by Joan Hess
“What if somebody makes a hole-in-one today? Mrs. Jim Bob’ll go ballistic if Proodle can’t present the winner with the key.”
“Proodle can present the key to the city of New Orleans for all I care. The boat’s a crime scene, and it’s gonna stay impounded until the case is closed.” Harve put on his hat and looked around at the office. “This place is a real dump, Chief Hanks. You ought to redecorate one of these days.”
I grabbed a catalog and hurled it at him, but he was already out the door. “Bastard,” I said loudly as I sat down behind my desk and brushed off the cigar ash, then emptied the remains of his cup of coffee in the wastebasket. I’d been fairly certain that I’d end up with the case dumped in my lap, but I was still annoyed.
I threw another magazine at the door, and then another for good mea sure.
Frederick came into the PD and tactfully stepped over the clutter. “Am I interrupting?”
“Have a seat. I was sulking, that’s all. How’s it going at the tournament?”
“Mrs. Jim Bob’s beginning to crack. When she saw Jim Bob passing a flask, she attacked him with her clipboard and chased him into the woods. It was highly entertaining, at least from a disinterested spectator’s viewpoint. Upon her return, she realized that Bonaparte had put out the leftover liquor and was fixing drinks. Proodle’s coolers were on the table, too. Drinking on Sunday appears to be a sin comparable only to blasphemy and bestiality. There was a great deal of activity as those with drinks tried to conceal them and those without tried to get one before she closed down the bar.”
“So glad I missed it,” I said. “What about your boy, Bony? Will he be sober enough to play well?”
“He wouldn’t know how to play at all in that condition. I imagine that’s something he shared with Tommy Ridner. The only thing, from what I heard. Bonaparte doesn’t have—if you’ll excuse the phrase—a charitable bone in his body. He’s petty-minded, vindictive, and not very bright. If he didn’t have a talent for golf, he’d be in prison.”
“That’s the local consensus.” I took a legal pad and a pen out of a desk drawer. “How about I take your statement now? Name, age, et cetera.”
“My name is Frederick Cartier, age sixty-two, retired, born in Jackson, Mississippi, with no permanent address. I most recently resided in Las Vegas in a hotel off the Strip. I don’t recall the name, but I have the bill somewhere.”
“When did you and Bony arrive in Maggody?”
“We checked into a motel in Farberville about twelve days ago. A dreadful place, dirty and noisy, with unsavory types doing business in the parking lot. Bonaparte went to a bar and met a man who agreed to drop him off here the next day. He struck a deal to give golf lessons to the local women until the tournament started, and his aunt invited him to stay at her house. Mrs. Jim Bob insisted that I stay at hers. I was reluctant at first, but the motel became intolerable and there were no other rooms available.”
“Why did Mrs. Jim Bob insist? Her sense of hospitality isn’t even skin-deep.”
“I may have mentioned that I’ve been involved behind the scenes with charity tournaments in places like Palm Springs and Maui. Jim Bob and I have avoided each other. A certain gentleman called Brother Verber has been a frequent guest. I don’t quite know what to make of him. The cleaning woman, referred to as Perkin’s eldest for some reason, never says a word but watches me like a sparrow, her head tilted. One afternoon I found her in my room, wearing nothing but my loafers and a silk necktie while she vacuumed. It’s been quite an experience.”
“Welcome to Maggody,” I said. “When I came back, I realized that I’d forgotten how peculiar the people are. For the last forty years Jessibelle Buchanon’s been writing threatening letters to former president Hoover because she doesn’t find a chicken in every pot. Luciffor Buchanon gets arrested in Farberville every few weeks for standing naked in front of the police department. Abindago Buchanon was caught spray-painting parking meters because they were spying on him. The list never ends. Nothing surprises me anymore. I’m just another patient in the asylum.” I picked up my pen. “Let’s finish your statement. What did you do yesterday?”
“Mrs. Jim Bob gave me a ride to the tournament site. Due to the high attrition, we reassigned the foursomes as best we could. I instructed the hole monitors, then sent them to their assigned holes. after that, I wandered around.”
“I heard there was alcohol consumed.”
