The Merry Wives of Maggody

by Joan Hess

  Kale Wasson sat in front of the TV, watching a game show and laughing at the contestants’ stupidity. “Mom, I need another soda,” he said as the show went into commercial. He pushed his stringy hair out of his eyes and leaned back on the sofa. Another boring night at home with his mother. He used to have friends, he thought morosely. Golf had ruined his life. Golf had given him zits and thick yellow toenails. Golf had made his eyelid twitch when he encountered Natalie Hotz. If he was a quarterback or a varsity basketball player, he could be hanging out at a party, maybe feeling up some freshman cheerleader. Drinking beer and driving around half the night. Skinny-dipping at the lake. Getting laid.

  In the kitchen, Kathleen hung up the shirt she’d finished ironing. When she went into the living room, Kale did not look up. She put down an unopened can and picked up his dinner plate. “Don’t forget there’s ice cream.”

  “Yeah, vanilla,” he said. “How many times have I told you that I don’t like vanilla ice cream? You know, you should be a contestant on one of these brainless games. All you’d have to do is jump around and squeal.”

  “Vanilla used to be your favorite.”

  Kale grimaced. “I used to ride a tricycle. So what?”

  “I’ll try to remember to get a different kind next time. I’m going to pack now. If you want to take any books or CDs, you’ll have to put them in yourself. I can’t keep track of your favorites.”

  He began to flip through the channels. “I don’t see why we have to go a day early and stay in this podunk. I’m not about to hunt for an outhouse in the middle of the night. Why can’t we just stay here and commute every day? It’s all of two hours from here, fercrissake.” Not that Tibia, Arkansas, was any great metropolis, he reminded himself glumly. If it had a superhero, he’d wear a brown cape and be named the Daring Defecator.

  “We could,” Kathleen said with great innocence, “but I thought you’d be pleased to have a little extra time with Natalie. She’s such a nice girl, isn’t she? That manager of hers is something else. A tyrant of the worst kind. She didn’t so much as nod at me at the tournament in Little Rock. I don’t know why Natalie allows herself to be treated that way.”

  “Natalie’ll be there tomorrow?”

  “I’m sure she wants to get in a practice round. For once, we can afford an extra night at the motel. It’s very inexpensive.”

  “Does it have electricity?”

  Kathleen smiled at her beloved son. “Of course it does.” She returned to the kitchen and picked up the iron. The only way they would continue to have electricity at home was if Kale won the bass boat. They could surely get at least thirty thousand dollars for it. And if she had to dangle that snippety blonde to persuade him to play a practice round, so be it.

  Natalie voiced the same objections that Kyle had, but timidly. “I don’t see why we can’t drive out there and play a practice round, then come back for the night.”

  “So you can go out to the pool and get all cozy with that architecture student?” Janna said. “Don’t think I didn’t see you out there yesterday, crawling all over him. You told me you intended to swim laps, but your hair wasn’t even damp when you got back. Did you make a date with him? There’s no point in lying; I’m not stupid. I heard that you and Tommy Ridner had a cozy chat at the club yesterday. Did you and he make plans to sneak out behind a barn? You’re behaving like a bitch in heat. You told me you’d do anything to make it big in the LPGA. Have you changed your mind?”

  “Of course not. I just don’t see why I can’t have a little fun, too.”

  Janna took a deep breath while she calculated the most effective response. Dealing with Natalie was harder than breaking in new recruits. It required a careful balance of empathy and authority. “I understand that, Natalie. You’re not even twenty yet, but you have to make sacrifices now if you want success and happiness in the future. In a few years, you’ll be established, wealthy. There’ll be time for fun. To get there, you have to focus on your goal. Sex is a distraction. When you’re putting for a birdie, your mind can’t wander off.”

  “How would you know sex is a distraction?”

  “Because I’ve seen casualties in Central America and Iraq. Good soldiers who got careless and didn’t adhere to procedure, for no other reason than worrying about their families or their lovers. The suicide rate in the military is higher than the comparable rate of civilians. Stress causes distraction, leading to self-destruction.”

  “I meant you personally.”

  “You’re pushing your luck,” Janna said. “Now pack your suitcase. We’ll leave tomorrow after my class at the gym.”

