The Merry Wives of Maggody

by Joan Hess

  “There’s a fine line between ignorance and stupidity, and you’re wandering toward the far side.” Harve showed me a bottle in a plastic evidence bag. “One of the boys found this in the weeds behind the building. It’s Dilaudid. Ridner’s name is on the prescription label, along with a bunch of other crap in Spanish.”

  I took the bag and shook it. “The bottle’s not empty. It’s from a Mexican pharmacy and originally held a hundred pills. Sounds like about a dozen now. Were there any pills on the ground?”

  “Not after the boys trampled all over the place. It plays hell with your theory, you know. There ain’t no point in killing two people to get the pills, then throwing them away. Whoever killed Ridner and that Gilbert fellow had a whole ’nuther motive.”

  “That looks like blood,” I said as I continued to examine the bottle, unwilling to defend my theory, my honor, my country, or anything else. If extraterrestrials had landed ten feet away, I would have given them directions to the Pentagon in a nanosecond. “Somebody tried to wipe it off but couldn’t get it clean. Tommy bled out in the boat, not in this room. It has to be Dennis’s blood.” I thrust the bag at Harve. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a fingerprint. Not that we’ll be able to match it. These people aren’t likely to volunteer to get their fingers dirty—especially without a court order, which we can’t get without reasonable cause, which we don’t have.”

  “Like you said, somebody wiped it off. We found blood on a hand towel in the bushes. I agree that it’s likely to be Dennis Gilbert’s blood, but all McBeen can do is run the standard test to find out the type. The DNA comparison has to be done at the state crime lab. It may be months afore they get around to it.”

  “Ask McBeen to determine the alcohol level and test for traces of Dilaudid in blood samples from both Tommy and Dennis,” I said. “He should be able to do that at the county lab.”

  “Ask him yourself.” Harve got back in his car and turned up the radio so loud the hula girl on his dashboard began to shimmy.

  I found an idle deputy and asked him to show me where the bottle was found. It was a lot easier than asking McBeen anything, including the time of day. The spot was no more than twenty feet beyond the building. Whoever had thrown it had been in a hurry, I thought. If Kale had taken it, it would be in the bottom of one of Raz’s ponds, undiscovered until the annual August drought. I moved him a little lower on my list, but not to the bottom. No one had made it there yet.

  The deputy wandered back to the crime scene. I found a stump nearby and sat down. As much as I wanted to confront Ruby Bee about the particulars of my birth, I set it aside and concentrated on the case. The perp who’d murdered Tommy sixteen hours earlier was still on the prowl. He’d searched Tommy’s room sometime between the death and the time I ran into Dennis, circa noon. Assuming he was looking for the bottle of Dilaudid, he hadn’t found it the first time, possibly because he was unaware of the old-fashioned medicine cabinet behind the mirror. On his second attempt, he’d run into Dennis, beaten him to death, and left with the bottle. Why didn’t he empty it into his pocket before he threw it in the pasture? It would have taken a matter of seconds. If he wasn’t after the Dilaudid, then what in hell’s name was he after?

  He or she, that is. I’ve always believed in equal opportunity.

  • • •

  Mrs. Jim Bob groaned as she filled the kettle with water. Her tongue felt like a bloated caterpillar. Her head throbbed, her eyes stung, and her hair hurt. She’d already taken two aspirin tablets in her bathroom, but she decided to forgo prudence and take two more. If it killed her, she wouldn’t care. If she was lucky, it’d kill Jim Bob as well. They could say their farewells at the Pearly Gate; she would sweep into heaven while he took the elevator to Satan’s boiler room.

  The kitchen counters were clean and there were no dirty dishes in the sink. At least Jim Bob hadn’t been sneaking around while she was upstairs. It took her a minute to remember that she had a houseguest. A murky swirl of memories came back. Frederick, solicitously keeping her glass full. What she’d said to Arly. Not that Arly didn’t deserve to hear it, Mrs. Jim Bob thought primly. “And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,” the Bible admonished. Why, in April Brother Verber had preached a sermon on that very verse, although he’d been referring to income tax deductions.

