by Joan Hess
I drove once again to the mayoral abode. Thus far, the tournament had been on, off, on, off, and set to be switched back on in the morning. My reading light got less action in a week. I parked and went up to the porch.
Mrs. Jim Bob threw open the door. She had a smudge of flour on her cheek, but she lacked Betty Crocker’s warm smile and twinkly eyes. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon, Arly. The Missionary Society is going to arrive in less than an hour, and I’ve got a cake in the oven. I need to set out the china and silverware. State your business.”
I obliged. “There’s been another murder.”
Her face turned as white as the flour. She wobbled so wildly that I caught her arm and steered her into the living room. Once she was settled on the sofa, I said, “Shall I get you a glass of water?”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just that—that on top of everything else, I don’t know what to do. I always know what to do. The tournament was supposed to be a modest fund-raiser for the needy golf widows. It wasn’t supposed to be—to be a bloodbath! Tell them to take their corpses and leave town!”
Mrs. Jim Bob was still drunk, I realized. She may have been able to bake a cake on instinct, but she was in no condition to think straight. Lucky me. I sat down next to her, and in a soothing voice, said, “I can’t let them leave town. Don’t you want to know who was murdered?”
“I don’t care,” she whimpered. “It doesn’t matter. I’d just as soon they all kill each other, then drive home. I’ll be at the side of the road to wave good-bye.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue. I was prepared to let her linger in her blissful, inebriated universe when she abruptly threw the wadded tissue on the floor and snapped, “Yes, of course I want to know who was murdered! I’m waiting, missy. Are you going to sit there like a petrified frog or are you going to croak it out?”
Jekyll and Hyde had found room on the sofa. “Dennis Gilbert was the victim,” I began. “His body was discovered in Tommy Ridner’s motel room earlier this afternoon. Same cause of death. I’m working on a motive.” She gazed blankly at me. “You have to decide about the golf tournament, Mrs. Jim Bob. I think it’s time to cancel it once and for all. The perp’s out there. Nobody should be on the golf course tomorrow.”
“What about the bass boat? That’s why they came, you know. They pretend to care about golf widows, but I see right through them. They don’t give a whit about faith, hope, and charity. They’re here out of greed. As it says in the daily devotional book in the guest bathroom, ‘who being past feeling have given themselves over unto lasciviousness, to work all uncleanness with greediness.’ I think that sums it up nicely.”
I was having trouble following her logic. “What do you want to do about the golf tournament?”
“We’ll cross that fairway when we come to it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Then the tournament continues?”
“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t play golf.”
“The tournament is canceled?”
“A fool and his golf ball are soon parted,” she said. “You must excuse me. I have to de-ice the cake before the ladies arrive.” She wafted out of the room.
After a few seconds to pull myself together, I wafted out of the house and sat in my car, my forehead on the steering wheel. Every last soul in Maggody was a liar and/or an idiot. There was not one person I could trust. Jack was five thousand miles away, photographing cockatoos. I felt as if I were in a rain forest as well, although mine was of my own making. If he weren’t incommunicado, I would have arranged to meet him on the beach in Rio de Janeiro. And never come back. Our child would be bilingual and tan. I would contribute to the house hold bud get by carving coconuts to resemble Buchanons, right down to the squinty eyes and sneers.
When I had exhausted my store of self-pity, I drove back to the highway and ran the stoplight out of spite. I parked between a couple of familiar pickups and went into Ruby Bee’s. The proprietress promptly went into the kitchen. The suspects from the motel (sans Amanda) were seated in several booths, apparently having failed to bond. Bony and Earl were eating burgers at the bar. The lone figure in the corner was seeping into the faux leather upholstery.
The rest of them stared at me. I was thinking of how to begin when Jim Bob, Jeremiah, Kevin, and other members of the tontine came in.
“What about the tournament?” Jim Bob demanded.
