by Joan Hess
Estelle dragged Amanda into the barroom and settled her on a stool. “Order whatever you want. Ruby Bee won’t charge you on account of you being a widow and all. What’s more, I won’t say one word about all the long distance calls you made on my telephone last night and this morning. I don’t mind living on beans for the rest of the month. Just don’t start thinking everybody in the world is as charitable as I am.”
“I’m really, really sorry if I ran up your bill,” Amanda said meekly. “I couldn’t use my cell because there’s no signal out here. Once I get settled, I swear that I’ll reimburse you.”
“Don’t forget you used up a tank of gas.” Estelle folded her arms on the bar and stared in the mirror. Tendrils of hair were already falling loose from her beehive, and her lipstick was smudged. There’d been no time for her to see to her own personal grooming, not with Amanda sending her to the motel room three times for different outfits and certain cosmetics she’d overlooked the day before. She herself had made less of a fuss on her high school prom night.
“Morning,” Ruby Bee said as she came behind the bar. “What do y’all want? I made blueberry muffins earlier, and they’re downright tasty.”
“Dry toast and black coffee,” Amanda said. “I don’t want to look like a black blimp at the funeral.”
“You’ve made the arrangements?”
“As best I can. Nothing can be finalized until Dennis’s body is released.” She grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and held it to the corner of one eye. “I’m thinking I’ll host a memorial reception at the club for him and Tommy at the same time. I hope the committee will let me scatter their ashes on the course, or at least in a water hazard.” She buried her face in her hands and began to sob.
Estelle snorted. “You didn’t sound all broken up when you talked to that lawyer this morning. For a minute, I thought you were applying for a loan to buy a new car.”
Amanda looked up. “This was so unexpected that I’m in a financial pickle until the will is probated. There’s not much in the checking account, and I can’t cash Dennis’s paycheck without the station’s approval. My credit cards are maxed out. The lawyer’s going to call the bank and arrange for a short-term loan until the insurance company comes through. That could take months. In the meantime, I’ve got utility bills, club membership dues, my personal trainer . . .”
“You might need to get a job,” Ruby Bee said ruthlessly.
Amanda grabbed a fistful of napkins. “What would my friends think? I’d rather die than be caught behind a counter selling perfume. I have no secretarial skills, no computer training. I can’t expect the TV station to hire me out of pity. I’m not about to end up in a menial pink-collar job.”
Estelle glanced at her, then said, “I’ll have sausage and eggs, grits, hash browns, and one of your blueberry muffins.”
“Coming right up,” Ruby Bee said.
I needed a script that might provoke my suspects into indiscreet admissions. The golf tournament tent would have to serve as my drawing room. Frederick would be offended if I asked him to play the butler, and Mrs. Jim Bob would throw a hissy fit if I suggested that we sip brandy during my grand denouement. I practiced arching an eyebrow as I pointed an accusatory finger, but my eyebrow refused to participate and my finger quivered. My denouement was doomed to be second-rate.
At ten o’clock, I called the sheriff’s office. LaBelle answered crisply, as if she were sitting at the reception desk of a powerful corporation, coordinating calls between foreign dignitaries and high-ranking government officials.
“I thought you were in the throes of post-traumatic stress syndrome,” I said. “Bedridden, on oxygen, sipping broth with a compress on your fevered brow.”
“State your business.”
“For Harve’s ears only,” I said.
“In regard to what?”
“I’m going to be his secret Santa this Christmas. I want to ask him about his tie collection.”
LaBelle paused. “Why doncha call back when you have something significant to report. If you hadn’t staged your little golf tournament, Harve would have been here when the fire broke out. I can still feel the terror when the smoke billowed out the door like an evil demon. It’s a miracle I didn’t faint on the spot. Why, I had the most horrible nightmare Saturday—”
“Please let me speak to Harve before I lose my mind and stuff cotton balls between my toes,” I said. “That would be worse than a nightmare.”
She abruptly put me through to Harve. I told him what I intended to do. He guffawed at first, but quieted down as I went into detail. “Bring a couple of deputies with you,” I concluded. “The doughnuts will be stale, but the fireworks will not be a disappointment.”
