murder@maggody.com

by Joan Hess

  I didn’t much want to track Justin down in Farberville, but I wasn’t at all confident that we could discuss the situation in private if I waited until he and his wife moved into the Pot O’ Gold. Eula Lemoy has the eyesight, if not the brains, of a vulture. If I so much as drove past her trailer, Ruby Bee would be demanding a full report within the hour. I have no qualms about telling lies to my mother, but she’s often shrewd enough to dredge out the truth.

  I headed for the high school.

  Brother Verber gazed out the window of the rectory at the trees lining the banks of Boone Creek. There was something almost poetic about them, he told himself as he took a gulp of sacramental wine and wiped away a tear. They were bleak, just like he was. Their leaves had withered and been blown away by gusts of winter wind. So had his.

  He stood in his pajamas and robe, his toenails increasingly riddled with fungus, his corns throbbing, his molar turning a most disturbing shade of black, his sciatica sending twinges down his leg. Love, he thought, genuine and perfect love, had not been sent his way. Accreditation from the mail-order seminary in Las Vegas had given him a divinity degree, but not fulfillment.

  He sank to his knees, put down his glass of wine, and lifted his eyes. “Lord,” he began, “I realize you’ve pretty much ignored me so far, but I’m thinking now is the time to do something to prove myself worthy of your favor. Thing is, I ain’t sure what it is. I stopped subscribing to certain magazines a while back, and I haven’t watched a single talk show since that one featuring women that had sex with their husbands’ mothers, though you got to admit it was mildly entertaining.”

  The Good Lord failed to respond.

  Brother Verber cinched the belt of his bathrobe. It was clear that his slate was clean for the time being, in that lightning hadn’t struck the rectory. One could almost think that the Good Lord was smiling down on Willard Verber, his humble servant and eager gofer when sin was at hand and satanism on the rise.

  “So what do you think about this Internet thing?” he asked, staying on his knees out of piety as much as the difficulty he was experiencing as he futilely tried to push himself up. “You have any thoughts on this?”

  The Good Lord wasn’t jumping in.

  With a grunt, Brother Verber made it back to the sofa. He himself, as leader of the flock and defender against wickedness, knew what lay ahead for his lambs, should they frolic, like the innocents they were, onto fresh green pastures riddled with land mines.

  He was in the throes of torment when someone commenced to pound on his door. He gulped down the last of the wine, stuck the glass under the couch, and rose with the dignity befitting his position, which in his opinion, was pushing sainthood, if not the main selection of the Martyr of the Month Club.

  “Why, Sister Barbara,” he said as he opened the door and stepped back, “what a fascinating surprise this is. I do hope everything’s well with you.”

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon,” she said. “Is there a reason why you’re still wearing your pajamas?”

  “Of course there is,” Brother Verber replied, wiping his forehead with the cuff of his bathrobe. He toyed with hinting at the onset of a disease along the lines of tuberculosis or hepatitis, then cast aside deceit and lowered his head. “I have been in battle with Satan hisself. I have been begging the Lord to arm me so I can go forth into combat. I have to provide leadership to the community, even when I myself am not sure which path is the righteous one.”

  “What’s got Satan riled today?” she asked as she sat down and made sure her skirt was properly covering her knees.

  “The Internet,” he said with a soulful sigh. “My little congregation’s never been exposed to cable, much less the possibility of pornography.” Inspiration struck. “So I’m in my pajamas because I’ve spent all day thinking about Sunday’s sermon. I’m a virgin when it comes to the corruption out there. How can I warn folks when I don’t even know what they’re up against? I’ve been racking my mind, but I can’t seem to come up with a biblical passage dealing with this, Sister Barbara. When Paul wrote his epistles to the Corinthians and Galatians, he didn’t send ’em by E-mail.”

  “Obviously not. I had a long talk with Lottie this morning and decided to vote in favor of this computer lab at the high school. The students would most likely be better off taking penmanship and rhetoric, but times have changed.”

  Brother Verber gazed uneasily at her. “You’re in favor of this? What about Jim Bob?”

