by Joan Hess
“Now,” I said, “you are going back inside in case Estelle calls to explain where she is. I’ll interview all your charming guests out back, and if no one has any information, I’ll … think of something else.” I paused and added, “If Harve calls wanting me to beat the bushes for Bigfoot, tell him I’m busy.”
I marched off much as Saralee had, although my pinned bun was incapable of swishing in any fashion whatsoever. I did a cursory search of Ruby Bee’s unit, finding nothing more incriminating than a stash of candy bars adequate for a very lengthy hibernation and a dog-eared paperback with a cover that featured a tawny young hero with unlikely convexities.
Rosemary had not returned to No. 2, but the door was ajar. I went inside and glumly regarded stacks of folders, clippings, notebooks, and other evidence that UFORIA had launched a full-scale investigation of the crop circles and ensuing crap. I’d done enough research at the library to be aware how seriously a hefty percentage of the population took the subject. Controversy still raged about incidents from almost fifty years ago, with accusations and counteraccusations and gnashing of teeth. Children and grandchildren of purported eyewitnesses were hot property, as were photographs of smudges of light. It was possible Maggody was going to become the next supernova.
There was nothing of significance in the room. I went on to No. 3 and knocked. Lucy Femclift opened the door and recoiled in much the same way Mrs. Jim Bob had earlier. “What do you want?” she said.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.” I stepped around her and waited until she closed the door. “Where were you last night from seven until midnight or so?”
“Right here. I worked on my story about the crop circles, then took a bath and read.” She edged in front of the table. “I heard about the terrible accident,” she continued, “but I barely knew Brian. I first met him the day we all arrived.”
“You didn’t go down to the creek last night in case you could get a scoop for the tabloid?” I persisted, intrigued by the beads of sweat on her upper lip. “If the alien had returned, you might have been in contention for a Pulitzer.”
“I needed to spend several hours on my story. This assignment’s important to me, and I don’t want to blow it.”
“I suppose not,” I said as I glanced around for evidence of her selfless devotion to exploitative journalism. Leather bags and camera equipment were piled precariously on a chair; two conventional bags were set by the closet. A laptop computer and notebooks were on the dresser. A current issue of the Probe lay in the middle of the bed. And on the bedside table was a copy of one of Sageman’s books.
I reached around her and picked it up. “Doing a little background reading?” I asked.
She looked very much as if she wanted to snatch the book out of my hands. “You may have gathered from what I said earlier that I have some reservations about the ufology movement. This furor over so-called abductions may be truly dangerous. I’m thinking about doing a spec piece for one of the legitimate magazines. If Sageman agrees to an interview, he’ll be featured.”
“One of these days he’ll be indicted for quackery. It’s too bad Leonard’s family never sued him.”
“I’ve been told he requires signed legal forms that absolve him from responsibility. He and a few others in the field are making a lot of money with their books and lectures. Usually he charges a fat fee for the sessions, and there are a lot of people who are willing to pay it in order to become members of the elite. Some call themselves selectees. Isn’t that cute?”
The contempt in her voice was hard to miss, but also hard to explain, considering her chosen profession. “Do you enjoy working for the Probe?” I asked bluntly.
“Of course I do, and the pay is excellent. Are you thinking of applying for a job?”
“Maybe so. Why don’t you give me your editor’s name and telephone number? I’ll give him a call.”
“I’m not allowed to do that.”
“No problem. All I have to do is look through an issue and find the information. I’ll bet there’s even a toll-free number for people who’ve found demons in the toilet bowl and want to share their stories with the entire country.” I picked up the paper and opened it. “Yep, here it is, right next to a story about a woman with taste buds on the bottoms of her feet.”
“I may have exaggerated when I claimed to be on the staff, okay? I’ve done some free-lance articles and have filled out an application for a full-time job. The editor’s promised to make a decision based on my coverage of the story here.”
“Is that why you tried to bribe Brian in the barn?”
