murder@maggody.com

by Joan Hess

  “She’s going to analyze the denizens of the trailer park?” I said. “I’m afraid she’ll find a rather sorry group of people. Most of them are scraping by, saving their money, and hoping to move along. There’s not much drama in the Pot O’ Gold.”

  Estelle clutched my arm. “You bet your booties there is! You heard about that fellow that calls himself Lazarus? Just last week he rented the double-wide across from Eula Lemoy. She said hello to him in a right friendly fashion and he just stared back at her like she had a hunk of spinach caught in her teeth. He drives a big ol’ motorcycle and—”

  “An odd name,” I said, “but none of our business, or Eula’s, for that matter.”

  “What’s more,” Estelle went on in a voice well suited to a death scene in a Wagnerian opera, “I encountered him in the supermarket only yesterday. His hair hangs to his shoulders, and might as well be slicked down with lard. I was real surprised not to see a swarm of flies around him. He reminded me of one of those fellows you see on those shows about escaped criminals. As sure as I’m standing here, he’s up to no good.”

  I took a breath. “So I should go out and shoot him because you don’t like his hair? If that was my criterion, the population of Maggody would plummet.”

  “Do you and your wife have any children?” Ruby Bee asked Justin, her eyes glittering with interest.

  “Not yet,” he said. “We’ve agreed to wait until I finish grad school. I can’t see myself writing a dissertation with a screaming baby in the next room. Chapel understands.”

  She moved in like a famished mosquito. “Her name is Chapel? I disremember ever hearing that name before. Where are her people from?”

  I grabbed her elbow and began to drag her out the door. “Your stint as Lois Lane is over, so give this man a break. Should Lottie’s proposal be approved, you’ll have plenty of time to get the details.”

  Lottie’s eyes welled with tears. “I’ll feel like such a dithery old fool if Jim Bob turns it down. The elementary school has a portable classroom that we can use. It needs a good cleaning and some cubicles and chairs, but it’ll work out just fine. Mr. Darker, the principal, says we can put it out behind the gym. That way, in the evenings we can park thirty feet away and not have to go traipsing through the school while the floors are being waxed.”

  “And just where was Mr. Darker tonight?” asked Estelle. “It seems to me he should have been here to add his support.”

  “He has a touch of stomach flu.”

  Ruby Bee yanked off my hand. “Or more likely a yellow streak up his backside. Is he scared of Jim Bob?”

  “There’s no call to go into that.” Lottie’s lips began to tremble. “It may be that Jim Bob was in his office this afternoon, but Mr. Darker’s been having difficulty with his bowels all week. Every time he went into the faculty restroom, the teachers deserted the lounge like fleas on a drowning dog. On Tuesday, Miz Pitman dawdled. She was still feeling so faint after seventh period that I was obliged to supervise pom-pom practice.”

  I glanced at Justin, who was blinking nervously. “Don’t worry about local politics,” I said to him. “In a town this size, issues take on a certain intensity. You should have been here when Ruby Bee switched from popcorn to pretzels for happy hour. I arrested three good ol’ boys, and she threw twice that many out on their butts. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we all need to be on our way. That includes you, Estelle.”

  Lottie was trying to explain realities to Justin as I managed to herd Ruby Bee and Estelle out into the hall. I was about to ask about the easiest route out of the building when Daniel and Leona Holliflecker cut us off.

  They were a bland couple in their mid-fifties, definitely not the sort to drink a few beers on a Friday afternoon or come dancing on a Saturday night. He had some kind of middle-management job at the poultry-processing plant in Starley City; she was a minor force in the Missionary Society at the Assembly Hall and a tireless champion of conservative dogma, such as school prayer and creation science. Our paths rarely crossed, which was okay with me.

  “Ruby Bee, Estelle,” Leona said, ignoring yours truly, “I want you to meet my niece. She’s staying with us for the time being.” She pushed forward a gaunt girl with oversized, panicky eyes and black hair that hung past the middle of her back. “This is Gwynnie Patchwood, my brother’s eldest. She’s hoping to find a part-time job. Gwynnie, say hello to Miz Hanks and Miz Oppers.”