He smiled wryly. “Oh, yes, to Mrs. Jim Bob’s consternation. Tommy ran a bar out of the trunk of his car, serving Bloody Marys, screwdrivers, tequila shots, and beer. Phil Proodle had cases of beer in his car. Most of the men managed to wet their whistles, and a few of the women. Miss Natalie was carrying a large cup of what she swore was straight orange juice, but it was suspiciously diluted. Mrs. Gilbert did not pretend. Mrs. Wasson, the mother of that annoying boy, accepted a Bloody Mary after her son teed off. Mrs. Jim Bob stormed around, lecturing anybody she could catch. The local boys who’d hoped to caddy were sent away in disgrace.”
“Things had calmed down when I got there,” I said. “What happened after I left?”
“Which you did rather abruptly, Arly. The sheriff appeared to be distraught when you spoke to him. I was deeply puzzled. I hope it was nothing too serious…” He lifted his eyebrows and waited.
It was too dopey to explain. “Depends on your perspective, but it didn’t involve a UFO invasion. Let’s go back to yesterday afternoon.”
“Word of Tommy’s hole-in-one spread. A lot of golfers departed immediately. The rest looked as if they’d been sucker-punched. Phil Proodle staggered to his car and stayed there for nearly an hour, his forehead resting on the steering wheel. He was so distressed that I felt a pang of sympathy for him.”
“I guess he wasn’t all that eager to give away the bass boat. He’s a big boy; he should have refused to donate it in the first place.”
“I believe it was Mrs. Jim Bob’s idea,” Frederick said.
I remembered all the times I’d tried to withstand one of Mrs. Jim Bob’s dictates. I’d had more success hailing cabs during rush hour in Manhattan—in the rain. I sighed and said, “Everybody ate dinner while the booze continued to flow. after that, the party continued at Ruby Bee’s Bar and Grill. Tommy’s bragging must have become intolerable, from what I was told. Did you notice anyone who was especially hostile?”
“I wouldn’t know, since I wasn’t there.”
“You weren’t?” I said, surprised. “I’d have thought you wanted to celebrate, since Bony was leading the field. You said it wasn’t about the boat but about winning the tournament.”
Frederick studied the floor. “He did well yesterday and certainly is in contention to win. I’d have gone to the bar to congratulate him and Tommy, but I couldn’t face the noise and that twangy music. I had a headache. I get them every now and then.”
“Try living here. Did you go to the bar Friday night? Lots of people were there, psyching themselves up.”
“No, I thought about it, but I decided that Mrs. Jim Bob deserved all the support I could give her. On Thursday she and Jim Bob had an unpleasant exchange of words, and he was banished to the utility room. He dodged her all day Friday, which infuriated her even more. She threatened to track him down and drag him home by his… well, his male anatomy. I insisted that she relax with a glass of wine, and we chatted until ten.”
“You voluntarily spent Friday evening with her?” I was perplexed, since I would have preferred to spend the evening locked inside a tiger compound.
“I didn’t want her to be alone.”
I decided his survival instinct was operating on a forty-watt bulb. “So you were at Mrs. Jim Bob’s house both evenings?”
“No,” Frederick said hesitantly. “I was there Friday, but not last night.” He went into the back room and emerged with a cup of coffee. after a sip, he grimaced and put the cup on the floor. “As I said, last night I had a migraine and couldn’t face the thought of Mrs. Jim Bob’s tirade about
the excessive drinking. I drove to Farberville and ended up at a coffee house, having a pleasant conversation with a few academic types. I almost felt guilty about discussing art and literature rather than the weather, golf, and that ridiculous bass boat.”
I nodded. “What time did you get back to Maggody?”
“About two. When the coffee house closed, an English professor invited everyone to his house. We sat on the deck and talked about Italian cinema—Benigni, Antonioni, Zeffirelli, and the like. I was alone in my opinion that Bertolucci is overrated. What do you think?”
“I think Bertolucci has nothing to do with Tommy’s murder. When you drove back to Mrs. Jim Bob’s house, did you see any activity in front of Ruby Bee’s?”
