Merry Wives of Maggody (13 page)

“Please permit me to escort you,” Frederick said as he took my elbow. “I’ve walked around the course, and I know some shortcuts. Truly, I insist. Mrs. Jim Bob, if you’ll kindly excuse us, we must find a sheriff. I do hope it’s not harder than finding a needle in a haystack—or should I say a hayseed in a haystack?” He steered me out of the tent.

“You needn’t bother,” I said.

“This is for my sake, not yours. Why these people believe they can learn how to play golf in a week is baffling. I do think someone needs to test the water.”

I finally yanked my arm out of his grip. As we walked down the fairway, I said, “From what I could see from the tent, the players are toward the back of the pasture. Where are these promised shortcuts?”

“Up ahead,” Frederick said. “Tell me what it was like to grow up in Maggody.”

I was considering my reply when a golf ball bounced off a tree less than a yard away. I dropped to the ground. “Where’d that come from?”

“Over that way,” Frederick said as he squatted next to me.

I crawled over rocks and roots and peered out from behind a stump. Joyce was hacking furiously at the weeds with a golf club.

“Pay attention, Audley,” she shouted between hacks. “You darn near hit me.”

Audley was in the middle of the fairway. She’d already set another golf ball on a clump and was winding up. She took a mighty swing, then looked up, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Fore!” she yelled, failing to notice the golf ball had rolled between her feet. “Anybody see it?”

A boy in a Farber College T-shirt crept up behind her and grabbed the ball. Audley almost jumped out of her skin when he touched her shoulder. “Great shot,” he said. “It could be on the green, or even in the cup. What a shame it was your sixth shot instead of your drive.” He took a couple of steps and bent down to surreptiously place Audley’s ball in a divot. “Mrs. Lambertino, here’s your ball.”

“Thank you,” Joyce said as she picked her way through the brambles. “I must have stepped right over it. Which club should I use?”

“I don’t think it matters, ma’am.”

Frederick and I waited until they’d moved on, then emerged.

“That was close,” I said, not adding that I’d almost wet my pants.

I had not done well at the police academy when we were training to deal with snipers. We’d almost reached the far side when a ball flew over my head. We hightailed it behind a tree.

“Hush up!” Audley screeched. “He told me to pitch it, so I pitched it. I just happen to have a good arm. If I’d been born a boy, I’d have played for the New York Yankees.” There was a moment of silence. “If that’s what he meant, he should have said so!”

“This is getting scary,” I said. I glanced at Frederick, who looked a little pale himself. We made it through the next thicket without encountering snakes or hornets and came out in a wide swath of weeds. Twenty feet away was a green pond, ringed with cattails and withered stalks. Rings of ripples came from fish, turtles, or alligators; I had no desire to find out which.

I stopped to let Frederick recalculate our route. Before he could so much as point, a ball splashed down in the middle of the pond.

A nanosecond later a voice yelled a string of profanities that would make Raz blush (momentarily, at least).

“Jeremiah McIlhaney,” I said for Frederick’s benefit.

Said player and Luke came up to the far edge of the pond.

Jeremiah’s arms were crossed, his expression worthy of a horror movie. “Gimme another ball,” he said to Luke.

“Just drop a ball on the green. You can start at four and add your putts.”

“Four as in four balls in this goddamn pond? I’m going to hit a ball across it or kill myself trying. Now gimme one.”

Larry Joe pushed his way out of the woods. “You won’t have to kill yourself, asshole. I’ll do it for you if you waste one more ball. Bopeep’s on our tail, and she ain’t waiting for anything. She damn near hit me a minute ago.”

“On her drive?” asked Luke.

“No, on my head, moron. Jeremiah, the way I see it is you have two choices. One involves swimmin’ and one with walkin’ away right now.”

Jeremiah’s hand tightened around the grip. He took a step toward Larry Joe, which saved him from a golf ball that bounced where’d he been, then plopped into the pond. “ “What the hell,” he said as he threw the club in after it. “Somebody’s gonna have to gimme a ball, though.” They retreated into the woods.

Frederick and I went around the pond and resumed walking, although I peeked over my shoulder every few steps to make sure no foursome was bearing down on us.

“That’s what it was like growing up in Maggody,” I said, answering his earlier question. “What about you? Are you from a small town?”