Her cheeks turned pink, maybe even fuchsia. “I wanted to get access to some transcripts of Sageman’s hypnotherapy sessions in order to compare them with what he used in his books. Brian agreed to copy a file for me.”
“Did he?”
She shook her head. I dropped the paper on the bed and went to the door. “I have a feeling I’m going to want to talk to you later, so stick around.”
“May I go to the Dairee Dee-Lishus, or should I stay here and wait for bread and water?”
“Sure, but the only thing you can get that’s not swimming in grease is a cherry limeade. Just don’t leave town without telling me.” I gave her a chance to suggest I have a nice day, but she didn’t appear to be in all that balmy a mood.
Perhaps her colleague would be, I thought as I went across the lot and knocked on the door. Jules opened it rather abruptly, then managed a smile of sorts.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
I was beginning to feel as popular as a chaperone at a junior high dance. “I’m just asking a few questions about last night. Where were you?”
“I went to the cornfield and interviewed a few people, then drove into Farberville to go to a movie. I got back here at midnight and went straight to bed.”
“You weren’t worried that you might miss an alien invasion?” I asked.
Jules nudged me inside and closed the door. “I hate to break this to you, Arly, but there may not be such things as flying saucers. Ninety-five percent of UFO sightings are nothing more than aircraft or natural phenomena. The remaining five percent initially elude an explanation, but witnesses are so eager to see something strange and exciting that they distort—”
“I don’t need a damn lecture! You cause enough grief as it is. Don’t compound it with this sanctimonious and condescending attitude about the very people you’re exploiting to make a buck!”
He had the wisdom to back into a corner before I degenerated into physical violence. “You’re right. It’s a very bad habit of mine, and I apologize.”
“Me, too,” I said, slumping against the wall as my petulance dried up. “I’m frustrated because I can’t seem to get anywhere near solving Brian’s murder. No one seems to have a motive. If Sageman had been the victim, I’d be knocking on McMasterson’s door—and the other way around, too.” I stopped and thought about what I’d said. “Someone did try to lure Sageman down there. If he hadn’t been in Cynthia and Rosemary’s room, he would have been the one who went racing to investigate the crashed disk.”
“He wasn’t in Cynthia’s room,” Jules said.
I blinked at him. “Yes, he was. The session started right after seven and ended at eleven. Rosemary said he went outside, but only for a couple of minutes.”
“Well, someone was in there for at least an hour. I could hear an occasional noise through the wall—a glass knocked over, a mutter every now and then. I’d heard about the session, but I assumed it had been canceled.”
I sat down on the corner of the bed, crossed my arms, and looked up at him. “You said you were in Farberville last night.”
“After I finished my interview with the amazing Raz Buchanon and his wonder sow Marjorie, I came back here to take a shower. It was about eight o’clock. Minutes later I heard Sageman—or so I thought—go into the room. The light was on when I left half an hour later.”
It was refreshing to find someone who’d seen somethi
ng, even if it didn’t make a whole helluva lot of sense. “What about cars in the lot when you left?” I asked. “Was Rosemary’s car here?”
“Yes, and McMasterson’s car was here, too. The light was on in his room, but the curtains were closed. I was a little bit surprised he’d come back so early. He’s quite capable of lying in the middle of one of the crop circles all night to be one with his beloved intraterrestrials.”
“Maybe I’ll ask him,” I said as I stood up. “Was Lucy’s car in front of her room?”
He nodded. “I asked her to go to a movie with me, but she said she was going to wash her hair. I haven’t heard that one since high school.”
“Better luck next time,” I said ungraciously, then went outside and surveyed the parking lot. Rosemary had returned and presumably was inside her room. Lucy had gone, presumably to the Dairee Dee-Lishus. McMasterson’s rental car was at the end of the building. I headed for his door but hesitated as I went by Arthur Sageman’s window and saw him asleep on the bed, a yellow legal pad on his chest. His glasses had slid to the tip of his nose, where they hung at a precarious angle. He might know who’d entered his room or could offer a motive. And I had no compunction about interrupting his pleasant little siesta. In fact, if I’d had a bazooka, I might have blown down his door just to see how high he’d jump.