“Not a thing. If Maggody had sidewalks, they would have been rolled up. I went to the house and straight to bed. I didn’t happen to glance at the boat when I drove past the parking lot. I had no idea anything was wrong until you told Jim Bob.”
“I need the name of the English professor in case we need to verify your story.”
Frederick stiffened. “Am I a suspect?”
“Should you be?”
“I hardly knew Timmy Ridner. Why would I murder him?”
“Same reason as all the golfers—because he’d take possession of the boat if he appeared at the awards presentation this afternoon. You’re not a golfer, but you’re here to support Bony.”
“That’s absurd! Bonaparte is no more than a recent acquaintance. We met in Vegas two weeks ago, and when it became prudent for him to leave in the middle of the night, I agreed to drive him here merely out of curiosity. I have no monetary interest in his winnings,” he said, his smile noticeably less affable. “As for the name of the professor, I don’t recall it at the moment, and I have no idea where he lives. I merely followed his car. I did jot down his name and address on a napkin because I want to send him information about a film festival in San Marino. The napkin is in my car.”
A flash of lightning lit up the room, followed almost instantaneously by a boom of thunder that rattled the PD. I looked up, expecting to see a gaping hole in the ceiling. “Whoa,” I murmured.
“That was close.”
Frederick was on his feet. “I’d better get back to the golf course. Mrs. Jim Bob may be reluctant to call a storm delay. We don’t need any more tragedies.”
As soon as he left, I flipped to a fresh page and started working on a timeline of the previous day. The golfers began to tee off at 10:00 a.m. Tommy made his hole-in-one at about 2:00. Cocktails were served at 5:00, and dinner at 6:00. By 8:00, the party kicked in at Ruby Bee’s and lasted until 12:15. The competition to smash the stoplight began shortly thereafter. It ended before 2:00, when Frederick drove through town. Tommy, therefore, had been murdered between 12:30 and 2:00. That fell neatly into McBeen’s estimated time of death.
Now all I needed to know was who participated in the friendly little contest to destroy public property, and how Tommy Ridner ended up in the bass boat. Could it have been a group effort, with each loser taking a swing? I’d known the men in the tontine since I was a kid; none of them seemed that cold-blooded. Except Bopeep’s boyfriend, I amended, although I wasn’t ready to cast him as a prime suspect. And why assume the murderer was male? Tommy Ridner could have passed out in the boat. Beating an inert body does not require strength. My thoughts were as moody as the sky as I began to copy information from the registration forms to make a list of names and addresses of the remaining players. In alphabetical order, of course.
Joyce Lambertino was the first golfer to intrude on my haven.
Her ponytail drooped down her back like the tail of a coonskin hat and her clothes were so wet that they clung to her. I realized it was raining. I’d been vaguely aware of thunder but had been too engrossed in my list to even glance out the window.
“It’ll only take a minute, Joyce,” I said. “I pretty much know what happened during the day yesterday. I heard there was a brawl during dinner. Did it have anything to do with Tommy Ridner?”
“He wasn’t real popular. It might have been okay if he hadn’t kept rubbing it in, but he did. You’d have thought he was the first man to walk on the moon. It was making the menfolk downright surly, along with all the drinking.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t all that big a deal. As soon as Mrs. Jim Bob ordered Bony to stop serving booze, everybody started leaving.”
“And Larry Joe?”
“I wouldn’t know. He’s been sleeping in the barn, and I don’t keep track of his comings and goings. Are we done?”
“Thanks for coming by,” I said. I suspected I’d hear similar stories from all the wives. None of them would have dreamed of going to Ruby Bee’s barroom to party. Being seen in the presence of a pitcher of beer would lead to lifelong expulsion from the Missionary Society, as well as a lecture from the pulpit. Brother Verber had no hesitancy about naming names. I knew that he took potshots at me from time to time. I could expect a lot more in the future as my belly expanded. Mrs. Jim Bob would crochet me a scarlet letter that didn’t stand for Arly.
