by Joan Hess
From someplace like Bosnia.
Norma Kay was wrong about her husband. Most of the time, maybe as much as ninety percent of the time, he sat around in his underwear and watched television. But that left ten percent for doing such things as hanging out at the barbershop, buying six-packs of beer, flipping through fishing catalogs, and his most favorite hobby—searching through Norma Kay’s possessions.
He’d been through her dresser drawers so many times he could tell at a glance which bra she was wearing on any given day. He’d read and reread all the letters from her mother in a Wichita nursing home and her sister in Coffeyville, but he’d never found a hint that might lead him to the identity of the sumbitch.
After getting a beer, Bur went into the bedroom and checked the pockets of all her clothes on the off chance she’d forgotten to throw away a damning note from her boyfriend. He felt a flicker of excitement when he found a matchbook from a motel in Pine Bluff, but then he remembered the girls had played in a tournament there the year before.
He replaced the matchbook and stomped into the living room, his blood simmering as he envisioned her on sweaty sheets with some faceless man, her tongue hanging out like a slobbery dog’s. He was certain there was someone. He could tell by the dreamy look that sometimes crossed her face when she didn’t know he was watching her. A couple of weeks ago, he’d called her late one night at her office in the gym to tell her to bring home some ice cream, and she hadn’t answered. He’d let her know about it the minute she stepped into the house, but she’d had some glib story about having to hunt up the janitor to fix a backed-up toilet.
For a long while, he’d suspected Amos Dooley. Amos wasn’t much to look at, and he was far from being a rocket scientist, but he was a bachelor. Norma Kay had passed along a couple of jokes Amos had told her and even suggested they have him over for supper sometime, but Bur had made it clear he wasn’t gonna sit at the same table with a man who was probably a faggot.
Cory Jenks was an obvious suspect these days. The problem was there was no hard evidence, and Bur wasn’t about to confront her until he was sure he could nail her. Otherwise, she’d deny it and go to further extremes to keep the affair secret.
And he wasn’t ready to rule out Lewis Ferncliff, who owned a body shop on the road to Farberville, or John Robert Scurfpea, who was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg when he played dominoes at the pool hall. Or Jim Bob Buchanon, who made a point of speaking to Norma Kay whenever she came into the SuperSaver. Or Fergie Bidens, who drove by every now and then, peeking at the house out of the corner of his eye. Fergie was married and had a whole passel of brats, but everybody knew he spent some afternoons at the Pot ’O Gold mobile-home park when he was supposed to be at work. Eddie Joe Whitbread wasn’t above that sort of thing, either.
Bur covered his face with his hands as the names rolled through his mind like movie credits. It was Norma Kay’s fault he was tormented like this day in and day out, he thought as he collapsed onto the recliner. He shouldn’t have married her to begin with. Sure, he’d felt sorry for her after what she’d been through with the pompous pricks on the school board, the angry parents, the pious lawyers, the reporters—everyone had been quick to turn on her. He was the only one who’d tried to defend her, and when that didn’t do much good, he’d offered her a fresh start in a different state.
Perhaps he needed to remind her of that more often, Bur decided as he picked up the clicker and aimed it at the television set. Instead of whoring around, she ought to be home remembering how grateful she’d been back then.
A talk show host came onto the screen and pointed at a row of people sitting on stools. “Today we’re going to meet transvestite mud wrestlers who had near-death experiences, and the men who brought them back.”
Bur opened a beer.
Thomas Fratelleon sat at a table in the RV, studying a surveyor’s map of Stump County. He’d loosened his tie, but he was wearing a coat and neatly pressed trousers. He glanced up as Seraphina came out of the bedroom.
“This appears to be the only reasonable site near a highway,” he said, gesturing at a rough square outlined in red ink. Blue lines divided it into three unequal sections. “If we want to suck in the tourists from Branson and Eureka Springs, we have to be within an hour’s drive.”
Seraphina sat down across from him and turned the map around. “So what’s the problem, Thomas? Malachi wants to kick off the revival with a presentation of the project and a real emotional plea for donations to build phase one of the City of Hope. There won’t be a dry eye in the tent. By the final night, we should have close to a hundred and fifty grand to option the property and launch a major fund-raiser.” She propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, her face aglow with exhilaration. “It’s gonna be something, isn’t it?”
“It’s going to be a gold mine,” Malachi said as he entered the room and took a bottle of apple juice from the refrigerator. He wore a discreetly expensive jogging suit and outrageously expensive athletic shoes. His hair, now dry and styled, hung to his collar in gentle brown curls. His high forehead was unwrinkled and his cornflower-blue eyes were as guileless as a baby’s. “I can pack the Cathedral of Hope with five thousand Christians, all of them eager to assure themselves of prosperity in the here and now and eternal bliss when the time comes. We’ll net over fifty thousand dollars at every service, and once we get back on the air …” He took a drink of apple juice and let it trickle down his throat like the costliest champagne. “Even when the show was broadcast on only a dozen stations, we were receiving upward of a thousand letters a week, each with a check. By this time next year, we’ll be on half the cable outlets in the country. The good Lord will provide.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the kitchen.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joan Hess (b. 1949) is the award-winning author of several long-running mystery series. Born in Arkansas, she was teaching preschool when she began writing fiction. Known for her lighthearted, witty novels, she is the creator of the Claire Malloy Mysteries and the Arly Hanks Mysteries, both set in Arkansas.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is awork of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1994 by Joan Hess
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3724-2
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