by Joan Hess
But she dearly wanted to know where he was, and she was more than a little miffed about having to pound on his door and holler his name. Finally she gave up and went back to her car. Still frowning, she pulled out onto the highway and right smack into the path of the biggest, blackest, loudest motorcycle she’d ever seen in her whole entire life.
Mrs. Jim Bob closed her eyes.
14
I parked in front of Miss Una’s white frame house. Before I could open the gate, she came out on the porch and waved. “Hello, Arly. How are you today?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I need to talk to you.”
I reached for the latch, but as I did so she said, “I’m afraid this is not a convenient time for me to visit with you. I already have company, and it would be rude to entertain someone else. Please don’t open the gate; last night one of my kitties escaped that way. I was sick with worry until he was safe at home again. I scolded him quite sharply, and you should have seen his little face get all wrinkled up and sad.” Her face got all wrinkled up and sad for a moment, then relaxed in an impish grin.
“I’m sorry to interrupt and I’ll be careful not to allow any kitties to get past me,” I said, trying to maintain a normal voice in the face of her odd demeanor. Even from where I stood I could see the red patches on her cheeks and the asymmetrical twist to her mouth. Behind her half-moon glasses, her eyes looked way too bright. “What I need to ask you is very important, Miss Una. I’ll have to insist on coming inside.”
She dug into her apron pocket and produced a disposable lighter. Flourishing it at me, she said, “Please do not force me to flick my Bic. The porch and a good deal of the house are saturated with kerosene. It will go up like a tinderbox, which it is. As I mentioned, I have company inside, and I see no way either of my visitors could escape.”
I discovered new dimension to the phrase “stopped cold in one’s tracks.” I not only froze, I felt an icicle pierce my stomach. “Your house is saturated with kerosene? Why?”
“So it will burn more easily. Kerosene is highly flammable, or should I say inflammable? Oh dear, I’m never sure which it is. In any case, should I make even a wee little spark, it will catch fire immediately.”
“Then don’t do it. Who’s in your house?”
“I’m surprised at you, Arly. I’m sure your mother has told you time and again that it’s unseemly to ask about other people’s guests or take a personal interest in a lady’s private affairs.”
Carolyn had been waiting in the car, but she scrambled out and came up behind me. “Three to two odds Staci Ellen’s one of her ‘guests,’” she hissed.
“Is there a blond girl named Staci Ellen Quittle inside?” I called to Miss Una, who was squeezing the lighter so tightly her fingers were white.
“You’re prying, Arly, and it does not become you. I was just about to serve a piece of lemon meringue pie to one of my guests, and I really must go now. I’ll keep the lighter in my hand, so please do not try to come into my yard or do anything rash that will force me to flick my Bic.” She gave me another impish grin, coyly fluttered her fingers, and turned to go inside, Bic and all.
“Wait!” I croaked. While she hesitated, I tried to think what the hell to do. She was manic. I didn’t doubt for a second that her house was ready to become a funeral pyre, and that its occupants would fare no better than Brandon Bernswallow. Carolyn was jabbing me in the back and whispering all sorts of unintelligible things, which didn’t do a whole lot for my concentration. I finally told her to cut it out and gave Miss Una a strained smile. “We seem to have an awkward situation. I promise not to set foot in your yard, but I’m not sure it’s best for you to go back inside the house with your … guests. Why don’t you let them run along home so you and I can continue the conversation?”
“We haven’t had lemon meringue pie yet.”
“Miss Una, why are you doing this?”
She gave me a startled look. “Because I have no choice, of course. Once you mentioned how terribly clever they are at this lab, I knew it was a matter of time before you attempted to barge into my house and ask me all sorts of stupid, snoopy questions. You’re somewhat quicker than I had anticipated, but I was ready for you, wasn’t I? Mercy me, I hear Martin and he sounds distressed. I must go inside now.”
“Please,” I said, clutching the gate so hard my knuckles hurt, “please don’t go inside yet. Are you worried about the fingerprints? We don’t have to take yours if you don’t want us to. Why don’t you put away that lighter and we’ll figure out what to do next?”
