Muletrain to Maggody (13 page)

“Goodness,” murmured Kenneth, whose studies in the Civil War era had been confined to battles and back room strategy sessions. The general populace, with the exception of plantation owners and barricade runners, had never interested him. He wasn’t sure this feral child did, either, except for the reference to caves on Cotter’s Ridge. Federal depositories, one might say. “No, I never had any children, but if I’d had a son, I’d like to think he would have been as clever as you. It must be very difficult to remember all those caves on Cotter’s Ridge. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re keeping some of them a secret just to trick this woman named Estelle.”

Hammet glanced at him. “Why would I want to trick her?”

“Because someone else might make it worth your while.”

“How much you talkin’ about?”

Kenneth hoped his smirk was not too obvious as he said, “Then you do know about more caves. You are a clever boy, aren’t you?”

“Mebbe. How much?”

“That would depend on your degree of success—and your willingness to keep this between the two of us. It would defeat my purpose if word were to get out and we ended up with a dozen people trailing after us.”

Hammet figgered it was okay with him if this peckerwood wanted to pay hard cash in order to do something that plenty of other folks was already busy doin’, some in uniforms and some, like the old lady he’d seen scampering through the trees, in regular clothes. He was about to name a price when the bar door opened and a tall fellow came ambling across the dance floor.

Kenneth Grimley decided the man looked like the sort who spent months exploring remote jungles and paddling canoes in waters thick with piranhas and poisonous snakes. And going into caves in search of species of blind newts and carnivorous fungi.

“Hey, pal,” the man said to Hammet, “you running this establishment these days?”

“Ruby Bee’s out back, gettin’ rooms ready. You want a beer or somethin’?”

“I’m Jack Wallace,” he said as he sat down a few stools away from Kenneth. “I’m filming the documentary for the historical society.” He paused to stare at Hammet. “By any chance, are you related to Ruby Bee? Grandson, maybe?”

“I would be iff’n Arly hadn’t sent me away,” muttered Hammet.

Kenneth felt better now that it had been established that the man was not a professional fortune hunter. He held out his hand and said, “Kenneth Grimley here. I’m one of the two impressionists. Are you planning to film any of my presentations at the local schools?”

“That’s up to Miss Hathaway, but I suspect she may be a stickler for authenticity. There were no debonair generals at the skirmish, just weary boys hoping to someday see their mothers and sweethearts.”

“And a drummer boy,” said Hammet as he disappeared into the kitchen.

Elsie McMay and Eula Lemoy stood in the parking lot outside the county jail. Although they’d discussed possibilities during the drive from Maggody, neither had come up with a remotely credible ploy.

“I think we’re sticking our noses in an ant hill,” said Eula, who kept trying to edge away. “We’re likely to end up sharing a cell with Lottie—if they haven’t put her in solitary confinement.”

Elsie clung to Eula’s wrist. “We don’t even know she’s in there, and here you are ready to think she’s on death row awaiting the electric chair. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours as of yet. It takes years before they can carry out the death penalty. Besides, all she was doin’ was trespassing. That’s hardly a federal offense.”

“There are probably all sorts of valuable antiques in the Headquarters House. They most likely think she was there to case the joint. She didn’t exactly buy a ticket and take a guided tour.”

“Because it was closed.” Elsie took a deep breath, then dragged Eula into the front room of the building. A young deputy looked up from a magazine with a photograph of a deer on the cover.

“Yeah?” he said.

Elsie stepped forward. “We’re here to visit somebody.”

“Visitation hours are from five to seven weekdays, two to five on weekends.” The deputy flipped a page in his magazine. “You better call ahead. Prisoners with too many disciplinary demerits aren’t allowed visitors.”

Elsie flicked the magazine to get his attention. “Then we need to know if this particular person is here so’s we can come back at five o’clock.”

The deputy put down the magazine and picked up a clipboard. “Name?”

“I’m Elsie McMay, and this here is Eula Lemoy.”

“The prisoner’s name.”

“We don’t know,” Eula said bravely, fully expecting to be handcuffed and dragged down a pea green corridor to a cell with an iron cot, a bare lightbulb, and a bucket.

They certainly had the deputy’s attention by now. “So you want to visit someone whose name you don’t know?” he asked.

Elsie held out her hand. “Why don’t you just let me look at the list?”

“So you can pick one? We don’t do that. This information is confidential. You have to tell me the name.”

“We don’t know for sure that this person is here. This person could have escaped out the back door for all we know.”