“Unless they fizzle out,” he said. “Oh, and Les has been doing your busy work. He said to tell you that a neighbor saw Mrs. Wasson arrive at her house around ten o’clock Saturday night. Tibia’s about an hour and a half from Farberville. There was something else, but I disremember . . .” A match scritched, followed by a contented sigh. “Now it’s coming to me. There ain’t no birth certificates for anyone named Cartier in Mississippi. Les said to tell you that you owe him a mai tai, whatever the hell that is.”
With two umbrellas and an extra maraschino cherry. I made a necessary notation, stashed my thick pile of yellow papers, and went over to Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill. When I got there, I detoured behind the building and noted that Tommy’s battered Mercedes and Amanda’s glistening Jaguar were the only two cars parked in front of the units. Everyone else was at the golf tournament, trudging through the untamed rough or trying to fish golf balls out of bottomless puddles. The snakes and mosquitoes would be invigorated from the heavy rain. Homeless hornets would be buzzing angrily. I hoped Mrs. Jim Bob had designated a first aid committee.
I sat in a booth to avoid the necessity of conversation with my mother. The idea of another muffin made me queasy, and my presence seemed to make her queasy as well. The dance floor looked larger than a basketball court. The neon beer signs reflected red and yellow hues on it, as if it were a desert at sunrise. The trucker Bedouins, exhausted after their trek to the oasis, slurped coffee. It was more challenging to cast Estelle in the role of a scrawny belly dancer. One of these days, I reminded myself, my belly would be dancing a jig of its own accord.
I finally forced myself to go up to the bar and sit on a stool near Estelle’s roost. “Where’s Amanda?” I asked.
“I’m not her babysitter,” Estelle answered tartly. “You’d think I was her servant from the way she’s been acting. She didn’t want coffee, and then she didn’t want tea. Her split ends looked like straw. She had to try three different shades of fingernail polish before she was satisfied. She’d just die on the spot if she had to drink tap water. Was she getting a blackhead on the side of her nose? Her white skirt was too white, her blue skirt was too short. Did her shorts make her butt look fat? Yammer, yammer, yammer. She spent more time on the phone than I do in a month of Sundays, and then some. I was ready to—”
“She’s at the tournament,” Ruby Bee cut in. “She caught a ride with Kathleen Wasson and Kale. She said she might as well work on her tan as hang around Estelle’s all day.”
“Eating ice cream,” the beleaguered hostess said with a snort. “She had me go to the SuperSaver and buy her some with exotic names like Mucho Mocha and Creme de Menthe Parfait. Four dollars for a little bitty carton that ain’t more than a couple of spoonfuls.”
I wished I had a gallon of each. It was too early for the final round to be anywhere near completed, but I drove up the road and parked behind Mrs. Jim Bob’s pink Cadillac. The tables beneath the tent were sparsely occupied. None of the previous day’s moochers and spectators had dared to risk another dose of Mrs. Jim Bob’s venom. The buffet table was down to an aluminum coffee urn, a stack of cups, and an empty doughnut box. Roy was reading the Stump County Courier, a treasure trove of inane articles and photographs of Little League teams. Darla Jean had stacked her shoe boxes an
d was sitting with a few of the involuntary volunteers from the high school. Proodle was slumped at one table, his hands clasped as if he were lost in prayer. Lottie Estes was armed with a clipboard, but she didn’t seem to have anything to do. There were fewer than thirty competitors left, and most of them were already on the course. Joyce, Bopeep, Audley, and one of the college boys were on the first tee.
“How’s it going?” I asked Lottie.
“Just fine, thank you. This is the last foursome. Mrs. Jim Bob decided she ought to get an early start so she could be back in time to get ready for the presentation ceremony. I assured her that I was quite capable, since I’ve taught home ec for more than forty years. When I began, the girls were so polite and eager to learn how to become homemakers, but these days they think that all they have to do is operate a microwave. They don’t even know how to make popcorn on a stove.”
“Where are the trophies?”