“I wasn’t from anywhere until I was twelve. My family moved around a lot.” He turned right, and we picked our way through waist-deep pot to another fairway. I wasn’t sure which way to go, but Frederick took off as if he were following a map.

I was brushing thistles off my jeans as I caught up with him.

“And then?”

His steps faltered. “I went to a small college, got bored, and set off to conquer the world. Didn’t we all?”

“Sure we did.” We came around a clump of oak trees. There was a small group of golfers approaching an irregular patch that was vaguely green. Toward the center, a rod stuck up at a perilous angle, a piece of red cloth attached near the top. I recognized Harve’s potbelly and quickened my pace.

Abruptly one of the men let out a whoop that must have rattled windows in Seeping Springs. He squatted by the base of the flagpole, then sprang up and began to dance in a circle around it. “I told ya so! I told ya so!” he howled, thumping his chest. “I am the greatest!” He careened into another player, and they fell in a tangle of arms and legs. “I am the goddamn greatest in the world!”

“It seems,” Frederick said, “the gentleman has made a hole-in-one.”

I joined Harve, who was observing the scene with a sour look.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I ain’t in the mood to talk just now.”

“There’s a problem at the jail,” I said as I watched the two golfers on the green struggle to get up. The gloater had a crewcut and was dressed in wrinkled shorts and a T-shirt that did not quite cover his girth; his beaming face was reddened from a sunburn and long-term overindulgence in alcohol. I wasn’t surprised when he pulled out a silver flask from his golf bag and insisted that everyone join him. The other man was tall and trim, with dark hair and standard country club attire (except for the streaks of dirt from the impromptu wrestling match). He had an angular jaw with a prominent chin, a straight nose, and an even tan. He was not beaming.

“There’s always a friggin’ problem at the jail,” Harve said. He dug a cigar and a matchbook out of his shirt pocket. “Take two aspirin and call me Monday morning. Better yet, call the quorum court and tell ’em to up my bud get. LaBelle’s gettin’ tired of buying toilet paper for the ladies’ room out of her own paycheck.”

The remaining member of the foursome was Bony. His lip was curled in the classic Buchanon sneer. I recognized him from a long time ago, though back then his hair had been shaved to low stubble. Now it had peaks and valleys and was well lubricated.

He dragged Frederick aside and began to hiss at him. Frederick’s face was emotionless, his response inaudible.

“It’s more serious than the price of toilet paper,” I said to Harve.

“The hell it is.” He went to the green and scooped up a ball from nowhere near the hole. Ignoring the ongoing ruckus from the winner, he returned and said, “Ain’t much point in finishing the round.” The cigar clenched between his teeth, he hefted his golf bag onto his shoulder. “Talk to me while we walk back to my car. Better yet, keep your mouth shut until I’m at Ruby Bee’s with a cold beer on the table in front of me, and Waylon Jennings convincing me that I don’t mind.”

“You quitting?” shouted the pudgy man. “Don’t take it so hard, buddy boy. Drinks are on me after the round. How about a bourbon and branch water? Isn’t that the drink of choice out here in the booger woods?”

Harve’s reply does not bear repeating. As we walked along the fairway toward the tent, I told him what LaBelle had told me. His face began to mottle with fury, and by the time we emerged near the barn, he looked like he was on the verge of a stroke. He opened the trunk of his car and dumped the golf bag. “I’ll let you know if we have reason to suspect any of the escapees are heading this way.” He said a few more things that again don’t bear repeating, slammed his car door, and departed in a most unfriendly cloud of dust.

The players under the tent stared at me. It was likely they’d heard the uproar from whichever hole I’d been at. The optimists may have been hoping that a copperhead was involved, but the more pragmatic looked discouraged, if not suicidal. I decided not to be the bearer of ill tidings, since they’d hear soon enough.

I drove back to the main road, made sure Harve’s car was not in Ruby Bee’s parking lot, then stopped at the PD. after I’d called LaBelle to assure her that Harve was on his way, I decided to go into Farberville, rent a couple of old movies, pick up a pizza, and hide out in my apartment until the final putt was sunk. I wondered if Blockbuster might have a DVD of
Cannibal Women in
the Avocado Jungle of Death
. Avocado, Amazon. Close enough.

Six

M
y wake-up call coincided with the first glint of dawn. I rolled out of bed, stumbled around until I found the phone, and snapped, “What?”

