by Joan Hess
“I reckon not,” he said, still peeved that she hadn’t bothered to fix his lunch. If she kept this up, he thought as he opened the refrigerator and started hunting for the jar of mayonnaise, he’d take to getting a sandwich at the deli and eating lunch in his office, where he could have a beer and gaze at naked women on the Internet. “What’s all that mess you’re making on the table?”
“I am seeing to the preparations for the arrival of our guests for the documentary. It is a responsibility that I have taken upon myself, despite the headaches and frustration. If it was left up to you, we’d end up looking like a collection of ignorant bumpkins. It’s not that I don’t have other things to do, but if it’s to be done right, I’ll have to do it myself.” She looked up at him. “Do you believe the mayonnaise is going to put itself back in the refrigerator? Last time I looked, it didn’t have wings.”
Jim Bob leaned against the edge of the counter and took a bite of his sandwich. “So what’s this about people staying here? I don’t want a houseful of folks tromping all over the place when I get home from a hard day at the supermarket.”
“You may find yourself sleeping there if your attitude doesn’t improve. We are having five guests, not a battalion. Miss Hathaway and Wendell Streek, as you heard last night. We’ll also have the impressionists, since they can hardly be expected to stay at the Flamingo Motel. Kenneth Grimley is a history professor from some college in Ohio and plays the role of a dashing brigadier general. Mrs. Corinne Dawk of Charleston, South Carolina, who plays the role of a widow woman left to run a plantation, writes historical novels set during the Civil War. Two of them have been made into miniseries shown on cable television. She will be accompanied by her son’s fiancée. None of them will be tromping around the house or leaving crumbs on the counter like some folks I won’t name.”
Jim Bob stuck the mayonnaise jar back in the refrigerator and brushed the crumbs in the general direction of the sink. “Where’s that cobbler we had for supper last night?”
“If you’re referring to the cobbler we had for dinner last night, you finished it while you were watching that ridiculous baseball game.” She studied the list of guests. “I suppose I can put Mrs. Dawk and the girl in my bedroom, and Mr. Grimley and Mr. Streek in the little bedroom next to the bathroom, but that still leaves Miss Hathaway. I’ll just have to put her in your bedroom.”
“Which puts us where?”
“On the sofa bed in the living room.” Mrs. Jim Bob jotted down the sleeping arrangements, then added a reminder to buy several sets of towels just in case her guests were the sort who expected fresh ones every morning. The Yankee professor wasn’t likely to, but genteel ladies from Charleston would. She could only hope they wouldn’t expect a maid to unpack their bags, press their frocks, and strap them into their corsets. Perkin’s eldest had her limitations.
Jim Bob gulped. “On the sofa bed?”
“You are more than welcome to sleep on a cot in the utility room if that’s what you prefer. Married people have been known to share a bed, you know. The Lord approves of conjugal relationships. Adultery, on the other hand, is one of the stepping-stones to eternal damnation.”
“I was just thinking how lumpy it is,” he muttered.
“Life is lumpy, Jim Bob. I learned that not long after we said our vows.” She picked up another piece of paper. “The Missionary Society will see to the picnic on the first night. I can have Ruby Bee provide vegetables, rolls, and desserts for the pig roast the following evening, presuming the Chamber of Commerce can find a few dollars to cover her expenses.”
“Chamber of Commerce?”
“I’ve already explained that to you, but it seems you weren’t listening. Maggody has a Chamber of Commerce, with you as president. Roy’s the secretary and Larry Joe’s the treasurer.”
Jim Bob wished he’d taken a couple of swigs from the pint of bourbon he kept under the seat of his pickup. “We have a treasury? How much money do we have?”
“Not enough for you to take that bleached-blond harlot to Las Vegas,” Mrs. Jim Bob said, shuffling through her notes to try to figure out how many folks would attend the pig roast. A corn casserole would be nice, she thought, unless the reenactors wanted to roast ears of corn on the grill in some sort of primitive display of authenticity. Baked apples went nicely with pork, as did marinated green beans. Perhaps brownies or carrot cake.
