by Joan Hess
“Experimenting in what?” asked Ruby Bee, thinking of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory with its blinking lights and body parts scattered around the floor. “Why doncha stop telling me his life story and get to the point, Estelle? It’s nigh onto three o’clock, and I haven’t finished cleaning up the kitchen so I can sit a spell and work on my column. Writing a weekly column ain’t like making a grocery list, you know, and I have to turn it in by noon tomorrow if it’s gonna appear in the Shopper on Saturday.”
Estelle folded up the letter. “Why don’t I wait until tomorrow evening to tell you the rest of it? I’d feel just awful if I interfered with scrubbing pots and writing about who’s been in the hospital. Maybe I’ll run by Elsie’s for a cup of coffee and a nice visit. She’s not as busy as some folks.”
“Just tell me.”
“Well, the letter says how Uncle Tooly was attacked by sheep in his front yard. He—”
“Sheep?” said Ruby Bee, snickering. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard in my entire life. It sounds like one of those yarns Samsonite Buchanon would spin to anyone fool enough to listen. He could have been a regular guest on the Geraldo show.”
“While Uncle Tooly was trying to get away, he fell and broke his hip. Three days later a neighbor happened to drive by and spot him sprawled in the grass, but it was too late for Uncle Tooly. His mouth was full of fleece. He’d died of dehydration and shock not fifty feet from a telephone.”
“I’d sure go into shock if I was attacked by sheep. Was it a flock—or a gang?”
Estelle gave her a reproachful look. “We are talking about my kinfolk, one of whom passed away in a most tragic manner. I’d appreciate it if you could show some respect.”
“Sorry,” Ruby Bee murmured, reluctantly forgoing a remark about a “drive-by bleating.” “Does this letter from the lawyer mean your uncle remembered you in his will?”
“Yes, it does. It doesn’t say exactly what Uncle Tooly wanted me to have. He gave all his money to charities, so all I’m expecting is an heirloom of some sort. It’s kind of exciting, though.”
“What’s exciting?” Kayleen asked as she came across the dance floor and joined them at the bar.
Estelle explained about the letter, adding, “I don’t recall him having a coin or stamp collection, so it’s liable to be a mantel clock or a ship in a bottle or a carton of family albums. The letter said it’ll be delivered next week.”
“How’s the remodeling coming along?” Ruby Bee asked Kayleen, since there wasn’t much point in discussing Estelle’s inheritance till they found out what it was.
“The walls have been stripped of that cheap paneling and some boards in the floor have been replaced. All the wiring will have to be redone, though, and a lot of pipes are so rusty the water comes out like silt. I have a feeling I’ll spend a goodly part of the next six months in the motel out back. That reminds me, Ruby Bee—I need to book a room for Sterling Pitts.”
Estelle cocked her head. “I thought he was all gung ho about surviving in the woods. The Flamingo Motel’s not much to look at, but it has your standard conveniences like hot water and clean sheets. The parking lot’s hardly what you’d call rugged terrain.”
“He needs a telephone and a place to set up a computer,” Kayleen said. “Most of the time he’ll be in the woods, but he likes to stay in communication with his office in case there’s an emergency. To be honest, I don’t think he’s real thrilled about sleeping in a tent in this kind of weather. He’s close to sixty and has spells of rheumatism.”
Ruby Bee struggled not to sound sarcastic, but she didn’t have much luck. “So he sleeps in a nice warm bed while the other fellows freeze their butts up on Cotter’s Ridge? What do they think about it?”
“I don’t rightly know.” Kayleen took a pretzel from a basket and nibbled on it for a moment. “Can I ask y’all something of a different nature? I’m a little curious about Brother Verber. Is he originally from these parts? Do you know anything about his background and his family?”
Estelle and Ruby Bee smirked at each other, then Ruby Bee said, “He’s been here for maybe ten years. Before that, I don’t know where he was living, but you might ask Mrs. Jim Bob. You can be as sure as a goose goes barefoot that she knows every last detail of his life up to the time he moved into the rectory.”
