Magoddy in Manhattan

by Joan Hess

  There was only one thing to do, she concluded grimly as she pulled into the grass beside the rectory of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. She had to seek spiritual guidance. She had to get down on her knees and beg for forgiveness for whichever sin applied, after which she could tell Brother Verber to dispose of the packages in a discreet manner. The episode would be over with. Jim Bob would never dare to mention the charge slip (not if he valued his skin, anyway), and she would simply get back to the Christian business of cleansing the community of illicit whiskey.

  After a quick look to make sure no one was watching, she took the packages out of the backseat, careful not to inhale the miasma, and knocked on the metal door.

  “Brother Verber, open this door immediately!” she called. “I have no intention of standing here like a salesman with a case of brushes. Open this door!”

  Brother Verber did as ordered. “Why, if it isn’t Sister Barbara behind that stack of pretty boxes. Are they gifts for the little heathen orphans in Africa?”

  She went past him, checked to make sure he wasn’t in the midst of counseling any errant members of the flock, and dumped the packages on the dinette table. “They are not for little heathen orphans in Africa,” she said with a pinched smile. “They are proof of Jim Bob’s perfidy. I brought them to you so you could get rid of them in a manner befitting your position as spiritual leader of the flock. We have to pray over them until Satan flees, and then burn them until they’re nothing more than ashes.” She’d been planning to suggest he run them out to the Farberville landfill, but this new idea was better, more symbolic, more likely to keep her secret. In fact, she thought with a slightly wider smile, she could scoop up the ashes and put them in a bag to present to Jim Bob. Wouldn’t his expression be amusing when she explained they represented over four hundred dollars of lasciviousness?

  “What’s in ’em?” Brother Verber asked uneasily.

  “It doesn’t matter. What’s important is that they reek of depravity, and we have a duty to make sure they never fall into the hands of some innocent child or good Christian. Go ahead and sprinkle them with holy water, Brother Verber, and we’ll commence to pray over them until we see the fierce red devils go swarming off to find another home.”

  He approached the table, dearly hoping the fierce red devils weren’t residing amongst sticks of dynamite. “If that’s what we have to do, we’ll do it, Sister Barbara. I’m fresh out of holy water, but I do have some sacramental wine in the ice box. If that’s not sufficient, I ’spose I could drive over to the Church of Christ in Emmet and ask ol’ Cornell about borrowing a cup of holy water.”

  “Fetch the wine,” Mrs. Jim Bob said as she settled down on her knees on the kitchen floor. “The fewer folks that know about this, the better. I cannot in good conscience risk the mortal souls of members of another congregation.” She closed her eyes and assumed an appropriately pious expression. The Almighty, in appreciation of her effort, sent down another idea, this one even better than the first one. She looked up at Brother Verber, who was hovering in a way not dissimilar to a blimp. “What’s more,” she told him, “as soon as we finish this business, we’ll take these packages and drive to Cotter’s Ridge to destroy Raz Buchanon’s still. We can pour his wicked moonshine on them, and they’ll blaze all the way to heaven so the Almighty can see we’re doing our Christian duty. He’ll approve of the way we’re killing two birds with one stone.”

  The earlier conversation had put Brother Verber off balance, but this was enough to slam him into the nearest wall, metaphorically speaking. He snatched his handkerchief out of his pocket and tried to stanch the rivulets of sweat on his face and neck. “Why, I don’t think we should waste any time destroying these … proofs of perfidy, Sister Barbara. We can just use my barbecue grill out back. I think I have most of a can of lighter fluid, but I can always get more at the Emporium. We can be done in no time flat.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob was not about to risk being seen at the grill, doing something odd enough to rouse speculation and provoke pointed questions. “No, the Almighty won’t mind waiting while we drive to the still. You told me that you knew exactly where it was, Brother Verber, and I would never doubt so much as a single word from your lips, what with you being a man of the cloth.”

