by Joan Hess
"You've come a long way, baby," I said to the closed door.
*****
Brother Verber was crawling around under the mobile home when he saw feet. In that the feet were shod in sensible heels and walked with a missionary's determination, he was pretty sure he knew what all there was ankle upward. Rather than emerge to greet his caller, he scuttled into the shadows.
Mrs. Jim Bob rapped on the front door. "Brother Verber, it's Sister Barbara. Are you in there? I got something to discuss with you."
He shrunk farther into the shadows, where it was damper but darker and therefore muddier but safer. He felt as if the shower'd turned icy cold and he was buck naked in the spray. There wasn't any way she could know, he told himself. There wasn't any way anybody could know, not even Kevin and Dahlia, who'd looked a little confused when he'd ordered them to go pray for their forgiveness-somewhere else.
Her knuckles hit the door with such insistence, he could feel the mobile home vibrating. "Brother Verber?" she repeated stridently. "Brother Verber…?"
He put his knees right up to his chin and closed his eyes. He didn't bother to ask for divine guidance.
*****
The next morning, I drove to Dahlia's house. She was sitting on the porch, a glass of tea and a box of cookies nearby, but her hands were folded in her lap and her eyes were vacant.
"I need to ask you a few questions," I said as I opened the gate and went up the sidewalk.
"Okay," she murmured without looking up.
I sat on the edge of the porch and took out a notebook and pencil. "Let's start with the preparations for the grand opening on Saturday. When did you"-I consulted my list-"Erma Jean, and Feebie start fixing the food that was later passed out as free samples?"
"The night before. We went in at five and cooked till ten or so. There was some stuff that had to be fixed the next morning, like the ham rolls and cheese squares. That Petrel fellow was real strict about when we was to do what."
"What about the tamales?"
"I didn't do the tamales," she said dully. She took a cookie from the box, studied it for a moment, then put it in her mouth and chewed pensively. "I fried chicken wings until I was ready to scream. That's what I did. Everyone said they was real tasty. Did you try one?"
"I'm afraid I missed those. Who did the tamales? Erma Jean or Feebie?"
"I think it was Erma Jean. She opened the cans, cut them into pieces, and put them out nice and neat in a roasting pan. The sauce was simmering on the stove. The first thing next morning, she dumped it on the tamales and put the pan in the oven to heat up."
"So the tamale sauce was in the refrigerator all night?"
"She didn't take it home with her, if that's what you're asking."
"Did anyone come into the kitchen the next morning?"
"Nobody." This time Dahlia managed to transport three cookies to her mouth. Once she'd dealt with them, she said, "Can I ask you something, Arly?"
"Sure," I said, hoping it was relevant to the case but not optimistic.
"Is it blackmail when you tell someone they have to do something or you'll make them regret they was ever born?"
I perked up. "It could be, Dahlia. You'll have to tell me more details before I can be sure."
She sighed morosely and dipped back in the box. "I don't reckon I can. It's mighty personal, if you know what I mean."
"But I don't know what you mean," I said, trying not to sound too eager. If someone had coerced her into dumping ipecac in the tamale sauce, I didn't want to alarm her into silence. "If you'll give me a hint, I'll try to help you. Blackmail is illegal. If you've been forced to do something out of fear, then it's not really your responsibility. You're a victim."
"I am?" Her lips formed a tight circle and began to pucker in and out as she thought. Both cheeks and several of her chins inflated until I was worried about an explosion. "You're saying I'm a victim, right? I don't have to pay any mind to their threats? You can put them in jail?"
"Who're we talking about?"
"I can't say just now," she said, relieved enough to take a handful of cookies.
"Does this have anything to do with the problems at the SuperSaver?" I persisted. "If it does, you've got to tell me, Dahlia. You heard about Lillith Smew, didn't you? What may have started as a prank has taken a serious turn, and whoever's behind it has to be stopped."
All this sincerity wafted right over her head. She shook her head (chins and all) and said, "I can't say no more."