  Gwynnie gave us a brittle smile. “Pleased to meet you. I sure am happy to be here in Maggody. If you ever need somebody to do some cleaning or run errands, I don’t have anything else to do. Whatever you want to pay me is all right.”

  “I believe, Gwynnie,” said Daniel, “that the law dictates minimum wage. Please do not act as if you’re being forced into servitude simply because Leona and I expect you to contribute to the household expenses.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” asked Estelle.

  “You don’t look a day over fifteen,” added Ruby Bee. “Daniel here was on the school board a few years back. I’d like to think he understands the importance of education.”

  Leona stepped in front of Gwynnie. “She’s seventeen, not fifteen. She had to drop out of school, so we agreed to take her in until things get settled. If you find it in your hearts to offer her an hour or two of work every now and then, she’ll be grateful. She is not, however, looking for charity.” She looked at Daniel. “I’d like to get on home. No matter what you and Gwynnie say, Jessie Traylor is not my idea of a reliable person.”

  “I agree with you, Ruby Bee,” said Daniel, “but it’s too complicated to explain. Gwynnie’s working on her GED. I’m hoping these evening computer classes will motivate her to take classes at the community college in Starley City.”

  Ruby Bee smiled at the girl. “I’ll sure keep you in mind, honey. I’ve been thinking about cleaning out the pantry. It’s a big job.”

  Gwynnie nodded, then trudged off between Daniel and Leona, her shoulders hunched as though a guillotine was awaiting her at the end of the hallway.

  “Kinda sickly, ain’t she?” said Estelle as we followed at a polite distance. “What she needs is a dusting of blusher and a delicate touch of mascara. She’d look like one of those cover girls on Seventeen magazine. Big eyes, wide mouth. Maybe I’ll just call her to help me reorganize my cosmetics shelf, then offer to fix her up. It’s real sad to think of her spending all her days and nights at the Hollifleckers’ place.”

  Ruby Bee shook her head. “I’ve seen her a time or two with some of the girls, but I’ll bet she hasn’t been going to the dances and parties.”

  Both of them looked at me.

  “Wait just a minute,” I said, holding up my hands. “I am not going to get Cinderella a date to the prom. This may be hard to swallow, but I am not dearly beloved by the local teenagers. My car is egged on a monthly basis. Last week some clown put a very dead squirrel under the hood and I came damn near throwing up when I turned on the engine. Either of you is free to assume the role of her social secretary; heaven knows you’ve had enough practice on me.”

  On that high-minded note, I went out into the crisp, cool spring night and drove to Farberville in hopes of an adequately entertaining movie, a box of oily popcorn, a watery soda, and an evening’s respite from the two busiest bodies in Maggody.

  2

  “You were out late last night,” Ruby Bee said as I walked into the barroom the following afternoon. It was not a mild observation, but something more akin to the opening statement of a prosecuting attorney bent on obtaining the death penalty. “What’s more, I called the PD three times this morning—that’s three times, in case you aren’t listening—and you weren’t there. Is there something going on that I should know about? You seeing a man on the sly? Is he married and you’re ashamed to admit it? Is he getting a divorce from his wife? Are there children involved? How old are they?”

  Estelle was perched on her favorite stool at the end of the bar, situated conveniently near the ladies room and
allowing her a panoramic view of the dance floor and booths along the wall. “Ruby Bee was so worried that she wanted to call Sheriff Dorfer, but I talked her out of it—this time, anyway. You have no business causing your own mother to stew like a mess of turnip greens. She’s liable to get ulcers like poor Collera Buchanon. You remember what happened to him, doncha?”

  “I’m already feeling twinges,” said Ruby Bee, squeezing out a tear for optimum impact. “The next thing you know, I’ll be in intensive care with a tube in my nose. Maybe I’d better get to work on my obituary while I still have the strength. Once they put needles in me, I won’t be able to lift my hand.”

  There’d been an incident in which such a thing had happened, but I doubted we were in danger of a relapse brought on by my failure to keep them supplied with my itinerary. “What did happen to Collera?” I asked as I chose a stool at the opposite end of the bar.

