by Joan Hess
I looked back at Mason, who was white and clutching the railing for dear life. Taking a deep breath, I said, "The dead body, Merle-tell me about the body."
"Don't you want to hear about the two that was having themselves a fine old time in the front seat? They was doing it in a funny way, but these kids today have some newfangled notions on how to go about procreatin'. Mrs. Hardcock, bless her soul, would of been right scandalized. She always wore a flannel nightgown and covered the face of the alarm clock with a towel when I came a-sniffin' at her."
"Merle, I want to know about the body. Are you going to tell me, or do I have to drag it out of you word by word?"
I had to drag it out of him word by word. Once I learned that he had happened across a dead, bloodied body on the far side of Cotter's Ridge, I ordered him to wait for me at the PD. I told Mason, who was quivering like a molded salad, that I would get back to him later and sent him home. Then, bewildered and thoroughly apprehensive, I went upstairs and told Hammet the news. He shrugged and asked if were Her. I said I didn't know for sure, but that it was likely. He then wanted to know iffen she'd done been et by a bear, and if so, was the bear dead, too? And if that were the case, was they gonna skin the bear and who would get to keep the hide? All in all, he handled it with aplomb.
Aplombless, I dressed, gulped down coffee, called the sheriffs office to report a suspicious death and arrange for a backup, and somehow managed to function like the cop I was supposed to be, although my brain, like Merle's motorcycle, had not yet cleared the creek. I left Hammet in front of the television, enthralled equally by cartoons and commercials, and trotted across the deserted highway to the police department just as the sheriff's deputy drove up in a four-wheel wagon. I ordered Merle to get in the backseat, then climbed in next to the deputy and tried my darndest to explain something I didn't know anything about.
An hour later, after jolting up a wretched logging trail on the north side of Cotter's Ridge while Merle shouted directions in one of my ears and the deputy shouted questions in the other, we parked and got out of the vehicle. Merle led us to a clearing, then stopped and wordlessly pointed at a crumpled and very still figure on the far side. From where we stood, I could see it was what remained of Robin Buchanon. I wasn't totally surprised, but I had to battle the sudden explosion of icicles in my stomach and the flood of sourness in my mouth.
"Goddamn it," I muttered under my breath, thinking about her children. Hammet in particular, since I hadn't been fooled by his casual remarks earlier. A mother is a mother is a mother, even if she's a moonshining, whoring, abusive mountain woman. "What the hell happened to her?"
The deputy caught my arm as I started forward. "Booby traps," he said, pointing down at a thin wire almost lost in the leaves. "The trip wire's attached to some sort of detonation gizmo. The woman must have been in too much of a hurry to watch the ground."
I shook my head as I looked at the rows of fourfoot plants. "I'll bet she was. This must have been the family ginseng patch. She'd have been furious when she saw the marijuana plants, and rushed forward to rip them up." I eased around the perimeter of the clearing, keeping an eye out for wires, buried cans and buckets, dangling fish hooks, and other charming devices, most of which were brought home from the Vietnamese jungle, along with a fondness for marijuana. I won't say much about the odor, but it wasn't anything you could miss, not even from a good fifty feet away. Covering my mouth and nose with a handkerchief, I knelt down at a prudent distance and forced myself to examine the pitiful body. "Yeah, her foot's caught on a trip wire. There's the booby trap in that branch. I saw a diagram of one in a manual at the academy, but I don't guess I've ever seen a real one."
The device was a Rube Goldberg contraption involving the trip wires, a spring-coiled door hinge, a nail, a square of wood with a hole bored in it, and a shotgun shell that had been detonated. That's all I'm going to tell you, and there are no diagrams in the back of the book. Do not go down to the basement and fool around with the above-mentioned items unless you have a perverted secret desire to go through life minus eyes and a smattering of fingers.
The deputy came over to peer at the booby trap. "It's only number six bird shot, but she caught it square in the face. It was probably rigged just to scare the living daylights out of some innocent trespasser, which it sure as hell would of. Bird shot won't kill you unless you get it in the eyes. If she'd been half a dozen inches taller or a few feet farther away, or even turned the other direction, she'd be squawking like a wet hen while she picked pellets out of her bottom."