  I was relieved when the yachtsman did not drop by the PD to reiterate his dinner invitation. There was something almost creepy about him. He hadn’t really told me anything about himself, except that he was a friend of Bony Buchanon’s. It seemed improbable. I didn’t bother to lock the door of the PD as I headed down the road to Ruby Bee’s. If one of the locals wanted to break in, he was welcome to it. My gun was secured in a metal cabinet, and my box with three bullets was at the back of a desk drawer. Nothing else was worth spit.

  Ruby Bee gave me a frantic look as I came across the dance floor. She’d been acting odd for a few days, too distracted to bombard me with questions about my immediate future. Since that had been the norm for the last several weeks, its absence was disturbing. Almost, anyway.

  “What’s up?” I hopped on a stool and looked at the chalkboard with the list of daily specials. Chicken ’n’ dumplings. Fried okra. Cherry cobbler. Some days I felt like I was eating not for two but for a prenatal football team.

  “Estelle’s gone missing,” she said.

  “Gone missing where?”

  Ruby Bee glared at me. “If I knew where she was, then she wouldn’t be missing, would she? What do you aim to do?”

  “Decide between the cobbler and the red velvet cake,” I said, frowning at the menu. “Maybe I’ll wait and see.” I gave her my attention. “What’s the deal with Estelle?”

  “Look for yourself, missy. She’s not here. I called her house, but she didn’t answer. Then Boyle Buchanon came in and said how he saw her car parked alongside the road that goes to Seeping Springs and peters out at the old Ferncliff place. Nobody’s lived there for nigh onto thirty years. I don’t understand why she’d abandon her car there.”

  “In Seeping Springs or at the Ferncliff place?”

  Ruby Bee threw her dish towel in the sink. “No, alongside the road that goes to those places.”

  I admit I was confused. “How far down the road, then?”

  “Fifty yards, maybe.”

  “So you think she hitched a ride to Seeping Springs and on to the Ferncliff place?” I asked, even more confused. “If she had a reason to go out there, why wouldn’t she drive herself?”

  “The way I see it,” Ruby Bee said, ignoring a holler from a back booth for a fresh pitcher of beer, “is that Estelle had her own reasons for going there. Maybe she was tracking down some old woman’s formula for making hair dyes out of bark and berries. Anyway, her car broke down. She decided to walk, but along the way somebody stopped and offered her a ride. A lunatic or a pervert, but she didn’t know that when she got in his car. Now he’s holding her prisoner and doing all manner of lewd things to her person. You got to rescue her, Arly.”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “Well, she usually comes in around four, unless she has a late appointment. I called her house at five. It’s after six, and I ain’t seen hide nor hair of her. If she was giving someone a perm, she would have answered the phone.”

  “You saw her earlier today?” I asked.

  Ruby Bee must have seen the skepticism all over my face, but she charged ahead. “She was here at lunchtime.”

  “Did she mention this expedition to the backwoods?”

  “Of course not.” She turned her back on me and adjusted a neon beer sign that was marginally out of alignment. After she’d stalled long enough to concoct a story
, she faced me. “Estelle is very closed-mouth when she’s on the trail of an important discovery. One of these days she’ll find a miracle formula that will make her millions of dollars—if her competitors don’t find it first. Cosmetology is a bloodthirsty competition. Lip gloss can sink ships.”

  “Think of all these cosmetologists slinking through the woods, dressed in camo smocks, carrying M-16 scissors, perm grenades, and curling irons.”

  Ruby Bee put her hands on her hips. “If you reckon on having chicken ’n’ dumplings anytime soon, you’d best go out and investigate Estelle’s car for signs of a struggle.”

  “I thought her car broke down and she was kidnapped while walking to Seeping Springs,” I said.

  “Then go see why her car broke down,” she countered. “When you have some answers, you can have cobbler and cake.”

  “I’m not a mechanic.”

  “No, you’re a chief of police whose duty is to investigate crimes. Run along and do your job.”