  “Jim Bob is about to change his mind,” she said. “We have prayed over it. Arly went by the supermarket to make sure he agreed.”

  “So it’s gonna happen,” he said, sliding down on the sofa. “I might as well pack my bags. No telling where I’ll end up—in a homeless shelter, hunkered in a culvert, or, most likely, tucked away in a drawer at a mortuary, a toe tag dangling like a Christmas ornament. Sister Barbara, I just want you to know how—”

  “What are you talking about? This is a computer lab, not an inquisition. There’s no reason to think this will have any effect on you, Brother Verber. You’ll write up Bible verses and the topic of your next sermon, along with the dates of Sunday school pageants.”

  He snuffled. “If only …”

  Mrs. Jim Bob edged away from his thigh, which was pressing against hers. “If only what?”

  “I’d been born a hundred years ago, when the pious citizens of a town like Maggody looked for spiritual guidance from the leader of their congregation, not from some blasted computer in a trailer. I’m here to offer counseling and pray with them, but now they’ll find someone on the Internet that’ll absolve them of their sins without ever suggesting they ought to drop a dollar or two in the collection plate.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Ain’t none of them going to seek my help, Sister Barbara. You just watch the number of folks at the services dwindle. I won’t even be preaching to the choir, ’cause there won’t be anybody except for Elsie McMay.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob winced. “And she can’t carry a tune any further than she can a potbellied stove.”

  “Before we know what’s happening, the roof of the church will commence to leaking and the floors to buckling. The Wednesday potlucks will be nothing more than the odd green-bean casserole and a plate of brownies.”

  “Mice, roaming freely.”

  “Or even rats,” he said damply. “Once they’ve got free run of the church, what’s to keep them from invading the rectory?”

  She caught herself before she patted his shoulder, which might have set off a torrent of misery. “It’s not all that bad, Brother Verber. I’ll make sure that everybody in the Missionary Society understands the importance of attending services on a regular basis. The pews won’t be empty.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked as he blew his nose, then thrust the wadded handkerchief in his pocket.

  Mrs. Jim Bob was averse to sinking into such sins as vanity, but she saw no choice. “I’m sure.”

  4

  I’d done all I could to bring the millennium, as in computer literacy, careening into Maggody like a brakeless semi. Once Jim Bob buckled under, the school board voted its unanimous approval, with the exception of Peteet, who’d last been spotted walking in a distinctly bowlegged manner toward Boone Creek. Over the last couple of days, I’d gone into Farberville twice and knocked on the door of the Baileys’ apartment; most likely they were out scouting for cardboard boxes and friends eager to spend a day of manual labor in exchange for a keg of beer.

  Been there, done that.

  There’d been activity behind the high school gym. Telephone and electric lines had been laid. Seekwell Buchanon had run Joyce Lambertino’s car into a ditch to avoid sideswiping a cement truck, but everybody’d survived and the foundation had been poured without ceremony. Half the senior class had scratched their initials in the wet concrete, but that was to be expected (mine were on the sidewalk outside the gym). Lottie Estes had come by Ruby Bee’s to discuss interior decor in the not-so-very por
table building that had been hauled over from the elementary school. Since no one seemed to know what colors went nicely with the World Wide Web, beige carpet and blue gingham curtains had won out. Justin was to preside from a desk Lottie had found in the storage room in the high school basement. Ruby Bee donated a beer mug and a handful of sharpened #2 pencils, Millicent McIlhaney brought by several arrangements of plastic flowers. Roy Stiver contributed an antique swivel chair, leather-backed, carved armrests and all, that had once graced a now defunct savings and loan. Elsie McMay dropped off a calendar with depictions of puppies and kittens; Ruby Bee’d accepted it with a nice smile, then set it aside, since it was from 1984. Based on the barroom buzz, I suspected more than one citizen was polishing an apple in anticipation of the big day.

  I, on the other hand, hadn’t so much as purchased a can of applesauce for the teacher. I’ll admit I was curious about all this Internet hype, but it reeked of the very world I’d abandoned in order to escape. Lowbrow (no reference to the Buchanons) appealed more than high tech. Cable would have sufficed.