That wasn't much comfort for Robin Buchanon.
"I'm going to nail the son of a bitch who boobytrapped this patch," I said. My voice must have sounded a mite cold, because the deputy and Merle exchanged cautious looks and stayed quiet. I sucked in a breath through the handkerchief, then continued. "It's one thing to grow a little dope out in the National Forest; God knows it's the number-one cash crop in this part of the state. But this booby trap changes things. We're not going to rip out the plants and haul them to the county incinerator, moaning all the way about lack of manpower. We're going to catch the bastard and hang him on murder one and everything else in the book. He's going to drown in the felony charges we'll come up with."
I stood there and glowered while the deputy radioed in his report. Merle squatted under a tree and did not cackle. After a great deal of staticky conversation, we were told to handle the preliminary investigation ourselves because they doubted they could find us. They had a point.
The deputy and I gingerly examined the scene for evidence, of which there was damn little. Robin's tools and gunnysack were labeled and put into plastic evidence bags, then stashed in the back of the vehicle. The tiny fragments of cardboard from the shotgun shell were treated in a similar fashion. The device that had killed Robin Buchanon was bagged, with a few expressed hopes that fingerprints might be found. The plants were measured, counted, and assessed at more than ten thousand dollars, wholesale alone, although they were short enough to indicate they had been planted as late as midsummer. Retail (a.k.a. street value) could be as much as ten times higher. Six more booby traps were located around the perimeter-and very carefully left intact. At that point the deputy and I grimaced at each other. He returned to the vehicle for a body bag, and we forced ourselves to slide the remains into it. Then each of us found a private spot in the forest in which to vomit. I knelt for a long while afterward, thinking all sorts of crazy things that I still can't put into words. Which goes to show I was about as hard-boiled as the heroine of a Jane Austen novel.
Once the vehicle was loaded, I went back to make sure we hadn't missed anything. The marijuana plants were swaying just a bit in the breeze, like proud, bushy, green plumes. Once the investigation was closed and the son of a bitch was doing a string of consecutive sentences for murder, manufacture of a controlled substance, trafficking, reckless endangerment, and an assortment of federal charges, the patch would be cleared and burned. Maybe the ginseng would come back, I thought with a wry smile. If it did, I'd bring Hammet et al to the spot and show them their family legacy. Their mother's estate, so to speak.
I went back to the wagon. Merle was perched on the edge of the backseat, not real pleased by the bags (and odor) behind him. Sympathizing, I got in the front, rolled down the window, and told the deputy I was finished for the time being. As he drove our makeshift hearse down the road, I stared out the window. "This is my case, you know," I said without turning my head.
"So the sheriff figured you'd say. It's as much your jurisdiction as anybody's, and you did know the deceased. He may be being so generous because we're shorthanded, overworked, and underpaid. Ain't none of us had a decent vacation in the last six months."
I considered suggesting they take so-called vacations instead, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. I leaned back and closed my eyes.
"Looky there," Merle said suddenly, bruising my ear as he stuck his hand out the window to point at a clump of firs. "Do you recollect
how I said earlier that I'd seen some kids courting along the road? Looks like they couldn't get their jeep to working again."
I'd forgotten about the courters. And I didn't like the word "jeep," which brought to mind the one that was supposedly parked in front of the PD. Because it now occurred to me-a mere three hours after the fact-that it hadn't been there earlier, when I'd raced over to meet the deputy. It hadn't been there the night before, when David Allen had driven us past too quickly for me to decide what was wrong. That flash of insight was a mere fourteen hours after the fact. Perspicacity is not among my sins.
The deputy jammed on the brakes. "It's under those firs. You got to look real hard to see it, but you can see a flash of red and the sunlight glinting on a taillight."
"Red jeep," I said, sighing. "Just for the record, Merle-who were these two lovebirds you met last night?"
