by Joan Hess
“Impressive,” I murmured, unimpressed. “I don’t moonlight as a sportswriter, so if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I guess we’re done.”
Janna grabbed my arm. “I want to report an assault.”
I felt a tingle of fear for whoever had tried it. “Who assaulted you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Natalie’s the victim. I insisted that she sleep late this morning, so she can concentrate on her second round today. Every media opportunity counts, even”—she rolled her eyes—“in a place like this.”
“Who assaulted her?”
Her shoulders sagged. “I don’t know, and she was too upset to tell me. It happened last night. after dinner, she insisted that we join the others in the bar to congratulate Tommy Ridner. I saw no point in it, but I reluctantly agreed. It was dreadful, of course, and we didn’t stay long.”
“Where did you go?” I asked.
“Back to our room, of course. I was already in bed when Natalie discovered that she’d left her wallet in the bar. I took an antihistamine and started reading, but I dozed off and didn’t wake up until Natalie crept into the room. Her clothes were dirty and her hair was a mess. When I asked, she started sobbing and admitted that she’d been attacked in the parking lot. That’s all I could get out of her.”
“What time did Natalie come back to the room?”
Janna hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess I knocked my alarm clock off the bedside table when I turned off the reading light. If she hadn’t tripped on a suitcase, I might have slept through it. Whoever committed this vicious crime deserves to be punished. I’ve invested four years in coaching Natalie and fine-tuning her reputation. A few small companies have offered her endorsement fees, but I’m holding out for the real deal. This could ruin everything.”
She paused, her forehead creased with deep lines. “Or maybe we can play the sympathy card. Natalie could be the spokeswoman for victims of sexual abuse. The media might see it as an act of courage for her to go public with the story.”
“Before Natalie makes a deal with Oprah, she’ll have to file a complaint in person,” I said. “I’ll be in and out of the PD all day. Tell her to come by and talk to me. I can’t do anything until I have details.”
Janna bristled. “If she’s up to it. We’ll leave as soon as she collects her trophy. This town is a mad house. Yesterday I saw a woman at the supermarket try to shoplift a frozen turkey. It slid out from between her legs while she was waiting in the checkout lane. We won’t stay here one second longer than necessary. I’ll have Natalie available for you at my Farberville apartment later this week.”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’m going to require all participants in the tournament to stay in town until I interview them and take statements.” I gestured for Ruby Bee to meet me by the cash register.
I could hear Janna muttering behind me as I said, “I need the names and the unit numbers of everyone who’s staying here. after I’ve spoken to them, I’ll come back here and get the information about the victim. If Harve shows up, let him know where I am.”
Ruby Bee opened a notebook. “That woman and the girl are in three. A woman named Kathleen Wasson and her son are in four. Tommy was in five, and a married couple, Dennis and Amanda Gilbert, are in six. Seven’s empty. Phil Proodle’s in eight. I haven’t seen any of them except her this morning. I heard somebody say that today’s round starts at ten o’clock. It’ll be a wonder if anybody bothers to show up, what with the bass boat taken.”
“No, it isn’t,” Estelle said, whose hearing is comparable to a submarine’s sonar.
“Yes, it is,” I said. “I was there when Ridner made the hole-in-one. So were Harve, Bony, Frederick, and another player. A high school kid with a bandana tied around his arm initialed the scorecard.”
“That was before Tommy heard about the fine print.” She made us wait while she took a sip of coffee. “Fatback told me about it. Mrs. Jim Bob announced that he wouldn’t win officially until this afternoon, when the awards are given out. Winners must be present and so forth. He wasn’t upset about it, mind you. He might have felt differently if he’d known he was gonna get murdered.”
“What?” Janna said, so startled that her coffee splattered on the shiny black surface of the bar. “Murdered? Tommy Ridner?”
“Shit,” I said under my breath as I headed out to the units behind the bar and grill. If everyone knew that eliminating Tommy Ridner from the second round would put the boat back up on the block, then I had more suspects than a golf ball has dimples.
Okay, not that many.