“I ran into her at the supermarket,” Kayleen said with a wry smile, “and I have a feeling she won’t tell me the time of day. She went right by me with her nose in the air and her lips squeezed tight, then made a production of telling someone in the next aisle that a pawnshop was nothing more than a gathering place for drug dealers and rapists. I can’t imagine why she took such a dislike to me right off the bat, but she did. I felt like I had bad breath or oozing sores all over my face and hands.”
Estelle decided to help out Ruby Bee, who clearly was having trouble finding a response. “Mrs. Jim Bob takes her role as the mayor’s wife real serious, not to mention being president of the Missionary Society. She thinks everybody should get her permission before they sneeze so she can make sure they have a clean hankie.”
Ruby Bee nodded. “And she’s suspicious of single women because she knows her husband strays with every hussy in Stump County. If he had a notch in his belt for every one of them, his trousers would be around his ankles and he’d be waddlin’ like a duck.”
“I prefer men with Christian values,” Kayleen said firmly. “Men who come from solid Anglo-Saxon stock and are loyal and trustworthy, dedicated to their beliefs.”
“Like Sterling Pitts?” suggested Ruby Bee. Match-making was one of her favorite hobbies, and she’d about given up on Arly.
“Sterling’s married, so as far as I’m concerned, he’s ineligible. There’s no chance Brother Verber has a wife stashed away somewhere, is there?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Estelle. She stopped and thought for a moment, then said, “Unless she’s in an insane asylum or prison. I don’t suppose he’d say anything that might reflect poorly on him as a man of God.”
Ruby Bee scooted the pretzels out of Estelle’s reach. “That’s hornswoggle—and you know it. Brother Verber may have his faults, but I can’t see him leaving some pathetic woman locked up all these years. Why, he got all misty at Kevin and Dahlia’s wedding, and had to stop and blow his nose at least three times before he pronounced them man and wife. He almost single-handedly raised the money to put a baptismal font in the Assembly Hall after one of the ladies in the choir got chased across a gravel bar by a water moccasin down at Boone Creek.” She racked her brain for other examples of his worthiness, not because she had all that much respect for him but to impress Kayleen. “He collects discarded clothes and spectacles to send to a mission in Africa, too.”
“That ain’t all he collects,” Estelle inserted.
“Hush, Estelle,” Ruby Bee said sharply, possibly because she was still smarting over the comment about the Flamingo Motel not being much to look at. “Tell you what, Kayleen—if I run across Mrs. Jim Bob, I’ll tactfully see what I can find out about Brother Verber’s past. Are you planning to attend the Sunday morning service?”
“I said I would.” Kayleen slid off the stool and waggled her fingers at them. “I’d appreciate it if y’all didn’t mention that I was asking questions about Brother Verber. I’ve lived in enough small towns to know how tongues get to wagging. I need to run along and make some calls.” She paused in the middle of the dance floor and looked back at them. “You two are just being so sweet to me. Once I get the house fixed up, I’ll have you over for supper so we can get to know each other even better.”
Ruby Bee and Estelle smiled brightly until she was gone, then set aside their differences and got down to business discussing how to find out whatall they could about Brother Verber’s past. It had never before been of interest, but now it was downright intriguing.
As Eileen Buchanon drove out of the clinic parking lot and headed toward Maggody, she glanced at her daughter-in-law. Dahlia was do
wncast, but no more than usual these days. Being pregnant was harder on her than it’d been on Eileen, what with the strict diet and exercise program to control her blood sugar. They’d had a real scare when Dahlia had allowed a faith healer to convince her the diabetes had been cured, but his exposure as a quack had brought her to her senses. What there were of them, anyway.
“What did the doctor say?” Eileen asked as she slowed down for a chicken truck.
Dahlia sighed so gustily that the windshield fogged up. “Same as he always sez, I reckon. I got to keep pricking my finger and writing down the numbers in my notebook. I haft to come back next week so he can poke my privates. He’s still harping about this test called a sonogram, but I ain’t gonna allow it on account of it turns the baby into a mutant with the wrong number of arms and legs and eyes. No one’s doin’ that to my baby.”
“The doctor wouldn’t suggest something like that.”
