by Joan Hess
The members of the Missionary Society were oddly quiet. Most of them were watching Mrs. Jim Bob’s face for any lingering signs of remorse. She wasn’t glowing—or glowering, for that matter. She was darn near placid, Eileen thought from a corner. Millicent opted for the word “mellow.” Elsie and Eula exchanged uneasy looks. Even Bopeep, who was usually too busy thinking about her own problems to pay attention, was unsettled.
“No point in canceling it,” Audley said bravely.
“Unless it looks like another storm is coming in,” Crystal said.
“I jumped out of my skin when lightning hit that dead oak tree this morning.”
Lucille raised her hand. “What about the killer? I don’t aim to be on the golf course if he’s on the loose, especially since I’ll be providing the weapon.”
“He’d better not try anything with me,” said Joyce. “When Larry Joe got the flu last winter, I split a rick of wood and stacked it in the carport by myself. Nobody’s gonna sneak up on me. I got three wily children.”
Eileen stepped forward. “If I don’t win the bass boat, Earl’s going to sleep in the barn ’til hell freezes over. I say we finish the round in the morning.”
“If it’s not overcast,” amended Crystal.
Mrs. Jim Bob smiled benignly at them. “Shall we have some coconut cake after we have a show of hands?”
• • •
Officer Davies kept his lips pursed as he drove me to the PD. His chin stuck out, and his fingers on the steering wheel were bloodless.
I pitied the next jaywalker he spotted. Said pedestrian could end up in prison, or as flat as a paper doll in the middle of the street. His mother must have been worried when he began pulling wings off flies in his playpen.
I went inside the PD. The blond woman sniffed as I approached her desk. “Excuse me,” I said. “Can I see the arrest log from last night?”
“I’m too busy to track it down. Come by in a couple of days.”
“Too busy reading a romance novel? Gee, that’s a new one. Where’s Chief Turbutt’s office?”
“He ain’t here today. He ate pizza last night and it didn’t agree with him. He knows better than to eat pepperoni and jalapeños.”
She turned a page and resumed reading.
“Shall I track it down myself?” I asked. “I’d hate to make a mess of your… mess.”
“Hold your damn horses,” she grumbled as she ripped off a corner of a form and used it as a bookmark. “You want anything in particular?”
“Traffic violations,” I said. “Cars towed, parking tickets.”
“Based on what I’ve heard about Maggody, people should roll up their car windows and lock their doors before they drive through town. I wouldn’t live out there if my life depended on it, which I guess it would. Must be all that inbreeding.” Her lower lip extended, she pecked on the keyboard until the printer began to hum. “Saturday is prime time. There was a street fair yesterday. Thurber Street was blocked off, and vendors sold beer on the sidewalks. Lots of drunk-and-disorderlies, property damage, fights in alleys. A good two dozen cars were towed. You don’t want to know how many traffic and parking tickets were issued.”
“I’m interested in a Chrysler Imperial Crown,” I said.
She rolled her eyes and turned back to the computer. “You should have said so, instead of letting me print out all the citations. How do you spell the kind of car?”
I spelled the kind of car very slowly. When a page slithered out of the printer, I picked it up. I felt a tingle as I spotted the pertinent words. Same make, same license plate number. Frederick Cartier had not lied when he said he was in Farberville the previous evening. His only crime was parking too close to a fire hydrant.
I wrote down the location, thanked the woman, and left.
The street turned out to be in a neighborhood that was the opposite of Tommy’s. Houses were small and unloved. Screen doors were torn, windows cracked. The lawns were no better than the fairways at the Maggody golf course. Frederick’s tryst had taken place in a dingy white house. Even the fire hydrant, streaked with spray paint, looked depressed.
I kept an eye on the children in the next yard, who might have been Fagin’s latest recruits, as I went to the front door and knocked. I was taken aback when it was opened by a man clad only in faded plaid boxers and flip-flops. His chest looked like a bear pelt, but his head was shiny. As was a prominent gold tooth.
