Malice in Maggody

by Joan Hess

  Jaylee put her free hand on her hip. “Now wait just a blessed minute, Mr. Robbie Drake. You have not been kidnapped. Jim Bob says you are being delayed for a few days, and he’s the mayor so he ought to know. Nobody’s going to cut letters out of a magazine for a ransom note or make falsetto telephone calls to your office. On Tuesday you can be on your way to Starley City just like you planned.”

  “I know that, honeybee, but Tuesday is forty-eight hours away. What am I supposed to do in the meantime—get religion watching some paunchy preacher on television?” Despite his aggrieved tone, he was smiling. His fingers plucked at the wrinkles of sheet next to him.

  Jaylee put the tray down and pulled off the aluminum cover. “Well, for one thing you can eat your breakfast. I brought you eggs, grits, ham, biscuits, a couple of buttermilk pancakes, and coffee.”

  “That doesn’t sound bad, but I can think of something I’d prefer,” he said silkily. His hand had crept back to the zipper, and he scratched a fingernail along the metal teeth to make a noise, in case she hadn’t noticed. Sometimes honeybees need a little guidance. “It seems to me you might remember what I like if you lie down beside me and concentrate real hard.”

  Jaylee giggled. “It may come back to me later, Robbie, but right now I’ve got to run along home and change clothes for church.”

  Robert Drake realized that his presumed morning delight was going to center on biscuits rather than breasts. Scowling, he reached down for his magazine and jerked it open to the center-fold. “Have a nice time in church,” he said, silky having transformed to sulky. “Don’t even stop one minute to think about me locked in this crummy motel room without anyone to talk to.” It was worth a try.

  “Oh, Robbie,” she said with an indecisive frown, “I’d like to stay and visit, but I have to teach my Sunday-school class in an hour. We’re doing a special study on Jonah and the whale, and those kids’ll be real disappointed if I don’t show up. I promised them a flannel board story. I’ve got real cute little figures that I cut out of a workbook, with sandpaper on the back so they won’t fall while I’m telling the story.”

  Robert kept the magazine in front of his face. “Have a good time. God knows I’ll be right here whenever you see fit to bring me a glass of water or something.”

  Jaylee sighed. He sounded so lonely lying there, pretending to be brave even though he was frightened and in need of warmth and comfort. In fact, she thought with another sigh, he sounded like one of the little boys waiting for her at the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. She noted the time on her watch and came to a decision. “I can stay for a few minutes, Robbie, but then I got to get home and change. Brother Verber’ll be peeved at me if I’m late; the boys stir up mischief if they’re not supervised. Fifteen minutes—not a second more. Okay?”

  Seventeen minutes later she did up the last button on her blouse and waggled a finger in farewell. “I’ll come by right after church so I can bring you Sunday dinner. You be a good boy till I get back, you hear?”

  “I’ll be here,” Robert mumbled from under a pillow. The sheets were tangled around his legs and the blankets pushed off the end of the bed. The bed felt damp and smelled ripely sour, but that was the way he preferred it. “You give a real fine whale story to your Sunday-school class, honeybee.”

  She left after a few deep, soulful looks that went unheeded. Several minutes later he realized he was hungry, hungrier than a damned whale. As he shoved back the sheet, a key fell from between the folds and bounced off his foot.

  Robert picked it up and rubbed it between his fingers as he pondered his options. He could, if he wanted to, throw his clothes in his suitcase, grab a biscuit, and make his escape from the dismal room. The shithead yokels had probably left the keys in the car, if he could figure out where they’d parked it. No doubt everybody would be holed up in church, bellowing hymns and basking in a self-righteous glow that would keep them holy for most of the week.

  Within an hour he could be at the state police headquarters to file a kidnapping charge. Hell, he’d make them call in the FBI. Then the clowns who’d had the nerve to pull a rifle on him two days earlier and march him into the back room would find out it wasn’t so damned smart to tangle with Robert Drake. He’d pick them out of a lineup, wait till they were locked up in some rat hole of a jail cell, and be on his way to Starley City. Sign the contract approvals in the morning and fly back to Dallas after a couple of martinis in the airport bar and a bit of grab-ass with the stewardesses. Be back in time to stop at the office and humbly accept praise for surviving the ordeal. Maybe even make the ten o’clock news with that smarmy woman reporter with the big tits and wet, full lips.

