by Joan Hess
"Imagine picking your nose in front of everybody! That's disgusting!"
There was a lot of the above in the air, and the unrelenting heat was now getting competition from at least a hundred bodies, some of them obviously unwashed. I was getting queasy myself and trying to decide what to do when Kevin scratched his head, took a deep breath, snipped the ribbon, and yelled, "Y'all can come inside now!" It was the first intelligent thing he'd done-ever.
Jim Bob came to his senses and growled at the band to play something. The cheerleaders began to shriek out entreaties to make that goal and rickety rack, stop 'em in their track and go, go, go. Once everybody realized there would be no overt violence, they went, went, went.
I hung back until I had some breathing room, then went over to Ruby Bee and said, "Cute. Real cute."
She opted to misinterpret my remark. "Yes, they're the cutest things I've ever laid eyes on. You don't think the shirts are too bright, do you? I had to take what I could get at the sporting-goods store in Farberville and practically get down on my knees and beg to get them to put on the letters right then and there."
"Whaddya think?" Hammet called to me. "Ain't we sumpun?"
"Oh, yes indeed." I turned back and with admirable restraint said, "Do you feel this confrontation is in the best interests of community goodwill?"
Estelle clattered up in a pink shirt, a skirt, and high heels and looked down her nose at me. "I don't see why Ruby Bee has to account to you, missy. You may be the chief of police, but that doesn't mean you're entitled to get too big for your britches."
"Goodness gracious," Ruby Bee said as she fanned her face with her hand, "it must be approaching a hundred degrees out here and I'm feeling dizzy. Let's go see whatall Jim Bob thinks he can give away at this fool picnic pavilion of his." She slipped her arm through Estelle's, gave me a vaguely triumphant look, and beckoned to the flock of Flamingos. "Come along, boys and girls. Maybe there's free soda pop and cookies."
Two seconds later, I had the parking lot to myself I took a deep breath and counted to ten (in French, no less), called to the deputy that he could leave (no Les?), and followed the crowd into Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.
The air conditioner was going full blast. The linoleum floor was shiny, the fluorescent lights bright, and the aisles wide enough to accommodate those wandering up and down with awed expressions. The three registers were manned by grim, pockmarked checkers. A ten-foot-square area beyond the last register was enclosed by plywood panels; the door had a suspiciously opaque mirror that hinted of covert observation. It was, I presumed, the office.
Jim Bob, Petrel, Mrs. Jim Bob, and Brother Verber had vanished, which was fine with me. I decided to explore the store. I took a hard right and found the produce aisle-and two members of opposing baseball teams on the verge of mayhem. I grabbed Saralee with one hand and a brutish Buchanon mutant with the other. "What's going on?" I demanded in my best cop voice.
Saralee jerked free. "This dumbshit says I can't play ball."
"She's a girl. Everybody knows girls cain't play ball," the SuperSaver muttered. He also jerked free and began to rub his arm. "She oughta stay home and sew doll clothes."
"Take it back, manure mouth," Saralee responded graciously.
"Listen here, you little fat bitch," the SuperSaver began, holding up a fist the size of an early-summer cantaloupe, "you better learn to-"
I blocked his path and glared at him. "Shut up-now." It occurred to me I was glaring up at him. "How old are you, anyway?"
"None of your beeswax, fuzz lady."
"In order to qualify to play in the intermediate league, you're supposed to be entering fifth or sixth grade this fall. Just how old are you?"
He tried to slouch down to eye level. "I be going into sixth grade this fall. If'n you don't believe me, you can call the school and ask."
"He could be telling the truth," Saralee contributed. "It must have taken him three or four years to get through first grade, what with him being such a dumbshit and all. I saw him driving down the highway the other day."
I hushed her and told the boy to drive down the highway right that minute if he didn't want to be charged with terroristic threatening. I could tell the phrase sailed over his head with several feet to spare, but after a dark look at Saralee, he slouched away.
I shrugged at her. "Even though it's illegal, some of the boys start driving at fourteen or even younger. But he must be six feet tall, for Pete's sake. If he's twelve years old, then so am I. And Ruby Bee's going on twenty-one."