“You looking for me, little lady?” he said. “You’re in luck, ’cause I’m ready and willing. Come right on in and make yourself at home.”
“No thank you,” I said. “Does anyone else live here?”
He stuck out his lower lip. “Nah, just me and Oliver.”
“Oliver Twist?”
“Oliver, my shih tzu.” He noticed my badge. “You really a cop, or are you a spy for the American Kennel Club?”
“I’m really a cop. I’m looking into the whereabouts of Frederick Cartier last night. Was he here?”
“Never heard of him.”
His credibility rating was lower than Amanda’s; she’d at least attempted to come up with a story. “Maybe you know him by another name,” I suggested tactfully. “I know he was here. He was issued a parking ticket at eleven o’clock. His car was parked in front of this house, a teeny bit too near the fire hydrant.”
“Frederick Cartier.” He screwed up his face, pretending to think. “There were some fellows over last night. One of ’em could have been this Cartier you’re asking about. It was a poker game, not a tea party, and I didn’t check IDs at the door. No name tags or introductions, just cards, booze, and dollar bills. I hear Oliver stirring in the kitchen, so if we’re done here…?”
“Not yet. Cartier is six feet tall, with silver hair. Expensively dressed, driving a vintage Chrysler Imperial Crown, black.”
“He could have been here. Like I said, I didn’t pay attention to names. I was down on Thurber Street all afternoon, drinking beer. I was feeling no pain when I got home. All I remember about the poker game is that I lost seventy dollars to fuckin’ trip nines. I had kings and fours.” He shut the door in my face.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said to the rusty door knocker, then returned to my car and flipped through my pad of notes.
Frederick had three alibis thus far: the professor, the anonymous paramour, and the poker game. He could have skipped the first two, if he’d been playing poker. There would be witnesses to verify his story, albeit reluctant ones. The man in the boxers, for starters. He had failed to ask why I was tracking down Frederick.
Disinterested people could still be interested; it was almost instinctive.
The man had shown no curiosity. If he’d said that Frederick was there, I would have accepted it as an inelegant alibi. It didn’t explain why Frederick hadn’t simply said so to begin with.
I pulled out a street map and located the Gilberts’ address. They lived in what must have been one of Farberville’s first subdivisions.
The houses were small, with carports instead of garages. Some had partial brick veneers. I drove around for a few minutes until I spotted their house. It could have belonged to a retiree on a pension, a police officer, a teacher, a firefighter, or a midlevel factory worker.
Or, I amended, a newscaster in a small town who spent his salary on a country club membership, golf tournaments, and a Mercedes.
Since Amanda had intended to search Tommy’s house, I assumed what ever she sought was not in her own house.
I had one more stop before I headed home. I drove up a winding road to the country club. The mini-mansions on the hilltop were disturbingly similar, right down to the spindly trees that would provide shade in the next decade. I parked between a Hummer and a Porsche and went inside the club house. The bar was nearly deserted. Two couples shared a table, and another couple was bickering with a different one. I sat on a stool and waited until a waitress emerged from a back room.
“Sorry, honey,” she said as she put a cocktail n
apkin in front of me. It was beige, with a green border that matched the immaculate course. “What would you like?”
“Just information. Have you heard about Tommy Ridner’s death?”
Her smile faded. “Such a nice man. He pinched my butt whenever he had a chance, but he was generous with tips. Most of these rich people leave a dollar or two, then drive their expensive cars home to their six-bedroom houses so they can swim in their heated pools. The only pool I have is under the kitchen sink. The roaches swim laps in it.”
“Mine put in a diving board last summer. So Tommy was a favorite of yours?”
“I cried when the manager told everybody this morning. I wanted to take the rest of the day off, but I can’t afford it. My kid got braces, and I’ll be making monthly payments on his wedding day. You sure you don’t want a drink? It’s on the house.”
I agreed to a glass of orange juice. I sipped while she went to see if any of the patrons were in need of refills and then came back around the bar. “Tommy and the Gilberts were close friends, weren’t they?” I asked her.