  Sheriff Dorfer had been keeping me busy with a spurt of truck thefts, and I was dutifully writing up dry, useless reports when the telephone rang. I eyed it with what might be described as heartfelt aversion. Having made progress with the paperwork, I was not excited at the chance to tackle a domestic disturbance or a gory wreck. Or my mother, who called several times a day to ask me what I was doing, when I’d show myself for the daily offering of meat and potatoes, or how I planned to hook a nice man and settle down before I withered on the vine like Perkin’s eldest.

  None of her questions were multiple choice.

  I picked up the receiver. “Arly Hanks here.”

  “We got us a problem,” snarled Jim Bob. “Get your ass over here and deal with it.”

  “Housewives running wild down the aisles with shopping carts? Should I bring my radar gun?” I hesitated as I caught the sound of wailing in the background. “What’s going on?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. From all the commotion, you’d think we found the image of Jesus on a head of cabbage in the produce department. Half the women in the store are carrying on something fierce. You want to keep your job, Chief Hanks, you’d better keep the peace, too!”

  With his customary charm, he slammed down the receiver. I applied a fresh coat of lipstick and buffed my badge on my shirt cuff. Although it occurred to me that Brother Verber might be the one to call in situations involving botanical icons, I ambled down the road toward the SuperSaver, checking the sky for signs of celestial heralds.

  A few hawks were drifting over Cotter’s Ridge, and a sliver of silver much higher suggested an airplane was transporting lucky souls to some distant destination. Other than that, all I could see were low-lying clouds, spitting out a few drops of rain but without any sort of commitment. Maybe, maybe not.

  Whatever was happening inside the SuperSaver had not spread to the parking lot. Raz Buchanon was loading bags of groceries into the back of his pickup, while Marjorie, his pedigreed sow, sat impassively in the passenger seat, headphones tucked under her expansive pink ears, drool looped below her jowls, eyes closed in what might have been porcine ecstasy. At no time in the most distant of futures did I want to be informed of her audio preferences, be it the Beach Boys or a books-on-tape rendition of Charlotte’s Web. A very tight-lipped Eileen Buchanon was thrusting a cart in front of her as she searched for her car. Despite the sporadic rain, Millicent McIlhaney and Elsie McMay were deep in discussion over the tailgate of Millicent’s station wagon. I’d heard rumors about Darla Jean’s latest escapades with the track team, so the topic was not challenging to guess. Darla Jean, to put it diplomatically, was into pole-vaulting.

  Inside the store, things were less tranquil. The sound I’d heard over the telephone was coming from the cubicle, where several of the checkers were huddled around someone whose distress was less than subtle. Kevin was brandishing a mop near the door as if to smack an unseen gangster. Dahlia was white-faced and mute behind the double stroller, but its occupants were screeching either out of fear or amusement.

  Jim Bob grabbed my arm. “About time you got here.”

  I consulted my watch. “About ten o’clock, actually. What’s going on?”

  “Gawd, I dunno. That girl, the one making most of the stink, she says someone kidnapped her little boy. We’ve been up and down every aisle looking for him, but if he was ever here, he’s long gone. Kevin checked the restroom, lounge, and cold storage.”

  “What about the loading dock?” I asked.

  “I didn’t just get off the watermelon truck, fer chrissake,” Jim Bob said, looking a bit gray despite his belligerence. “He must have wandered out the front door while she was looking at tabloids or something. I ain’t responsible when a dumb-ass parent can’t bother to keep track of her kid.”

  “Who is this parent?”

  “Some girl that’s been shopping here for a few weeks. Staying out with the Hollifleckers, Idalupino sez. Maybe you ought to call Leona to come over and shut her up. If she’s gonna go on caterwauling, I might as well close up and go fishing the rest of the day. Crappies always bite on cloudy days.”

  I remembered the girl we’d met after the school-board meeting. “Why don’t you go look at naughty pictures on the Internet while I find out what’s going on?” I said as I veered around him and went into the cubicle. The girl was the doe-eyed, conceivably anorexic, backwoods princess in search of a job. I doubted she’d find one as long as mascara dribbled down her cheeks like strands of tar.