Elsie McMay called to say that the previous evening she and Lottie had been so appalled by the rowdiness at the dinner that they’d gone to her house to soothe themselves with coffee and pie. Eula and Millicent came in a minute later to say they left as soon as they finished eating. Eula added that Lottie’s carrot cake was dry, and Millicent said she had no idea what Jeremiah had done, since he was sleeping on Roy Stiver’s couch and could continue to do so until hell froze over, for all she cared.
Crystal Whitby was explaining in great detail what a narrow-minded, sexist jerk her husband was when the phone rang. I told her to hold the thought and picked up the receiver.
“Arly?” Ruby Bee said.
“This is Deputy Murtle,” I said in a husky voice. “Chief Hanks is out investigating a crime. Would you care to leave a message?”
There was a harrumph, followed by, “You just tell Chief Hanks that she better be searching Tommy Ridner’s motel room right this minute, ’cause if she ain’t, somebody else is.”
I put down the receiver, told Crystal to go home, and was out the door before I remembered it was raining. I went back inside to get the car key. I briefly debated whether or not I should take my gun, decided against it, and drove around the side of the bar to the motel.
There were more cars than I’d expected, and several familiar pickup trucks. Phil Proodle’s door was open, and I could see a goodly number of men in his room. The whoops and laughter suggested that yet another party was under way. Ruby Bee’s was open on Sundays, but she couldn’t sell beer. And as far as I knew, none of the husbands could go home to flop in front of the TV and watch the sport of the month.
The yellow police tape on the door of number five dangled from the jamb, and the door was ajar. I parked on the far side of Tommy’s Mercedes and approached slowly, regretting my decision not to bring my gun. Before I could bang open the door in a burst of bravado, shouting all sorts of officious threats, Dennis Gilbert stepped out of the room. We were equally startled.
“Chief Hanks,” he squawked. He pulled off his sunglasses. “I, uh, wasn’t…”
“Neither was I.” My heart was pounding, but I caught my breath. “What were you doing in there?”
He seemed to be looking at my left ear as he said, “I was hunting for Tommy’s car key. We’re having a wake for him in Phil’s room, and I’m sure he’d want us to drink the liquor in his trunk. The car’s locked. I thought his key might be on the dresser.”
“Didn’t you see the yellow police tape?”
“It was broken, and the door wasn’t locked,” he said. “I assumed you’d already searched the room. I know the law, and I would never have gone into the room if…”
“When did you get back here from the tournament?” I asked.
“Roughly an hour ago. Mrs. Jim Bob finally canceled the day’s round after lightning hit a tree less than fifty feet from the first tee. Almost everybody had already come in, bu
t not all of them. It turned into a chaotic scene. She tried to count noses and send some of the high school girls out to round up the strays, but the girls were wailing because of the storm. The tent leaked so badly that we were all soaked.”
“Did the rest of the people staying here also come back about that time?”
Dennis put on his sunglasses and looked toward the motel units across the way. “I guess so. Janna Coulter’s car was already here, but it’s gone now. That white hatchback belongs to Kathleen Wasson. I’m almost certain it was here, too. Jim Bob and his friends were pulling in as we parked. The frat boys decided to stick around for the free booze.” He winced as thunder boomed overhead. “Certain areas on the golf course are flooded, and there are a lot of branches down.”
“Was the yellow tape broken when you got here an hour ago?”
“I can’t say,” he said. “It was raining. Amanda was upset and blaming me for bringing her along. No cell phone reception, no sushi, no heated pool and gym, no premium cable channels. She’s not handling it well.”
I realized that I was going to have to take Amanda Gilbert’s statement sooner or later, unless someone confessed. “Did you find Tommy’s car key?”
“Yes, sorry. That why we’re standing here, isn’t it?” He took a key ring out of his pocket. It held enough keys to lock down a prison. “This was on the night table. One of them’s the car key. I can’t believe he’s dead. If I hadn’t agreed to”—he swallowed, then moistened his lips—“to sign up, he might have skipped the tournament. We’d be at the club right now, playing gin until the rain stopped. Instead, I’m here, feeling guilty as sin. I know it’s not my fault. I just wish I believed it.” Oblivious to the rain streaking down his sunglasses, he leaned against the hood of Tommy’s car.