She wasn't interested. "Where'd Hammet go? I was right behind him when we came inside, but then he took off like a hornet flew up his rear."
I suggested we search for him in the vicinity of the free food. The picnic pavilion wasn't difficult to locate; the bodies were packed in and the voices loud. As we approached, a cheerleader bounced up with a platter and invited us to sample a fried chicken wing. Saralee grabbed one. We were again halted by another cheerleader, this time with a platter of sliced meat. The third platter had cocktail wienies in barbecue sauce.
I scanned the crowd for Hammet, Ruby Bee, Estelle, or anyone else of interest. Dahlia O'Neill was of no interest whatsoever, but I watched as she came out from behind the deli case with a platter in each hand and, in the style of a naval icebreaker, forced a path to a picnic table covered with a red and white checked paper tablecloth. She banged down the platters, stopped to wipe her forehead, and trudged back through the crowd. Dahlia usually has a contented expression, verging on bovine, but at the moment she looked royally pissed. I caught myself wondering if she was in a snit because she wasn't in a red and white striped miniskirt, then told myself to stop before I conjured up that image.
Several folks moved over to examine this new offering, and I resumed my search for Hammet, although I wasn't sure I could hand him over to Saralee and still sleep at night. A harried cheerleader rammed me with a platter, gave me a sniffly smile, and offered what appeared to be caterpillar segments in orange oil. I declined, and even Saralee turned up her nose. Another came at us with more chicken wings and a no-nonsense (you'll eat this spinach and like it, young lady) expression. We hastily retreated to the relative safety of a paper-towel display, and the cheerleader veered off at the last second.
Geraldo Mandozes appeared at my side, with Ray trailing along unhappily. "Did you taste the tamales?" he said angrily. "I took one bite and spit it out. They taste like horse meat and sugary catsup."
"I looked at one," I said.
"But these idiots are stuffing them down like they were genuine Mexican tamales. These tamales, they are terrible. They are so very bad, they will make people sick. But then, when these people get well and want genuine Mexican tamales-genuine because they are made by me, Geraldo Mandozes-they will find a 'Closed' sign on the Dairee Dee-Lishus. I will have gone away to be a migrant worker because I must support my family."
"The samples today may save you," I said soothingly.
"At least they're not giving away free samples from the produce department," Ivy Sattering said from behind me. "Of course, the variety's enormous and the prices lower than any thing we can sell for and show any profit. Where do we sign up to be migrant workers, Mr. Mandozes?"
"Do not make fun of me," he growled. He grabbed Ray's shoulder and propelled him into the crowd.
Ivy gave me a wry smile. "Not much of a kidder, is he? Jackie had a great time at practice yesterday, Arly. It's awfully kind of you to let him play, and I hope you don't let Jim Bob make you quit. I heard how Mrs. Jim Bob threatened you."
"I'll do my best."
"I guess I'd better find Jackie and Alex," she said, frowning at the barricade of bodies. "We need to go on home and open the stand in case anyone's foolish enough to stop by for one hundred-percent organic produce." She followed Mandozes's route and vanished.
I caught a glimpse of Estelle's alpine red hair in the crowd, and a flash of Ruby Bee's tight blond curls, but there wasn't any way to extricate them, so I waite
d patiently. Saralee wandered away, her eyes glittering as brightly as her braces.
"Do you like our shirts, Miss Arly?" a timid voice asked.
I smiled down at Lissie Milvin. "They're really pink, aren't they?"
"Miss Ruby Bee has one for you, too, but she said she didn't think you'd want to wear it-" She stopped as her father, brother, and grandmother approached.
"Heard you had a wild practice," Buzz said, grinning at me.
"Some might think so," I said. "Imagine a conversation in which you try to explain that a strike is when you don't strike the ball and the ball's a ball when it's too high or too low, except when it's merely the ball. Is this Lissie and Martin's grandmother?"