Carolyn peered around my shoulder. “I’m an attorney, Miss Una. If you’re charged with murder, I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
“Murder? Why on earth would I be charged with murder? I may have been naughty, but I didn’t murder anyone.” Giggling at the absurd notion, she went inside and closed the door.
I gaped at Carolyn, my jaw so slack I couldn’t seem to get out any words. Finally I swallowed a very large lump in my throat and said, “What just happened?”
“I think this is what is known on the nightly news as your classic hostage situation.”
“Right, and I’m supposedly trained in the proper way to handle it.” I wrenched my hands off the gate and got back in the car. The radio worked, bless its rusted soul, and after a bit of fiddling I told the dispatcher that I really, really needed to talk to Harve and to get him out of the goddamn rest room before I drove over there and parked next to the goddamn toilet and snatched the goddamn magazine out of his hands with my teeth.
Harve stopped grumbling when I told him what was going on. He promised to send backup as quickly as possible and to make a personal appearance in fifteen minutes or so. He also agreed to contact the state police, who were better trained and better armed than the rest of us, the Emmet volunteer fire department, and the media. Harve was up for re-election in a couple of months. I thanked him in a shaky voice, letting my head fall against the back of the seat.
Carolyn got in the car with me. “So now we sit and wait?”
“Unless you’ve got any astoundingly good ideas, yes. All hell’s going to break loose in fifteen minutes or so. I wish I understood what’s happening. She’s lost it, obviously, and is beyond any appeal to reason. There’re two people inside, one named Martin and the other unknown. She said she didn’t murder Bernswallow, and oddly enough, I tend to buy it. However, she flipped out over having her fingerprints taken for comparison, which means she knows that hers match one set from the scene of the crime.”
Carolyn looked at the house. “It’s old and dry. The term ‘tinderbox’ is apropos, and I shudder to think about those trapped inside. Shit, I hope Staci Ellen’s not nibbling lemon meringue pie as we speak. She may not have much going for her, but she tries. Who is this Martin person?”
I checked my watch—the minute hand was creeping very slowly—and contemplated the possibilities. “I don’t know anyone named Martin. I’ve never known anyone named Martin. No one in Maggody is named Martin. The only Martin I can think of is Martin Van Buren, and I’d be surprised if he were in there eating pie. You may be right about Staci Ellen, but I’ll put my money on Kevin Buchanon. He was inside the branch and might have run into Miss Una. Somehow or other, she convinced him to hide out at her house, in the upstairs bedroom on the right.”
“That’s a guess?”
“Well, I saw him at the window a second ago,” I admitted. “Maybe we’re doing the wrong thing by sending for the sheriff’s men and the state police. If Miss Una panics, she’s liable to flick her damn Bic and send all of them up in flames. Why don’t you go down the road a hundred yards or so and stop the cars from screeching up here with sirens going and lights flashing? I’ll try once again to coax Miss Una outside.”
Wishing I’d stayed awake during cop shows, where hostage situations are invariably resolved in time for a dozen commercials, I went back to the gate and called Miss Una’s name. She came out to the porch and gave me a stern look. “What is it
now, Arly? I was pouring a bowl of half-and-half for Martin; he’s still traumatized by his misadventures last night.”
“A bowl of half-and-half? Martin is a cat?”
“Well, of course. Did you think I would offer a bowl of half-and-half to a dead president, even if there is a familial connection? Martin is my prodigal kitty.”
“Oh,” I murmured, finally seeing the light, although it was a very small pinprick of enlightenment in a vast black sky. “Did you meet Staci Ellen while you were searching for Martin?”
“How very astute of you,” she said, beaming at me. It would have been more encouraging if one side of her mouth hadn’t been twitching like a spider on a hot skillet. “That’s exactly what happened. She discovered a little lost kitty in the alley and was trying to find his home. I was so grateful that I invited her in for tea.”
“And the two of you are still drinking tea this morning?”