  “Thank you, Sister Barbara,” he said, although he was a ways from being overcome with gratitude. He thudded to his knees and started praying that the Almighty, who seemed real generous with His suggestions, might feel inclined to share some with him. The location of the still, for starters.

  Ruby Bee and Estelle were waiting for the policeman to come knocking on the door of 219. They were doing it with about as much enthusiasm as a couple of coons treed by a pack of hounds.

  “I think you’re better off with the warm milk story,” Estelle said from within the bathroom, where she was trying to stabilize her hair without bruising her elbows every time she moved her arms.

  “You’ve said that about a million times already,” Ruby Bee said, sighing. “I jest don’t know what all Arly and Durmond told the policeman. If you hadn’t gone and said something about visiting a porn shop, then Arly wouldn’t have figured out what I was doing in the first place. She’ll be smirking the rest of her born days, at you for shopping at such a place and at me for doing what needed to be done to win ten thousand dollars. It won’t matter one bit to her that I planned to use part of my winnings to buy her some decent clothes.” She wiggled around on the bed, trying to find a comfortable spot. She might as well have been lying on a corncob mattress. “Now that I think about it, what all did you buy at that place?”

  There was a moment of silence in the bathroom, followed by a muttered response.

  “You’ll have to speak up. I didn’t hear you,” Ruby Bee said real nicely.

  “I said there’s not enough room in here to turn around. My poor knees are gonna be black and blue, and I still can’t get the bobby pins in at the right angle.”

  Ruby Bee got to her feet and crept over to Estelle’s suitcase. “I’ll bet that outhouse behind Robin Buchanon’s cabin is a sight bigger,” she called as she squatted down and began to rummage through the dirty laundry that had accumulated over the last few days. “I can’t imagine how Dahlia and Kevin managed to spend all those hours locked in there the night they thought a killer was after ’em. They must have felt like the stuffing in a Thanksgiving turkey, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll thank you not to go pawing through my personal belongings,” Estelle said from the doorway. She waited until an abashed Ruby Bee scuttled back to the bed, then added, “I was thinking about something more important than a couple of silly souvenirs, Miss Snoopy Britches. I was recollecting about how Durmond came to be buck-naked in your bed and you had to go and shoot at the police.”

  “All I did was pick up the gun,” the accused said sullenly. “I came into the room, and there he was, all bloody and indecent. Then out of the blue there’s footsteps and pounding on the door and yelling like a bunch of drunks in my parking lot. The gun was right there on the floor. I picked it up and was going to answer the door when it liked to explode in my hand. Things took a downward turn after that.”

  “I’ll say they did,” Estelle muttered as she sat down on her bed and took out an emery board. “The thing is, I myself heard the shot as I stepped off the elevator. I was right there in the hall when the policemen took to butting the door until they broke the lock, which is why I was there to see them tackle you like they did. You ought to get yourself a lawyer and sue ’em for it, if you ask me.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said? I swear, Adele Wockerman listens better than you do, when she ain’t got her hearing aid tuned to her favorite Martian station.” With an aura of smugness she knew would irk Ruby Bee, Estelle began to file her nails.

  “You were yammering worse than a schoolmarm who’s found a frog in her drawer. I heard everything you said. I just didn’t find it all that earth-shatteri
ng.” Ruby Bee picked up the travel guide and made a production of flipping through it. “This says there are some real quaint stores in Greenwich Village. If the contest is canceled like Arly says it’ll be, maybe we ought to shop there tomorrow.”

  “I said I was coming out of the elevator when I heard the shot. Not one day later, Durmond’s telling everybody he had to take the stairs on account of the elevator was broken. If it was so all-fired broken, how come I could sail right up to the second floor in it?”

  “Maybe it was temporarily broken,” Ruby Bee offered.

  “And that snooty manager grabbed his tool kit at ten o’clock at night and climbed the cables like a darn monkey to fix it?” Estelle put down the emery board and frowned something fierce. “There’s something real fishy about Durmond’s story, if you ask me.”