“Brother Verber has them for safekeeping.” She glanced at her clipboard. “We changed the time because most of the golfers didn’t show up this morning. He’ll be here at two o’clock sharp, prepared to say a few words about our worthy cause and the responsibility of good Christians to help the needy.”
“No lunch?”
“We are trying to raise money, not squander it. Our budget was not planned to accommodate another free meal. To celebrate the finale, Eula is bringing a sheet cake, and my girls will serve punch made from cranberry juice and ginger ale. One could easily mistake it for pink champagne.”
One in a million, maybe. I wandered over to Janna, who was scribbling in a notebook. “Feeling better?” I asked her.
“Yes, thank you. I simply needed to rest. When Natalie returned from her visit with Cora, she was most solicitous. She went to the supermarket and bought a brand of antihistamines guaranteed not to make you drowsy.” She added a notation. “I’m revising Natalie’s workout schedule. She let her game slip this weekend. I think an additional session in the weight room every day will help. There’ll be no more beer or pretzels when we get back.”
I left her to it. Amanda was seated in an aluminum lounge chair upwind from the pigsty. In a display of mourning, she wore modest pink shorts and a blouse that covered her midriff. She put down a magazine when I approached.
“Thanks for not getting me in trouble yesterday,” she said. “I feel like such an idiot. I guess I just snapped from the stress. If you hadn’t been at Tommy’s house, I would have watered the furniture and vacuumed the ceilings. I’m not the sort of person who can sit and wait. Please don’t think badly of me, Arly.”
“Why would I do that? By the way, I’m going to lift the ban on leaving town after the ceremony. I’m sure you’re all sick of Maggody by now.”
“Well . . . it might be nice to go home. I have so many details to attend to. I have an appointment with my lawyer tomorrow. He’s promised to make it all as easy as possible for me.”
“I hope he does.” I moved on to Darla Jean and her group. “Ready for this to be over with?” I asked them.
“I’m counting down the seconds,” Heather said. “At least we had something to do the first day, what with lunch and the supper. Yesterday we got positively drenched hauling everything to car trunks.”
“Now we’re watching the weeds grow,” Billy Dick said with a yawn.
“Mrs. McMay says we have to stay here so we can load the tables and chairs,” Darla Jean said morosely.
“And take down the tent,” said a boy with blinding braces.
I looked sternly at Billy Dick. “You’d better stick to watching the weeds grow. If I catch you in possession of a particular weed, there’ll be hell to pay.”
He gave me an innocent smile. “I’m in training for football. We take up practice in August, you know. Coach would bench me if I got caught smoking or drinking.”
“Billy Dick’s been building up his arm muscles by bending his elbow,” Heather said, giggling.
“Have not!”
“I saw you Saturday morning,” she retorted.
“Have you seen Frederick Cartier this morning?” I asked before the spat escalated. They all shook their heads.
I returned to Lottie’s table in time to see Eileen drive a ball in the direction of Humper County. Her ensuing remark might have been enough to get her booted out of the Missionary Society.
“She’s determined to win,” Lottie said blithely. “They all are. It was so tense around here earlier that I felt as though I should have worn a combat helmet. I’m not sure some of these marriages will survive.”
“Because of a boat?”
“It’s much more complicated than that, Arly. This town is still living in the era when women didn’t have the right to vote. The Nineteenth Amendment was passed almost a hundred years ago.”
She was about to continue when we heard a whoop from somewhere on the golf course. Lottie dropped the clipboard and clutched my arm. “Is someone hurt? Has that madman come back? Do something, Arly!”
Janna joined us as a second whoop came from beyond the sprawling brush and oak trees. Birds were frightened into flight. I froze, straining to hear more noise. Elsie McMay hurried to the edge of the tent, the teenagers on her heels.
“Do you think somebody made a hole-in-one?” gasped Darla Jean.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Billy Dick said. “That, or they found a nest of rattlesnakes.”
Proodle groaned so loudly that we all turned around. “Please, God, let it be rattlesnakes,” he said, his eyes turned upward. “Or copperheads, or a wild boar. Maybe a bear. A bear would be good.”