A sticky question. “I’m not sure,” I said. “Mrs. Jim Bob is mulling it over. I think it’s a bad idea to continue, but I won’t interfere. Thing is, nobody is to leave town for the time being. That includes all the locals who are involved in the tournament in any capacity. Nobody drives to the co-op for layer grit without my consent. Nobody runs into Farberville to shop.” I stopped for a minute.
“Does everyone know about Dennis Gilbert’s murder?”
I wasn’t surprised when they all nodded, since the grapevine was more efficient than the Internet in the dissemination of information.
The CIA could take lessons from the Missionary Society.
“All right,” I continued, “are all of you clear about what I said? No exceptions. If you leave town without a hall pass, I’ll issue an APB and have you taken into custody.”
“For what?” Proodle said. “This is not a police state. We’re American citizens and you’re violating our constitutional rights.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Any more questions?”
Everyone who was standing sat down, and those who were seated resumed what ever they had been doing. I assumed Ruby Bee would reappear to take orders and dish out soup made from the noon special. Chicken noodle soup sounded like an excellent idea, but not in an environment chillier than arctic water.
I stopped at the PD to make a couple of calls, then at the Dairee Dee-Lishus to fuel myself with a cherry limeade. The drive to Farberville gave me time to think.
• • •
Once Ruby Bee got everybody served, she took a quarter out of the cash register drawer and went down to the pay phone at the end of the bar. She’d looked up the number in her address book. The jukebox was playing a sentimental ballad. Nobody was so much as looking in her direction. All she had to do was pick up the receiver and dial the number.
She glanced around as she squeezed the quarter in her sweaty palm. It wasn’t like she was calling Buckingham Palace to chat with the queen, or the Vatican to speak to the pope. If someone else answered, she figured she could disguise her voice. Why, she could make herself sound exactly like a Mexican, having learned a few words in Spanish a while back. “Buenas nachos,” she whispered.
“My llama Rosita.”
It was a stupid idea. She put the quarter back in the drawer and wiped down the bar with a dishrag. Luke asked for a refill, but she gave him a dark look. He had enough sense not to repeat his request. The song on the jukebox was now an oldie from the 1970s, painfully familiar. She continued making wide shiny circles on the black surface, her lips barely moving as she sang, “You’re so vain…” She pictured herself singing it to him, since he’d thought everything was about him.
She took the quarter out of the drawer and returned to stand in front of the pay phone. This time it was about him, but also about her and a whole lot more. She’d almost rallied the courage to pick up the receiver when the phone rang. It was so startling that she ducked into the ladies’ room and locked the door.
Fourteen
I parked in front of the Farberville PD and went to the front desk. A middle-aged woman with streaky blond hair and dark roots gazed at me without interest. I was charmed, since I was accustomed to LaBelle’s snoopiness. It often took ten minutes of feints and lunges to get past her to Harve’s office.
“Arly Hanks,” I said briskly. “Sheriff Dorfer called about me.”
“Yeah, I got it somewhere.” She pawed through the clutter on her desk until she found a memo. “Okay, yeah, an officer to get you inside a residence. You’re supposed to fill out a form, which means I have to dig one out of the filing cabinet. We�
��re always short-handed on weekends. Can’t this wait ’til tomorrow?”
“I’m working a double homicide,” I said less briskly.
“Good for you. I’m working a double shift to pay my medical bills. I was diagnosed with bursitis in both knees six weeks ago. Last year it was gallstones, and the year before that I had an emergency appendectomy. I spent my birthday on an operating table. I can hardly wait for next year.”
“Do I need to talk to the chief?” I said.
“Chief Turbutt’s lucky to be able to work. He practically lives on antacids and milk. His doctor blames it on smoking and stress. My sister-in-law had the same thing, bloody stools and all, but she finally said to hell with it and had the surgery. You should have seen the staples on her belly. I told her next time the surgeon could just unzip her.” She chuckled. “Get it? The staples looked like a zipper.”
“Is there an officer waiting for me?”
“You should have asked me that right off the bat, instead of prying into personal medical problems.” The woman scowled as she picked up the receiver, punched a few buttons, and told Officer Davies to report to the desk.