  None of which, except for the final item, struck him as the thing to do. The office was thick with assholes who might laugh at him. God knows his wife Dawn Alice would, she and her bitchy friends. He could almost see them having Sunday brunch at the country club. Dawn Alice would be having a wonderful time in the role of distraught wife, shredding Kleenexes between bloody marys and boo-hooing on the tennis pro’s shoulder while he fondled her buns and whispered obscenities in her ear. Would she even pretend to be relieved when he strolled in like a Greek soldier home from the war?

  “Bitch!” he snarled. He put the key under the bed and arranged a corner of the sheet to cover it. Then, whistling softly as he remembered his prowess playing Jonah to Jaylee’s whale of a fine, ripe body, he pulled a chair up to the round table and began to butter a biscuit.

  I usually eat breakfast on Sundays at Ruby Bee’s, but I wasn’t about to stick my nose in there until I received apologies from several different parties, all of whom had been snootier than a nursery-school teacher the previous night. I boiled water (one of my talents) for instant coffee and dumped a mound of cornflakes in a bowl.

  After the nutritious if not scintillating breakfast, I wasted a couple of hours cleaning the apartment. The yellowed linoleum was still yellow when I gave up, but it was clean. I then gathered up my dirty clothes, crammed them in a pillowcase, and walked to the Suds of Fun laundromat beside the Kwik-Screw. No one had called to beg forgiveness or even to see if I was alive.

  I sorted the clothes, plopped various piles in the row of washing machines, and dug through my pockets for enough quarters to coax the machines into doing the dirty work for me. A beanpole with acne shook his head when I asked for change, so I went into the Kwik-Screw.

  Dahlia O’Neill was perched on a stool behind the counter, her eyes glued on the interior of a tabloid that promised the inside scoop on aliens knocking up Colorado housewives. A pile of candy wrappers sat on the counter next to a Nehi bottle.

  “Let me have three dollars worth of quarters,” I said, putting the appropriate number of bills down.

  “Hey, Arly,” she said. “How you doing?”

  “I’m doing fine, but my clothes are getting dirtier by the second. Quarters?”

  “Jim Bob says I ain’t supposed to give change unless you buy something, ’cause this ain’t some goddamn branch of the Chase Manhattan Bank.” She turned to the next page and reached for a candy bar from the rack. It was nearly empty.

  “I realize that this is in no way a bank,” I said patiently. “My first clue was that the Kwik-Screw is open on Sunday and the Chase Manhattan is closed. I’ll buy a newspaper, okay?” That got me a newspaper, a nickel, and two quarters. A candy bar got me three more, and a bag of potato chips another two. I decided I could run the dark colors with the wash-and-wear, and to hell with the towels. If they turned to mildew, I’d come back and rub Dahlia’s face in them to get them clean. Not that it’d work.

  I took my change and trophies and started to leave, then stopped and turned back. “Hey, Dahlia, did you happen to see a white Ford in town Friday around noon? It had a painted circle on the door, a state seal.”

  Dahlia looked up, the flesh under her chin squashing out so she resembled a walrus. No tusks, but a noticeable
mustache. “Yeah, I seen it. Cute little fellow tried to fill it up, but he couldn’t figure out how to work the pump. Kevin had to go do it for him, even though it was self-service and costs two cents less. Jim Bob was real pissed about it.”

  “Did you see the car leave? Which way did it go?”

  “Can’t say I noticed,” she said, flipping to another thrilling story of sex and intrigue among the Hollywood stars. “You might ask Kevin, if you see him.”

  “What time was it when the car stopped here?”

  Dahlia belched softly, then pounded her chest with her fist. “Nehis get me every time, sorry. I don’t recollect what time that was. I was unpacking some boxes in the storeroom and I can’t get my watch around my wrist no more. You might ask Kevin if you see him.”