  As reluctant as she was to do so, Ruby Bee said, “You may be right. If the elevator was working, he must have gone up the stairs for another reason. He doesn’t strike me as one of those fitness freaks who think it’s fun to dress up in pastel underwear and run alongside the road, or ride a bicycle in the living room. It wasn’t like he had to wait more than a few seconds for the elevator to come; there’s no one else staying here but us, and we’re all on the second floor.”

  “Are we?” Estelle said, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.

  All Ruby Bee could see were cobwebs and some patches of bare plaster, but like Estelle, her eyes were aimed at a higher target.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Staring at the ceiling produced nothing more illuminating than an awareness that it needed new sheetrock. Oh, I’d posed some fascinating questions to myself, but unlike “Jeopardy!” contestants, I was shy on answers. I decided to forego this beginning business and focus on the corpse.

  Jerome had been killed in the kitchen. In theory, the kitchen was locked and Kyle Simmons had the only key. It had been in his possession from the moment the four cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut arrived until, I assumed, the police took it away from him in order to secure the scene.

  I forced myself to replay the hour or so we’d spent preparing for the contest. The key had been in the lock when I entered the kitchen, and when we left … it had been left as well. Kyle had returned several hours later, at which time Geri had berated him for not having left the key at the hotel. But he had—and in a rather obvious place for it.

  Clutching my pillow, I muddled for a while and came up with a tenuous idea. Someone had chanced upon the key in the lock, removed it for a period of time, and then replaced it before Kyle arrived with the bags of utensils. And unless Kyle had unlocked the door for Jerome in the middle of the night, there was now another key floating around in someone’s pocket.

  Who had borrowed the key long enough to have a duplicate made? Ruby Bee, Estelle, Durmond, and I had been busy making total asses of ourselves in various locales along Fifth Avenue. Catherine and Frannie had departed for a beauty salon; later in the afternoon, however, Frannie had returned laden with shopping bags and mentioned that Catherine was napping. Implying she’d been in her room, Brenda had come looking for Jerome—implying he hadn’t.

  He was a candidate, although no stronger a one than a boyish Democrat confronting a rich Republican incumbent. Geri had been in the hotel, but she needn’t have bothered to go through convolutions to get a duplicate key; all she had to do was keep the original. Excluding the workmen, the only other people within spittin’ distance were Rick and the enigmatic doorman, Mr. Cambria.

  I was approaching a full-scale migraine, but I squeezed my eyes closed and continued my mental meanderings. Rick had been seriously perturbed when Geri demanded the key. In fact, he’d been on the verge of combat when twinkly ol’ Mr. Cambria had suggested that he cooperate. And what had provoked this sudden interest in the not especially interesting kitchen? The arrival of four cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut.

  No one had admitted a fondness for soybean flakes, tinted or otherwise, and it was more than challenging to come up with a reason why anyone but a full-fledged wacko would kill for them. Yet an awful lot of people were behaving oddly over something Ruby Bee’d sworn was unfit for a sow (okay, a pedigreed sow, but still …). Interspace Investments, Inc. had bought the company and were enthusiastic enough to move up the date of the contest and host it in their own hotel. They’d rounded up replacements when the three original contestants had dropped out … with a broken leg, a severed finger, and a sudden desire to explore the Alaskan coastline for several months.

  Gawd, I hated coincidences almost as much as I hated the island on which I was currently prone. I dealt with the latter by standing up, gazing sullenly at my reflection, and heading out the door to find Lieutenant Henbit and impress him with my insightful logic.

  This proved to be a veritable piece of cake as the elevator doors slithered open and he and Durmond came out. “Ah, Ms. Hanks,” he said, politely ignoring my gasp, “I was on my way to your mother’s room to have a word with her. Several words, to be more accurate. Mr. Pilverman has convinced me that her discovery of the body in the kitchen was … well, not fortuitous, but perhaps serendipitous. However, neither of you has an explanation for her untimely presence. Let’s hope she does.”