Officer L. Davies strutted in, his thin lips so tightly pursed that he resembled a bloated badger. “Chief Hanks?” he barked.
“Officer Davies here. I’ve been assigned to assist you.” It was clear that he would have preferred to beat me senseless with a nightstick.
I told him what I needed him to do. He seemed disappointed that he would not have the opportunity to bully little old ladies or arrest teenagers for skateboarding in the park. We did not make amiable conversation as he drove to a neighborhood in the historic district. The houses were old, the yards immaculate, the sidewalks swept. I wondered why Tommy had chosen a neighborhood where parties revolved around cupcakes and balloons.
I followed Officer Davies onto the porch of a gray-shingled house with white gingerbread trim. The porch swing had a fresh coat of paint. He fiddled with a set of lock picks, then opened the door. “Wait here while I search the premises,” he said, fondling his handgun in a leather holster. “Once I’m sure it’s safe, I’ll allow you in while I stand guard on the porch.”
“I think not,” I said. “I’ll call the PD when I’m finished. They can track you down.”
“I advise against that, ma’am.”
“Maybe I should speak to Chief Turbutt and let him deal with you, Officer Davies. I understand he’s in a bad mood these days.”
Officer Davies’s eyebrows merged like a slather of mud. “If you insist on disregarding my advice, the Farberville Police Department will not take responsibility for what ever may happen to you.”
“Run along.” I fluttered my fingers in dismissal. “This shouldn’t take more than an hour. You have plenty of time to bust senior citizens whose dogs poop on the sidewalk.”
I closed the door to emphasize my point, then turned around to survey the territory. Tommy’s living room contained a leather couch, a matching recliner, and a flat-screen TV the size of a twin mattress. There were a couple of beer cans on the coffee table, but otherwise it was surprisingly tidy. The kitchen was unremarkable except for a wineglass rack and cabinets crowded with bottles of top-label liquor. The refrigerator contained standard bachelor fare: a jar of mayonnaise, a package of baloney, a carton of milk, and a case of beer. An adjoining room served as an office. It was crammed with a metal desk, filing cabinets, computer equipment, cardboard storage boxes, and piles of folders and disks. It had a semblance of organization, however, and I decided it hadn’t been searched in recent days. Or dusted in recent years.
Upstairs, I took a quick look inside a guest room, then went into the master bedroom. The bed was neatly made, and clothes hung in the closet. A biography of Cardinal Woolsey lay on the bedside table. The bookshelf held more biographies, classic literature, and a couple of gardening books. One should never judge a golfer by the cut of his shorts, I told myself.
The bathroom counter was a pharmacy of vitamins, supplements, antacid remedies, heating pads, ankle and knee supporters, and amber prescription vials. It took me a while to spot a bottle that matched the one found behind the Flamingo Motel. It had the same label, but its seal was intact. Tommy was clearly a fan of Dilaudid, or quite possibly addicted to it. According to my little golden book of narcotics, Dilaudid had a high potential for abuse and posed a risk for respiratory failure. Taken with alcohol, it could be deadly. But it hadn’t killed Tommy.
I was looking through dresser drawers when I heard the front door open. I thought I’d locked it, but Officer Davies could pick the lock in seconds. It was time for a game of hide-and-seek, to be concluded when I snuck up behind his sanctimonious backside and scared the holy shit out of him.
Footsteps moved toward the back of the house. I eased down the stairs and peered along the hall that led to the kitchen. The refrigerator door opened. I had no idea what Officer Davies was up to, unless he was hoping that I’d been stuffed inside it. The refrigerator door closed and a floorboard squeaked. Maybe he thought he’d frighten me into a display of maidenly distress. Well, he was in for a shock that rivaled the San Francisco earthquake of 1906.
The kitchen was unoccupied, leaving the office as my ground zero. I crept across the kitchen, took a deep breath, and burst into the room. “Kaboom!” I screeched.
Amanda Gilbert fainted.
This was not my desired scenario. I stood over her for a few minutes, my arms crossed, as I waited for her eyelids to flutter.