Pounding would have to suffice. I raised my fist, then stopped as I heard Dahlia say from inside the room, “Don’t you dare do that, you runt. You’re gonna be mighty sorry when Kevin finds out about this.”
“Take it easy,” Sageman said soothingly.
Dahlia screamed. I banged on the door and rattled the knob, but it was locked. She screamed again. I looked through the window. Sageman lay as serenely as a daydreamer in a field of buttercups.
“Don’t touch me, please,” Dahlia whimpered. “I’m a respectable married woman.”
I rapped on the glass with enough fervor to wake the dead, or so I thought. I tried the knob again, then picked up a rock and was about to smash the glass when Hayden McMasterson stumbled out of his room.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” I said grimly, then hit the window. The nature of glass being what it was, shards splattered on my hand, wrist, and forearm. There were more of them than seemed possible from a single windowpane. And boy, oh, boy, were they sharp little suckers.
Jules Channel came out of his room as I watched bubbles of blood appear on my skin. “What the hell?” he said hoarsely.
Hayden grabbed my shoulder just as my knees folded. “I don’t know,” he said to Jules. “Help me get her inside my room and I’ll get a towel for the bleeding.”
Jules took my other arm. “She was behaving normally a few minutes ago,” he said to Hayden.
“You monster!” squealed Dahlia.
I wrenched myself free. “We’ve got to get in the room!”
Hayden took a key from his pocket and handed it to me. “Try this,” he suggested.
My whole arm was throbbing as I jabbed the key in the lock, twisted it, and yanked open the door. “Dahlia?” I called as I checked behind the door, then dashed for the bathroom. As I came out, I heard Sageman say, “I want you to relax now. Let the image slide away from you.”
The problem was that he hadn’t moved his lips or anything else and appeared to have slept right through the commotion. A green light flickered on the tape recorder on the bedside table as Dahlia moaned uneasily. Jules and Hayden were watching me from the doorway, their expressions carefully neutral despite the fact I was behaving like someone with a bee in her bonnet—or someplace a sight more uncomfortable.
I turned off the tape recorder and bent down to have a closer look at Sageman. I then stood up, sighed, and left the room, collecting my would-be keepers along the way. “Sageman’s dead,” I said flatly. “Both of you wait in your rooms. I need to make a call.”
“Dead?” croaked McMasterson. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure, and this time we’re not going to worry about hostile aliens, unless one got hold of a gun.” I locked the door and went across the lot to call Harve from Ruby Bee’s unit.
Mrs. Jim Bob drove toward Cotter’s Ridge, her chin stuck out so far she could barely see the road. Jim Bob’s truck had already turned off by the time she came around a curve and spotted the county line sign. It was the exact same place she’d lost him a few nights back, which had to mean something.
She pulled over. Right across from her was a road of sorts, more of a trail than anything else. Even though it was getting dark, she could see that the weeds were flattened. Someone had driven that way—and Jim Bob was the obvious candidate.
There could be only one reason for him to be up on the ridge after dark, she decided as she rolled down her window and strained to hear the sounds of a truck engine back in the woods. He was on his way to Raz’s still to load up jars of Satan’s poison. It was only a matter of time before Arly caught him in the act of committing a felony; she wouldn’t hesitate for a second before bringing in the federal agents, who’d indict Jim Bob and seize everything that wasn’t nailed down, then come back for everything that was.
There was only one way to save herself from poverty, disgrace, and the terrifying specter of knowing she’d be the laughingstock of the Missionary Society and the Extension Club (for starters). She was going to have to catch him in the very act of loading his truck, force him to see the wickedness of his ways, and order him to destroy the still and whatever jars of moonshine Raz had amassed.