“It’s unlikely,” I said, “that two foursomes simultaneously ran into bears, boars, and snakes.” I glanced at Lottie’s watch. “At precisely noon.”
“What about the killer?” Proodle said as if pleading with me to buy an upscale party barge instead of a used canoe. “You should have caught him, Chief Hanks! He’s out there with an ax, slaughtering people hand over foot. What if he comes this way?” When I failed to respond, he bolted for his car and dove across the front seat. His anguished cry lingered in the air.
Everybody else started jabbering at me to do something, anything, save the golfers, protect them from certain death, find the bodies, call for help, organize a posse, etc. When they ran out of suggestions, I said, “Let’s wait here, okay? As Lottie told me earlier, these golfers are determined to win. Some of them seem to have gone to extremes.”
“Like killing each other?” asked Elsie, her voice trembling.
“Could be,” I said, although I didn’t believe it.
Not very much, anyway.
Seventeen
Jim Bob was the first to come stumbling down the fairway, swinging a golf club like a sword. “I did it! I did it! I goddamn did it!” He tripped over a rough spot, scrabbled to his feet, and resumed his triumphant charge with a clump of mud on his chin.
“Did what?” Billy Dick said.
Heather punched his arm. “Made a hole-in-one, you moron!”
“Him?” Janna said. “Is this for real?”
He stumbled into a table and sprawled in front of us. “I made a hole-in-one!” he gasped. He grabbed Lottie’s ankle. “Write it down!”
“Wait just a minute!” yelled Mrs. Jim Bob, approaching briskly with a driver in one hand and her purse in the other. She saw Jim Bob, who was bent over, gasping. “Did I hear him a few minutes ago? Is he in need of medical assistance?”
“I made a hole-in-one,” he grunted.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Her hand tightened around the club. “I made a hole-in-one at precisely noon. He’s drunk. You may record it, Lottie.”
“I made mine first—at eleven fifty-nine!” Jim Bob said. He was so agitated that his face resembled a puffer fish. Not an appetizing sight.
“I made mine at eleven fifty-eight!” Mrs. Jim Bob countered. “Mine was first, so I win the bass boat!” She looked more like a great white shark.
“No way!” he snarled. “I win the bass boat!”
“Nobody wins the blasted boat!” Proodle said as he pushed his way through the crowd. “Don’t you morons know the boat’s impounded? Do I need to define the word for you? It’s in a pound surrounded by a chain-link fence and barb wire.”
The remainder of the golfers picked their way through various botanical entanglements and approached. The college boys were joking and shoving each other, apparently handling their disappointment well. Natalie kept her face lowered as she joined the increasingly rowdy group. Jim Bob and Mrs. Jim Bob continued to shout at each other, and at Lottie, who was hanging on to the clipboard for dear life. Proodle tried to drown them out by shouting the word “impounded” at them as if it were his mantra. The men had dark expressions as they came out from behind a line of scrub oaks. Audley, Eileen, Cora, and the other wives looked as though their soufflés had sunk. They all felt the need to voice their opinions at the top of their lungs.
I watched at a safe distance. As long as the violence kept to bloody noses and black eyes, I wasn’t about to jump in. It was getting tedious when Lottie climbed onto a table and blew a whistle loudly enough to set dogs howling in Tibia.
“Your attention, please!” she said. “We are not going to get this settled by behaving in an uncivilized manner. We will allow each claimant to make his or her case. Arly and I will then consult with the hole monitors to verify the details.”
“Why her?” demanded Jim Bob.
Lottie regarded him through her bifocals. “Because she is an unbiased party.”
“Unbiased, my ass.”
“That’s a violation of the obscenity rule!” Mrs. Jim Bob said as she shoved him aside. “He received two warnings on Saturday. The rules on the registration form make it clear that a third violation results in expulsion. He cannot win the boat.”
He stuck his face in hers. “I already won the boat when I made the hole-in-one fifteen minutes ago. Whatever happens now don’t count for squat.”
“The boat’s been impounded,” Proodle added for good measure. “Nobody can win the boat!”