murder@maggody.com

by Joan Hess

  Kevin winced as Rocky Horror staggered off the rope and took a fist to his throat. “Do the paramedics ever hafta carry somebody out?”

  “It’s a matter of time,” said Earl. “Go get me a beer and see if there’s any more onion dip. I can’t believe your ma’d go off and leave us like this. We’re out of bologna and pimento cheese. I ate the last of the meat loaf for breakfast this morning. What does she reckon we’re gonna eat come tomorrow?”

  “Do you know anything about women, Pa? What makes them act the way they do?”

  Earl belched thoughtfully. “Ain’t no man that understands women. Take your ma, for example. I come home from mowing the back pasture, all filthy and sweating like a pig, wanting nothing more than a cold beer and a hot supper, and she asks me what I think. ‘About what?’ I say. She gets all mad and stomps off to the bedroom. Now how in tarnation am I supposed to know she had her hair fixed a different way? I ain’t some faggot hairdresser. If she’d had it shaved off or dyed green, I most likely would have noticed.”

  Kevin thought this over. “Dahlia’s temperamental, but her hair’s the same.”

  “She buy a new dress? That can be dangerous.”

  “Not in a long while. She just kicked me out. Whenever I try to talk to her, her lips get all puckered and there I am on the porch.”

  “There’s your problem,” Earl said. “No man should be trying to talk to a woman. They’re a whole different breed, all the time wantin’ to know how you feel about things. Buy her a big bottle of cologne at Wal-Mart and tell her you like her hair. Just don’t sound like a faggot, okay? Keep in mind God ain’t married. Now go get that beer.”

  “You know anything about men?” Dahlia asked her mother-in-law while they took turns dipping into the bowl of popcorn.

  “I’ve been married to one for over thirty years,” said Eileen. “Far as I can tell, they’re all the same. The only reason they have faces is so we can tell ’em apart. Hardly worth the bother, if you ask me.”

  “So what should I do?”

  “Cross your fingers that someone puts out an owner’s manual. Otherwise, we’re all stuck with ’em as they are.”

  Brother Verber stayed in the shadows of the Dumpster, trying to decide what to do. He’d waited behind the SuperSaver until Idalupino had come outside and gotten into her car, then followed her at a most discreet distance as she drove to the Pot O’ Gold and parked by a trailer scarcely larger than a camper. He was pretty much sure it was hers, since she’d stopped to pluck several items of intimate apparel from the clothesline before going inside. The lights had come on seconds later.

  The curtains were drawn, though, and he couldn’t catch so much as a glimpse of her—much less any auburn ringlets. Earlier, his plan had made perfectly good sense. If he could confirm what he thought he’d seen, then he’d seen it. If he couldn’t, well, then he’d convince himself that he hadn’t. The last thing he could do was march up to her door and demand that she pull off her panties so he’d know if he was crazy. Idalupino’s hair changed on a weekly basis; she’d been blond, red-haired, brunette, and even raven with a white streak. There was no telling what her true hair color was.

  A shadow moved across a small window that might well be a bathroom. There was maybe an inch or so where the blind didn’t quite hit the sill. Brother Verber eyed his options. The aluminum chairs were rickety. Her car was parked a sight too far away. The only possibility was a spindly pine, nothing that would ever qualify for tinsel and fragile glass ornaments.

  Leaving himself in the hands of the Lord (and his shoes on the patio), Brother Verber began his ascent.

  When Mrs. Jim Bob heard the kitchen door open, she shrugged off her bathrobe, slipped her feet into high heels, and unsteadily stood up. Her lungs were paralyzed, and she could literally feel the blood draining from her face. Dropping her bathrobe on the floor next to the sofa, she adjusted the pink negligee to expose as much of her bosom as she could bear.

  Despite the urge to dash upstairs and lock herself in her bedroom for a year or two, she forced herself to wobble toward the doorway of the kitchen.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she cooed as she came around the corner. And stopped as she met Elsie McMay’s horrified expression.