"Lillith, this is Arly Hanks, the chief of police and coach of the kids' baseball team. Arly, this is Lillith Smew, who's kindly agreed to keep house for me since my wife passed away."
I took the woman's damp, limp hand, trying not to wrinkle my nose as the sour odor of an old-fashioned pharmacy engulfed me. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Smew."
"I can only pray my health is good enough to run the house," she said. "I've had three minor heart attacks in the last year, and I have a recurring problem with shingles. It can be so very painful, you know; I can hardly sleep at night. At my age, I don't need as much sleep as you younger folks, but I have to be careful. The last doctor I saw in Little Rock said I was-"
A bellow from the crowd stopped her. We all swung around in time to see Millicent McIlhaney toss her cookies on Raz's foot. She was bent over, her arms across her stomach, and her face contorted. Raz opened his mouth to protest, but he proceeded to do exactly what she'd done-but on his other foot. Heather Riley, one of the few high-school girls not in uniform, stumbled out of the crowd and followed suit in a series of gutwrenching spasms.
And before I could stop blinking, faster than a toad in a hail-storm a good half of the fifty or sixty people in the picnic pavilion were retching, groaning, grabbing at each other, staggering into each other, and upchucking all over the shiny linoleum floor of Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.
For some reason, I doubted this was a scheduled activity of the grand opening.
6
"So what the hell happened?" Harve asked as he fiddled with a stained, splintery cigar butt. His desk was littered with chunks of ash, along with stained manila folders, months of paperwork, manuals, letters, a chewed-up Styrofoam cup, and an ashtray that bore a revolting resemblance to Mount St. Helens. "I had messages every which way when I got back from the lake this morning. I've got the reports from my boys, but none of them can write worth a damn. Their descriptions are on the terse side and limited to one-syllable words…like barf."
I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair across from him. The rancid stench of his cigar was doing nothing to ease my uneasy stomach. I gave him a brief rundown on the grand-opening ceremony, and then in elaborate detail described the gruesome scene.
"Lord almighty," he said, looking a little uneasy himself "I'm damn glad I was out of pocket all day."
"We called every ambulance service in the county, and ended up packing off twenty-three people for suspected food poisoning. Everybody was released within a couple of hours, pea green around the gills but basically okay. I called several of them either last night or this morning. No one suggested we do lunch in the pavilion, but no one reported further symptoms. I talked to a pathologist last night, too. He was amazed at the rapid onset of symptoms, and ruled out botulism, salmonella, and a long list of seriously toxic agents. Other than that, he wasn't much help."
"So we're going to have to rely on tests, huh?"
"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "I've packed off samples to the state crime lab, and the hospital labs are running tests. I've never seen such a vast expanse of vomit, and we're talking slippery, foul, nauseating nastiness. For a while there, it looked like beginners' night at the ice-skating rink. The guy who owns the pool hall twisted his ankle when he fell. He howled about a lawsuit all the way to the ambulance."
"Sounds charmin', Arly. It must have been a real hoot trying to secure the scene."
"Almost as much of a hoot as collecting samples-off the floor, tabletops, and my uniform, which I'm going to burn when I get around to it. I don't know what I'd have done if Deputy Vernon hadn't stayed to have a look around. He managed to get a couple more deputies to help, one of whom had to physically restrain Jim Bob when I ordered all the unaffected customers out of the store and the front door locked. Hizzoner didn't understand why the shoppers couldn't keep on shopping, and the checkers checking and the cash registers ringing merrily. He even suggested the ambulances go to the loading dock in back. He's real big on discretion."
"Within the city limits of Maggody," Harve said, working the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Or within Mrs. Jim Bob's earshot, maybe."
I wasn't interested in gossip. "Once we got the victims sorted out from those who contributed out of squeamishness, I went to the kitchen. The three cooks had managed to get every last pot and pan washed, so we're going to be forced to rely on our unsavory samples to determine what set everybody off like that." I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. "This is going to be a really ripe investigation, Harve."