“He brings it up at every visit,” she said, her chins quivering with distress and her placid expression turning fierce. “I signed a paper saying I refused to do it, and I meant it!”
Eileen finally got around the chicken truck and pressed the accelerator. “What makes you think this test would do the terrible things you said?”
“I read about it in the newspaper. Would you stop at that gas station over there? My bladder’s liable to burst if I don’t git to a potty real quick.”
Eileen obliged, then glumly watched Dahlia disappear through a doorway on the side of the concrete block building. Other than the diabetes, which was under control, Dahlia seemed healthy and had gained no more weight than the doctor had allowed. Women had been giving birth for thousands of years without complicated tests, and a good number of them were doing so these days. It was probably better not to cause Dahlia more distress by pressuring her to have a sonogram or anything else she didn’t want. It was hard enough keeping her away from what she did want.
Jake “Blitzer” Milliford opened the closet door and squatted down to paw through the shoes on the floor. “Where’re my boots?” he shouted at his wife, who was in the kitchen.
“Wherever you dropped them,” Judy shouted back, more concerned with the cornbread in the oven and the beans in a pot on the stove. “Did you leave ’em on the back porch?”
He slammed the door and started hunting under the bed. “When’s the last time you cleaned under here—Easter?”
She gave the beans a stir, then turned off the burner and came to the doorway. She was small-boned and barely came up to his shoulder, but living with him for twenty-three years had thickened her skin. It had also etched some wrinkles in her pretty face and turned some brown hairs gray, as well as extinguishing a good deal of what had once shone through her eyes. “Maybe you left them in the back of the truck,” she suggested, “or in the toolshed.”
“Bullshit.”
“You ought to look anyway,” she said, fully aware the boots were in the hall closet, where she’d put them after he left them on the kitchen table.
Jake got up off the floor and hitched up his worn, greasy jeans. “I ain’t got time for a damn scavenger hunt. LaRue is pickin’ me up as soon as he gets off work. He bought hisself a new laser sight for his Glock, and he wants to test it over at his brother’s place.”
“You don’t need your boots for that, do you?”
He gave her a disgusted look. “No, I don’t need my boots for that. I need ’em next week for the retreat. We’ll leave for Maggody on Friday afternoon, soon as I can get away from the salvage yard. Shorty wasn’t real happy with me missing work, but he shut up when I pointed out that everybody else’ll call in sick all week long on account of deer season. At least I’m givin’ him some warning.”
“Were you aiming to mention this beforehand or was it supposed to be a surprise?”
He brushed past her and went into the front room to see if LaRue was out in the driveway. “Yeah, I was aiming to mention it beforehand,” he muttered under his breath, then raised his voice. “When you find my boots, clean ’em up and set ’em on the back porch. While you’re at it, see if the sleeping bags need to be hung out on the clothesline. Last summer I spilled some fish guts on one of them and it’s liable to stink worse than a buzzard’s roost by now. And check the cooking supplies. I ain’t gonna be pleased if I have to drive back to Emmett because you forgot your pancake turner.”
“What makes you think I’m going with you next week, Jake? I’ve got better things to do than sit around all day in a drafty tent and cook over a campfire. Friday evening I have a church bazaar committee meeting. I told Janine that I’d keep the baby on Saturday so she can get her hair cut and do a little shopping. She hasn’t been out of the house in six weeks, and that fat lout she married won’t even change a diaper.”
“He puts groceries on the table, doesn’t he? Janine’s a whiner, same as you. It’s gonna be cold and wet out at the campsite, and we need better than those gawdawful ready-to-eat meals. Janine doesn’t have any call to waste her husband’s hard-earned money on a hair cut. She can get a pair of scissors and whack it off herself.”
Judy thought of something she’d like to whack off with a pair of scissors, but he most likely wouldn’t appreciate hearing it. “Who all is going this time?”