I lacked the physical superiority to shake it out of her, and I'd lived in Maggody long enough to learn the futility of arguing with certain people. There are some horses you can't even lead to water. "Let's go on to Monday evening," I said. "You went by the store to talk to Kevin. Did you see anyone else?"
"I saw Buzz Milvin. He came to the back of the store and was right unfriendly. He told me to leave, so I did." She was trying to sound haughty, but it didn't ring quite true. Watching her closely, I said, "Right away?"
Dahlia picked up the box of cookies, squeezed it so hard that I could hear crumbling inside it, then put it down and let out another sigh. "I may have detoured to the break room for a few minutes. Kevin and I had things to discuss."
"Wedding plans?"
"Not hardly."
There was something wrong with the story, but I couldn't quite get hold of it. Dahlia's veiled remarks about blackmailers-"them"-should have made some sense, should have done something besides confuse me all the more. But if her mind moved, then it did so in deeply mysterious ways and she wasn't about to offer me a map. I thanked her for her invaluable assistance and drove back to the PD to make a few notes.
*****
"Now this is just between you and me," Barbie Buteo said over the telephone to Joyce Lambertino, who was stirring eggs with one hand, buttering toast with the other, and keeping an eye on Larry junior, who was feeding the baby pieces of cereal.
Holding the receiver with her shoulder wasn't making life any easier for Joyce, but Barbie had called long distance and it wouldn't be polite not to listen. "What's between you and me?" she said, doing her best to sound intrigued.
"You got to promise not to tell another soul. This was told to me in the strictest confidence-and it could cost someone her job."
"Then don't tell me." Joyce tossed pieces of toast to Saralee and Traci, dumped milk on Lissie's cereal, and snatched up Larry junior's glass of orange juice just as the baby lunged. "Maybe I ought to call you back," she added.
"It's about that Petrel fellow. I just wanted to warn you to lock all your doors and windows, Joyce. I know Larry Joe's gone all day, and I hate to think you and the children would be at the mercy of a madman."
The glass slipped out of Joyce's hand and splattered the floor in a yellow-orange explosion that delighted the spectators. "Mommie did a boo-boo," Larry junior cackled. Saralee, Lissie, and Traci giggled, and the baby threw a handful of Cheerios in the air. Everyone thought it was festive, except for Joyce, who'd turned rigid and was gulping like crazy.
She snapped at Larry junior to clean up the mess, then took the telephone and moved around to the far side of the refrigerator. "What on earth are you talking about, Barbie?" she whispered. "Petrel is Jim Bob's partner, isn't he?"
"I wouldn't know about that," Barbie said. "I'm only telling you this for your own good, Joyce, cause we were best friends in high school and I'm worried about you. The police arrested him for raping a bunch of girls, but he escaped from their clutches and is hiding in Maggody somewhere, waiting for a chance to brutalize some innocent girl or housewife. That kind don't stop until someone puts a bullet through their hearts-if they have hearts, anyway. He's an animal, a crazed wild animal out there watching and waiting." Joyce looked out the kitchen window at the tire swing, the sandbox with its collection of plastic trucks, buckets, and shovels, Larry junior's deflated basketball, and the usual crap she saw every day through that same window. A robin hopped across the yard and a squirrel was hanging from the bird feeder. T
heir dog, a scrawny tan mutt with a fondness for plastic trucks, lay on his side in the sun. It looked pretty normal, and it was hard to think of a rapist squatting behind the forsythia bushes.
"He is?" she finally said about the time Barbie was starting to get alarmed.
11
When I got to the PD, I called Harve to see if he'd heard anything from the state lab on the second and third incidents of poisoning. He hadn't, but the lab moved exceedingly slowly and neither of us bothered to feign any surprise.
"You working on the list of witnesses?" he asked.
I told him what Cherri Lucinda Crate had said the previous night on the balcony of the Airport Arms Apartments. "It's screwy," I added. "I can't think of any reason either of them would bother to lie about it."
"Folks lie all the time," he said succinctly.