“I wouldn’t put it that way. Tommy and Dennis were tight. Used to be they were out here most afternoons and all weekend long, talking, playing gin, cracking jokes. after Dennis married D’Amanda—uh, Mrs. Gilbert, he and Tommy stopped hanging around together so much. Everybody slithers down in their seats when she marches in. I keep waiting for her to drag Dennis out by his ear.”
She was doomed to disappointment, but I decided to let the manager break the news. “Mrs. Gilbert didn’t like Tommy?”
“She’d just as soon spit on him as say hello. That’s what made it so darn funny when—” The waitress put out her hand across her mouth.
“When…?” I said softly, leaning forward.
“Nothing. If I get caught gossiping about the members, I’ll be fired in a split second. No excuses, no exceptions. They’re free to talk all they want about each other, but the staff isn’t supposed to hear one word of it.”
I slid a five-dollar bill under the napkin. “I swear I won’t tell anyone.”
The bill vanished. “I guess I can trust you. It was a week ago or so. Tommy and Dennis were at their table, talking about an upcoming golf tournament. They got to arguing about who could make a hole-in-one. I perked up my ears, since when somebody makes one at this club, he or she has to stand a round of drinks in the bar, and I get to add the gratuity to the tab. Anyway, in comes Mrs. Gilbert and sits with them. They make a bet right under her nose. She goes ballistic and jumps down their throats. after she’s gone, they keep laughing and raising the stakes. Half the room was snickering, since Mrs. Gilbert’s not real popular. Too old for the soccer moms and too trashy for the society ladies. Later Tommy scribbled on a napkin and had me witness it.” Her expression sobered. “He was a real kidder. It’s like his ghost is sitting at his table. No wonder there’s hardly anybody here today.”
“What did Tommy do with the napkin?” I asked.
“Tucked it in his shirt pocket. Hey, if Tommy has any family, be sure and give them my condolences. I’m gonna miss him.”
I couldn’t come up with any more reasons to linger in Farberville, so I headed for Maggody. When I saw a familiar roadside rest area, I pulled in. A short walk along a path strewn with paper cups and aluminum cans led me to a trickle of a creek. I sat down and watched the water flow over mossy rocks, leaving swirls of brownish foam. I became oblivious to trucks on the highway as I considered what I’d heard from the witnesses. Despite their best efforts, a few had slipped up and told the truth. Fragments began to fall into place. Tommy’s death had closed Act I, and Dennis’s death was the focus of Act II. That left Act III for the grand denouement, as soon as I came up with it. I was more in the mood for Our Town than Hamlet. I’d played Emily in our high school performance, and memorizing my lines had almost killed me. So had falling off the ladder.
It began to rain. I drove to Maggody and parked at the PD. The evil red light on the phone was blinking. For once, I was pretty sure it wasn’t Ruby Bee. I should have called Estelle to find out if Amanda had reappeared, but that would have given her the chance to sputter about car theft and ingratitude, along with what ever else occurred to her. I was running low on sympathy.
The first message was from Harve. I dialed his home number.
“Chief of Police Ariel Hanks,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Did you get in Ridner’s house without a hitch?”
I told him about the bottle of pills and Amanda’s ill-fated intrusion.
I then described Frederick’s purported poker buddy and the information I’d picked up at the country club. “I don’t think Amanda killed Tommy,” I continued. “She relished their encounters, when she could taunt him. Tommy must have, too. It was a game for them. That left Dennis as the spectator, his head swiveling back and forth while the two took cheap shots at each other.”
“You don’t think they had something on the side, do you? Pretending to be enemies makes a good cover.”
I leaned back in my chair. “No,” I said slowly. “Amanda’s been around the block a couple of times. She knew that if they had sex, she’d lose her power. No fun in that.”
“It’d give her a motive to kill him. She might have thought Tommy was making a move on Natalie. Women in their forties don’t take kindly to being replaced by sweet young things.”
“You speaking from experience, Harve?”
He mumbled a phrase that made me glad I wasn’t within reach.