I knocked on the door of number four. A woman in a bathrobe identified herself as Mrs. Kathleen Wasson. I assumed the inert form under a blanket on one of the twin beds was her son. I was surprised when she merely nodded at my request and closed the door. There was no reason to disturb the upcoming LPGA star, since Janna Coulter had already been advised. A battered white Mercedes was parked in front of number five, and next to it a slinky, well-pampered Jaguar. The former was more likely to have been Tommy’s, I thought. I festooned his door with yellow tape and continued on to number six.
The woman who opened the door was less than amiable. Her red silk robe coordinated nicely with her bloodshot eyes. She was armed with a blow dryer. “What do you want?” she demanded.
“We won’t be checking out until this afternoon, so you’ll have to wait to clean the room. My husband will leave a tip on the bedside table, but it won’t be much. I wouldn’t ask my worst enemy to sleep on that horrid bed. The mattress must be filled with corncobs or what ever it is you people use.”
“I’m Chief of Police Arly Hanks.” I edged back in case she had a sudden impulse to attack me with a blast of hot air. She looked like the sort to judge people by the color of their badge, and mine was tin, not platinum. “There’s been an incident, and we’re asking everyone not to leave town until we have a statement.” We, as in me.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Dennis and I are going to a cocktail party at six. As soon as he finishes today, we’re driving back to Farberville. I have no idea what this incident may be, but Dennis and I are not involved in your little local squabbles.”
“Who is it?” asked a man as he came out of the bathroom.
I recognized him as one of the foursome that had included Tommy Ridner. He was now wearing a pale yellow shirt and perfectly fitted white trousers. When he smiled at me, only his lips moved, as if the rest of his face were anaesthetized. His gaze was unfocused, suggesting the effects of the alcohol from the previous night had not completely worn off. He’d managed to shave without doing himself any harm, which I supposed was a good sign. “I’m Arly Hanks, chief of police,” I said. “You must be Dennis Gilbert.”
His wife went into the bathroom and slammed the door. He did not so much as flinch. “You told my wife there’s been an incident. May I inquire into its nature?”
There was no reason not to tell him, so I did.
He squinted at me. “You must have made a mistake with the identification. Are you sure it was Tommy? If the face was covered with blood, couldn’t it have been somebody with a similar build? It was dark.”
“The Stump County sheriff was in your foursome yesterday, and it wasn’t dark when he got here this morning. Two other witnesses identified him. There’s no doubt that the victim was Tommy Ridner.”
“Poor old Tommy.” Dennis leaned against the doorjamb and shook his head. “I can’t believe it. We met when we were ten, maybe eleven. I was a meek overachiever, and he was sent to the principal’s office at least once a day. Talk about an odd couple. In high school, I was the vice president of the student council and he was a varsity football player. He was the ultimate charmer. He could be loud and boorish, especially when he’d had too much to drink. That, I’m sorry to say, happened way too often, even back in our college days. He had a golf scholarship but was kicked off the team in his junior year for inappropriate behavior. He had a good heart, though, and the charisma of an aw-shucks
politician, so he had a large following of the ladies who lunch. They seem to be drawn to bad boys.”
“What about next of kin?”
Dennis blinked several times as he thought. “Divorced, no children, no siblings, parents passed away about ten years ago. I don’t know if he had family elsewhere. He never mentioned any uncles, aunts, or cousins. His grandparents could be alive. Do you want me to go to his house and look for an address book?”
“I’ll let you know later,” I said. “In the meantime, I’m asking everyone involved with the tournament to remain in town until I get statements. I understand that you and your wife have an engagement later this afternoon, so I won’t delay you any longer than necessary.”
He looked over his shoulder. “That would be wise, Chief Hanks.”
That left only Phil Proodle, reigning daredevil of Stump County.
His expression as he opened his door would have alarmed any potential boat buyer. He had bushy eyebrows, a pear-shaped body, and an orangish tan that undoubtedly washed away in the shower.
His ink black toupee was slightly askew. I couldn’t begin to imagine him in tights and a cape—which isn’t to imply I wished I could.
The only thing he looked capable of saving was time.
“I don’t need any fresh towels,” he said peevishly. “I’ve arranged for a late checkout time. Run along and annoy someone else.”