“No one’s escaped since before Christmas, and he got out through a window in the rec room. Sheriff Dorfer was fit to be tied.” The deputy paused, wondering if he ought to call someone with more experience dealing with senile old ladies. “Now either tell me who you’re looking for or stop wasting my time.”

“Do the prisoners wear orange jumpsuits?” asked Elsie. “If they do, you got one hunkered down at the edge of the parking lot.”

Cursing, the deputy stood up and hurried out the entrance. Elsie snatched up the clipboard, looked down the list, and then hustled Eula outside. “Get in the car,” she said as the deputy came panting up to them.

“Where’d you see this guy?” he demanded.

“Why, I must have been mistaken. My eyesight’s not as good as it used to be. Back when I was your age, I could read the fine print on an aluminum can in a ditch. These days it’s a miracle I can see the ditch at all.” With a little laugh, she got into the driver’s side and carefully backed up, making sure she didn’t run over the deputy’s foot. Once they were on the street, she said, “Lottie’s name wasn’t on the list. I suppose we ought to thank our lucky stars she wasn’t arrested after all.”

“I suppose so,” Eula said doubtfully, “but if she’s not in jail, where is she?”

W
hen I got back from Hazzard, I stopped at the PD and called Harve to report that the begonias had been recovered behind a church, most likely because the miscreant had been overwhelmed with floral remorse. I was sure the appropriate commandment would be covered in the upcoming Sunday service at said church, with a teary confession ensuing.

Case closed.

“I never much cared for begonias myself,” Harve said, “but Mrs. Dorfer’s real fond of them. Have you figured out when you’ll need Les and Willard? We’re always understaffed this time of year, and I can’t spare ’em to go sit on their butts and watch make-believe soldiers ride around on mules.”

“I’m not sure, but I’m guessing that the arrival of the muletrain will be staged on Friday. There are only about a dozen participants, so traffic shouldn’t have to be delayed too long and I can handle it. Saturday morning is going to be the problem. I’ll find out and call you back in a day or two, okay?”

“It may be petunias that she’s partial to,” Harve said, then ended the conversation with a belch.

I was reluctant to face Jack Wallace just yet, so I called the high school and asked if Lottie had appeared (she hadn’t), and then called Elsie and Eula to find out if they’d heard from her (neither was home). If I called Mrs. Jim Bob, I was liable to find myself assigned to hang bunting on the front of the Assembly Hall or to whip up a batch of brownies to welcome the troops when Johnny came marching home, hurrah.

Procrastination being one of my favorite pastimes, I wrote up the begonia-theft report for Harve’s office, and was debating whether to stop by my apartment to apply lipstick when the telephone rang.

“Now you listen here, young lady,” Mrs. Jim Bob began before I could say anything, “I thought I told you to check on Lottie. Here it is the middle of the afternoon, and all you’ve done is sit there like a toad under a rock while I’ve changed sheets, polished furniture, cleaned bathrooms—”

“Lottie’s not answering her door and the cats aren’t there. If the town council wants to authorize it, I’ll break a window to get inside. She may be a bit perturbed when she gets home, though. She’s only been missing half a day.”

There was a moment of silence. “You’re going to have to do something if she’s not home by this evening. In the meantime, go over to the rectory and check on Brother Verber. I’ve been trying to call him since early this morning.”

“I am not your social secretary,” I said.

“That’s well and fine, but you have a responsibility to make sure folks aren’t dead in their beds. I’d drive over to the rectory myself, but I simply don’t have time.”

She hung up before I could respond. I decided to forgo the lipstick and take my chances at Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill. Being the conscientious defender of law and order that I was, however, I walked up the road to the silver trailer next to the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, noted that Brother Verber’s car was not parked outside, rapped on the door a few times, and was headed toward the eponymous bar when an unfamiliar car cut me off.

The driver, a woman with ethereal blond ringlets and a magnolia blossom complexion beginning to decline after a few seasons of wear and tear, smiled at me. “Are you a police officer, dear?”

I’d forgotten that I’d changed into my uniform before going to Hazzard. Most days I just pin on my badge, which looks as though it came from a box of Cracker Jacks (and well might have). “I’m Arly Hanks, Chief of Police. Can I help you?”

“I do hope so.” She extended a slender hand. “I’m Corinne Dawk. This charming girl beside me is Frances Yarborough, but everybody calls her Sweetpea. The lazy boy in the backseat is my son, Simon. We’re here for the reenactment. We’ve been invited to stay with Mayor and Mrs. Buchanon.”

“And…?”