  Estelle gave me a haughty look. “He’s in the graveyard out behind the Assembly Hall. Some say when the moon’s lost in the clouds, you can hear him moanin’ something awful.”

  “Hit by a Greyhound bus, wasn’t he?” I said, checking the glass domes for pie. I knew precisely who made the best lemon meringue pie in Stump County, although I was going to have to come up with a slick alibi to get a piece of anything more than my mother’s mind.

  “He wouldn’t have been lying in the middle of the highway if it weren’t on account of his pain,” countered Estelle. “Pain caused by ulcers brought on by worry when his ma was arrested for holding up that liquor store across from the Farberville airport. She was nigh onto eighty at the time, and everybody figured she’d up and die in the county jail.”

  “Did she?” I asked obligingly.

  Ruby Bee banged down a piece of cherry pie in front of me. “No, she escaped through a ventilation shaft and was never seen again. That’s what drove poor Collera to his untimely death.” She put her hand on her chest. “I’m feeling those palpitations again, Estelle. Do I look pale?”

  “You’re as rosy as a tomato,” I said as I leaned over the bar and plucked a fork out of a bin. “Of course, if you think you’re having a heart attack, I’ll be happy to call an ambulance. They charge more than six hundred dollars to come all this way, and simply being admitted to the emergency room is liable to cost—”

  “Mind your mouth, Miss Nightingale. Maybe I was experiencing a bout of indigestion brought on by fretting about you. I don’t believe you’ve explained where you were last night and earlier today.”

  I tucked into the pie while I could. “Last night I went to a movie,” I said between mouthfuls, “and this morning I directed traffic in Emmet while deputies chased chickens. A truck driver took that sharp curve at the edge of town too fast. Let me tell you, there is nothing uglier than a half-mile chicken slick.”

  “A movie?” said Estelle, wiggling her eyebrows. “All by yourself?”

  “Yes, Estelle, all by myself except for a hundred horny teenagers who were attempting to have sex despite the armrests—or because of them. I wasn’t sure. This morning was more exciting, though. Want to hear how one of the deputies snatched up what must have been a seriously constipated chicken and found himself with a face full of—”

  Ruby Bee grabbed for my plate, but I scooted it out of reach. “No,” she said, “I reckon we don’t. I can’t believe you’re not more interested in this computer lab that Lottie’s hoping to set up. Everybody in town’s buzzing about it. I stopped at the Satterwaits’ produce stand this morning to see if they had any lettuce, and they couldn’t talk about anything else.”

  I gazed blandly at her. “I myself am entranced with lettuce. Even while I was ankle-deep in chicken guts all morning, the only thing running through my mind was endive. You wouldn’t believe what a handful costs in Manhattan. Down here, you could buy a used pickup truck and have enough money left over for a half-pint of whiskey to stick in the glove compartment.”

  “I hope you ain’t planning on a grilled-cheese sandwich anytime soon,” she said grimly as she began to wipe the bar with a rag.

  A tactical retreat, or at least a tactful one, was called for. “I really do think this computer lab is a good idea. More and more colleges are requiring students to bring their own personal computers. I’m not sure how many of the local high school graduates can afford them, but at least they’ll be familiar with the concepts. Has the school board made a decision?”

  “No, and nobody seems to know why he’s so all-fired agin it. He being Jim Bob, that is. According to Lottie, the money can’t be spent for anything else. Roy came by for lunch and said he didn’t have any problem with it. I guess you know that Peteet’s convinced he’s being visited by aliens on a regular basis, which is why he hardly ever leaves his house without wrapping his privates in aluminum foil. Haven’t you ever wondered why he rustles so much when he moves around?”

  “I guess I’ve never noticed,” I said, hoping my wince was not visible.

  “It’s hard to miss. Anyway, Lottie went over to his house this morning and promised him that he could communicate directly with his friends by using”—she turned even rosier—“his antenna and a computer. That’s two votes right there. Yesterday evening Mrs. Jim Bob didn’t sound like she’d dug in her heels. I just don’t understand Jim Bob’s attitude.”