He started to close the door, but my foot was in the way. “Mr. Proodle,” I said, pushing against the door until he stepped back, “I’m not the maid. I’m the chief of police, and I need to have a word with you.”
“About the stoplight? I can assure you that no one was able to hit it squarely. It was a very poor idea, and I made it clear that I wanted no part of it. Eventually I did agree to officiate, and for that, I apologize. If there are any damages, send me the bill.”
“You do know that gambling is illegal in Arkansas.”
“If money was involved, I have no knowledge of it. It was just a friendly little competition.”
I decided to let him sweat until someone else brought him up to date. “I need to take your statement before you leave town. The PD is about a block down on your left.”
“after the tournament?”
I hadn’t really thought about that. I couldn’t think of any reason not to keep my potential suspects occupied for several hours.
It was Mrs. Jim Bob’s decision to proceed or cancel it, and I wasn’t in the mood to tangle with her. She would have to be told as soon as possible, though.
I was not a happy caddy as I went through the bar to collect the registration information from Ruby Bee, and then to my car.
I scribbled a note to Harve and taped it to the PD door, then drove to the mayoral mansion on Finger Lane.
Jim Bob answered the door. His complexion was gray, and his eyeballs were embedded in his skull like chips of yellow-flecked granite. He licked his lips several times before he was able to croak, “Whatta you want?”
I reminded myself that he was the boss and I was a city employee.
“There’s a problem. I’ll be happy to stand on the porch and fill you in, but it’s up to you. You may not want someone driving by to see that you sleep in teddy bear boxers. I myself think they’re precious.”
He yanked me inside. “What problem?”
I shied away from his breath, which could have dropped a polecat at twenty yards. “Tommy Ridner was killed sometime after midnight. His body was discovered about dawn.”
“No shit?” he gasped.
“No shit.” I did not gasp.
“God, I need some coffee.”
He staggered to the kitchen. Aware that Mrs. Jim Bob was likely to be there, I followed reluctantly. I was relieved to find only Frederick sitting at the dinette. He stood up as Jim Bob veered toward the coffeepot.
“Arly,” he said, “what a charming surprise. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“She ain’t a guest.” Jim Bob flopped down at the table and took a slurp of coffee. “So what the hell happened?” he asked me.
“I don’t know. He was slumped in the boat, his head battered in.” I looked at Frederick, who’d frozen. “Tommy Ridner, one of the golfers. Sheriff Dorfer and the medical examiner are at the scene. The weapon seems to be a golf club, more precisely a driver.”
“Good heavens,” Frederick said softly.
Jim Bob scratched his head. “So he was murdered? Is that what you’re saying?”
“It wasn’t suicide, and I don’t see how it could have been an accident. I’m going to have to get preliminary statements from everybody. Then it’ll be the sheriff’s case. I need to know what Mrs. Jim Bob wants to do about the tournament. If she cancels it, we may have to put up roadblocks to prevent people from sneaking away.”
“What this means,” Jim Bob said as he banged down his coffee cup, “is the boat ain’t been won after all.” A grin spread across his face, and his eyeballs emerged far enough to flicker with greed.
“Another eighteen holes left. I was starting to get a feel for it yesterday. Luke did pretty good, along with Larry Joe and Jeremiah. Kevin surprised us all. Who’da thought an asshole like him could drive a ball? When he was a kid, he couldn’t even ride a bicycle. We used to call him Scabby.”
“It’s rather coldhearted to continue with the tournament,” said Frederick.
Jim Bob toppled his chair as he stood up. “Ridner was a true golfer, and he’d want us to finish. Maybe we can dedicate it to him or something. I got to shower and make some calls. Mrs. Jim Bob’s over at the golf course, getting ready for today’s round. Get on over there and tell her what happened, Arly.”
“I’m on my way,” I said unenthusiastically as he dashed out of the room without so much as a petit jeté of joy. “I hope she sees it the same way,” I continued to Frederick. “If she cancels the tournament, I might have a rebellion on my hands. Make that a full-scale revolution.”
“Would you like me to go with you? She might be less inclined to pitch a fit in front of me. She doesn’t seem to be… well, fond of you. Do you have a history with her?”