“Who all is going?” he said in a falsetto, mocking her. “Do you think Pitts invited the cheerleaders over at the junior high and all the sumbitch politicians down in Little Rock? Same as last year, except for Carter Lee and Bradley. We figure we can dig up ol’ Mo and prop him against a tent pole. It’s not like we’d be able to tell the difference.” He looked out the window, then took his jacket off a hook and made sure the can of Red Man was in the pocket. “LaRue’s here. After we test the sight, we’ll probably stop by the Dew Drop for a couple of beers. Don’t wait up.”
After she heard the truck back out of the driveway, Judy took the vodka bottle out from behind the cereal boxes, poured some in a glass and added a splash of orange juice, then returned to the living room to make a call.
She listened to the phone ring, instinctively smoothing her hair as if the person who picked up the receiver could see her. “Jake just now told me that retreat’s set for next weekend,” she began in a breathless voice.
On Saturday I could hear gunfire in the distance as I finished writing up a report for Harve about a motorcycle wreck out by what the high school kids called “Dead Man’s Swerve.” The driver hadn’t been wearing a helmet, but since he was a Buchanon, landing on his head had done no perceptible damage. I’d had to explain this to the paramedic, who was concerned when the cyclist couldn’t say for sure how many fingers the paramedic was holding up.
Deer season had officially started. I put down my gnawed pencil and opened a drawer to ascertain I had enough blank forms to survive the next three weeks. The previous year there’d been two wrecks out by the low-water bridge, a half-dozen DWIs, three instances involving nonfatal shootings, and one fatal shooting. Harve and I had agreed the last was suspicious, since the victim had been dating his companion’s ex-wife, but there was no way to prove anything.
Earlier in the day Harve had called with the scoop on Sterling Pitts, which amounted to zilch. No rap sheet, no outstanding warrants, no entanglements with the law more serious than parking violations. A year ago Pitts had complained to the police about a neighbor’s dog, and more recently about black teenagers loitering in his parking lot in the afternoons. All in all, he was a law-abiding citizen and a successful businessman, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to keep him out of Maggody.
I was getting ready to take the accident report to the sheriff’s office (and maybe take myself to a matinee) when the door opened and in stalked Raz Buchanon, a successful businessman if not precisely a law-abiding citizen. As always, he was wearing bib overalls stained with tobacco juice and other unidentifiable substances. His whiskers were caked with the remnants of meals from the previous decade, and what remained of his gray hair glistened with grease.
&nb
sp; “I got to talk to you,” he said as he plopped down in the chair and scratched his chin.
“And how are you today, Raz? Enjoying the last of the autumn foliage?”
“That ain’t what I come here to talk about.”
I rocked back in my chair, but there was no way short of going out the door to avoid his sour stench. “How’s Marjorie these days? Is she snuffling up tasty acorns and hickory nuts?”
Raz let out a wheeze that engulfed me in a toxic haze. “Marjorie ain’t doin’ well. She’s a pedigreed sow, ye know, and has a delicate nature. Lately she’s taken to moping around the house, sprawled in the corner instead of in front of the television, turning up her snout at most ever’thing she used to gobble down. Why, yesterday evening she wouldn’t take one bite of turnip greens.”
“Did you fix them with ham hocks?” I asked.
He gave me a horrified look. “I’d never do something like that! That’d be like her eating kin. No, ma’am, I don’t even use lard anymore.” He resumed scratching his chin and sighing. “I reckon the problem she’s bein’ crumpy is on account of that dad-burned cousin of mine. You know about Diesel livin’ up on the ridge?”
“Actually, I do.”
“Well, used to be Marjorie’d wander around while I was”—he hesitated, obviously not wanting to confess to a felony right there in the PD—“huntin’ squirrels or pickin’ poke salet, but the other day she must’ve got too close to Diesel’s cave. The next thing I knew, she came trotting as hard as she could into the clearing, her eyes all round and her ears pasted back, and squealing somethin’ awful. Afore I could figure out what in tarnation was goin’ on, Diesel charged right into me and liked to knock me plumb out of my boots.”
I clucked sympathetically. “I don’t know what to tell you, Raz. There aren’t a lot of veterinarians trained to deal with traumatized sows, pedigreed or otherwise. All I can suggest is that you leave Marjorie at home when you go fiddle with your still.”