  Durmond looked in need of a dry cleaner’s establishment, and not just for his clothes. He was watching me with such gloominess that I had to restrain myself from tweaking his cheek and assuring him everything was just dandy. “I’m going to lie down for a few minutes,” he said to both of us, and then to me, “but you’re welcome to join me for a drink later.”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured, not at all pleased with the emotional turmoil he’d managed to stir up with his morose eyes and smile. “I’ll have to see how I feel, but now I’d like to have a word with Lieutenant Henbit.” I waited until Durmond went into his room, grabbed Henbit’s arm, and dragged him down the hall toward the higher numbered rooms.

  “Ms. Hanks,” he said as he removed my hand, “I really have more important things to do than to play secret agent with you. I’m aware that you’re the chief of police of your little town in Arkansas. I have no doubt you’re skilled in the art of running speed traps and tracking down foxes in the chicken coops. This, however, is not Arkansas, and I must insist you—”

  “Wait just a goddamn minute, Lieutenant Henbit! I’m getting sick and tired of being dismissed as a two-bit cop from a one-bit town. I’m coming to you with valuable information, possibly what you need to determine who killed Jerome Appleton and why.” I held up my palms and moved backward. “But if you’re too busy to listen, I’ll run along and have myself a high ol’ time with a bug zapper and a six-pack of beer. Golly, I may jest go git myself another tattoo.”

  His jaw was out and trembling just a tad, but he took a breath and said, “What information do you have?”

  “I think it’s likely that the cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut contain contraband of some sort. Based on several oblique references to Florida and the Caribbean, I’d suggest you test the contents for drugs.”

  He gave me an indulgent smile. “We have. The lab tests aren’t completed yet, but the preliminary word is that the four cases contain nothing more than foul-tasting, rubbery soybean flakes with artificial flavor and artificial color, all packaged in unsullied plastic bags. It ought to be illegal, but it’s not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I just told you this was preliminary, so in that sense we’re not sure. Why don’t you go take a nice nap like Mr. Pilverman, or even with him, if that appeals? I need to ask your mother some questions, and then go back to my office to see what kind of progress we’re making on the current whereabouts of Mrs. Jerome Appleton.” With a nod, he went down the hall toward Ruby Bee’s room, leaving me to stand there gawking like a damnfool tourist in the mean streets of the city.

  And to think I’d skipped lunch to concoct my brilliant theory that had explained a helluva lot of things—perhaps not every itsy-bitsy bugaboo, but some of them, anyway. I was leaning against the wall, watching Henbit knoc
k on Ruby Bee’s door, when I heard voices and footsteps in the stairwell. I eased open the door in time to hear a male voice assessing the chances (not good) the Mets would win the pennant. A second male voice concurred.

  They continued down and presumably out into the lobby. I went to the landing and confirmed as much, then twisted my neck and looked up at the seemingly endless stairs leading into the darkness. With all the confidence of someone walking into a subway tunnel, I went to the third floor, where the remodeling supposedly continued.

  The door was not locked. I opened it far enough to stick my head out and ascertain the existence of a table saw, a pile of mismatched lumber, a rusted air conditioner surely on its way to its burial, and other debris appropriate to a remodeling job. It was pretty much what I expected, and I was about to duck back into the stairwell (and go find some lunch) when I heard the unexpected from around a corner.

  “Then you think lead pipes are the answer?” said Rubella Belinda Hanks of Maggody, Arkansas. “I always thought copper was the way to go.”

  “Well, the rust factor’s what you got to worry over,” said a genial man, identity and hometown unknown.

  “Ain’t rust just a royal pain in the butt!” chirped Estelle Oppers of Maggody, Arkansas.

  They were heading in my direction. I let the door click shut, hesitated long enough to scratch my chin and frown, then scurried up to the next landing and waited. I was gratified when the door below me opened and the two adventuresses began to descend.

  “All I can say is that it’s a good thing he works for that magazine at night!” Ruby Bee said with a sniff. “Imagine not knowing your copper pipes from your lead pipes.”