murder@maggody.com

by Joan Hess

  He looked as though he wished he could slither under the sofa. “Okay, but it was more than two years ago. It was all really stupid especially on my part. I paid for it.”

  “Why did you come to Maggody?” I asked.

  This was, from the look on his face, a question of boundless metaphysical implications. The meaning of life would have been a piece of cake. The nature of reality might have been on the tip of his tongue. Global economics, quantum mechanics, even something as simple as quadratic equations—these issues he could have fielded without working up a sweat.

  “I dunno,” he said.

  “Because of Gwynnie?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “That’s a helluv an answer,” I said as I stood up. “I can book you for murder, Seth. You were stalking her. Did you think she was in some way responsible for the incident that landed you in prison? It won’t take much to convince the county prosecutor that you came here to get revenge. Gwynnie’s dead. Her child will spend the next sixteen years in a series of foster homes.”

  “Nah, she wasn’t responsible. She had a joint, but one of the guys had a bottle of whiskey and some beer that his brother bought for him.”

  “So why did you come to Maggody?” I repeated. “Don’t bother to say it’s because of the cheap rent at the Pot O’ Gold. There are more trailer parks in this fair state than Buchanons behind bars. There are motels that charge a hundred dollars a month, although I suspect the maid service is spottier than the bedspreads.”

  “I had to go someplace.”

  “Your family wouldn’t take you back?”

  “My pa said he’d beat my backside with a shovel before he’d let me move home.”

  “I can see that didn’t appeal,” I said, “but why here, Seth?”

  “No reason,” he said stubbornly.

  I gave him a momentary break. “Does this computer hook up to other computers?” I asked as I sat down at the dinette. “Can you get on the Internet and that kind of thing?”

  “Almost all computers are linked to the web.”

  “Can I look at the Maggody web site?”

  Seth nudged me out of the chair and began to click the keyboard. The images of Darla Jean and Billy Dick vanished in a keystroke. “It’s kinda clunky because there are a lot of graphics. All this shit about the history—”

  I dragged over a chair and sat down next to him. “Just show me.”

  Muttering to himself, he continued to do whatever he was doing until the web site appeared, complete with a photo of the pockmarked city-limits sign and a list of names across the bottom. “Anything in particular?”

  “My name is included,” I said, jabbing my finger at the screen. “What’s that mean?”

  Seth smirked. “Well, let’s just see.” We sat in silence as a recent photo of yours truly appeared. I was coming out of the PD, scratching my chin and squinting at the sky, oblivious to the camera. He did something to change the screen and my high school yearbook photo came up, along with the list of clubs and activities. Now my hair was lacquered, my lips glossy, my demeanor blasé but with a hint of desperation. I tried to remember if I’d ever actually attended a meeting of the Future Teachers of America or the Spanish Club. Probably not. The banks of Boone Creek’d had their allure back then, too, although, based on my noticeable lack of rapport with the current crop of teenagers, I was beginning to wonder if we’d been in danger of raptors rather than rapture in the good ol’ days. I did my best with the kids, but there were times that I could hear Ruby Bee’s voice when I opened my mouth. If I’d started sounding like Mrs. Jim Bob, I’d be obliged to steal a state senator’s car and drive off a bridge, preferably one spanning the Grand Canyon.

  “Who else?” I demanded.

  As I sat there, Seth clicked on candid photos of Ruby Bee, Estelle, Jim Bob, Mrs. Jim Bob, Brother Verber, and almost everybody else in Maggody. Raz and Marjorie, both glaring at the camera from the doorway of his barn. Eula, pinning brassieres on her clothesline. Roy Stiver, his mouth agape to catch flies as he slept in a rocking chair beside the door of his store. Dahlia and Kevin pushing the stroller down Finger Lane. Petrol Buchanon, pissing on a bush outside the old folks’ home. Peteet, his eyes on the heavens.

  “Where did these come from?” I asked.

  “The students have a camera that can feed photos directly onto the web site,” Seth said. “They can also scan old photos, documents, and whatever, and put them on. Want to see your mother’s blue-plate specials for the week?”

  “No. What’s the map?”