“We don’t know how to find their house. I’d be grateful if you could be so kind as to give us directions.”

I did so, since giving directions in Maggody rarely involved more than one left or right turn. Then again, to find the crime site in Hazzard, I’d been told to turn left at what had been ol’ Madagascar’s place before the bank repossessed it, and then turn left again past the pond where the catfish bellied up back in ’73.

The young woman cursed with the nickname Sweetpea leaned forward and eyed me as though I were an alien species. “You’re the chief of police? Aren’t you supposed to have a pot belly and dribbles of drool?”

“You caught me at a bad moment. I do most of my dribbling at night.”

Corinne laughed politely. “I’m sure we’ll see more of you. We’ll be in town until the end of the week. Simon is taking the part of Henry Largesse, the private who left the journal detailing the events at the Skirmish at Cotter’s Ridge. You are familiar with it, aren’t you?”

“Every word of it,” I said, although of course nobody had bothered to pass it along to me. “I didn’t expect people to arrive for a few days.”

Simon, who’d been sprawled on the backseat, sat up. “Nor did I. Is there any place in this pathetic pothole to get a decent drink?”

“I’m sure Mrs. Jim Bob, as we call her, will be happy to oblige. I’ve been told she has the best-stocked liquor cabinet in town. She’s modest about it, so you may have to twist her arm to get her to admit it.”

Corinne nodded at me, then pulled away. Sweetpea waved as if we were parting after a pleasant evening at the symphony. Simon was no longer visible.

He was remarkably handsome, I thought as I resumed my walk to Ruby Bee’s, but entirely too young and obnoxious to be of interest. A man who’d been around, who’d scaled a metaphorical mountain, who’d garnered an emotional scar or two…well, he was of interest.

And I knew where to find him.

It would have been only a minor cosmic coincidence had Jack been sitting on a stool at Ruby Bee’s, but no one was. I took a perch and glanced at Fibber Buchanon, who was slumped in the corner booth and either dead drunk or just plain dead, then reached for a basket of pretzels. I couldn’t ignore the attraction, any more than I could ignore a chicken truck bearing down on me in the middle of the road, but I still had time to throw myself out of harm’s way. If that was where I preferred to be.

Ruby Bee came out of the kitchen and put her hands on her hips. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

The last time she’d been so unfriendly involved a kidnapped bureaucrat and all manner of insanity. “Were you expecting to see Scarlett O’Hara?” I asked. “She’s at the PD, filing a claim for trespassing and vandalism. It seems these damn Yankees stole her silver tea service and—”

“Maybe I need that padded room.” Ruby Bee filled a mug with beer and set it down in front of me. “I’m so dogged tired I’d just as soon curl up in a corner and let somebody bring me a cup of soup.” She sighed just in case I wasn’t properly sympathetic. “This man of yours showed up, along with some sickly fellow who looked like he’d been pecked to pieces by a chickadee, and then this fellow from St. Louis who started sputtering on account of the units’ not having cable, and then—”

I went around the bar and gave her a hug. “For starters, I can help you clean the rooms in the morning. I can’t install cable or provide first aid to the chickadee victim, but we’ll get through this. By Saturday afternoon, everyone will be gone and the Skirmish at Cotter’s Ridge will once again be a tiny blip of history.” I took a napkin and blotted a tear on her cheek. “Why are you taking this so hard? It’s not as if you had to move bodies before you aired the motel rooms.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she said darkly as she moved away. “I don’t want you setting foot out back. Estelle can help me, if it comes to that.”

I resumed my perch. “Who’s the fellow from St. Louis?”

“How should I know? He said he’s the commander of the Union cavalry troop that waylaid the rebels on the morning of the skirmish. I just don’t know why he showed up out of the blue today. Ain’t none of them needed until the end of the week, but they’re all flocking like crows. You’d think there was roadkill from here to Starley City.”

“Rumor has it there’s gold in them thar hills,” I said, “or them thar caves, to be more accurate. You are aware of that, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t pay all that much attention to what Miss Hathaway said at the town meeting the other night. I’ve got business to attend to, and that includes putting biscuits in the oven.”

And I could crinkle my nose and make Fibber disappear in a wisp of smog.

I was nursing my beer and considering whether I ought to make one more run by Lottie’s house—or the rectory, for that matter—when Jack Wallace sat down beside me.

“I was going to offer a quote from
Casablanca,
but I’d bungle it,” he said. “That line about all the bars and all the cities.”