He confirmed my worst fears. The three of us pushed through the brush to the jeep, which was empty of all signs of humanity except for a square of wax paper on the floorboard in front of the passenger's seat. At that moment I caught myself wishing the twosome had been et by a bear, but I put the fantasy aside and yelled their names. Pretty soon the deputy and Merle started yelling, but nobody waddled or stumbled out of the woods.
"They're damn lucky they're not here," I said through clenched teeth. "I've got a murder investigation on my hands; the last thing I need is a missing team of car thieves. If Kevin fell out of a tree in front of me right now, I swear I'd strangle him. If I could get my hands around Dahlia's neck, I'd strangle her, too."
"Shall I call in a grand theft auto?" the deputy suggested. "Destruction of government property? Malicious mischief? How about we put out an APB on 'em?"
"Do that, and stress that they're liable to be armed and dangerous. Maybe some trigger-happy cop'll save me the bother." I leaned back against the hood of the jeep and rubbed my face until it hurt. "This whole mess is too damn much for me. I've got a murder, a bunch of orphans, a stolen vehicle, two missing morons, a town full of loonies who communicate with dead ancestors, and a psychic who seems to know more than I do. I don't return my calls, my lipstick's crooked, and my mother thinks I'm a stagnant pond. I don't need this, guys."
I didn't burst into tears, but I toyed with the idea all the way back to town.
Mrs. Jim Bob nibbled a corner of the candy bar with her small, even teeth. Although her stomach was grumbling, she carefully refolded the wrapper and put the candy bar back in the bedside drawer. Rationing was essential, she told herself in a firm voice. She was in no danger of drying out too badly, what with the bathroom tap. But thirty-six hours into the siege, she was getting hungrier by the minute and she was having a hard time not just jamming the candy bar into her mouth.
She dialed the sheriffs department and dully asked to speak to Chief of Police Arly Hanks.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Jim Bob," the dispatcher said, "but she still hasn't called in. I swear I've been beeping her since your first call. I don't know what else I can do for you, dear. Are you sure there isn't anyone else who can help you?"
Mrs. Jim Bob wasn't about to admit she was at the mercy of four children, that she couldn't exercise her authority or even sneak past the little heathens to the kitchen for a meat loaf sandwich and a glass of iced tea. Why, the dispatcher, one LaBelle Hutchinson, was by far the biggest gossip in the whole county, and more than likely to tell the whole world about Mrs. Jim Bob's dilemma. LaBelle belonged to every auxiliary and missionary society in the county and it wasn't because of her dedication to all those worthy causes. She just knew everything that happened, from marital squabbles to drunken teenagers stealing the family car to filthy child abusers, and she wasn't above preening in the limelight while her tongue wagged harder than a duck's tailfeathers.
Mrs. Jim Bob caught herself wondering how to find a filthy child abuser, since she knew some candidates worthy of abuse. She scolded herself for such un-Christianlike thoughts, then told LaBelle to keep trying to locate Arly. She dialed Brother Verber's number, but it was still busy. The telephone company had run a check sometime in the now murky past, and assured her that the line was not out of order. They were real snippy about it, too.
She replaced the telephone receiver and went to the bedroom door to make sure it was still locked. As she returned to sit on the corner of the bed, she heard what sounded like an elephant thudding into the living-room wall. She didn't even wince, being long past the wincing stage.
"Well, at least it proves you were right," Mason said, keeping his distance.
"Did you have doubts?" Celeste snapped. She sat at the dinette table, a cup of tea in front of her. The tarot cards were pushed to one side, their corners bent and soft from a hard, all-night workout. "I told you to bring that woman here, and you did not. That is why I have doubts, Mason-doubts about your ability to follow simple directions."
"She was going to come; I told you that. Then this strange guy on a motorcycle showed up, making weird noises and alluding to a body up in the woods somewhere. She's a cop, Sis. She had to go investigate. She did seem a little unnerved about the coincidence, though, and said she'd be by to talk to you this afternoon."
"What coincidence, Mason?"
He realized he'd put his foot squarely in it, but it was too late. "Not the coincidence of your having the vision. The coincidence of me appearing at the door just when that crazy coot showed up with the news."
"I saw a dead woman's face. A dead woman was subsequently found. There is no coincidence."