“I talked to McBeen earlier. He said he’ll do the blood test tomorrow. We found a few prints in Ridner’s room that were in the system, but Les already told you about Lucas Smithers and Bony Buchanon. It’s hardly worth mentioning, since Ridner’s party included half the town. I guess you didn’t make the cut, eh?”
“As in haircut?” I asked blankly.
“For someone who lived in New York City, you don’t know shit. At a big golf tournament, there’s a qualifying round. The cut is what decides who all gets to play the next round.”
“They don’t play much golf on Fifth Avenue. No, I didn’t go to the party. I had better things to do, like scrub my toilet. Life’s exciting out here, Harve. A regular roller coaster of thrills and spills.” I was getting bored, so I hung up.
The next message was from Estelle. As soon as I heard her shrill voice, I erased the rest of it. If Amanda hadn’t returned the car by now, there was nothing I could do about it. Well, there was nothing I was willing to do about it, anyway. The final message was from Janna Coulter, who sounded frantic in an incoherent way. I listened to her message again, then gave up and drove over to the Flamingo Motel.
Janna yanked open the door. Her eyes were embedded in swollen flesh, and her face was mottled. “It’s about time! I called you almost two hours ago. I even asked Ruby Bee where you were, but she claimed she didn’t have a clue. Is there an Elm Street in this horrid town? A black hole?”
“Calm down. I was following a lead, but here I am. What’s wrong?” I said to be polite, since I was fairly certain what her response would be. The police academy stressed the need for diplomacy with the public.
Wobbling, she backed into the room until she bumped into a bed, then sat down. “Something’s wrong with me. I’m so sleepy I can barely see straight. It’s like an out-of-body experience. Could it be a stroke?”
“Stay awake and tell me what’s going on,” I said sharply.
She tried to focus on me. “after you left, Natalie and I came back here. She suggested that I take another antihistamine and lie down. All of a sudden I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. One minute I was talking, the next I was passed out on the bed. A noise from the next room woke me up. Natalie was gone. I went to the barroom, but she wasn’t there. Phil Proodle said he hadn’t seen her. There’s no place to go in this town—no café, no gym, no shops.”
“Did she take anything with her?”
“Nothing’s missing except her purse.” She rubbed her eyes.
; “Her suitcase and clothes are in the closet. She refused to tell me where she went this morning after the tournament was stopped. You have to tell me so I can go find her.”
“You’re in no condition to drive. You didn’t have a stroke; you had a reaction to the medication. The best thing you can do is sleep it off. With luck, Natalie will be here when you wake up.”
“What if she’s not?” Janna whimpered.
I was thoroughly exasperated. “What if pigs had wings? For starters, we’d be dodging pig shit. But we’re not, are we?”
I got back in my car and went to fetch Natalie. Again.
Fifteen
I parked by the tent and walked back to Kevin and Dahlia’s house. The good news was that the rain had driven Raz inside; the bad news was that it had one less target. I was so annoyed that I wanted to stomp through the puddles, leaving a muddy path of destruction in my wake. Could these people not stay put for fifteen seconds?
I barged through the front door. It would be very awkward if Kevin and Dahlia were cuddled around a lemon meringue pie in front of the TV. They were not. “Natalie Hotz, haul your sorry butt in here right now!” I shouted as I detoured into the kitchen to dry my face with a dish towel. “You, too, Luke Smithers!” I sat down on the couch and squeezed a stuffed sheep. “I’m waiting!”
Natalie came into the room. She was in no way perfect, with mussy hair and smeared mascara. She looked more like a petulant convenience store clerk, doomed to chomping gum and selling cigarettes to underaged kids. “Why can’t you leave me alone?” she said fiercely. “I’m an adult, free to go where I want to go.”
“And do what you want to do.” Luke grinned at me as he posed in the doorway, dressed only in frayed jeans. His abs rippled like corrugated iron, and his biceps bulged. The state prison didn’t invest much in rehab, but the weight room had all the trappings of a pricey athletic club (except, perhaps, a smoothie machine).
“What brings you out in the rain, Chief Hanks?” he drawled.
“You noticed it was raining?” I said.