  He did more clicking and up came a hand-drawn map of Maggody. “You live here,” he said, moving the cursor on the antiques store. “I live just about here,” he said as he shifted it to the trailer park.

  “And Gwynnie’s body was found where?”

  “From what I’ve heard, somewhere on Cotter’s Ridge. How should I know?”

  “Robin’s cabin is the square at the end of the wiggle going up Cotter’s Ridge, but she was killed right here,” I said, touching the crude outline of the Flamingo Motel. “Friday night, after ten. Where were you?”

  “I wasn’t anywhere.”

  “That would be a first, Seth. Care to elaborate on how you managed to deplane the planet?”

  He sat back. “I was just around, okay? I got off work, I came back and showered, I went over to the Dairee Dee-Lishus and picked up a burger, then ate it while I watched television. Lazarus dropped by and asked if I wanted to go to Farberville, but I said no. TV sucks out here; we got more channels in the rec room at the state pen than we get here. I took a walk, spooked a couple of cows and what looked to be a coyote, and went to bed.”

  “Tell me about Gwynnie back in Powata,” I said.

  “She was a real mess, but she didn’t have a chance of being anything else. Her ma was one of those do-gooders who didn’t want to do good; she just wanted to bully everybody else into her version of righteousness. The pool hall used to send out scouts at closing time. Nobody wanted to run into Dolores on the sidewalk.”

  “What about Gwynnie herself, though?”

  “The kids at school were hateful to her on account of her thrift-shop clothes. There were times when it was hard to ignore that she hadn’t bathed or washed her hair, but half the time they couldn’t pay the water bill. Everybody knew she slept at the jail often as not. I liked her spirit, though. Some evenings I’d go by her house and we’d sit on the back porch, or walk down to the pond. I almost invited her to one of the school dances, but I didn’t, because I knew she couldn’t afford to buy a new dress. Powata’s not all that much different from Maggody. Wasn’t there one kid in your class who everyone bullied?”

  “I suppose so,” I admitted uncomfortably. “But Gwynnie did date a boy from a prominent family, didn’t she? Is that why she was with you on the night of the accident?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “Harris Rossen, though they weren’t exactly dating. He didn’t have the balls to invite her to the movies or sit with her in the cafeteria or anything like that, but after he’d take home whichever perky blond cheerleader he was going steady with, he’d go looking for Gwynnie. She wasn’t all that hard to find, and most always agreeable to a drive out to the lake.”

  “And the night in question?”

  “The basketball team won some stupid district title. Harris had been the high scorer, and he was fired up. Some of us were walking over to his house when we saw the car just begging to be taken for a test drive. Gwynnie and a couple of other girls like her were hanging out in front of the gym.” He stopped and looked away. “I’m not making any excuses for what happened. I was drinking too much and driving too fast. I was able to hang on to Gwynnie when the car hit the water. Harris was riding shotgun; he wasn’t wearing a seat belt, but none of us were. If there was an instant replay button on my life, I’d rewind it and go home that night. I’d brush my teeth and go to bed. I’d get up the next morning and slop the hogs, then go into town. Shoot hoops at the park. Eat a burrito at the con
venience store and try to persuade Alice Ann to go to the junior prom with me. Alice Ann didn’t go to the prom with anyone; she went to a nursing home to vegetate. Harris went to the cemetery, and I went to prison. I wonder what might have happened if we hadn’t won the game that night.”

  “What a great idea for a miniseries. Alternative reality. What would have happened if the irresponsible teenagers hadn’t stolen the car and swilled so much booze that the driver went off a bridge? Would they all have gone on to medical school and worked as a team to come up with a cure for cancer?”

  Seth was silent.

  “Did you know Gwynnie was living here with her aunt and uncle?”

  “Everybody in Powata knew. It was the hot topic at the Sunshine Cafe and Bait Shoppe.”

  “And that’s why you came here?” I persisted.

  “I figured I couldn’t get into any trouble in a place like this.”

  “But you came to a place like this, Seth, and for a reason. After the accident, Gwynnie knocked on the door of the richest family in Powata and tried to convince Harris’s parents that they had a paternal obligation to take care of her unborn child. They didn’t buy it, did they?”