  I was beginning to get the message: Ask Kevin. I tried once more for luck. “But Jim Bob was here when the fellow in the state car pulled up, you said. Could he have noticed which direction the car pulled out?”

  “I dunno, Arly. He sputtered around for a while, then banged out the door like he had a Roman candle up his ass. I decided to finish unpacking in the storeroom, and I didn’t see Jim Bob come back or anything. I suppose you could—”

  “—ask Kevin,” I interrupted, nodding. “Where is Kevin, by the way? I’m surprised Jim Bob gives him a day off.”

  Her sad, crescent eyes grew round as my stupidity reached her brain. “He’s at church, Arly. His mama makes him go every Sunday just like clockwork. She says she’ll wallop the living tar out of him if he screws up his perfect attendance record and loses out on a genuine gold lapel pin.”

  I went back to the laundromat and rearranged the loads. Then, feeling as if I’d made a smidgen of progress with the case of the kidnapped bureaucrat, I grabbed the newspaper, settled back in the plastic chair, and turned my attention to the happenings outside Maggody. They seemed about as real as Dahlia’s little green men with their busy green pricks.

  I ate a substantial lunch of chocolate and chips, dried my clothes, and went back to my apartment. I had just won my third game of solitaire Scrabble (I cheat) when Paulie called. I knew from the tremor in his voice that we had a visitor in the office. My uniform was clean and ready, but I left it in the closet. My gun and holster make me look on the bulgy side, so I didn’t bother with them. If you have to know, I did slap on a little lipstick before hurrying across the highway. It didn’t mean a blessed thing.

  “They certainly work you hard in the big time,” I said to Sergeant Plover as I sat down behind my desk and aligned the telephone book with the edge of the desk. “Nights and weekends. Do they let you off on Mother’s Day?”

  “I’m off in the middle of the week, which is fine with me. Too many crazy people with guns in the woods on weekends. I prefer a little peace and quiet.” He sounded easy, but his smile seemed forced. “Have you discovered any information that might assist my investigation, Chief Hanks?”

  Paulie began to shake his head, but I held up my hand to prevent any incoherent sputters from his direction. “Make some coffee, please, Officer Buchanon; my mouth feels like the inside of a clothes dryer. Yes, I have, Sergeant Plover. The car in question was seen by a convenience store clerk on Friday, sometime close to noon. I haven’t completed the interrogation, and there is still another witness to be located, but I think I can file a report by tomorrow.” Sergeant Plover rewarded my brilliance with a terse nod. “Have the report on my desk by five o’clock this afternoon. Include the addresses of the witnesses so that I can question them myself.”

  “I told you I would question them.”

  “I’m sure you will, Chief Hanks, but this case has become top priority. The car has been found.”

  I guess he thought I would ooh and aah and tell him how smart he was. I took my duck out of the drawer, instead, and studied it for signs of progress. “That was lucky. Where’d it turn up?”

  “On a logging road in the national forest, halfway between here and Starley City. What’s that supposed to be?”

  I twisted the block of wood around so he could see the most promising side. “A duck. A male, marshland mallard, to be precise, but I just started on it. Any evidence of violence at the scene?”

  “It doesn’t look like any duck I’ve ever seen. Where’s its head?”

  “I told you that I just started. What are you— some kind of closet ornithologist?” I dropped duckie in the drawer and slammed it closed. “What about the car, Sergeant Plover? Fingerprints, footprints, tufts of hair, what? Any last words written in blood on the windshield?”

  Sergeant Smartass Plover slapped his forehead. “We forgot to look! I’ll send someone right back to see if we missed a ten-foot suicide note or a treasure map or something like that. Thanks, Chief Hanks—you may have broken the case. I want you to know you have the undying gratitude of the Arkansas State—”

  “Stuff it,” I said, as I got up and started for the door.

  He put his bulk between me and the screen. “Wait a minute, Chief. Why don’t we forget all this and start over? I’d like to tell you what we did find, and discuss the case with you. Drake was last seen in Maggody; he never made it to his appointment in Starley City. I’m beginning to think something may have happened within your jurisdiction, which means you and I will have to cooperate on the investigation.”

  “The investigation?” I echoed, still more pissed than a polecat.