“In a manner of speaking. We had a tiny problem last night when she asked if she might freshen up before returning to her motel. She opened the wrong door and met another guest. The two began chatting, and I’m afraid Staci Ellen told my guest several things I would have preferred he did not hear at the moment. I was obliged to lock his door and to tie the girl up so she couldn’t carry tales. I promised her a piece of pie, so I really must go back inside and feed it to her. These modern girls are so helpless.” She waved and turned around.
“Please,” I said (okay, ululated like a coyote), “please. Don’t go inside yet. I—ah, I need your advice about—about something. It’s—it’s—important.” I was stammering so badly I wasn’t sure she could understand me, but I had a legitimate reason. The window directly above the roof of the porch had been inching open. The opaque curtain was pulled aside, and a naked leg came through the gap. A second leg followed, along with lacy pink underpants.
“Advice?” Miss Una said doubtfully. “Advice about what?”
“Something important,” I said, trying not to stare at the apparition coming out the window. I put my hands on my face and scanned my mental Rolodex. “About banks. Yeah, that’s it. Do you think I ought to take my business to the Bank of Farberville, even though they may not reopen the branch?”
“I really don’t feel qualified in that regard, now that I’m retired. However, I will pass along something. Please don’t repeat this, but I’ve heard rumors that the portfolio has gone downhill over the years, and that many of the investments are dubious.”
I took a quick look at the blond girl, clad in nothing but the pink panties and a matching bra, who was now out on the roof and moving cautiously toward the gutter directly above Miss Una’s head. I gulped and said, “Did you hear that from Johnna Mae Nookim?”
“Goodness gracious, Arly, I am very impressed with your deductive powers today. However did you know that?”
Kevin Buchanon’s face appeared in the window. He gave me a bewildered look, then climbed out onto the roof. His face was as white as flour, and his Adam’s apple was lurching up and down so hard it looked as though it might shoot out the top of his head. I took some small comfort in the fact that he was dressed in his normal jeans and T-shirt. If he’d been nearly naked, too, I would have said good-bye to all concerned and driven away to check myself into one of those nice, quiet, stress-free environments and sign up for tole painting classes.
I gulped again. “I … I … I …” couldn’t think of anything, obviously. “I thought she might have come over to your house after she talked to Bernswallow.”
“After she killed Bernswallow, you mean? Yes, she did come over. She was shaking so hard I made her sit down and have a cup of camomile tea. I find it so soothing, especially after a long, hard day at the bank.”
“After she killed Bernswallow,” I repeated numbly. “Did she tell you that?”
“She told me that she banged him over the head with that trophy he kept in his office. I always found it on the pretentious side. There’s nothing wrong with a small photograph or a postcard. That’s the sort of thing that gives a bank a homey atmosphere. But, in my opinion, a big trophy like that is tooting one’s own horn.”
As I desperately tried to come up with my next stall tactic, Plover strode up beside me, blessedly wearing civilian clothes. “What the hell is going on?” he said in a low growl. “The sheriff’s dispatcher said to get my ass over here, and the woman who flagged me down babbled something about kerosene and a hostage situation on the nightly news. Who’re those clowns on the roof and what in God’s name do they think they’re doing?”
“Miss Una, have you met John Plover?” I called. “He’s a friend of mine from Farberville.”
“This isn’t the time for social amenities,” my friend muttered.
“Oh, yes it is,” I muttered right back. “Smile at the loony lady, damn it. She’s got a lighter in her hand and a house soaked with kerosene.”
Miss Una was studying Plover. “I don’t believe we’ve ever been introduced, but I’ve seen him somewhere. Why, isn’t he a policeman of some kind, or a fire marshal?”
All this time Staci Ellen was waving frantically at us, gesturing at the gutter, shushing Kevin, and creeping toward the edge of the roof. What she intended to do when she got there was way beyond me, but I wasn’t in top-notch form at the moment. Estelle would have said both of my porch lights were out.
“I used to be a fire marshal,” Plover called to Miss Una, “but that was last week. Now I’m … I’m an insurance adjuster.”