  “They wouldn’t acknowledge anything, and they didn’t have to, since they pretty much own the county. Most folks are beholding to them, in one way or another. They subsidize most of the crop-sharers, and float loans to farmers like my pa. They paid for the gymnasium at the high school, the new roof at the library, prescription drugs for the homeless at shelters, things like that. They just weren’t able to believe their precious golden boy had impregnated a Patchwood.”

  “Did he? What if you and she did more than hold hands at the pond? Did you come here looking for Gwynnie—or for Chip? Did all that jailhouse religion convince you to take responsibility for your son? Did you think you could get enough evidence to prove that Gwynnie was a less fit parent than you?”

  He shook his head with unconvincing defiance. “I came here on account of cheap rent. My trailer costs eighty-two dollars a month, with utilities. I can save a couple of hundred dollars a week for six months, then head for California, or maybe Arizona. Maybe I’ll find a job in a casino in Las Vegas or one of those places. Maybe I’ll be a forest ranger in Yosemite and warn people not to feed the bears. Maybe I’ll end up in a cabin in Alaska, hoping the bears don’t feed on me.”

  Unlike Seth’s aspirations, the conversation was going nowhere. “Okay, then,” I said, “tell me how these photographs of the local teenagers ended up on the Internet. Was Lazarus responsible?” I paused for a moment. “Why did he choose Maggody? This isn’t a dream destination on Wheel of Fortune.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Obscure neurons were firing. “Had you ever met him before you came here, Seth?”

  “Not that I recall,” he said, turning even pastier than Ruby Bee’s pie shells.

  “In Powata, for example?”

  Squirming like a cornered cockroach, Seth eyed all possible exits. “I suppose he could have been there, but …”

  “Should I call the Powata Police Department and inquire about Dolores Patchwood’s maiden name—and the whereabouts of her unsavory relatives?”

  “So maybe Lazarus was Gwynnie’s uncle. It’s no big deal.”

  “Was he making these disgusting videos back then? Did he follow Gwynnie just so she could provide more actors, or in this situation, victims?”

  “How should I know? I’m just buying his computer.”

  “As a favor?”

  “A favor for what?” he said. “He may have bought me a half-pint of whiskey once in a while, but that’s about all.”

  “Unless he agreed not to mention that he’d seen you with Chip out behind the supermarket. I can understand why you’d want to hold your son, if only for a minute, and it’s clear you didn’t harm or frighten him.”

  “Chip’s a sturdy little guy, isn’t he?” Seth’s face glowed with the pride I’d been seeing on Kevin Buchanon’s the last several months.

  “Okay,” I said with a sigh, “put those photos back on the screen. I want to see the background.”

  Grumbling to himself, he clicked various things until the photo of Darla Jean and Billy Dick appeared. Behind them, cheap paneling and a window with a limp green curtain. “Don’t move,” I said, then went down the hall and looked inside the bedroom. Cheap paneling and a window with a limp green curtain. Heather had been adamant that Lazarus had never sold them drugs; perhaps the more old-fashioned barter system had been in effect. I looked around for anything that might give me a clue to his whereabouts. As if I were going to find a map marked with an X or an itinerary for a series of connecting flights to Brazil.

  I decided a pattern was emerging as I heard the front door close. If I could develop the same reaction from vermin, I thought as I poked at discarded clothes and fast-food wrappers, I could become an incredibly wealthy exterminator. I would have no need of a flute; my presence would be all that was required to set off a frenzy at the exit.

  Eventually, I went back into the living room and determined that Seth had indeed left the building. Darla Jean had left her house. Lazarus had left town in what might turn out to be a permanent change of lifestyle.

  I sat down in front of the computer and stared at the photo of Darla Jean and Billy Dick. Both of them were smiling, but their expressions were so unnaturally taut that they might have resulted from jabs with a cattle prod.

  Gwynnie had come to Maggody. Lazarus had appeared shortly thereafter. He had no means of support. Picking produce out of the Dumpsters behind the supermarket might reduce the monthly expenses, but the same real estate company that cashed Eula’s check was hardly apt to be thrilled with a payment in discolored oranges.