  Elsie put a plate down on the dinette. “This is from Leona’s house,” she croaked. “She said she thanks you kindly for the pineapple salad and for coming by.…”

  “I can explain,” said Mrs. Jim Bob, then realized she couldn’t.

  “Please don’t. I should have knocked, but I thought I’d just pop in and leave this for you. I gotta be going.”

  “Would you like a cup of tea and a slice of lemon pound cake?”

  Elsie shook her head so vehemently that her bifocals slid down her nose. “I can see you’re busy. I’ll have that pound cake another day, if it’s all the same.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob was still standing in the doorway when the kitchen door closed with a resonant click.

  14

  I gave myself a break in the morning. Sacrificing biscuits and gravy in order to avoid the Methodist version of the Inquisition, I walked over to the SuperSaver and bought a Sunday paper, then flopped on my sofa to read about all the heinous and/or hilarious activities in the world while I drank coffee and nibbled on toast made from bluish-gray bread, which well could have dated from the Civil War. Gwynnie’s murder had warranted two paragraphs on a back page; it was hardly a newsworthy story outside the confines of the county. Once the details came out, I suspected we would be fending off tabloid journalists demanding details of the “Moonshine Murder.” When that happened, I intended to be elsewhere, be it an opulent Dallas spa or a pup tent alongside Boone Creek.

  I’d toss a coin when the time came.

  I read everything except the classifieds and the sports section, then reluctantly buffed my badge and forced myself to go across the street to the PD.

  The first order of business, I told myself as I started a pot of coffee (which, in all reality, was the first order of business, but let’s not get technical), was to call the Powata police department and learn what I could about Gwynnie and Seth. Directory information obliged with a number and went so far as to offer to dial it for a mere ninety-five cents.

  I declined and dialed the number all by myself, despite the fact my fingers were crossed that I’d connect with someone over twenty-one and lacking an attitude.

  “Powata Police Department,” said a charmingly adult female voice. “Officer J. J. Cater at your service.”

  I explained who I was, and why I was calling. “I need some background information,” I continued, my fingers still crossed since I was asking her to violate state laws concerning minors and privacy. “Gwynnie was telling a lot of tales. I need to know if any of them were true.”

  “I doubt it. The last time she responded without a sneer was when the doctor slapped her behind in the delivery room. She wasn’t happy then, and she never was afterward. I’m sorry she’s dead, but I’m not turning cold and clammy with shock. For the last five years, I’ve kept a toothbrush with her name on it in my desk drawer.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning she spent many a night here for shoplifting, driving without a license, possession of drugs, trying to buy beer, crossing paths with some idiot old enough to buy her beer, public obscenity, disturbing the peace, and so forth. I usually offered to release her on her mother’s recognizance, but she preferred to sleep on the urine-stained mattress in the cell we set aside for juveniles. We should have put a plaque with her name on it above the door. Most mornings I’d just send her on home. You know how it works in a small town.”

  “I don’t have a cell,” I said, trying not to sound envious. Then again, if I had one, all I’d be doing was running a bed and breakfast for Buchanons, and gawd knows they’d all faint dead away at the sight of a bagel with lox and cream cheese. “Her juvvie records are sealed. Can you tell me what’s in them?”

  Officer Cater chuckled. “You know damn well I ca
n’t, Chief Hanks. If I could, all I’d say is that she and some other kids stole the state senator’s shiny new Lincoln Continental and went for a ride. It’s hard to know who had the drugs and who had the booze, but the driver had too much of one or the other and drove off a bridge. Luckily, my brother-in-law and his cousin happened to be passing by, and they fished the kids out of the water. One of the boys died from a skull fracture when he slammed into the windshield. A fourteen-year-old girl suffered permanent brain damage, effectively ending her dreams of becoming a doctor, lawyer, or Indian chief. The rest of them were eventually hauled to court and slapped on the wrist in varying degrees, depending on their past records and degree of involvement.”

