The Merry Wives of Maggody

by Joan Hess

  The stool squealed as she sat down. “Estelle, I got to ask you something,” she began wheezily, “and I got to be quick on account of the younguns. Eileen’s minding ’em, but she sez there’s another meeting at Mrs. Jim Bob’s house in half an hour. You know how snippety Mrs. Jim Bob can be if everybody don’t jump when she snaps her fingers. Last week I was at the supermarket, and she had the nerve to tell me Kevvie Junior and Rosemarie should be spanked on account of them beating on each other with celery. If she so much as lays a finger on—”

  “Ask me what?” Estelle said. “If it’s a beauty question, I happen to be the best cosmetologist in town.” She held up her hand to display her fingernail polish. “This is Prussian Empire. It’s on sale for two dollars and twenty-nine cents, plus tax. Should I set aside a bottle for you?”

  “No, that ain’t it. It’s about Kevin. I need an older woman’s advice, but I can’t ask Eileen.”

  “Oh.” Estelle checked her reflection in the mirror and assured herself she didn’t look a day over thirty-five, if you squinted hard. “You better ask Ruby Bee. She’ll be out of the kitchen directly.”

  “It’s just that he’s actin’ strange these days. He doesn’t come home for lunch, and swears he’s working late every night. Yesterday I called to tell him about Daisy’s diaper rash, and Idalupino said he’d gone off with Jim Bob about four o’clock, same as he’s been doing for more than a week. You got to admit that don’t make any sense. Even though they’re both Buchanons, Jim Bob ain’t the sort to pal around with the hired help.” She took a napkin from the silver dispenser and blew her nose. “It was nearly nine when Kevin got home. When I asked him where he’d been, he just scratched his head and went to make hisself a sandwich. He din’t even say anything when I threw one of Kevvie Junior’s trucks at him.”

  She was snuffling so loudly that Estelle was embarrassed. Ignoring the crude comments from the truckers in a back booth, she put a quarter in the jukebox and randomly punched a button. To her dismay, Hank Williams began to complain about somebody’s cheatin’ heart. Her only hope was that Dahlia was too upset to notice the lyrics.

  Dahlia was not. “Do you think Kevin’s seeing another woman?” she demanded as Estelle resumed her perch.

  “Of course not, honey. It could be a lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  Estelle racked her brain. “Well, Kevin could have gotten himself a second job, like at a convenience store. He’s trying to make some extra money so he can buy you something special for your birthday.”

  “My birthday was two months ago, and he gave me a set of measuring cups and a box of chocolates. And if he had another job, why would he go off with Jim Bob?” Dahlia armed herself with more napkins.

  It was a poser. Estelle thought some more, then said, “Jim Bob and Kevin could be fetching beer at a store in Farberville for the golf tournament. Mrs. Jim Bob must have harangued some poor soul into giving her a discount. She wouldn’t want anybody to know that she made the deal because she’s all the time carrying on about the sin of drinking alcohol. Even Brother Verber preaches about it, although everybody knows he drinks wine like tap water. Arly once found him stumbling along the banks of Boone Creek. He claimed he was searching for teenagers in the act of fornication, but Arly said he was so snockered he could barely see straight.”

  “Kevin would tell me if that’s all he was doing.”

  “Not if Jim Bob threatened to fire him,” Estelle said triumphantly, almost believing her cockamamie story. “You don’t want Kevin to get fired, do you?”

  Dahlia pondered this for a minute. “I reckon not.”

  “You’d better go pick up your children. Everything will be back to normal once the golf tournament’s over. All you have to do is hold your tongue ’til then.” Estelle watched Dahlia leave, then reached under the bar and found her private stash of sherry. The more she thought about her story, the sillier it seemed. Dahlia had bought it, but she was far from the sharpest cheddar in the dairy aisle. Estelle drummed her fingers while she waited for Ruby Bee to emerge from the kitchen. There had to be something going on. Idalupino was too lazy to come up with a lie about Jim Bob and Kevin leaving together each afternoon.

  It deserved looking into.