"We don't have anything to warrant a major investigation, or at least not yet. Sure, twenty-odd people barfed all over the floor and a couple of folks fell, but that doesn't mean we've got ourselves a bigtime felony. Could be the deli got hold of some spoiled meat or bad cheese. Offhand, I'd say it was nothing more than an unfortunate incident."
I opened one eye and squinted at him. "Had a call from the county judge, huh?"
He got real busy shuffling folders. "Might have. That doesn't mean we're not going to carry out a proper investigation and find out exactly what happened. But our hands are tied until we get some answers from the state lab, so there's not much point in sitting on the gate to keep the cows out."
I opened the other eye for a double-barreled squint. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means there ain't no call to keep the supermarket closed. It means you might as well let it open for business."
"Another little political favor? Gad, that stinks worse than the floor of the damn pavilion, Harve, and you know it. We don't have any idea why twenty-three people became violently and copiously ill after sampling the food. We've got to wait for the lab results before we let Jim Bob start peddling food from the deli. I've already talked to the state health department, and strangely enough, they expressed the desire to do a thorough reinspection of all the facilities." I stood up, put my hands on the edge of his desk, and leaned over as far as I could bear, in that the ashtray was smoldering. "Yes, it may have been one package of spoiled meat. It also may have been a serious problem with refrigeration or operating procedures. For that matter, it may have been intentional."
"Bullshit, Arly. Are you implying one of the gals in the deli dumped poison in a pot? Why'd anyone risk doing that?"
"We don't know," I growled, frustrated. "And it doesn't have to be one of the cooks in the deli. For one thing, Dahlia was one of the victims, and the other two are from another of Petrel's supermarkets and only there temporarily. They were both terrified they'd be fired. For another, the platters were prepared in the kitchen, then taken out and left on a table; the cheerleaders picked them up and carried them around. Maybe somebody sprinkled something on a platter while it was on the table."
"Like who, for instance?"
I sat back down and thought for a minute. "Well, Jim Bob's always had enough enemies to comprise a Third World army. There are a lot of locals not pleased about the SuperSaver because they're afraid it will put them out of business."
"Anybody who appears on a regular basis in the Hanks's family photo album?" Harve asked blandly.
I was beginning to regret the conversation. "Ruby Bee was worried that her customers might defect, but so were the Satterings, who operate a small farm with a produce stand, and the Mexican who bought the Dairee Dee-Li
shus a few months back. Jim Bob issued himself a permit to sell beer, which may have upset the guy at the pool hall, who does a brisk bootleg beer business despite my continual admonishments. The hippies who own the Emporium may have been concerned that the SuperSaver would carry a lot of hardware odds and ends. It could have been anybody in town, Harve. They were all there."
"Any of those folks you mentioned by name end up in an ambulance?"
"It was an absolute madhouse. Les and I were trying to scribble down names and addresses, and the medics were dragging off the victims before we could do it. Ruby Bee was okay. I think I noticed Mandozes watching the scene with a supercilious look. I didn't see the Satterings, but Les may have logged either or both of them. I'll check with him."
"Good idea." Harve tugged at his lower lip and watched a fly inching toward the ashtray. "Tell ya what…the health department boys'll need to inspect the entire store. Even if the deli section gets okayed, it stays closed until we hear from the state lab. But if I don't order you to let the store open within a day or two, I might as well take a one-way hike to the fishing hole and commence my retirement. The county judge is a mean sumbitch with a memory a damn sight longer than a possum's tail."
I wasn't thrilled, but there wasn't much I could do about it. I went to hunt up Les and get his list. None of the names I'd mentioned appeared, but that didn't prove much of anything, because we didn't know if there was anything to prove. After an idle chat with Les about his wife's reaction to his vomit-splattered uniform, I drove back to Maggody for Sunday-afternoon baseball practice.
*****
Kevin had been permitted into Dahlia's bedroom by her granny, who usually was awful strict but was wearied of playing nursemaid by now. His beloved was under a tan blanket; he couldn't help but think of an undulating sand dune in the Sahary Desert as he tiptoed across the room.
"Dahlia?" he whispered.
The dune quivered. "Whatta you want, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon?"