"Of course not," Mason said, easing toward the door. "Well, I have a few errands to run this morning, so I'll see you around lunchtime."
"Errands, Mason? Are your errands more important than what I have determined about the dead woman? You run along, little brother; I shall save my revelations for this policewoman."
Mason came back to the table and sat down across from her. "What revelations, Sis? For all we know, this woman got bit by a snake or fell off a cliff. If you start telling the cops all kinds of wild stuff, they're liable to think you're involved in a crime. You know what happened in Las Vegas."
"But I am involved. I know more than the police, just as I did in the earlier matter."
"Like what?"
She picked up the deck of cards and idly riffled them. "I put myself in a trance last night while you engaged in transcendental vegetation in front of the television. Once I was able to contact those who assist me from the other world, I learned that this death was the result of a crime."
"You talked to the dead woman?" Mason tried not to let his face twitch, but he didn't have much luck. "You asked her stuff about how she died?"
"I was not able to communicate directly with her; there is a period of adjustment, especially for those who have died a violent death. But I made inquiries of my spiritual guides, and one was able to tell me of the death. This woman was innocent of crime, and had the misfortune of stumbling into someone else's evilness."
"What kind of evilness?"
"Something illegal. Although to me it remains hazy, it seems to involve bushy green plants-marijuana, I would guess." Celeste put down the cards and scowled. "But the vision was inverted, upside down, as if the plants were rooted in the sky. It disturbs me, in that I cannot make sense of such an inexplicable idea, but the very inversion is linked with the woman's death."
"She was killed by a marijuana plant hanging from the sky?" Mason said, feeling an uncomfortable wetness in his armpits. "How could that kill her?"
"I told you that I am struggling to understand, Mason. Stop gaping at me as if I were an exotic fish in an aquarium. There was an explosion-a great burst of light and pain, but I could not see from where it came. I must talk to this policewoman, however, and find out what she knows. Perhaps that will help me as I seek the truth."
"Celeste, she's not going to tell you the results of an official investigation. When's the last time you met a cooperative cop? Why don't you forget about this and concentrate on Carol Alice's impending marita
l woes or the hairdresser's mysterious boyfriend?"
She studied him in silence, then snorted and picked up the cards. "Go fetch Arly Hanks, Mason. And get it right this time, unless you want a oneway bus ticket to the used-car lot."
Mason left the house. He drove by the police department, but there were no cars parked out front, and he assumed the policewoman was still up in the woods. Just as well, he thought with a sigh. Celeste had lost her marbles on this one, and it might be wiser to let things simmer for a while. In fact, it might be smart to stop at Ruby Bee's for a plateful of eggs and grits. That way he'd hear the up-to-the-minute gossip on the dead woman and could decide what to do about Celeste once he had some idea of what was going on. It'd be downright smart.
Merle, the deputy, and I spent a long afternoon at the sheriffs office, filling out reports and stashing the baggies in the evidence locker. Robin's body was sent to the state crime lab, but we all knew what it would take the state boys several days to determine. The birdshot had entered her brain through her eyes, and had killed her within seconds. It was sheer bad luck on her part that she'd caught it like she had.
I had a little explaining to do about the jeep in that it wasn't mine to begin with and it was my responsibility. We decided to leave it for the time being, so we wouldn't arouse any suspicions from our dope growers. As for the jeep thieves-well, we decided to let them continue doing whatever they were doing. Hitchhiking out of the county. Procreatin' under a bush. Starving to death in the woods. (Guess which was my favorite theory.) The sheriff, a gruff old boy with a surprising amount of common sense, took me to his office and settled me across the desk from him. He then tried to tell me, gently but firmly, that we didn't have the manpower to stake out the marijuana patch until the growers showed up. There'd been a spate of robberies all over the county. A fellow in a ski mask was causing all kinds of grief to the convenience-store industry. They'd had a tip about an impending armed robbery at a bank branch in Emmet, and they figured they'd have to keep three men undercover there for a week. So, the grandfatherly lecture concluded, we were just going to have to rip out the plants and burn them.