“Nothing that keeps me awake at night. She’s convinced I’m already on my way to hell in a handbasket. Yeah, you can come along if you want to. I need to stop by Earl and Eileen’s house to have a word with Bony.”
“Bonaparte turned in the lowest score yesterday,” Frederick commented as he took his cup and saucer to the sink. “He’s determined to win the tournament to prove that he’s not washed up yet. I’m not so sure. And of course he can’t allow himself to lose to the blond girl. That would be the ultimate insult to his manhood.”
We walked toward the front door. “It’s not about the boat?” I asked.
“Winning the boat would be nice.”
“Nice? Half the married couples in this town aren’t speaking to each other because of the boat. It’s likely that Tommy Ridner was murdered because of the boat. Most of them would use a stronger word than ‘nice.’ ”
Frederick opened my car door and smiled at me.
It wasn’t worth the effort to be rude. As we drove down the driveway, I said, “Where’s your car, by the way?”
“It’s a classic. Even Jim Bob was impressed. Mrs. Jim Bob insisted that I park it in the garage. I haven’t had much reason to drive it in town, and it might as well be protected from bird droppings for the time being. It has more than two hundred thousand miles on it, but it rarely complains or causes me grief. Very few people can say that about a relationship.”
“True,” I said, wondering if Jack and I could go that distance.
Neither of us was high-maintenance, but everybody needs occasional tune-ups. And Jack certainly knew how to rotate my tires.
I realized I was blushing as I parked behind Earl’s pickup. “I’ll just be a minute.”
Eileen answered the door. “Good morning, Arly,” she said.
“Won’t you come in and have a cup of coffee? Is that Mr. Cartier in your car? I can make a ba
tch of biscuits to go with my homemade strawberry jam. It won’t take a minute. How about bacon and eggs, or an omelet?”
“Thanks, but I’m in a hurry,” I said. I gave her a brief explanation of the situation and asked her to tell Bony not to leave town.
She was still gaping when I got back in the car. “If you’re in the mood for breakfast, Eileen will be delighted to fix it for you.”
“I think not. You need to speak to Mrs. Jim Bob as soon as possible, and I want to be hovering nearby should you require support. Today’s round is scheduled to start at ten o’clock. That’s in a little more than an hour, unless the storm comes in. I don’t think she’ll be popular if she cancels it.”
“She’s more likely to be lynched. If the mob decides to string her up from a rafter in Raz’s barn, then he’ll come out blazing. A lot of the good ol’ boys around here keep hunting rifles and shotguns in their trucks.” I took one hand off the steering wheel to rub my eyes. If ever I needed caffeine, this was the time. Regrettably, it was off my list for the next seven months. All I had to look forward to when I woke up was morning sickness and the inevitable questions from Ruby Bee and Estelle about my future.
I could hear Mrs. Jim Bob’s voice as I parked behind her pink Cadillac. Elsie McMay hurried past us, a cylindrical coffeemaker in one arm and a tower of foam cups in the other. Millicent, clutching poster boards and markers, skittered toward the tent. Darla Jean followed her with several shoe boxes. Sleepy high school girls taped white paper on the long tables. I gathered from what I could hear that there was a crisis involving doughnuts and certain volunteers who would never be offered membership in the Missionary Society.
“Well?” Mrs. Jim Bob was snapping at Crystal Whitby, who was shrinking into the ground. “What do you expect me to do about it now? Stop sniveling and take responsibility. Don’t be surprised if your name is mentioned next week from the pulpit of the Voice of the Almighty Lord.”
I nudged Crystal out of the line of fire. “I need to talk to you, Mrs. Jim Bob. There’s a problem.”
“There are a passel of problems! Look at the sky. The last thing I need is a storm. How will it look if somebody gets hit by lightning? What’s more, last night I spent hours making a poster with today’s tee times, but I have no idea how many foursomes we’ll have. Complaints, criticism, whining—these golfers are worse than the Sunday school kindergarten class.” She turned away and shouted, “Darla Jean! Stop gossiping and make yourself useful. Elsie needs help with the coffeemaker. Eula, cover the doughnuts with napkins before the flies carry them off.”