  Estelle took a sip of sherry. “Idalupino says he has a computer at the supermarket, and spends a lot of time doing things on it. Maybe he’s afraid it’ll come back to haunt him.”

  “I don’t see how,” said Ruby Bee.

  The Internet explosion had taken place while I was huddled in my apartment, stalking roaches and reading travel brochures. Computers had appeared in the sheriff’s office a while back, but they had not resulted in greater efficiency, or anything else, for that matter. The dispatcher, LaBelle, had told me on occasion that she had a direct link with the FBI files, but I’d had no reason to find out if indeed she did. Liquor-store holdups do not require access to a national databank, but merely a bit of common sense and, more often than not, a day or two of patience before a relative turned. Blood may be thicker than water, but money’s a great decoagulator when a reward is on the counter.

  “I don’t understand it well enough to offer an opinion,” I said as I polished off the pie. “When does Lottie hope this will happen? School is out in less than two months. It’d make more sense to start surfing in August.”

  Estelle glanced over her shoulder in case CIA operatives were hiding behind the jukebox. “She has a dozen computers in boxes in her garage. Earl Buchanon is planning to lay the foundation for the portable classroom tomorrow morning, and the electric co-op and telephone companies have work orders.”

  In spite of my resolve, I made a face. “And the school board wasn’t notified in advance?”

  “Not exactly,” muttered Ruby Bee.

  Estelle popped a pretzel in her mouth. “But we told Lottie that you’d be happy to have a word with Jim Bob. You’re the chief of police, after all.”

  “And what does that have to do with the price of pot in Peoria?” I asked as I tossed the fork into a sink of brown water. “Am I supposed to hang out in the lab and arrest those students clever enough to figure out how to find porn sites despite Mr. Bailey’s best efforts? Sheriff Dorfer’s not going to let me fill up the county jail with goggly-eyed teenagers.”

  “Maybe not,” she conceded, “but Lottie’s counting on you to change Jim Bob’s mind. She has thousands of dollars’ worth of computers in her garage, and her drainage is iffy. One heavy rain and she might as well kill herself. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you?”

  Ruby Bee loomed in front of me. “Lottie embroidered your first communion dress, Arly, despite her failing eyesight. I know for a fact that she soaked her fingers in ice water every night just so she could finish it. Those rosebuds were enough to make a blind man weep. What’s more—”

  “I’m going,” I said. “I doubt I’ll convince Jim Bob to so much as blow his nose, but I’
ll try. In the meantime, construct a plywood pyre and see if you can get Lottie to schedule some free time.”

  Someone may have demanded an explanation as I walked across the dance floor and out to my car, which was supplied by the town council and therefore marginally functional. As was Lottie, who currently had what might well be major-league contraband in her garage. The fine line between enthusiasm and zealotry had been compromised, and I wasn’t pleased to be cast as a co-conspirator.

  I was still growling under my breath as I drove out Finger Lane and turned between the J and B brick pillars that heralded what Mrs. Jim Bob assured one and all was the finest house in Maggody. The competition wasn’t real keen; outside of some seventy-year-old farmhouses with homespun charm (but not indoor plumbing), the best we had to offer in rebuttal were the clones in the subdivision over by the high school. Three bedrooms, one and a half baths. I’d often speculated on how one took a half-bath.

  Mrs. Jim Bob met me at the front door with all of her usual warmth. “I wasn’t expecting company. Are you selling something?”

  I forced myself to envision Lottie dousing herself with gasoline. “I thought we might discuss this computer-lab business.”

  “I suppose it can’t hurt,” she said as she stepped back and gestured for me to come inside. “Lottie was up here earlier, and I must say she made her case. As long as the teacher can block out pornography, I don’t see why we shouldn’t make the Internet available to our youth. They don’t need to go out into the world with the word ‘redneck’ tattooed on their foreheads.”

  I was as surprised by her sentiment as I was being escorted into the living room. Mrs. Jim Bob and I have experienced clashes worthy of a seismographic alert. I could not remember when she had last offered a reasonable response.

  For a fleeting second, I wondered if one of us had taken a turn toward sanity, then sucked it up and said, “Is Jim Bob in favor of the computer lab, too?”