"I know they do," I said, sighing, "but usually for some perceptible motive. Jim Bob's whereabouts at eleven o'clock Monday night aren't relevant-or at least I don't think they are. What may or may not have happened in her apartment is only of prurient interest."
"Guess you better run it by him again, tell him what the gal said and ask him what all he's got to say. Hold on a minute, Arly, I got to see a man about a horse."
I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet on the desk. If the V formed by my feet was the gizmo at the end of a barrel, I'd have a clean shot at my visitor's seat across the room. I twitched my feet for a minute, frowning, then let it slide and picked up the notes I'd written after talking to Dahlia. Almost all the scribbles had question marks at the end, and when Harve came back on the line, I went over them with him.
"So the sauce could have been spiked Friday night or Saturday morning," I said. "But according to Jim Bob's statement, the SuperSaver was uninhabited that night because there wasn't any cash in the registers. Dahlia and the other two cooks showed up early in the morning and were in the kitchen until the tamales were taken out to the pavilion."
"Which puts us right back where we were. Unless you want to pin it on the cooks or a cheerleader, one of the folks in the area went over to the table and dumped ipecac on the tamales. And unless we got a copycat, that same person got nastier and nastier till the Smew woman died."
"Damn it, I wish we knew what was in that coconut cake," I said. "At some point Monday evening or during the night, someone must have set the tampered cakes out where they'd be the easiest to pick up."
"Weren't many folks there during the night," Harve pointed out. "You'd better look harder at those who came by before the SuperSaver closed and had reasons to resent it."
Like Ruby Bee. "Wait a minute," I said, getting so excited that my feet nearly slid off the desk. "According to Jim Bob, the regular schedule calls for Buzz Milvin to come in at nine, total the register tapes, and count the money. Jim Bob verifies it and takes the money to the night depository in Starley City. But something changed Monday night, and Jim Bob sent Buzz with the money and then went to Cherri Lucinda's apartment or not, depending on whose story you believe."
"So the store was empty for what-about an hour?"
"Not exactly," I said slowly, "but I think it's time for a long talk with Kevin Buchanon. Dahlia hinted at dark secrets. Kevin will spill the beans if I have to handcuff him and hoist him into the sweet gum tree in his backyard."
Harve chuckled and wished me luck.
I called the hospital and learned that Buzz was out of immediate danger but still hooked up to various support systems and unable to have visitors. Martin Milvin was fully conscious and would be released after twenty-four more hours of observation. I wanted to pass along the news to Lissie, but Joyce's line was busy and I was primed to tackle Kevin Buchanon.
He was sitting on the porch swing, looking as distracted as Dahlia had earlier, although he wasn't shoveling cookies into his mouth. "How's it going?" he asked as I came onto the porch.
"Not well," I said. "You've heard that Buzz and Martin Milvin were poisoned and Lillith Smew may have been murdered?"
"Yeah, my ma heard something from somebody last night when she was swapping recipes. Buzz is a pretty good ol' guy for the most part, and I feel real bad for all of them."
I gave him an icy look. "Then maybe you'll cooperate? I don't know what you and Dahlia have been up to, but I want to hear the truth-and I want to hear it now."
His face turned splotchy and he began to gulp loudly. He grabbed the arm of the swing, staring at me as if I'd announced I'd come to arrest him for murder and execute him on the spot.
"Calm down," I said, retreating to the edge of the porch and hastily assessing my chances if I stepped back into the azaleas. "I just want to know what happened Monday night, that's all."
"That's all?"
I nodded. "That's all, Kevin-unless you're in the mood to confess to serial murders or unsafe sex."
Apparently I'd said something else wrong. A gurgling noise came from his throat, as if it had been slashed. "You're one of them," he gasped, pointing a trembling finger at me. "I didn't think you was like them, but now I know. All you folks do is gossip and tell tales and turn innocent stories into big fat lies!" He covered his face with his hands and moaned, his shoulders jerking and his feet pounding on the porch in an unsteady cadence.
Eilene came to the screened door. "Morning, Arly. What on earth's the matter with Kevin?"