  There were half a dozen cars parked in the mayoral mansion driveway, so I was mildly surprised when no one responded to the doorbell. Not stunned or flabbergasted, mind you. If Mizzoner wanted me to wait indefinitely on the front porch, I was amenable. The wicker settee looked inviting. I could see myself snoozing, my feet propped on a footstool and my head nestled on a throw cushion. It beat running a speed trap out by the charred remains of the Esso station, which led to unpleasant exchanges with motorists who’d failed to notice the faded speed limit sign behind a clump of tall weeds. The town council, presided over by Hizzoner the Moron, was conscientious about its coffers. So conscientious that I had to plead for new wiper blades for the sole cop car. The water stain on the ceiling of the PD continued to spread. My computer relied on energy produced by caged squirrels on an exercise wheel. Periodically, I requested a raise, resulting in a round of hearty laughter.

  I could wait, or I could go by the Dairee Dee-Lishus to get a cherry limeade and run my speed trap by the low-water bridge out past Estelle’s Hair Fantasies and the defunct rehab center. Since hardly anybody used the road, I’d be undisturbed unless Raz tried to run a load of moonshine to the next county. It would be a first during daylight hours.

  I was contemplating my options when the front door opened. Perkin’s eldest, burdened with a dripping mop and a bucket of gray water, goggled at me as if I had fairies perched on my shoulder.

  “Whatcha want?” she said.

  “I’ll assume you’re not asking about my personal goals in life. Mrs. Jim Bob left a message that she feels the need to warn me about potential parking problems during the golf tournament. As the underpaid and underappreciated chief of police, I am here to pretend to share her concern. To be honest, I don’t much care if they all park in a pond.”

  Perkin’s eldest was clearly bewildered. “She’s out back. I guess you can come on in.”

  I went inside the house. There was no sound of cackling from Mrs. Jim Bob’s coven. I was about to continue on to the kitchen when the reigning witch loomed in the doorway.

  “I thought I heard a car pull up,” she said as if accusing me of a heinous crime. “I expected you to come by earlier.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but if I try again, you’ll have to reset your watch.”

  Her eyes flickered. “You need to use more starch when you iron your uniform. The town council expects a degree of professionalism. Wait in the living room, and keep your feet off the furniture.”

  I did my best to look truly penitent, but I doubt I fooled her. “Would you prefer me to wait in the laundry room? Perkin’s eldest can give me some tips on crispy creases.”

  “If I weren’t a good Christian woman, I’d tell you exactly where to wait. Go along to the living room. I’ll join you when I have time.”

  “Lucky me.” I did as instructed, and kept my feet off the furniture while I flipped through decorating magazines. Perkin’s eldest wandered through with a feather duster to redistribute the dust. I heard car doors slam and engines start. I could have wondered what was going on, but I was too busy mentally redoing Ruby Bee’s barroom in French provincial.

  “Good afternoon,” said a male voice that was much too friendly to be that of our illustrious mayor.

  I looked up at the tall silver-haired man with a high forehead, penetrating eyes, and a smile that was oddly familiar. He was likely to be in his late fifties and wore white trousers (with crispy creases), a baby blue turtleneck, and a navy blazer with a discreet emblem. He looked as if he’d been transported from the bar in a yacht club.

  “Ahoy,” I said.

  “May I join you? I gather you’re Arly Hanks, chief of police.”

  “That’s what my badge claims, but it came in a cereal box,” I sa
id, wondering what on earth he was doing in Mrs. Jim Bob’s house. Boone Creek could not accommodate yachts; at best, it was suitable for johnboats and canoes. During dry spells, it hardly qualified as a trickle. “And you?”

  “Frederick Cartier. Bonaparte Buchanon’s an old friend, so I decided to accompany him to your golf tournament.”

  “It’s not my golf tournament, by any means. I’m just here to aid and abet Mrs. Jim Bob in her quest to save the starving golf widows of America.”

  His lips twitched. “Such an admirable quest. Is Arly short for Ariel, from The Tempest?”

  I nodded. It was easier than explaining that I was named after a photograph of the bar and grill taken from an airplane. Ruby Bee had been smitten with the word but weak on the spelling. “Are you named after a wristwatch?”

  “How old are you, Arly?”

  “Old enough to ignore irrelevant questions. Do you know what Mrs. Jim Bob is doing? I don’t have time to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while crime runs rampant in my town. Someone could be shoplifting a candy bar as we speak.”