  She recalled having a dizzy spell right at the dinette, most likely caused by stress. The minutiae of running the golf tournament were more insidious than flesh-eating bacteria. Frederick had helped her upstairs to her bedroom, eventually carrying her over his shoulder like a laundry bag. She’d giggled whenever her nose pecked his back. He’d closed the drapes and plumped the pillows. He’d knelt by the bed and slipped off her shoes, then massaged her feet to help her relax. His voice had been as gentle as a spring breeze. And then . . .

  Her memory crashed into a blank wall. Tea spewed out of her mouth and dribbled down her chin. He must have put her in bed—and she’d woken up in her undergarments! Not once in her entire life had she gone to bed without a proper nightgown. She wished she could swivel her eyeballs backwards so they could search her brain more intently. Surely she hadn’t . . . One of the Ten Commandments, tucked in between murder and stealing, forbade adultery. She knew it well, since she often quoted it to Jim Bob before she made him drop to his knees to beg for forgiveness from the Almighty Lord. Women had been stoned for lesser offenses. Up until now, she’d been without sin and always ready to cast the first stone.

  She wanted a fresh cup of tea, but she couldn’t trust her legs enough to stand up. It wasn’t her fault, if it had happened. But could lust be lurking within her heart? Frederick was everything that Jim Bob wasn’t. He was tall, handsome, polite, well dressed, wealthy, and agreeable—the very essence of a true Southern gentleman. Jim Bob wore baggy jeans and a gimme cap, kept a pint of whiskey in his truck, and visited floozies at the Pot O’ Gold.

  If she had—which she hadn’t—at least she had good taste.

  Brother Verber was not the one to turn to for spiritual advice. He swore that any confessions he heard were protected by religious privilege, but she herself was kept informed almost daily of all minor lapses within the congregation. There was no one else she could ask about this possible sin, since there were no witnesses other than Frederick and herself. No one else knew—and no one else would ever know.

  Mrs. Jim Bob fixed herself another cup of tea. All she needed to do was drop a few hints to Frederick and gauge his response: either a conspiratorial smile or a bewildered stare. She was feeling rather complacent until she realized that the Missionary Society was meeting at her house shortly.

  “Good heavens!” Eileen said as she passed the plate of oatmeal cookies to Elsie McMay. “That nice Dennis Gilbert was murdered? The same person that murdered Tommy? How truly dreadful.” She wondered if she had it in her to snatch up a golf club and attack an intruder. Probably not, she concluded. She was more likely to offer to make him a ham sandwich.

  “Don’t get yourself in a dither. There’s no proof it was the same person.” Lottie Estes took a cookie and peered at it. “It would be a real coincidence if it wasn’t, though. This isn’t New York City.”

  Eileen winced at the very idea. “What else did you hear, Elsie?” “

  “According to Parsnip Buchanon, who happened to be in the garbage bin behind Ruby Bee’s, Arly went into the last unit on the right. She came out looking pale as a blob of mayonnaise. Parsnip was just finishing lunch when the sheriff’s department showed up. They took a corpse out in a body bag and put it in the medical examiner’s van. He overheard a deputy say it was Dennis Gilbert. When the police informed her, Amanda Gilbert fainted dead away on the doorstep of the next room.”

  “What about the weapon?” Lottie demanded.

  Elsie made them wait while she finished the cookie. “A bloody golf club, just like before. Parsnip saw it clear as day.”

  “Does Mrs. Jim Bob know about this?” asked Eileen. “Even if the tourna
ment’s not canceled, I’m not about to go roaming around Raz’s pasture with a killer on the loose.”

  “I don’t know. I called her as soon as I heard the news, but no one answered. I tried again a few minutes later, and Frederick answered the phone. I asked to speak to Mrs. Jim Bob, but he hemmed and hawed and said she’d call me back later.”

  “Peculiar.” Eileen nibbled a cookie while she tried to come up with a sensible explanation. “You don’t think the two of them were . . . doing something, do you?”

  “Unthinkable,” Lottie said firmly.

  “It’s not unthinkable if I’m thinking about it,” Eileen pointed out. “Frederick Cartier is not an unattractive man, particularly when you compare him to Jim Bob.”

  “Such nice manners,” murmured Elsie.

  More murmuring ensued.