Mrs. Jim Bob had a pretty good idea where the still was on account of an incident awhile back. What had happened had been Brother Verber’s fault, naturally, and she herself had been nothing but an innocent victim of circumstance.
The thought of making Jim Bob destroy the still brought a thin smile to her face. Once he was done, all covered with sweat and panting from the exertion, his mouth dry, his hands blistered, why, she’d tell him in no uncertain terms to sink to his knees to beg her forgiveness and pray for mercy. By the time she was satisfied with hearing his confession, his knee would ache so bad he’d limp for a month of Sundays. He’d also think twice before sneaking off to do loathsome things with a hussy.
She eased her car over the rutted shoulder, wincing as something scraped, and slowly drove down the poor excuse for a road. Branches clawed the car and slapped at the windshield. The increasing darkness seemed to fit her mood.
“Jim Bob Buchanon,” she said aloud, “you’re gonna pay for this particular transgression like you’ve never paid before—or my name isn’t Barbara Anne Buchanon Buchanon.”
Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, she continued into the woods.
THIRTEEN
“So, should we put out an APB for Bigfoot?” asked Harve as we watched the paramedics carry out a body bag. “Larry Joe Lambertino swore he came callin’ this very morning.”
The parking lot was crowded with official vehicles, but we had only a few spectators thus far. The media appeared to be taking the day off; tomorrow they’d come slithering onto the scene to interview the likes of Saralee Lambertino and Raz Buchanon.
“Why not?” I said. “He’s probably a hit man for the Martian Mafia.”
McBeen came out of No. 5 and joined us. “Right offhand I’d say death is a result of the nasty hole in his right temple. A small-caliber bullet, almost no external bleeding but lots of damage inside the cranium. It’s still in there somewhere. All I can say at this point is that he died several hours ago.” He glared at my blood-speckled arm. “I suppose you want me to patch you up, but I’m not gonna do it. Take two aspirin and call somebody else in the morning.”
I waited until he got in his truck and drove away. “He’s not exactly a kindly old country doctor, is he?” I said to Harve, who was trying to fire up a wet cigar stub. Once he did, I ran through everything I’d found out during the day, which didn’t amount to squat. “I briefly questioned everybody before you arrived. No on
e admits having spoken to Sageman after I brought him back here in the middle of the afternoon. He must have settled down in his room to work and was listening to Dahlia’s tape when someone dropped by. Estelle’s disappearance may be related.”
“Uh, Harve,” said one of the deputies, pointing at Cotter’s Ridge and gulping, “you might want to take a look up there.”
My stomach filled with undiluted acid as I turned around. This time there were four orange lights above the tree line, aligned and bobbing merrily.
Harve yanked the cigar out of his mouth. “What the hell are those?”
“Obviously they are some kind of spacecraft piloted by a whole gang of seven-foot silver aliens. They probably dropped off Bigfoot when he started stinking up the ship or forgetting his table manners. Don’t forget the ones coming out of the ground from Atlantis to make swirls in the corn and cut up cows. At this rate we’re going to have so many aliens in Maggody that we’ll have to start looking into public housing. The Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall will have to put in some more pews and order some extra hymnals. Any more questions, Harve?”
He gasped as the lights disappeared, then got his cigar back in place and slapped me on the back. “Glad to know you’ve got everything under control. Be sure and give me a call when you’ve rounded ’em up.”
“I’ll be sure and do that. In the meantime, why don’t you give me some help with the investigation, dammit?” I paused as I saw Ruby Bee arguing with a deputy who was brash enough to think he could dissuade her from entering her own parking lot. The sight was more unnerving than a bunch of stupid orange lights. “Maybe we’d better try to get a dog from the Farberville PD to search for Estelle,” I said in a more reasonable voice. “It’s late now, but I’ll call first thing in the morning.”
Harve had seen Ruby Bee, too. “Tell ya what,” he said hurriedly, “one of the boys will stay here the rest of the night, just to keep all these aliens from tampering with the scene. I should have a report in the morning about the weapon and whatever fingerprints were found.”