  I shivered as I imagined Darla Jean, Heather, Billy Dick, and all the other teenagers doing the same thing—and ending up in the same bleak situation.

  “Can you tell me about Gwynnie’s home life?” I asked.

  “Nothing that’s uncommon around here,” Officer Cater said. “Her father died six or seven years ago. Her mother, who was a real pain in the ass, if you don’t mind me saying, did the best she could when she wasn’t at church or sermonizing at city council and school-board meetings—which was what she did best. I seem to think she was working at the shirt factory until she, and most of the town, got laid off. We would have come out better if we’d had tornadoes and the county’d been declared a disaster area. Last I heard, she went off to Africa to pester those poor folks. Every time I read about a civil war in some African nation, I wonder if Dolores Patchwood is making them crazy.”

  “What about Gwynnie’s stepfather?”

  “That would have been a fairy stepfather. Dolores didn’t remarry after her husband died. I’d be surprised if she ate or slept, what with her devotion to eternal salvation, welcome or not. One of the neighbors tried to convince the social services department that Gwynnie and her brother were neglected. Nobody investigated. They were fed and clothed, and frankly, having a fine time without supervision. Gwynnie seemed to have a ready supply of cash. Some nights I’d run her by her house to pick up her homework before I locked her up. Nobody was ever home.”

  “And I suppose her mother didn’t have boyfriends?”

  “Just the twelve Apostles. Give me a minute and I can rattle off their names. I did my time at the Baptist church. Let’s see … you’ve got your Matthew, Mark, Luke, and—”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “What can you tell me about Seth Smitherman?”

  “Interesting you should ask. His family lives three, four miles north of town, farming a hundred acres or so and raising hogs. The children—there’s a passel of them—are home-schooled. The Smithermans keep to themselves these days.”

  “Why’s it interesting? Was Seth involved in the accident?”

  “He was the driver.”

  I rocked back so hard I banged into the wall. Cautiously exploring the backside of my head for blood, I said, “So he was nailed with grand theft auto?”

  “State senator’s car, and therefore a mighty poor choice. Any other car in town, he’d have been put on probation. ‘Oops,’ as we in law enforcement say.”

  I tried to imagine Harve saying “Oops.” Not in my lifetime. “Officer Cater, I know you’re reluctant to pass along gossip, but I was told that Gwynnie got pregnant by a local boy and was sent off to an unwed mothers’ home. Do you know who the father was?”

  “I learned to gossip through the bars of my crib, girl. The boy who was killed in the wreck had been seeing Gwynnie on the sly for several months. After his death, his parents wanted nothing to do with her. The scuttlebutt at the cafe was that they weren’t about to acknowledge any grandchild with Patchwood blood. Nobody blamed them. The mother-daughter team was known locally as ‘Nut ’n’ Slut.’ Both of them took to haranguing the boy’s family until the circuit judge had no choice but to issue a restraining order. When Gwynnie violated it—which she did within a matter of days, if not hours—her probation officer and the county prosecutor decided she needed to be packed off. She was given her choice of the relatives in your neck of the woods or a detention facility.”

  “Too bad the juvvie records are sealed,” I said dryly.

  “Her probation officer’s my sister and the prosecutor’s my first cousin. Hard not to hear things.”

  “Are there any Patchwoods left in Powata?”

  “A couple of ancient ones at the nursing home. Dolores had a few kinfolk in the area, but they seem to have moved on. If you’re wanting to get hold of an address for her, I can ask the pastor at her church as soon as services are over.”

  “Thanks,” I said, then gave her my telephone number and expressed my gratitude until she got bored and terminated the call.

  I was putting together this not totally surprising image of Gwynnie when the telephone rang. I allowed the machine to deal with it.

  “Arly? Are you there?” demanded Ruby Bee. “You are, aren’t you? Don’t think for a second that I don’t know you’re sitting in that cane-bottom chair, grinning at this damnfool machine and forcing me, your own flesh and blood, who suffered through seventeen hours of back labor—”

  I retrieved the receiver, so to speak. “What’s crawling up your leg this morning?”

