Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 07 (11 page)

“Sounds like you’ve run into a dead end.”

“It feels like it, too. The only person I haven’t spoken to is one of the aides. She has a new job and her mother doesn’t have the telephone number yet. I left a message for her to call me, but from what I’ve gathered about the morning’s activities, she couldn’t have seen anything either.” Brakes squealed and horns blared out front. I held my breath and waited to hear a crash, but whatever tragedy was at hand was diverted. “The most popular theory is that Adele left to visit a cousin and forgot to mention it to Mrs. Twayblade. The cousin will get tired of her before too long and dump her out in front of the county home in time for Matt Montana’s arrival.”

“And all you have to do is hunt up this cousin and make sure Adele has her pajamas and toothbrush. It ain’t an unworkable premise, Arly. Old ladies forget things all the time.”

I gazed gloomily at my notes. “Problem is, she’s not supposed to have any living relatives, with the exception of Matt Montana. I can’t overlook the possibility that she was coerced into leaving. Maybe somebody thinks Matt Montana will pay a bundle to get his great-aunt back. I suppose I ought to call him and ask if he’s putting together a collection of small, unmarked bills. Think he’s listed in the phone book, Harve, or should I try the atlas?”

“I’d hold off for a few more days if I were you.”

I dropped my notebook in a bottom drawer. “Mrs. Jim Bob has a telephone number for whoever’s coordinating this from Nashville. I’ll try it eventually. It’s not like I don’t have anything else to do these days.”

Harve found this highly amusing. Once he’d stopped laughing, he said, “I hear the tourists over in Montanaville are thicker than fleas on a potlicker.”

I would have hung up on him if I had the energy, but that would require me to first offer some cleverly scathing retort, and I was clevered out. “Some are camped out in the field behind Eilene and Earl Buchanon’s house, and the Pot o’ Gold Mobile Home Park’s at full capacity for the first time since Buford Buchanon took to streaking every evening at sunset. I’ve dealt with a couple of fender benders, some heated words at the self-service pumps, and a kid who was left behind at the SuperSaver. The state police flagged down the parents three counties away, and after some dickering, they came back. Perkins threatened some picnickers who climbed his fence, but he was careful to aim well over their heads.” I yawned so wide my jaws popped and my eyes watered. “I’m getting ready to quit and go take a long, hot bath.”

“You want some backup for this parade tomorrow?” he said between puffs on what I knew was a vile cigar. He was in a good mood, but he usually was when he was giving me a hard time; I reciprocated when the compass needle swung my way. “I can send over Les and maybe Tinker, if he’s recovered. I’m short on account of the epidemic of stomach flu that goes around every year during deer season. If I wasn’t such a trusting soul, I’d almost wonder if it was something more than a coincidence.”

“Yeah, send over whoever shows up. This parade is strictly small-time, from what I can gather from yet another memo from the Homecoming Committee.” I found the pertinent missive under one ordering me to enforce the noparking regulations alongside the county roads; I suspected it had more to do with filling the parking lot than pedestrian safety.

“Hard to think it’ll rival that parade they showed on television Thanksgiving morning. Two deputies ought to do it, one at each end of town to stop traffic.”

I yawned again, this time nearly dislocating my jaw. “Parade’s at one, Harve. Tell Les and Tinker I’ll meet ‘em at the PD at noon.”

I had turned off the coffee pot and switched off the light in the back room when an unfamiliar man came into the PD. I’d learned by now that Matt Montana fans came in all shapes and sizes, but he was a combination I hadn’t yet encountered: tall, clad in corduroy, bare-headed, and with a glimmer of intelligence in his pale blue eyes.

“Can I help you?” I asked wearily.

“May I presume this is the Matt Montana Police Department and Souvenir Shoppe?”

“Probably will be by tomorrow. I’m Arly Hanks, designated upholder of the law. And you’re …?”

“Ripley Keswick.” He sat down, crossed his legs, entwined his fingers around one knee, and gave me a twinkly smile.

My smile was less twinkly as I sat down behind my desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Keswick?”

“I’m the executive vice-president of Country Connections, Inc.”

“So you’re the man from Nashville,” I acknowledged with a sigh. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Nothing slanderous, I hope. I’m only in town for a brief time to assess the progress for Matt’s upcoming visit. It was not easy to overlook the profusion of signs relating to it.”