  I realized that I wouldn’t get so much as a dimple of a dumpling until I complied. There was a streak in Ruby Bee that rivaled a stone wall. The best I’d ever done was chip away at it, with minimal effect. I left the bar and grill, went over to the PD to get my car, and drove down the road alongside the SuperSaver parking lot. There was a crowd gathered around the bass boat, reverently gazing at it as if it were an artifact out of the Bible. One of the men was furtively wiping his eyes. When a child reached out to touch it, adult faces recoiled in horror.

  Estelle’s station wagon was parked as purported by Boyle Buchanon. He wasn’t the most reliable of witnesses, in that he came by the PD every few months to report a close encounter with polar bears. I frowned as I noted that it was facing Maggody’s main road, not Seeping Springs. I continued until I found a place to turn around, then came back and parked behind the station wagon. If it had broken down on her way back from Seeping Springs, she could have easily walked, even in her four-inch heels, to the SuperSaver to call for a tow truck.

  I got out of my car and inspected hers for overt damage. The doors were locked, and the key was not in the ignition. Wherever she’d gone, she’d taken her purse. I drove to the SuperSaver and went to the nearest checkout line.

  Idalupino Buchanon nodded at me. “Hey, Arly, how’s it going?”

  “Did Estelle Oppers come in here this afternoon?”

  “Not that I recollect. I always notice her ’cause she looks like she’s got a japonica bush on her head. Business has been good on account of the boat out there. People come in to buy something so they have an excuse to stop and goggle at the boat. It’s the first time some of the husbands have ever been in here. Mostly they let their wives do the shopping.”

  “A fascinating insight into tribal behavior. Are you sure you didn’t see her? Could you have been on break?”

  “Jim Bob don’t like us taking breaks, but when you gotta go, you gotta go. Cinatra and me cover for each other.” She raised her voice. “Cinatra, you seen Estelle today?”

  Cinatra Buchanon glanced up from a tabloid. “Can’t say I did.”

  “She would have needed to make a phone call,” I persisted. “Any chance she might have dropped by for a minute and then left?”

  “One of us would have seen her,” Idalupino said stubbornly. “The pay phone’s right there. Jim Bob don’t let anyone use the phone in his office. He’s afraid he might get caught looking at porn on his computer. He always keeps the door locked except when he’s in there slobbering over nekkid girls. He left about four.”

  “Thanks,” I said. It was getting peculiar, and Ruby Bee did have a right to be concerned. Estelle had disappeared sometime during the afternoon, abandoning her car on a county road. I drove to her house, took the key from under a flowerpot and looked in all the rooms, then went back to the bar and grill. All I’d learned was that Estelle had a fondness for romance paperbacks and peppermints.

  There were some new faces in the booths and on stools. Ruby Bee was dashing all over the place, slamming down blue plate specials, hamburgers, and pitchers of beer. Hizzoner Jim Bob, Larry Joe Lambertino, Jeremiah McIlhany, and Ruddy Cranshaw were seated in a booth, arguing and jabbing their fingers at each other. Bopeep’s boyfriend, whose name I’d never heard (and hoped I never did), was clearly drunker than a skunk. Bony Buchanon leaned over the jukebox, his lips moving as he read the list of selections. An older couple, dressed for a more civilized affair, moved together on the tiny dance floor. From the way they kept stepping on each other’s feet, I could tell they were unnerved by the ambience. They stumbled into each other when Hairless Buchanon wandered by with an indignant chicken under his arm.

  “Well?” Ruby Bee snapped as she caught my arm.

  “I don’t know,” I said over the din. “Her car’s still there, and she’s not home. She wasn’t on her way to Seeping Springs, though. She may have been on her way back. It’s premature to issue an APB.” I glanced around. “Big crowd tonight.”

  “It’s on account of this fool golf tournament. Some of the folks from out of state checked in this afternoon, even though the tournament doesn’t start until Saturday morning. They said they wanted to get in a practice round, but it seems late in the game to start practicing. You either know how to play or you don’t. Not that that’s stopping anybody. You heard who all has signed up?”

  Since she was going to tell me anyway, I obligingly said, “Who?”

