out and bent forward to study the results.

  The King of Wands, the King of Swords, the Nine of Swords, and the Moon. Could they not for even one time stay away? It was as if they now were citizens of Maggody, these symbols of malice and violence, of deceit and trickery and fear. And Death was there, as always.

  The psychic pushed the cards away and sat back, her eyes closed. She forced herself to recall the face she had seen earlier. It was definitely a woman, she decided with a shiver, but it was impossible to see any features beyond those distorted with blood. Although there was an elusive impression of hair color, of age, of eye color, of cheek and brow and jaw…all was dominated by blood. By flies. By the pervasiveness of decay.

  She gathered up the cards and once more dealt them, hoping for some sign to identify the face.

  The faces on the cards gazed back at her through glassy, two-dimensional eyes. They seemed to be smiling.

  Poppy took the milk carton from the refrigerator, then tiptoed across the kitchen to get a glass from the cabinet. She flinched as the cabinet let out a tiny squeak. It wasn’t that she didn’t want company, she told herself as she eased the cabinet closed. She was committed to the concept of sharing, of oneness and wholeness and cosmic harmony and the manifestation of collective energy and all that; if she weren’t, why, she’d still be waiting tables at the Pizza Hut and living in that drab apartment over the bowling alley. It was just that it was tiresome at times, all that determined family sharing and everything.

  She was standing by the window when the door opened behind her. Nate gave her a guarded look as he went to the kitchen table and set down a paper sack. “What’s wrong with you?” he said, scowling.

  “Nothing. The midwife told me to drink a lot of goat’s milk.”

  “Good for her.” He sat down and took out a hamburger. “Get me a beer, will you?”

  Poppy tried not to pout as she took a beer from the refrigerator and placed it in front of him. “That’s poison, you know. The meat is from animals raised on chemicals, and the bread’s all preservatives and artificial flavors.”

  “Name one,” he commanded through a mouthful of chemicals, preservatives, and artificial flavors.

  “Oh, things that cause cancer. Where’ve you been all night?”

  “Out. I had to see a middleman about a deal. Why are you skulking around the kitchen, for that matter? I thought pregnant women were supposed to sleep twelve hours a night so they weren’t too tired for their morning nap.”

  Poppy almost stamped her foot, but thought better of it. “Rainb
ow says I need to—”

  “I don’t care what she says. God, I’m about to drown in her cheerful, warm, cozy, sugary smiles and suffocating cosmic awareness. As soon as I work out this deal, you can kiss my ass good bye, ’cause I’ll be driving down that long country road.”

  Poppy couldn’t think of anything to say. On the other side of the kitchen door, with her ear pressed against the wood, Rainbow couldn’t think of much, herself. But her smile was far from toasty warm and her eyes were cold. Silently she moved away from the door and returned to bed. She snuggled next to Zachery and tried to meditate to the rhythm of his gentle snores.

  8

  I was sleeping quite peacefully when a hand touched on my arm. In that I had had no companion in my bed for nearly two years, I almost choked on a mouthful of pillowcase as I opened my eyes.

  “There be somebody at the door,” Hammet said. He was fully dressed and regarding me with a sober expression.

  “Who is it?”

  “I din’t open it yet. You want I should get your gun and blow ’em to smithereens?” He took a step toward my dresser, his hand outstretched and his little yellow eyes bright with eagerness to make his day.

  “No!” I said as I scrambled out of bed. “Just give me a second to wake up, then I’ll see who’s at the door. What time is it?”

  Hammet looked at the clock, then at the floor. “I dunno, but I reckon the sun’ll come up afore too long. I ain’t heard a hoot owl in a long whiles.”

  I made a mental note to teach him how to tell time, although I doubted his mother would give him a Rolex for Christmas. I was reaching for my bathrobe when I heard an insistent knock on the front door of the apartment. After a glance at the clock to confirm the absurdity of the hour, I pulled on the robe and stalked across the living room.