I put my afflicted feet on my desk and leaned so far back in the chair that my head bumped the wall. The water stain on the ceiling was beginning to develop oversized ears and a shiteating grin. “I hear they’re painting Matt’s face on the sides of all the cows tomorrow, and there’s been some discussion about chipping his profile on a bluff up on Cotter’s Ridge.”

“You seem a bit grumpy about all this, Arly—if I may call you that?”

“You can call me Mathilda Montana if you want,” I said with all the grumpiness I could muster. “I realize this is a boon to the local economy, and it’s been hurting since the carpetbaggers went back home. But this town’s gone berserk. Yesterday morning it was … well, if not normal, at least predictable. This morning signs had sprouted like toadstools after a rain and a full-grown industry was in place. I just don’t know what that will mean when this Matt mania fades and we’re left with a bunch of shoppes filled with dusty souvenirs.”

“Graceland does a steady business.”

“So it does, Mr. Keswick.”

He studied me with a dispassionate expression. “A pragmatist,” he said suddenly and delightedly. “You’re a rarity in the rural South, my dear. We Southerners pride ourselves on the depth and irrationality of our emotionalism, although of course we’re trained from birth to disguise it under a demeanor of the utmost civility right up until the moment we’ve no choice but to knock someone upside the head with a pool cue.”

“I had a lot of moments like that today, Mr. Keswick,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint.

“Please, you must call me Ripley. I apologize for lapsing into a philosophical flight of fancy. I wanted to let you know that we’ll do everything we can to cooperate with you. Fans can be difficult, even destructive, and I want to apologize in advance for any undue burden we’ll place on you.” He paused in case I wanted to express gratitude for either the apology or the burden, then proceeded with a list of those descending by bus on Maggody and an assurance that the concert would be a lowkey production without pyrotechnics or elaborate sound equipment. I pretended to take notes.

He finally unlocked his fingers and unfolded his legs. “My motel is in Farberville. I’ll be back tomorrow to finalize a few details.”

“By the way, Ripley, have you or anyone else in Nashville had any communiqués regarding Adele Wockermann?” I asked delicately. “Phone calls from her, or maybe a message about her future welfare?” I figured I didn’t need to alarm him by spelling it out in letters clipped from a newspaper.

“All of our dealings with her are through a woman who I now understand to be the wife of the local moonshiner. Should we anticipate a call from a local lawyer? Frankly, we didn’t budget for the use of her house in the publicity shots, but I suppose something can be worked out.” He took his wallet from his pocket and put a business card on my desk. “Have him get in touch with me.”

He left before I could ask about his weird assumption that Mrs. Jim Bob was a moonshiner’s wife, but I finally dismissed it as a typical city slicker’s paranoia. He’d probably expected to see a washing machine on the porch of the PD and hens scratching behind my desk.

Either Matt was keeping Keswick in the dark while negotiating with the kidnappers, Keswick was lying, or my theory was a washout. I had to admit it had sounded pretty lame to begin with and had not improved. Mrs. Twayblade had stressed that the residents were free to come and go as they pleased. Adele had been pleased to go (and I couldn’t blame her).

I sat in the gloom and tried to figure out how she had managed to disappear and where the devil she could be … and what Ripley Keswick would do when he learned about it the next day. From the moonshiner’s wife, no less. Marjorie would be livid with jealousy when she found out.

I locked the door and went home.

Dahlia had borrowed Eilene’s car through deceit, having said she needed a yard more fabric for her vest and another foot of fringe for her skirt. To minimize the sin, she’d gone by the fabric store in Farberville and picked up a packet of sequins, then stopped at a grocery store for provisions before parking in the driveway of a vacant house half a block away from the Vacu-Pro office.

Belching mournfully, she swallowed the last of the orange soda pop and tossed the can into the back seat with the cellophane wrappers and empty onion dip carton. It was already getting dark, and before too long, she wouldn’t be able to spot Kevvie if he showed up. Spot him and what? She’d already asked herself that question about once a minute since she’d arrived, and she hadn’t come up with much of an answer.

It wasn’t at all like the television shows, where the suspect appeared before the commercial. She’d been sitting there for more than two hours, and the only person who’d entered the Vacu-Pro office was an old guy with silver hair, most likely Kevin’s boss, Mr. Dentha, coming by to pick up the profits. He hadn’t come out yet.