  “I believe the dear lady is making herself presentable. She, some of her friends, and I have been in the backyard. Although the temperature is moderate, the sun is quite fierce.”

  “Doing what?”

  Frederick shook his head. “A gentleman never betrays a lady’s secret.”

  “I guess I’ll run along, then.” I closed the magazine and stood up. “Tell the dear lady that she can call me when she has time.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t. I’d really like to get to know you, Arly. I’ve rarely encountered a distaff police chief. You must have some fascinating stories. Please stay and entertain me until Mrs. Jim Bob appears. Would you like a drink? I have a bottle of very fine scotch in my bedroom.”

  “You’re staying here?” I said, stunned.

  “It wasn’t my intention. Bonaparte and I were at a motel in Farberville. When his aunt invited him to stay with them, Mrs. Jim Bob insisted that I stay here.”

  “Why?”

  “I intended to inquire about a vacancy at a local motel. She seemed to think it was more . . . ah, seemly for me to accept her hospitality. I’ve offered to assist her with the tournament. Bonaparte and I will be leaving Sunday after the final round. Now, about that drink?”

  I admit I was curious. “I’d prefer ice water.”

  “How gauche of me to suggest alcohol when you’re on duty. I’ll be right back.”

  I fanned through a magazine featuring Tuscan kitchen decor until he returned with two glasses of water. “So you and Bonaparte Buchanon are old friends?” I asked. I had a vague recollection of Bony, as he was called. He’d been snide, mean, and arrogant when out of range of adults. We all figured he’d end up as an underling in the Redneck Mafia, assuming he wasn’t doing forty years in a federal pen.

  Frederick fiddled with his glass and coaster for a long moment. “Well, we’re hardly war buddies. I’ve always gotten a kick out of keeping track of the lesser-known PGA players. Some of them soar to the top of the list, while others fade into obscurity. Bonaparte may do quite well once he settles down.” He crossed his legs and studied me. “Do you have any siblings, Arly?”

  “None that are up-and-coming PGA stars,” I said. “So you follow these players from tournament to tournament in hopes of discovering the next Tiger Woods?”

  “Merely a select few, and it can be very exciting at times. I can afford my harmless hobby. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “So you’re retired?”

  “I still dabble here and there. What’s your secret vice? Horseshoes? Redecorating?”

  I closed the magazine in front of me. I was on the verge of making a tart remark about personal questions, but instead I leaned back. I was badgered with questions whenever I wasn’t holed up in my apartment. Ruby Bee and Estelle had lapsed into a relentless campaign of “what are you going to do?” The rest of the town wanted to know who vandalized their mailboxes or stole their dawgs or tumped their trash cans. No one had ever asked me if I had a secret vice.

  “Imagining myself anywhere but here,” I said. “Contrary to what you’ve read, you can go home again—but that doesn’t mean you should.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “Running away isn’t going to solve any problems.” I briefly imagined myself fighting my way through the Amazon jungle, wielding a machete. If I were attacked by a jaguar, my problems would be solved. Stumbling into Jack’s campsite, on the other hand, would be disastrous. “Tell Mrs. Jim Bob that she can call me. I’ll be at the police department until six. After that, I won’t.”

  “Would you like to have dinner with me?” he asked. “We can go to Farberville or wherever else you like.”

  I stared at him, perplexed. I can tell when a guy is hitting on me, and he wasn’t. The only explanation I could come up with was that he was desperate for sane company. I wasn’t in the mood to rescue him. “No, I don’t think so. Besides, I’m sure Mrs. Jim Bob will expect you to dine with her this evening. She rarely has a chance to pull out her silver, china, and linen napkins. Jim Bob’s more of a paper plate and plastic fork sort of guy. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you?”

  I hurried out the front door and drove to the police department. The front room served as my office, the back room as a habitat for mice and spiders. The yellow and white gingham curtains that Ruby Bee had forced on me hung dispiritedly over the dusty windows. The red light on the answering machine was flashing angrily. I was surprised when the recorded voice was that of Harvey Dorfer, the Stump County sheriff, instead of Ruby Bee, who called at least three times a day.