  “Ergo,” I said aloud, although I wasn’t real sure what it meant, “he was peddling teen porn and Gwynnie was helping him with recruitment.” Or Seth was, or Darla Jean, who may have had heretofore unacknowledged entrepreneurial skills, or even Jim Bob, though he most likely wasn’t quite that sleazy. Or Justin or Raz or Idalupino or Marjorie or LaBelle, for that matter.

  After a long minute of glaring, I put my hand on the rounded plastic object I assumed was known in the lingo as a mouse. A blinky little thing on the screen moved. I shifted my hand; the thing shifted accordingly. Cool, I thought, although my nascent skill was hardly worthy of an offer of an executive position from Bill Gates.

  I fooled around for a few seconds, then abandoned the mouse and did a more thorough search of Lazarus’s trailer. He’d left behind a few oddments of clothing, but mostly cleared out his stuff. The tube of toothpaste in the bathroom was flat. The milk in the refrigerator had the consistency of cottage cheese; the cottage cheese itself was a lovely shade of pearly gray. The plates in the sink were dotted with fuzzy turquoise balls, which in another galaxy (far, far away) might have been someone’s cherished pets.

  It was ridiculous, I thought as I went outside. Colonel Mustard in the billiard room or Miss Scarlett in the conservatory were concepts I could handle. I’d dealt with greed and envy and tangled emotions and revenge. The computer on the dinette, as well as the tidy rows of computers in the portable trailer by the high school—all of them were nothing more than keyboards, encased circuits, and blue screens.

  Justin Bailey had much to answer for, but he could wait until I’d appeased my mother, who’d been expecting me for the last three hours.

  And maybe I was hungry.

  “I have called the PD seventeen times!” she shrieked as I ambled across the dance floor. “I told Estelle here that this was the day you’d been run down by a truck and were bleeding to death in a ditch on some county road. If Harve Dorfer had been at his office, I would have carried on until he agreed to send out a posse and scrape up what was left of you before the turkey vultures swooped in.”

  “That’s right,” added Estelle. “I even offered to go to the mortuary and do what I could with your hair and makeup, despite what pecking might have taken place. I don’t r
eckon there would have been much left of your eyes to work with.” She’d clearly spent some time on her own; the serpentine blue eyeshadow and heavy-handed eyeliner gave her a ghoulish look, which would have fit in nicely in a mortuary ambience.

  Bring up the organ music.

  “Stop it,” I said as I sat on a stool. “I had some other things to do first—okay? If I am ever beset by turkey vultures, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Ruby Bee scowled. “Not if you’re in a ditch.”

  “The state game and fish department requires them to carry cell phones,” I said. “I’ll gasp out your number with my dying breath. What’s the lunch special?”

  “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon,” she shot back. “Do you think I fixed a plate and kept it in the oven just in case you bothered to show up, Miss Not Much Better Late Than Never?”

  “I am eternally optimistic.”

  She banged into the kitchen and came back with a plate heaped with ham, candied sweet potatoes, collard greens, pickled beets, and a square of corn bread. “Don’t go thinking this’ll happen every time you go waltzing around for half the day, then come in and demand to be fed.”

  Estelle sighed. “It’s a darn shame what you put your mother through on what’s becoming a distressingly regular basis.”

  I took a bite of ham. “I could move back to Manhattan and work for the Mob. Pay’s good, or so I hear, and I’ve always wanted a godfather. Don Juan has a nice ring, but I might have to settle for don we-now-our-gay-apparel. Egad, would I have to become a lesbian? Would Marjorie start to look more fetching than Raz?”

  “You’re not as funny as you think,” said Ruby Bee as she set down a glass of milk. “Did you talk to Leona this morning?”

  “She’s not doing well. Chip’s over at Dahlia’s house for the time being, but it’s not even much of a short-term solution. I’ll wait until Daniel gets back before I call social services.”

  “If he gets back,” muttered Estelle, her nose buried in a glass of sherry.

  I glanced at her, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Why’d you say that?”