She was scrabbling for the crumbs in the bottom of the potato chip bag when the office door opened. A skinny little woman as frumpy as Elsie McMay paused to put on a scarf and button her coat, said something over her shoulder, and then marched down the sidewalk. When she reached the corner, however, she spun around and stared right through the darkness as if she could see the car and every pore of its driver’s face.

Dahlia’s hands shook so hard she could barely turn the ignition key. She fumbled with the lights, backed out of the driveway, cringed as the fender grazed the rock wall, and raced away in the opposite direction. What she hadn’t seen, and had come within inches of running down in her panic, was the silver-haired figure who’d emerged from an alley and was in the midst of writing down her license plate number when the car barreled toward him. She hadn’t seen him leap sideways into a crackly bush either.

Once Mr. Dentha’d extricated himself, he was forced to sit down on the curb and wait until his heart stopped jumping inside his chest. When he got back to the office, he poured himself a shot of scotch and sank back on the sofa, his lips still bluish and his eyes watery. If only he’d gotten a glimpse of the driver. Could it have been a process server lying in wait for him? An irate husband? A goon sent by the bookie? A disgruntled ex-employee? A spy from the regional office? The possibilities, if not limitless, were abundant—and uniformly alarming.

Dentha finished his drink, grateful for the warmth that eased the iciness of his hands and feet. After another, a devious idea came to him. He went into his secretary’s office and sat down by the old-fashioned typewriter. “Miss Vetchling,” he pecked carefully, “the car we noticed belongs to a very pleasant real estate saleswoman, so we needn’t worry further about it. Earlier this afternoon I thought I recognized an old army buddy at a stoplight, but the light changed before I got a good look at his face. He’s the gunner whose life I saved when our plane went down in the Pacific. Please call the vehicle registration office in Little Rock and ask them to help a nearsighted old WWII vet by finding out who owns the car with the following license plate.”

He took a paper from his pocket, smoothed it out, and searched for the appropriate keys. He was initialing the note when the telephone rang. The office was ostensibly closed, but he worked late most evenings and every now and then one of the boys would call to cinch a sale with a plea for a “special discount just this one time because of the regional sales contest.”

“Vacu-Pro Systems,” he said into the receiver.

“This is—huh, this is Arly Hanks, and I—huh—I want to see about having one of your vacuum cleaner salesmen come by because—because my husband said just this morning that I could have a fancy new vacuum cleaner if I let a salesman show me how it works first. Tonight—he has to show me tonight!”

“There’s no need to be nervous, Mrs. Hanks. We’d be delighted to demonstrate the Vacu-Pro System. One of our salesmen will arrive within an hour to shampoo the carpet of your choice at absolutely no cost to you so that you can see the actual germs that lurk in the pile and pose a deadly threat to your children and family pets. Your address and telephone number, Mrs. Hanks?”

“I’m at a pay phone.”

“That won’t do us much good, will it? I need your address and your home telephone number so that Solomon can call if he has trouble finding your house.”

“Solomon?”

“Solomon is our very finest Vacu-Pro System salesman. He’s been with us longer than anyone else, and—”

“I don’t like the sound of this Solomon fellow. I want somebody who’s still fresh in his mind about the attachments.” There was a wheezy lull, replete with gurgles and a muffled belch. “I got it. A friend of mine said this real nice young man came to her house a while back, just as mannersome as a body could be and sharp as a tack when it came to rattling off all the amazing uses for the attachments. She said his name was Kevin … Kevin Buchanon, I seem to think. He’s the one I want.”

He dropped the pen and closed the book. “You’re out of luck, Mrs. Hanks, because the young man left the Vacu-Pro sales team two weeks ago. If we’re talking about the same salesman, that is, and I have my doubts.”

He might have recounted them, and indeed they were numerous, but he would have been doing so to a dial tone.

Over the next few days, my optimism dwindled and I began to worry that Adele’s biological clock (in the purest sense) might have slowed down or even stopped ticking. Hospitals, bus stations, homeless shelters, and county morgues had been notified to be on the lookout for her, but Arkansas is not as densely populated as, say, Manhattan, and there are vast mountainous areas in which a body can remain undiscovered for months. Conventional channels were useless: Adele had never had a driver’s license, credit cards, department store charge cards, or a long-distance calling card. I doubted she’d ever had a library card.