“Isn’t that nice,” she said. Her thumb danced above the top of the lighter, then eased away, thus allowing others of us to release a breath. “If you’re finished with all these questions, I’ll go back inside now.”
“So Bernswallow was dead when you went to the bank,” I said in a conversational tone.
“He certainly was. In order to look through his drawers, I tilted his chair until he slid to the floor, and he didn’t say one word. I didn’t touch him, of course, since that would have been most presumptuous, but I did ask him several times if he could hear me. Johnna Mae was correct when she said he had compiled a list of my little depository charges, but she was quite wrong when she said he was alive. You don’t think I would have started such a big fire if he hadn’t already been dead and therefore wouldn’t mind?”
“Not for a minute,” Plover called, giving her a genial grin. He nudged me and I did the same, although without much sincerity.
We were making progress of a kind: she hadn’t torched her house yet. Wow. I was about to ask Plover if he had any ideas how next to proceed when Staci Ellen slipped. She grabbed for Kevin, and at the last second caught his hand and managed to regain her balance a good centimeter from the edge of the roof and a ten-foot drop.
At which point the biggest, blackest, loudest motorcycle I’d ever seen roared up in a veritable cloud of dust and gravel. The driver cut the ignition, yanked off his helmet, and, his eyes bulging like balloons, shouted, “What the fuck are you doing up there—and where are your fucking clothes, you little whore?”
“Bruno!” Staci Ellen screamed, throwing her arms around Kevin so wildly that they both began to stagger forward.
Miss Una’s head shot back and she blinked at the porch ceiling. “Goodness gracious,” she murmured as she flicked her Bic.
The porch disappeared in a sheet of flames.
Carolyn came into the bar and flopped down in the booth across from me. “I just talked to the county prosecutor. Johnna Mae’s going to face a truckload of charges, but not murder. The autopsy report came in this morning; Bernswallow died of smoke inhalation. She admitted to me that she did go into the branch to try to reason with him. When he refused to back down on his blackmail demand, she lost her temper and bashed him on the head. She swears he was alive when she panicked and ran to Miss Una’s house to tell her that Bernswallow intended to blackmail all three of them.”
I nodded. “Then we have the second player—Putter. He saw her run out the back of the bank and head for Miss Un
a’s house for help. He went in and found both the unconscious banker and the blackmail note, burned the note in the metal wastebasket, and went home, convinced Johnna Mae had killed Bernswallow. Johnna Mae assumed he had killed Bernswallow and then started the fire to cover it up. They may not communicate well with each other, but they’re damn loyal.”
Carolyn frowned and shook her head. “In retrospect, I shouldn’t have taken the complaint to begin with. I was upset about a different matter and not thinking rationally. I thought it might be a way to get even with that prick after all these years.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then gave me a forced smile. “I was the victim of a gang rape at the fraternity house. I let myself get talked into going to a childish party, where a drunken brute dragged me upstairs and invited all his buddies to join in the fun. Brother Bernswallow’s father had enough money and influence to have my charge dismissed as the rantings of a promiscuous, drunken slut who’d participated willingly and then changed her tune in the morning. The administration seized the chance to banish the fraternity, but they refused to pursue it any farther. Brandon didn’t even recognize me.”
I looked away to let her regain her composure. “You couldn’t have known all the craziness that would happen,” I said. “I still have a hard time picturing Miss Una calling Lottie Estes to suggest a jaunt to the bank to visit with their friends. While Lottie was engrossed in recipes, Miss Una took a can of kerosene, slipped inside to start the fire, and then ran into Kevin on her way out. Only Kevin would fall for the story she gave him. Lord, what a moron he is.”
Carolyn and I sat for a few minutes longer. She finally said she needed to make a long-distance call and wandered away. I was still in the booth when Ruby Bee and Estelle came out of the kitchen.
“I told you it worked,” Estelle said, poking Ruby Bee with a wineglass. “I think you owe someone an apology for being all snooty about it. The someone is waiting right next to you.”