  “I was expecting you for breakfast. You always come over for breakfast on Sundays.”

  “I happen to be investigating a murder.”

  “That ain’t ever made a noticeable dent in your appetite. If you keep neglecting to eat, you’ll be nothing but skin and bones afore too long. Your breasts will deflate and you’ll get bags and wrinkles under your eyes. You might as well move out to the old folks’ home so you can make Easter decorations out of egg cartons. You’ll be sucking jelly beans with Dahlia’s granny and fretting on account of Hiawathie Buchanon filching your pudding cup when your head’s turned.”

  “I may have a few more good months left in me,” I said mildly. “I’ll make a deal with you, okay? Breakfast in exchange for everything you know about what’s been going on at the Pot O’ Gold. No more evasions. Deal?”

  Ruby Bee paused. “I reckon you’re right. It’s not like Estelle and I committed a felony that’ll hold up in front of a jury.”

  “A felony?”

  “Just get yourself over here.” She hung up abruptly, her customary way of ending a conversation not to her liking.

  I decided to swing by the Hollifleckers’ before I indulged in grits and the gritty. Gwynnie had accused so many men, including a number of apparently fictitious ones, of abusing her that I was far from sure what, if anything, Daniel might have been guilty of doing.

  Leona’s face was paler than the underbelly of a sow when she opened the door and gazed blearily at me. Her bathrobe was loosely sashed, exposing bony shoulders dotted with moles and blood blisters. Her hair would have sent Estelle diving under the porch. “Arly? You’ll have to excuse me. I must’ve dozed off on the sofa.”

  “Let me fix you some coffee,” I said as I edged around her and continued into the kitchen. The church ladies had left everything in immaculate order, from the neatly folded dish towels to the aligned salt and pepper shakers on the dinette. I found a can of coffee and filters, and began to fill the pot with water. “Is Daniel back?” I asked as I heard her shuffle into the kitchen.

  “No. I left another message about six o’clock, but they must have been at supper. I was meaning to call later. I guess it slipped my mind. Most everything does these days. Having Gwynnie and Chip living here has been real stressful. Now all this … I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “I’m trying to track down. Gwynnie’s mother. I may have an address or even a telephone number later today.”

  “What’s the point?” Leona said as she sat down and began to shred a paper napkin. “Dolores isn’t going to drop whatever she’s doing and fly back just so she can bury her daughter. They weren’t what you’d call close.”

  I turned around. “How’s Chip?”

  “I called Dahlia earlier, and she came over and pi
cked him up. I can’t deal with a two-year-old. All he does is fuss and carry on, and there’s no way telling what’s wrong with him. Neither of us got more than ten minutes of sleep last night.”

  At least one person was doing the right thing, I thought, vowing to take Dahlia a package of Twinkies and a grape Nehi. She may not have been playing with a full deck, but the heart suit was intact.

  “So you didn’t talk to Daniel yesterday,” I said. “Have you tried this morning?”

  She made her way to the refrigerator and filled a glass with orange juice. Keeping her back to me, she added a hefty splash of vodka from a bottle in a cabinet. “No point in trying. The seminar’s over at noon, so he would have checked out of his room first thing. He should be home by the middle of the afternoon.”

  “How ’bout I call Millicent to come over and keep you company until he gets here?”

  “I don’t need any company, including yours. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to my office to read the Bible. I’m just not up to going to church this morning, but that doesn’t mean I can neglect my soul. You might consider turning to the scriptures, too. There is great comfort to be found.”

  “I’ll leave the coffeepot on,” I called as she wandered toward the back of the house.

  After a long moment of hesitation, I left and drove to Millicent McIlhaney’s house. Odds were that the family would be at church for another hour, but I felt as though disaster was percolating along with the coffee.

  Dark Jean looked slightly better than Leona as she answered the door, but not by much.