“There’s a treasury somewhere up on Cotter’s Ridge,” said Jim Bob. “Could be millions of dollars just waiting to be found.”
She glanced up at him. “And how do you intend to go about doing that?”
“Hell, I don’t know,” he said, then winced as she glowered at him. “I mean, somebody’s liable to find it.”
“If it’s there.”
“That Miss Hathaway said it might be. Buchanons have lived in these parts since before the Civil War. If two saddlebags of gold had been pulled out of a cave, the family would have known. I think the gold’s still there.”
“You may think whatever you like, but I have more important things to do what with five house guests. I’ll have to provide them with breakfast and lunch every day, as well as tea in the afternoon. Perkin’s eldest will hardly have time to do much cooking after making beds, cleaning the bathrooms, mopping the floors, and dusting and vacuuming downstairs as well as upstairs. Some days she reminds me of a box turtle creeping down the hall. It’s impossible to find adequate help these days. Although I am appalled by the concept of slavery, I find it hard not to see some advantages.”
Jim Bob had been wandering. “You know who probably has a real good idea where the gold is? Diesel, that’s who. He’s been living up on Cotter’s Ridge for a long while, and ought to know every cave by now. If he’d stumbled across the treasure, he most likely dumped out the gold and took the saddlebags to make moccasins. I mean, it ain’t like he can buy anything up there, so gold wouldn’t be any use to him.”
Mrs. Jim Bob looked up. “And you’re going to go up to his cave and ask him to kindly show you the gold? He’ll use your skin for his moccasins and stew the rest of you for his supper.”
“You might be right about that. I’ll have to come up with something.”
“Go ahead,” she said, “but don’t expect me to cry and wring my hands when they haul what’s left of you off the ridge in a plastic garbage bag. Maybe I’ll use you to fertilize the azaleas. They’re looking peaked this year.”
Jim Bob went out to his truck. Rather than driving away, he found the bottle of bourbon and took a few swallows as he gazed at Cotter’s Ridge. Damn that Diesel for being so ornery, he thought. After all, they were kin in some tangled way, and kin were supposed to help each other. Hell, they were obliged to help each other. Didn’t everybody say that blood was thicker than water? The problem was that his blood was likely to prove it if he cornered Diesel without warning. What he needed was someone to soften up the crazy old coot and remind him of his ties to the Buchanon clan.
By the time he started down the driveway, he had a plan.
Ruby Bee put the last of the pies in the oven, made sure the kitchen was nice and tidy, and went out into the bar. Unsurprisingly, Estelle was seated at the end of the bar, with a glass of sherry and a basket of pretzels within reach.
“Ain’t you got any appointments this afternoon?” Ruby Bee asked in a most unfriendly tone.
“Got your knickers in a knot? I was supposed to give Joyce a perm, but she had to cancel. It seems Larry Joe promised to babysit, but he found a sudden desire to go squirrel hunting.”
“Squirrel season doesn’t start up again for most of a month.”
Estelle gazed at herself in the mirror alongside the back of the bar to make sure the spitcurls surrounding her face were lined up, then said, “Joyce doesn’t think the squirrels are in much danger. All Larry Joe took with him was a spade and a sack of baloney sandwiches.”
“Lookin’ for gold, is he?”
“Him and half the town, from what Joyce said. It seems to me t
hat experienced detectives like us ought to figure out a way to use our wits to find it first.”
Ruby Bee cleared her throat. “We haven’t had a string of successes, Estelle. Arly flat out told me that all we’ve ever done is make a muddle of things. She has a point.”
“Well, Miss Priss will change her mind when we show everybody up. The thing is, we need a plan. I tossed and turned all night long trying to think how we should go about this. Instead of counting sheep, I found myself counting caves up on Cotter’s Ridge.” She rubbed her eyes so Ruby Bee could appreciate her weakened condition, although she was mindful of her mascara and turquoise eyeshadow. “That’s not to say I know where they are. I was never one to poke my head in a hole that might be home to a bad-tempered bobcat.”