“Arly?”

“What?” I repeated. My clock read 5:10, which was way too early to stand on sticky linoleum in bare feet and make conversation.

“This is Albina Buchanon. My aunt and me decided to go to Chigger Bush to visit my grandma, who’s ailin’ something awful. She fell downstairs a few months back and broke her hip. She’s always had a sweet tooth for peppermint schnapps. She must go through a pint of it a day, starting with her cup of tea in the morning and never letting up ’til she goes to bed. I disremember how many times the fire department’s had to rescue her off her roof. This time—”

“Get to the point, Albina.”

There was a moment of silence. “There ain’t no reason to get all huffy. I was jest givin’ you the background. Anyways, we were driving past the SuperSaver when I saw somebody in the bass boat. You know about the bass boat, doncha?”

“Yes, I know about the bass boat. Why are you calling me?”

“The man’s dead as a doornail, that’s why. His head is all bloody, and his eyes are blank. Excuse me for waking you up, Chief of Police Hanks. You kin go back to bed. He sure as hell ain’t going anywhere soon.” She hung up.

I put down the receiver and rubbed my eyes as I looked out the window. Maggody was not yet stirring, although it was likely that some kitchen lights were on and percolators were burping. I pulled on dirty jeans, moccasins, and a T-shirt. My hair was a mess, so I gathered it into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. I paused long enough to grab a handful of crackers, then went down the outside stairs. The glint of dawn was likely to be the only glint of the day, I thought as I noticed gray clouds looming across the top of Cotter’s Ridge. The air was gelatinous with humidity.

After a brief debate, I went across the street to the PD to get the car and drove to the SuperSaver parking lot. Albina and her aunt must have continued on their mission of mercy. There were no cars in the lot. There was, however, someone in the boat. I approached cautiously, aware of the queasiness in my stomach. I’d had a few bouts of morning sickness, and I suspected another was eminent unless Albina had been making a prank call.

The man’s body was slumped behind the steering wheel, if that’s what it was called. The back of his head was an unholy mess of bloody flesh and bone splinters. Flies were already crawling on the wound. I went around the boat and climbed in to get a better look at his face. Although blood had trickled across it, I recognized him as the golfer who’d made a hole-in-one the previous afternoon.

Now someone had made a hole-in-him.

I scrambled out of the boat just in time to avoid contaminating the scene. Once I felt steadier, I went back to my car and leaned against the hood. I didn’t have a cell phone because reception was sporadic and unreliable. The radio in my car could connect me to the sheriff’s office, but no one was there because of the previous day’s evacuation. The laws of physics being rigid, there was no way to remain at the scene and go call for backup. At least I couldn’t come up with one at 5:20 a.m.

I took a roll of yellow tape out of my trunk and began to rope off the boat as best I could, using light poles and a freestanding sign that advertised a two-for-the-price-of-one canned corn special. I was gazing glumly at my effort when I spotted a pickup truck coming up the road. I ran out to the edge and waved my arms. To my regret, Marjorie had her head out the passenger’s window and was regarding me with malevolence. Raz pulled over and rolled down his window.

“Whattaya want?” he demanded. “Me and Marjorie ain’t got time to stop and pass the time listenin’ to yer whining. I ain’t a mechanic, but iff’n I was, I still wouldn’t waste my time fiddlin’ with yer car. Call somebody what cares.”

I bit my lip until I could trust myself. “There’s been, uh, an accident. I need you to wait here while I make a call at the PD. As soon as I’m back, you and Marjorie can be on your way.”

“An accident?” He cackled until tobacco juice dribbled out of his mouth like molasses. “You talkin’ about that feller in the boat behind you? Did he accidentally bash himself on the back of his head?”

“Okay,” I said, “not an accident. Will you please stay here and keep people away for ten minutes?”

“Ain’t on my schedule. Marjorie has a hankerin’ for fresh croissants, so we’s headin’ for Farberville afore the storm hits. Only got one windshield wiper, and it don’t work. Mebbe when we git back, I can do you a favor—iff’n you aim to pay me back one of these days.”

“By not mentioning what ever you have stashed in your barn?”

“There ain’t nuthin’ in my barn, and don’t you fergit it! Anyone who so much as spits on the door is gonna be right sorry for a long time to come.”