"I don't know," I murmured to her. "I made a small joke, not very funny, and he suddenly…went to pieces and…I don't know what to tell you, Eilene. I didn't mean to upset him."
She came out onto the porch and rapped him on the head. "Stop this nonsense at once, young man. Do you want someone walking by to hear you carrying on like this? After what happened last week, I'd like to think you'd be a little more worried about making a spectacle of yourself."
Kevin moaned loudly. Anyone walking by would be more likely to wonder if the family had adopted a terminally ill coyote.
"Did something happen last week?" I asked. I couldn't see how it related to my investigation, but the intensity of Kevin's reaction was curious.
Eilene gave me a bright smile, but she sounded embarrassed as she said, "Just a little problem between Kevin and his fiancée. Kevin's pa had a word with him in the woodshed afterward, and I don't believe there'll be any more of that."
"Good," I said vaguely. I told Eilene to tell Kevin I'd come by later when he was more in the mood to discuss Monday night, then went to my car and pulled out into Finger Lane.
And saw the brick pillars on either side of Hizzoner's driveway, a J and a B, both beckoning to me. If I couldn't get anything out of Kevin-except a primitive display of histrionics-then it might be a good time to have a run at Hizzoner…in his own home and, with any luck, his own wife at his side.
The investigation hadn't progressed, but I discovered I was in a much better mood as I drove up the winding road to the pretentious redbrick house on top of the hill.
I rang the doorbell several times. I was about to leave when Hizzoner opened the door, said, "Wait, I'm on the telephone long distance," and slammed the door.
I walked up and down the porch until he returned five minutes later. "I've got some questions," I said, wondering if he remembered our conversation the previous night at the bar and grill.
"So do I," he said. "I wish to hell you'd tell me where Lamont Petrel is. If I don't get forty grand to the wholesaler by tomorrow, he'll slap a lien on the store and we won't be able to close the loan. Then the folks with the construction loan'll get antsy, and gawd only knows what they'll do. I can come up with my share, but I sure as hell can't cover the whole ball of wax. I'm having to make payroll out of my pocket as it is, because the SuperSaver gets closed down every time I turn around to piss downwind."
He was upset, but not especially at me, which was a refreshing change. I almost felt a twinge of guilt as I said, "My questions have to do with your purported visit to Cherri Lucinda Crate Monday night at eleven."
He grabbed my arm and pulled me off the porch and away from
the house. "What's purported about it?" he said in a low voice, keeping an eye on the front door.
"I questioned her last night, and she said she was alone Monday night, doing her nails and watching a movie. She said she hadn't seen you in a long time, and even asked how you were doing."
"That little bitch! She knows damn well I was there. Are you sure you questioned the right person?"
"Airport Arms Apartments, top floor on the end," I said, shrugging. "She said she was Crate, but I didn't demand to see her driver's license."
"Blond hair and two-inch fingernails?"
"She had a towel on her head, so I didn't see her hair. I did see the fingernails, though. They were rather striking."
"That's her." Jim Bob began to pace between the shrubs, his brow wrinkled and his mouth twisted to one side. "And she said she hadn't seen me anytime lately, did she? I've got a hundred witnesses who could say different. Jesus H. Christ, I dunno what the hell's going on. Maybe I'm going crazy, what with the bank breathing down my neck like a slobbery dog, and the wholesaler whining, and Petrel off somewhere working on his tan or screwing some waitress while I get all the shit."
"You have no idea where he is?"
"If I knew where he was, I wouldn't be neck-deep in shit! I'd be dragging him back so we get this straightened out." He banged his fist against his palm, no doubt wishing Petrel's face was available.
"The state police will find him eventually," I said. "But I have to know what happened Monday night. Why did you send Buzz to make the deposit?"
"What the fuck difference does it…" He stopped pacing and looked down at the lawn for a moment, his eyes narrowed with thought. "Petrel's car still parked at the Flamingo Motel?"
"As far as I know." I waited for him to continue, but he gave me a studiously flat look and I couldn't for the life of me guess what he was up to. "Does that tell you something?" I said at last.