  I told Janna and Natalie about Dennis and asked them to be in the barroom in an hour. Kathleen Wesson was told likewise. I knew where Amanda was, and decided to leave her there for the time being. That left Phil Proodle, our celebrity-in-residence for the infamous Maggody Charity Golf Tournament. He’d last been reported to be asleep with a bottle. I refused to picture it as I knocked on his door.

  “What?” he said, clad in a terrycloth robe as he yanked the door open.

  “Are you aware of what’s been going on outside?”

  “I heard voices and car doors slam.”

  “Dennis’s body was found in Tommy’s room,” I said, watching him carefully. “He was beaten to death with a golf club, too.”

  “What a shame.” Proodle’s eyes shifted. I wasn’t sure how to read it, in that he was a salesman and therefore shifty-eyed by profession. “He was here a couple of hours ago, him and his Amanda. What happened to him? How’s she taking it? Should I go offer my condolences?”

  “She’s staying elsewhere. Did you see anyone going in the direction of Tommy’s room earlier this afternoon?”

  “After the party broke up, I took a nap. Selling boats is a high-pressure business, and most of the time I handle it without a hitch. But these last three days have been gawdawful. Now, I just want to get through it with my skin intact. Can I still leave tomorrow? My sales guys are a bunch of lazy apes. All they’ve been doing is playing poker in the break room, while the receptionist runs up my long distance bill talking to her mother. I’m having a big sale the week before the Fourth of July.” He pointed at me. “Uncle Sam wants you to own a boat!”

  “Are you married?” I asked.

  “My wife and I are staunch supporters of our church, our community, and this great nation. Patty organizes fashion shows to raise money for charities. I’m a member of the school board. What does my personal life have to do with this sordid turn of events? Am I under suspicion?”

  “Everyone is under suspicion, Mr. Proodle. You appeared to regret offering the bass boat as a prize. It would have gone to Tommy, had he not been murdered. Very convenient for you, isn’t it? No winner, no prize awarded.”

  “Come inside.” He tapped his foot until I sat down on a chair. “You listen up, young lady. I have important friends at the state capitol. If you so much as leak one word to the media, you’ll be slapped with a lawsuit for slander. You shouldn’t even be wearing that police uniform. You self-righteous feminists would be better off with husbands and children. Patty keeps a clean house and makes sure dinner’s on the table when I get home. I let her deal with the trivial matters while I provide her with food, shelter, and a comfortable life. What’s more, she’s grateful for it.”

  I counted to ten and, when that didn’t help, continued to a hundred before I said, “Tell me what you did last night after the stoplight nonsense was over. Who left, and who lingered? Did you duck behind the motel sign to relieve yourself and were too embarrassed to risk exposure? Did you pee, Mr. Proodle?”

  His jaw dropped, emphasizing his neck wattle. “How dare you speak to me that way! Give me the telephone number of your superior.”

  “Drop by the PD and I’ll write down the number for you. Sheriff Dorfer will be thrilled to hear from you. What happened after Tommy hit the stoplight?”

  Proodle seemed to realize that I wasn’t going to melt like Patty. “You’ll have to excuse my outburst, Chief Hanks. I’ve never been accused of anything more serious than speeding. Why don’t you run along and try to find this murderer?”

  “The stoplight.”

  “Yes, the stoplight.” He tried an avuncular approach. “You look tuckered out, Chief Hanks. Would you care for something to drink? Water, a soda?” When I didn’t respond, he sank down on the edge of the bed. “As soon as Tommy won, I handed him the money and came straight back here. I didn’t notice what the others did. They could have stuffed him in a burlap bag and left him under the stoplight for all I cared.” He held up his hand. “Wait, I didn’t mean that. He won the boat fair and square. I wasn’t happy about it, but I figured he might send me some referrals. I have a fine inventory of Jet Skis and WaveRunners. If you’re ever in the market, you call the lot and ask to speak to me personally. We can work something out so your payments aren’t a worry. I always give city and county employees a special discount on top of our everyday low prices.”

  “When you came back here, did you see anyone going into another room?”

  “Are you sure you won’t have a drink?” He pulled a pint bottle out of his suitcase and took a gulp. “Not going into another room, no. Natalie and that young man were disappearing around the far end of the building. I was puzzled ’cause there’s nothing out there but an overgrown pasture.”

  “Kale Wasson?” I said, sitting up.