They did not. Eventually I lugged her into the living room and dumped her on the sofa. I sat down until my heart stopped pumping like a wildcat strike, and then got up to fetch a damp washcloth. She saved me the bother by opening her eyes.
“Chief Hanks?”
“So it seems,” I said.
“What are you doing here?”
“Getting ready to ask you the same question,” I said. “You’re supposed to be at Estelle’s house.”
Amanda took several deep breaths. “She’s very kind, I guess, but she insisted on treating me like a helpless infant. She kept trying to persuade me that I needed a trim. My last haircut cost ninety dollars. I wasn’t about to let her come after me with a pair of scissors from Wal-Mart.” She wiggled into a more upright position and touched the back of her head. “Sheesh, I have a lump the size of a golf ball. Why on earth did you come up on me like that? Is that some kind of police procedure?”
As good an excuse as any. “You haven’t explained what you’re doing here in Tommy’s house,” I said.
“I stopped by to see if the house plants need to be watered.”
“There aren’t any house plants, Amanda. Besides that minor problem, you were in the office. The only thing growing there is mold. What were you looking for?”
“It’s going to sound screwy,” she said. I did not disagree. after a lengthy moment to make up a story, she gave me a rueful look.
“Tommy’s address book. I want to notify his family as soon as possible. Dennis was going to handle it, but now it’s up to me, I guess. Except for Dennis, Tommy didn’t have any close friends. He had golf partners, drinking buddies, and old frat brothers. He must have relatives somewhere, but I have no idea how to get in touch with them.”
“A touching story, but with a low credibility factor. The address book is on the desk, hard to miss. You were searching the top drawer.”
“I must not have seen it.”
“Your husband was murdered this afternoon, Amanda. Shouldn’t you be overwhelmed with grief, or at least trying to get in touch with his family?”
She lowered her eyes. “I warned you it would sound screwy. I just couldn’t sit there at Estelle’s house and gush over her display of fingernail polish bottles any longer. When she went to the bathroom, I grabbed her car key and left. I couldn’t bear the idea of going home and seeing all of Dennis’s things scattered around. The newspaper on the table, the dry cleaner’s receipt under a magnet on the refrigerator, the photograph of him acceptin
g a trophy at a tournament in Palm Beach.” She squeezed out a few tears. “The funeral, the reception. Is there somebody I can hire to do all this?”
“Try the yellow pages. You’re claiming you came here to escape Estelle, which I admit is plausible. Then it occurred to you to find Tommy’s address book. Why did you think it was in his office?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” Amanda said sulkily. “I was in shock—and it’s a helluva lot worse now, thanks to you.”
I studied her for a moment. “You’re welcome. Were you looking for Tommy’s stash of Dilaudid? It’s in the bathroom upstairs.”
“Does this drug have something to do with his murder? Whoever it was could have broken into this house over the weekend. Everybody knew Tommy would be out of town for the tournament. He’s been chortling about it for weeks. But if the bottle was in plain sight, why didn’t the addict take it? I mean, why go all the way to Maggody to murder Tommy—and Dennis? I don’t get it.”
Neither did I. Rather than continue the pointless dialogue, I said, “You’d better get Estelle’s car back before she reports it stolen to the state police.”
She slunk out of the house. I returned to Tommy’s office and flipped through the address book. Most of the entries were women, but I found the name of a Ridner in Florida and copied down the information. I set the book aside and poked around for what ever Amanda wanted so badly. All I came up with was utility and credit card bills, bank statements, appraisals, bids from contractors, and other fancy things. Tommy had been in decent financial shape, especially if he overlooked income from his golf bets. after I completed my search upstairs, I called the Farberville PD and went out to the porch to wait for Officer L. Davies.
• • •
“I call the meeting to order,” Mrs. Jim Bob said, lightly tapping the gavel on the dinette table. She felt much better, having had a glass of gin to settle her nerves. “I have to decide whether or not to cancel the tournament. I will entertain your opinions before I make the call.”