“Me, neither.” Ruby Bee went back into the kitchen to stir the chicken simmering on the stove, then returned. “What’s more, there are more caves up there than there are hairs sticking out of Alfresco Buchanon’s ears. How in tarnation would we find the right one? I doubt this rebel soldier painted a big ol’ X above the entrance to the cave.”
“I sure could find a way to use a million dollars,” Estelle said.
“I reckon we all could. I’ve been running this place for a long time, Estelle. The only time I’ve had a semblance of a vacation is when I was closed down by the health department on account of that grease fire in the kitchen. My knees are starting to bother me something awful when I scrub the floor. Just this morning my back felt so rusty I wasn’t sure I could get out of bed. I did, of course, because I had to make biscuits and start a pot roast for lunch.”
“Feeling your age, are you?”
“Not as much as you are. I know for a fact you’re three years older than me.”
Estelle bristled like a prickly pear. “And just how do you know that? Was there a time I’m unaware of when you worked at the county clerk’s office filing birth certificates?”
“Never mind, “said Ruby Bee. “But like you said, we could use a windfall. I just don’t see how we can find this particular cave any more than we could find a talking squirrel and sell it to a carnival.”
“And I can’t see us asking Raz for advice. I’m not fond of having tobacco juice spat in my face. He ought to be put down like a rabid skunk.” She popped a pretzel into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “But I can think of somebody else who knows Cotter’s Ridge better than most anybody, somebody who had the run of the ridge all his life, someone on speakin’ terms with all the copperheads and lizards…”
“You’d better not be thinking what I’m thinking you’re thinking,” said Ruby Bee, her tongue getting tangled along the way. “We’ve got all these fancy folks and make-believe soldiers coming to Maggody. I don’t have any idea how many tourists will come to gawk at them, but I reckon more than two or three. Mrs. Jim Bob’s liable to march in here any minute and tell me she expects cheese grits and cornbread for a hundred people. This movie fellow and his assistant will be staying out back, and they’ll probably expect room service and mints on their pillows at night. There is no way on God’s green earth that we’re going to bring in a hundred pounds of pure trouble. You just put that right out of your head, Estelle Oppers! I ain’t having anything to do with this birdbrained scheme of yours, not even for a share of a million dollars!”
“Suit yourself,” said Estelle, lifting her chin so she could look down her nose at Ruby Bee with the condescension of European royalty. “I am perfectly capable of doing this by myself. I just hope you recollect the story of the Little Red Hen. She ended up eating her fine fresh bread all by herself.”
“Arly will kill us.”
“Well, at least we’ll be able to afford marble headstones.”
Brother Verber was stretched out on his sofa, his head propped on a pillow and a glass of sacramental wine nearby on the coffee table. It being Saturday afternoon, he should have been slaving over his sermon for the following morning, but he was having a problem settling on a theme. Lust, adultery, perversion, fornication. None of them grabbed his fancy as they usually did. Hardly a week had passed in all these years since he’d received his mail-order diploma from the seminary in Las Vegas that he’d failed to berate his congregation for one or more of these, odds being he’d hit home in the second or third pew. Why, just watching beads of sweat popping out on someone’s brow justified his calling to the cloth. His flock floundered, but he himself was the shepherd that collected up their souls and led them back into the glorious green pasture of righteousness.
And there was that bothersome story about a fortune up on Cotter’s Ridge.
Brother Verber kicked off his slippers and took a drink of wine. All that gold, just waiting to see the light of day. It could be put to use in the Almighty Lord’s war against evil, he thought as he wiggled his toes. Sin was out there, behind every door and down every alley. Young women pulling off their lingerie for the sake of a few dollars, lurking in houses of ill repute where gentlemen paid for their services, laughing when they should be down on their knees repenting for their sins. And what they did in the photos of the magazines Brother Verber kept in his closet was enough to keep Satan hisself stoking the furnace.