  “No, a local fellow. I don’t recollect his name. He was here a couple of hours ago, drinking whiskey and putting the make on Amanda. She wasn’t crawling all over him, but she didn’t object when he patted her fanny.”

  I ran through the cast. A tidbit of a conversation popped up like a prairie dog. “Luke, right? Dark curly hair, muscles, wearing a T-shirt and jeans.”

  “Yeah, that’s his name.”

  “Did Dennis object?”

  “Poor fellow. I don’t think he noticed. He was sprawled in the chair you’re sitting in, sucking down scotch like he’d found a water fountain in the desert. He looked more likely to burst into tears than throw a punch. After a while, he staggered out of the room. That was the last I saw of him. What happened to him?”

  “Go back to last night,” I said. “You saw Luke with Natalie?”

  “He had his arm around her, like she was too plastered to walk on her own. It’s lucky for her that Janna wasn’t standing outside with a strap. That woman reminds me of my great-aunt Sapphire. She had a sharp tongue, and we were terrified of her. After she died, the police discovered four corpses in trunks in her attic. She had a thing about meter readers.”

  “Did you see Kale on his way to his room?” I asked.

  “No,” Proodle said, “but I wasn’t paying much attention. All I wanted to do was go to bed. If you’re finished, I need to call Patty. She’s going to an organ recital at the church this evening. How long do you intend to detain us?”

  “Not one minute longer than necessary. I can promise you that.”

  “What about the tournament? It should be called off before somebody else is killed.”

  “Or before somebody else makes a hole-in-one?” I suggested brightly.

  He looked away. “That’s not what I meant, although it would be easier if I just had the damn boat towed back to my lot. When will it be released?”

  “Beats me. I’m going to talk to Mrs. Jim Bob, then meet with all of you in the barroom. Be there in forty-five minutes.”

  I drove once again to the mayoral abode. Thus far, the tournament had been on, off, on, off, and set to be switched back on in the morning. My reading light got less action in a week. I parked and went up to the porch.

  Mrs. Jim Bob threw open the door. She had a smudge of flour on her cheek, but she lacked Betty Crocker’s warm smile and twinkly eyes. “I didn’t expe
ct to see you so soon, Arly. The Missionary Society is going to arrive in less than an hour, and I’ve got a cake in the oven. I need to set out the china and silverware. State your business.”

  I obliged. “There’s been another murder.”

  Her face turned as white as the flour. She wobbled so wildly that I caught her arm and steered her into the living room. Once she was settled on the sofa, I said, “Shall I get you a glass of water?”

  “No, I’m fine. It’s just that—that on top of everything else, I don’t know what to do. I always know what to do. The tournament was supposed to be a modest fund-raiser for the needy golf widows. It wasn’t supposed to be—to be a bloodbath! Tell them to take their corpses and leave town!”

  Mrs. Jim Bob was still drunk, I realized. She may have been able to bake a cake on instinct, but she was in no condition to think straight. Lucky me. I sat down next to her, and in a soothing voice, said, “I can’t let them leave town. Don’t you want to know who was murdered?”

  “I don’t care,” she whimpered. “It doesn’t matter. I’d just as soon they all kill each other, then drive home. I’ll be at the side of the road to wave good-bye.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue. I was prepared to let her linger in her blissful, inebriated universe when she abruptly threw the wadded tissue on the floor and snapped, “Yes, of course I want to know who was murdered! I’m waiting, missy. Are you going to sit there like a petrified frog or are you going to croak it out?”

  Jekyll and Hyde had found room on the sofa. “Dennis Gilbert was the victim,” I began. “His body was discovered in Tommy Ridner’s motel room earlier this afternoon. Same cause of death. I’m working on a motive.” She gazed blankly at me. “You have to decide about the golf tournament, Mrs. Jim Bob. I think it’s time to cancel it once and for all. The perp’s out there. Nobody should be on the golf course tomorrow.”

  “What about the bass boat? That’s why they came, you know. They pretend to care about golf widows, but I see right through them. They don’t give a whit about faith, hope, and charity. They’re here out of greed. As it says in the daily devotional book in the guest bathroom, ‘who being past feeling have given themselves over unto lasciviousness, to work all uncleanness with greediness.’ I think that sums it up nicely.”