  “Our investigation.” He gestured for me to sit back down and went so far as to take his hat off, gentleman that he was. I studied his thick hair and what Estelle would call its burnished gold highlights, with a few strands of gray above the ears. I’d thought all state troopers had boot-camp hairdos that looked like old currycombs glued into shiny pink billiard balls.

  In the back room Paulie whooshed like a balloon. I dragged my eyes back to business and pasted on an expectant smile. “Well?”

  “The car was found early this morning by a hunter who was out scouting for a stand. There were no signs that Mr. Drake had not left the car voluntarily. Whatever luggage and briefcases he might have had with him were gone. The ashtray was half filled with cigarette butts, his brand, and a bottle of bourbon was under the driver’s seat, down a couple of inches.” He pulled out a county survey map and showed me the thin line that petered out in the national forest. “Here, about two hundred feet from Boone Creek.”

  “But why would he park in the middle of nowhere and leave the car?” I asked. “That doesn’t make any sense. The road stops at the water, and the only people who park there are kids looking for a little privacy to smoke dope, drink beer, and eventually have a roll in the hay—or brambles.”

  Sergeant Plover studied the wall a good six inches above my head. His ears reddened and his voice sounded tighter than a fiddle string as he said, “We did find evidence of past—ah, carnal activities along the road and at a clearing near the bank. Rusty beer cans, too, and cigarette papers.”

  It was good to know the youth of Maggody took precautions when they threw caution to the wind. “Could Drake have gone there with someone he picked up?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering, but you know more about the local—ah, hitchhikers than I do. If he was alone when he stopped for gas at the convenience store, he must have found his—ah, friend somewhere in Maggody or just past the city limits.” His ears were getting redder by the minute and looking like they might burst. “I was hoping you could suggest some possible—ah, residents with a reputation for—ah, drives in the woods, and—”

  I did not want to watch his ears burst, since it might add splatter to the already fly-specked decor. “There are a few women who would have hitched a lift and hiked their skirts in exchange for a monetary reward. Officer Buchanon and I will ask around town. I may be too busy with that to have a report on your desk at five o’clock, but God knows I’ll try my darndest. Is that all?”

  “One more think
, Chief Hanks. Do you have a first name? I need it for my report.”

  Like a bull needs a tutu. “My first name is Chief. What about yours, Sergeant Plover?” “Sergeant.”

  He stomped out, forgetting to ease the screen door closed or even say goodbye. A few minutes later, he drove away at what I estimated to be about sixty-five miles per hour, and in a twenty-five-mile-per-hour zone at that. Tut, tut.

  The dust was still swirling when I left the PD to find Kevin Buchanon. A rumble from my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t had a decent meal all day. Figuring that Kevin would be busy with fried chicken and mashed potatoes for another half hour, I walked down the road to Ruby Bee’s.

  The parking lot was empty, and Estelle was the only body at the bar. She gave me a cool nod as I sat down beside her. Ruby Bee came out of the kitchen, a dish towel in her hands. “Whatcha want, Arly?”

  The pariah of Maggody had been hoping for an apology. “A grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk, if it isn’t too much trouble.” The two exchanged a few of the secretive looks that were beginning to get on my nerves. “I’ll fix it myself if you’re not in the mood,” I added coldly.

  Ruby Bee managed to fake a smile. “No, you stay there and visit with Estelle. I’ll make you a sandwich. You don’t have to come in the kitchen at all, Arly.”

  The chief bustled out of sight, clucking under her breath like I’d demanded steak au poivre. Estelle managed to fake the very same smile, which went about one flea-leg deep. “So how are things, Arly? You interested in trying that highlighter or maybe a frost? I think it’d come out real sweet on you, help soften your face and give you more of the feminine mystique.”

  “I’m still screwing up my courage, but I appreciate the offer, Estelle. I know I can count on you as a true friend, someone who’d never hide anything from me or pretend to—”

  “Arly, what are you doing here?” squeaked Jaylee, from the doorway. She wobbled in on spike heels, her prim navy dress doing little to disguise her less-formal curves. She wore a white hat with a blue ribbon and carried white gloves in one hand.