  I dialed his number and, after the customary battle with LaBelle, the gossipy dispatcher, was put through to the inner sanctum. “Whatever happened, Harve,” I began, “was not in my jurisdiction. We are a peaceful, law-abiding community. The only way we can remain so is for me to stay within the city limits, ever alert to the potential peril of bank robbers, horse thieves, cattle rustlers, and international terrorists. There are rumors that Gina-lola Buchanon is stockpiling water balloons and beef jerky in the event we’re invaded by papists.”

  “You’re a real pain in the ass, Arly,” Harve said amiably. “Hold on a sec.” I listened to the familiar scritch as he lit a match to fire up one of his noxious cigars. “All right now,” he continued, “what’s all this about a golf tournament out your way?”

  “There’s a golf tournament out my way.”

  “No kidding. I hear tell there’s a prize—a Ranger Z21.”

  “I hear tell that, too,” I said. “It’s chained to a light pole in front of Jim Bob’s SuperSaver Buy 4 Less as we speak. I guess it’s the one, anyway. It looks like a cross between a boat and a NASCAR vehicle. Or maybe NASA. I always get those two mixed up.”

  “Did I mention you’re a real pain in the ass? Who all is playing in this tournament?”

  “I have no idea, Harve. Mrs. Jim Bob seems to expect quite a crowd.”

  “Real golfers, or duffers like me?”

  “All I know is that there’s one PGA player and some people from out of town. Ruby Bee and Estelle aren’t involved, and neither am I. Anything else?”

  “Sure is a fine boat . . .”

  “It sure is. If that’s all, I see a misdemeanor in the making. Hedge Hooper is walking toward the barbershop with a wad of chaw in his cheek. We don’t take kindly to spittle in Maggody. I’ll most likely bring him over to your lockup until the arraignment. Good luck in the golf tournament, Harve.”

  I could hear him sputtering as I hung up. Harve’s a good ol’ boy who could easily play the role of a hick sheriff in a movie. Big belly, red ears, close-set eyes, and hands like paws. A few years ago he’d taken to wearing his hat to hide his spreading bald spot. I learned a while back that he’s not as stupid as he appears to be. Although he’s been the sheriff for more than thirty years, I keep hoping he won’t retire as long as I’m around. I’d hate to have to break in a new man.

  My ch
air squeaked as I leaned back and put my feet on the desk. The water stains on the ceiling were distressingly familiar, along with the cobwebs from decades past. Cars and pickup trucks drove by the PD. Birds chirped. A fly buzzed lethargically as it searched for a landing pad. The sounds were pleasantly ordinary, the lullaby of small rural towns. It was naptime.

  • • •

  Estelle parked alongside the county road. The driveway to the back parking area of the SuperSaver was hidden behind scrub pines and brush, but she could see if anybody drove in or out. Idalupino had told Dahlia that Jim Bob and Kevin left at four o’clock, and it was nearly that time. Estelle was aware that one or the other of them might recognize her car, but there wasn’t much she could do about that. She’d covered her hair with a scarf and was wearing sunglasses with rhinestone frames. She glanced in the rearview mirror. The disguise was downright becoming, she thought, like an alluring spy in an old movie. When she tried a come-hither smile, she noticed a smudge of lipstick on a front tooth. She scratched it off with a fingernail now painted Cherry Wine Cooler to further her disguise.

  She ducked when a car turned at the highway. It would have been a sight more fun if Ruby Bee had come along, since the two of them were a team when it came to investigating suspicious behavior. It may not have always worked out real well, as Arly kept pointing out in a peevish tone of voice. However, Ruby Bee wasn’t herself these days, most likely on account of fretting about Arly’s condition. In fact, she’d taken to standing at the back door of the kitchen, her hands clutched and her face stony.

  The car must have turned around and come back. Estelle took a peek in the mirror as it rolled to a stop behind hers. As soon as she saw who it was, she got out, picked her way along the weedy shoulder, and rapped on the window.

  Dahlia reluctantly lowered it. “What?”

  Estelle peered at the backseat. Kevvie Junior and Rosemarie were in bulky car seats, with Daisy in a smaller one between them. Daisy was wailing because Kevvie Junior was gnawing on her arm. Rosemarie was styling her hair with the contents of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “Just what do you reckon you’re doing out here?” she asked Dahlia.