  “Okay,” I said, garnering glares from the checkers as I propelled Gwynnie into a corner, “calm down and talk to me. Your child has disappeared?”

  “Yes,” she snuffled. “He was right there by the cart, but then I went back to swap the yellow onions for white ones, and when I came back, he was gone. I raced all over the store. What are you gonna do? He’s not but two years old! He’s so trustin’ that he’d go off with anybody. What if—”

  “One thing at a time.” I held my hand at waist height. “This tall, I suppose. Hair?”

  “Blond, eyes dark.”

  “What’s he wearing?”

  “Oh gee,” she said, groaning, “a red shirt with white stripes on the shoulders, and blue shorts. Blue sneakers, probably with the laces untied. Chip likes to tug on ’em and …”

  “One of these women will find you a place to sit down and bring you a tissue. I’ll send the rest of them out to search the parking lot while I double-check the aisles and the back rooms.”

  “And if you cain’t find him? What am I gonna do?”

  “We’ll find him,” I said firmly.

  “Please promise me you won’t call Leona and Daniel,” she said. “They’re all the time telling me what an awful mother I am on account of Chip spitting cereal at breakfast and fussing at bedtime. I swear to God I wasn’t away for more than a few seconds. I just thought he’d gone back to the cookie aisle. He loves his animal crackers, and he was real pissed because I wouldn’t buy him a box. All he did this morning was wet his pants, but Leona told me that I had to discipline him. He’s not but two years old!”

  I shoved her into Idalupino’s arms before she flung herself into mine. The remaining checkers agreed to systematically scour the parking lot, looking not only between rows but under vehicles as well. I sternly ordered Dahlia to take her babies outside and allow them to serenade the county until the search was concluded.

  Jim Bob having mysteriously (or perhaps fortuitously) evaporated, this left me, Kevin, and a few bewildered shoppers. I made sure no one had a two-year-old tucked underneath a box of raisin bran in his or her cart, then told everybody to come back later. Once the store had emptied, I turned to Kevin. “Let’s do this slowly and carefully. We’ll go up and down every aisle in case this child is hiding behind boxes of soap flakes or bags of dog food. After that, we’ll make sure he isn’t curled asleep on a produce crate in the back. Give it your best shot, Kevin; you may turn out
to be a local hero if you find him.”

  “Do you think I’d be on the six o’clock news?” he asked with a gulp.

  “Oh yes,” I murmured. “Put down the mop.”

  “But what if some horrible pervert is lurking in the shadows? You dint even bring your gun, Arly. He could come rushing at us, and the only way we could save the baby would be if I whacked him upside the head and—”

  “Put down the mop, Kevin.”

  “If it was Rose Marie or Kevvie Junior, I know what I’d do,” he said as he reluctantly dropped his mop. “Rip his ears right off his head, I reckon. Yank out his tongue and stomp it on the floor. That’s what fathers’d do, you know.”

  I patted his arm. “And you’re one of the best, Kevin. Now, let’s find Chip. You start with the produce aisle.”

  When we’d done all the aisles and met at the picnic tables by the delicatessen, I was beginning to feel a bit panicky. We searched the employees lounge and Jim Bob’s new office, the restroom, the cold storage filled with crates of vegetables, and the meat locker. Kevin and I shouted Chip’s name until we sounded as though our throats had been scraped raw with emery boards.

  I was hesitating by the door of the lounge, wondering if it was time to call the sheriff’s department, the FBI, or even the Mounties, when a blond-headed toddler in a red shirt with white stripes on the shoulders came stumbling into view. No fanfare, no fireworks, no network anchor.

  “Dada,” he burbled.

  He was less pleased when I grabbed him up. “Chip! Where were you? Are you all right? Did anyone hurt you?”

  He was so much less pleased, in fact, that he began to cry, and with daunting volume. Unable to do anything to calm him, I carried his wriggling body to the cubicle.

  Gwynnie snatched him from me. After a minute, both of them quieted down and she said, “Where was he? Is he okay? Did somebody—you know—molest him?”