“We could settle for ‘fancy meeting you here,’ ” I suggested. “I didn’t expect to see you again until Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

His grin, so wide and wry that I wanted to lick his lips, did little to help me keep my composure. Perhaps I’d felt the same reaction with my ex-husband, but I couldn’t recall a moment when I’d resisted an urge to crawl onto his lap and indulge in a public display of indecency. Hell, I’d probably have to arrest myself and drive over to the county jail, where I’d dine on beans and cornbread for forty-eight hours.

“It’s a thing,” I said. “So why did you show up? Planning to do a bit of spelunking?”

Jack went behind the bar and filled a mug of beer. “No, I’m claustrophobic, and although I find the legend of lost gold entertaining, I doubt there’s any validity. Besides that, I’m terrified of bats and crawly creatures.”

“Anything else?”

He scratched his chin. “Toyotas, Hondas, telemarketers, Disney World, and monsters in the closet. You?”

“Civil War reenactors, muskets, and mules.”

“Sounds as if you might be in for a long week.”

“No kidding,” I said. “So why did you come early?”

“I rescheduled a few jobs. Are you on duty twenty-four hours a day, or does the badge come off every now and then?”

I tried to convince myself that the flutter in my stomach was due to an infestation of butterflies or, more logically, inadequate nourishment, but even I wasn’t buying. “It’s been known to find its way into a bedside drawer.” Bad choice of words, I thought as I felt my face flush. “I’d give you the grand tour of Maggody, but once I’ve shown you the remains of the Esso station and the site of Hiram’s barn before it burned to the ground and a cheerleader came sprinting out with smoldering panties in her hand, we’ll be out of significant landmarks. Well, the low-water bridge can be titillating, but only when the water’s not low. A few weeks ago a chicken truck slipped off one side and two hundred chickens did the breast stroke all the way to the Oklahoma border.”

“I suppose you’re familiar with the decor of the Flamingo Motel rooms.”

“Entirely too well. I’ve got a few things to do, and I’m sure you want to unpack your equipment and all. If you’d like, I can pick you up at six and we can drive around for a while, then grab some bad Mexican food at the Dairee Dee-Lishus and go to my apartment to play Scrabble.” I stopped, then added hastily, “Or we can go into Farberville and have dinner. There are a couple of restaurants with a bona fide wine list and linen napkins.”

“Are the tamales homemade with hot chili sauce?”

I felt as if hot chili sauce was about to start leaking out of my ears. “Oh, yes,” I said as I slid off the stool. “Shall I meet you here at six, then? Do we need to include your assistant?”

Jack shook his head. “Terry started throwing up before we were out of Springfield. All he wants is to be left alone. Six o’clock sounds fine.”

Kevin stuck his head into Jim Bob’s office. “Kin I talk to you?”

Jim Bob turned off his monitor before looking over his shoulder. “You seem to be doing just that, boy. Whatta you want? You didn’t bust another mop, did you? If you did, I’m going to start docking your paycheck.”

“No, nothing like that, Jim Bob.” Kevin sidled inside and closed the door. “I need to take off the rest of the day. I swear I’ll make up the hours later in the week. I put out all the produce and stacked the paper towels like you said. I even oiled that cart that squeals like a pig bein’ castrated.”

“Can you take off the rest of the day?” Jim Bob said, leaning back and pretending to contemplate the question. “Can you just waltz out of here in the middle of the afternoon, leaving the checkers to deal with busted bottles of vinegar on the floor and cartons of ice cream tucked between boxes of cereal, or carry out Walleye Buchanon’s sack of groceries so you can help her find her truck? I ain’t sure that’s a good idea, Kevin. Jim Bob’s SuperSaver Buy 4 Less might not run so smoothly without you to handle emergencies of that nature. Why, we might just have to close down for the day, disappointing all the citizens planning to stop by on their way home to pick up something for supper. Little children might end up going to bed hungry, their bellies rumbling. Husbands and wives might take to snarling at each other. There could be all manner of violence tonight in Maggody if you was to take off the rest of the day.”

“I don’t think it’d be that bad,” Kevin said earnestly.

“You want bloodshed on your hands, boy?”

“I’m gonna have bloodshed on my head if I don’t…well, find something Dahlia lost yesterday. She ain’t smacked me as of yet, but she keeps staring at me like I was a pile of dog crap in the middle of the kitchen floor. I gotta go back to Cotter’s Ridge, Jim Bob. Mebbe I could come back later tonight and wax the floors.” He hung his head. “I ain’t asked for a day off since Dahlia had the babies.”