  “Nigh onto twenty folks from Maggody, that’s who. It’s causing a real flapadoodle. All matter of husbands and wives didn’t bother to tell each other. The women have been taking lessons on the sly, and so have the men. It came out when registration officially closed this afternoon. There’s liable to be bloodshed in several households.” She tilted her head. “See Jim Bob and his cronies over there? I can’t tell if they’re angrier at their wives for fooling them or for booting them out on their butts.”

  I grinned. “That ought to liven things up this weekend. I thought my only headache was the parking problem. Now about the chicken ’n’ dumplings . . . ?”

  Ruby Bee shrugged. “As long as you promise to get your fanny in action and find Estelle in the morning. I won’t be able to sleep a wink until I know she’s safe.”

  I gave her a halfhearted salute and found a vacant stool.

  It was eight o’clock when the semblance of a meeting began in Roy Stiver’s back room. It was stuffy and crowded, and the best Roy could offer was saltine crackers and grape jelly. Most of the participants were jittery, unsure where they’d be sleeping that night, or maybe the next few weeks.

  “What it’s called is a tontine,” Jim Bob began. “I called this fellow I know who used to be a lawyer afore he went to prison. He drew up the papers. Once everybody signs it, I’ll take it to him and he’ll have it notarized. If one of us wins the bass boat, it becomes the property of the tontine. We’ll each get thirty-six and a half days per year to use it. We’ll figure out how to divide it up later. Thing is, if someone moves out of Stump County or dies, his share stays in the tontine. The last man standing gets the boat outright.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Roy observed.

  “Whattaya mean?” asked Kevin.

  Jim Bob narrowed his eyes. “All you have to do is sign the paper, dumb-ass. You can write your name, can’t you?”

  “Sure, Jim Bob, but why is it dangerous?”

  “It’s dangerous because if you don’t sign it, I’m gonna rip out your eyeballs and feed them to Raz’s sow. Here’s a pen, boy. See this dotted line?”

  “What about Luke?” Larry Joe said. “He ain’t been in Maggody but a couple of weeks. He can hit a decent drive, mebbe further than any of the rest of us, but he ain’t what you’d call a resident. Bopeep’s had a string of boyfriends over the last five years. You can ask anyone.” He realized he was staring at Jim Bob and edged behind Roy.

  “Yeah,” Luke finally said as he lit a cigarette, “but I get the rules. I’ll take my turn using the boat as long as I’m here. After
that, it’ll belong to the nine of you.”

  Everybody shuffled forward.

  At eight o’clock sharp, Mrs. Jim Bob banged her gavel on the dinette table. The committee chairwomen, as well as their recruits, were jammed in the kitchen, all jabbering like a flock of grackles. Indignation was running high among the wives present. Most of their remarks included phrases like “Can you believe he had the nerve to . . . ?” and “Who does he think he is to forbid me to . . . ?” Joyce Lambertino was reduced to stuttery rage. Millicent McIlhaney had tears in her eyes. Cora Cranshaw’s face was getting splotchier by the minute, her hands flapping so wildly that Bopeep and Audley were dodging like boxers to avoid a stray punch. Brother Verber was doing his level best to hide in a corner, within reach of the pound cake but out of range should violence arise. Darla Jean decided the scene was worse than the high school girls’ restroom on junior prom night.

  “Order!” Mrs. Jim Bob shrieked, pounding the gavel with such fury that it sounded like a jackhammer. “This meeting is called to order!”

  The room quieted down, although most of the wives were replaying the recent arguments in their minds.

  “Darla Jean,” Mrs. Jim Bob said briskly, “announce the final figure.”

  “Eighty-two, which comes out to eight thousand and two hundred dollars. I deposited the checks at the bank in Farberville, like you said to, and I have the registration forms here.” Darla Jean wished this would be the end of her participation, but she knew Mrs. Jim Bob. She put the envelope on the table. “I wrote down all the names on a list. It’s in there, too.”

  “Very well. I have a bag of pin-on plastic name tags. Write each name on one and arrange them in alphabetical order in a shoe box. You’ll have a table in the tent for participants to sign in and pick up their information sheets.”

  “Mind your handwriting, Darla Jean,” said Miss Estes. “It tends to look like chicken scratches. Also, pay attention to the proper spelling of each name.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”