The fortune had to be put to use to combat this pervasive moral degradation, he decided. He struggled to his feet and went into the kitchen to make a cheese and sweet pickle sandwich. Ever since he’d heard about the gold, he’d felt uneasy, as though some foul odor was beginning to taint Maggody. If the gold was to fall into the wrong hands, why, there’d be no telling what might happen. The Pot O’ Gold trailer park might be overrun by brassy sluts. The cheerleaders at the high school might take to wearing outfits that exposed their navels and accentuated their perky breasts. Cable television might be introduced, with all its scurrilous temptations. Before too long, his congregation would dwindle to a few emaciated widows and he’d be reduced to living off their charity and deviled eggs.
Brother Verber took the wine bottle with him as he returned to the sofa. He couldn’t allow this wickedness to pervade, he concluded as he chomped down on the sandwich. Any fortune lying about on Cotter’s Ridge was going to be dedicated to the Lord’s work, be it a hospital in some African country, a new roof on the Assembly Hall, or even a double-wide replacement for the current rectory.
But he knew he needed a plan before the Yankees started descending like fruit flies on a ripe banana. He’d never spent much time on Cotter’s Ridge, having an aversion to ticks and chiggers, but he was painfully aware of the countless caves. The gold could be in any one of them. After a brief consideration, he figured the Lord wasn’t likely to provide a map. No, it was going to require the help of someone likely to know each and every inch of the ridge—and that was Raz Buchanon.
Which presented a problem, Brother Verber admitted to himself as he refilled his glass and stretched back on the sofa. Raz was ornery, foul-mouthed, and most likely a soldier in Satan’s army. Raz had never set foot in the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, which was for the best since he’d be struck dead on the spot.
He’d have to be approached carefully, even artfully. He’d have to be connived into letting down his defenses and being tricked into telling what all he knew about the caves on Cotter’s Ridge. An offer of a discount baptism and a choir robe wasn’t going to do the trick.
Brother Verber knew he needed a plan.
3
I’d opened all the windows (okay, both of them) in the office to air out the sour odor left by Perkin when he’d dropped by earlier to accuse Raz of some convoluted malfeasance involving dawgs. It’s hard to follow Perkin when the spittle is flying. I’d learned long ago to duck my face and pretend to scribble notes—as well as keep a box of tissues in a desk drawer.
Now I was flipping through catalogs as I awaited the opportunity to earn my paycheck by foiling an armed robbery at the post office or negotiating a hostage situation at the Suds of Fun Launderette. In that we don’t have a post office and there’s nobody in Maggody worth taking ho
stage, I figured I was in for a peaceful afternoon.
There was some potential peril in hanging out at the PD, however. Stump County Sheriff Harve Dorfer could call at any second and wheedle me into writing up a gory car wreck on some back road or fishing a bloated body out of the reservoir. Harve was likely to be more shorthanded than usual, since the weather was balmy and a goodly number of his deputies were fond of fishing (or at least sitting in john boats, drinking beer, and telling lies). Then again, I was going to need Harve’s cooperation toward the end of the week. Not only was I going to have to deal with the reenactors, their mules, horses, muskets, wives, children, and whatever they’d stuffed in their haversacks, but also slack-jawed tourists, half a mile of barricaded road, and the good ol’ boys at the pool hall whose pickups sported Confederate flag decals. Most of them would be hard-pressed to name the century in which the Civil War took place, but their resentment simmered despite their ignorance.
I wondered how long it would be before I’d have to start hauling people out of caves on Cotter’s Ridge. I took my flashlight out of a drawer and determined that the batteries were dead. The only rope at the PD was a piece of frayed clothesline I’d found in the weeds out back. I could tie a square knot and a noose, but neither would be adequate if Dahlia got herself wedged in a rabbit hole. The police academy had offered no courses in rescuing overly enthusiastic treasure hunters, should they deserve to be rescued. There were enough caves to accommodate half the town, or perhaps all of them. After a while, Raz and I would be the only ones left to walk the deserted street and compete for cans of corn and peas at Jim Bob’s SuperSaver Buy 4 Less. My face would become gray and haggard as I sat alone on a stool at Ruby Bee’s, praying the beer distributor would arrive before there was water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.