Muletrain to Maggody (18 page)

I’d reached the end of the building when I heard gravel crunch behind me. Fully expecting to find Terry lurching after me like a character in a zombie movie, I turned around in order to strong-arm him. I would have been a couple of feet too high.

“Hammet?” I said, stunned.

“Howdy, Arly. Surprised to see me?”

“That would be an understatement. What on earth are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

“So they keep sayin’.” He scuffled his toe in the gravel to avoid my perplexed stare. “I weren’t supposed to let you know I was here until tomorrow, but I’m gittin’ mighty bored. Any chance the fellow in there’s a bank robber what needs to be captured? I’ve been watching him, and he’s acting real funny, like he’s afraid the police is closing in on him. If he’d leave his room, I could search it for the stolen loot. Then we could bust in on him, and mebbe shoot him.”

“How long have you been here, Hammet?”

“Couple of days, I reckon. Ruby Bee and Estelle collected me at the foster home and promised I could be in a movie. I’ve got a uniform in my room. Wanna see it? It’s real fancy, with shiny buttons and these gold braids. When the rebs come riding down the road, I’m gonna be out in front, beatin’ on the drum to lead ’em into battle. I saw this movie where—”

“Where are Ruby Bee and Estelle? I’d like to have a word with them.”

“Up on the ridge, along with a passel of other folks.” Hammet eyed me uneasily. “You’re slitty-eyed like copperhead. You ain’t mad at me, is you?”

“No, Hammet,” I said as I clapped his shoulder. “I’m a little bit annoyed with Ruby Bee and Estelle, though. Did they say how long they’re planning to be up there?”

“Probably not too long after they figger out I came back here. I was getting hungry, but they kept saying we had to find another cave so’s they could poke sticks in it. They’re gonna be right sorry if they rile up bats.”

I gave him the doughnut. “Eat this, and then we’ll go by the Dairee Dee-Lishus and pick up some lunch.”

“We ain’t gonna shoot that guy?” he asked, pointing at Terry’s unit.

“I’m afraid not. I need to save my bullets for worthier targets. How about bean burritos and a chocolate milkshake?”

Brother Verber was not happy with his present situation. In fact, he was miserable, in pain, hog-tied, soiled in his britches, aching from his ankles to his wrists, and not at all sure he was going to get out of his predicament alive. It didn’t seem likely. He’d offered up a few rounds of “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” but the sentiment wasn’t exactly heartening since he figured that’s where he was. He’d always imagined a more dignified departure into eternal bliss, maybe in a fancy cathedral or at least in a chapel with a stained-glass window and nuns warbling in Latin.

Except, of course, he had ridiculed the Catholic Church on a weekly basis and therefore had no hope of nuns, stained-glass windows, and a fine requiem mass with brochures listing the details of his accomplishments as a servant of the Almighty Lord. All he could hope for was the mail-order seminary in Las Vegas to mention his untimely departure in one of the annual newsletters, alongside advertisements for holy water and souvenir baptism coasters.

Brother Verber began to nibble despondently. Life was too fleeting to go out on an empty belly.

Hammet was in the back room of the PD, happily looking through gun catalogs, and I was sitting behind my desk, rehearsing my lecture on thoroughly despicable and devious behavior, when Kevin Buchanon stumbled through the door. It was his customary style, so I wasn’t alarmed.

“Dead body!” he gurgled.

“Here? I don’t think so, but I can check.”

“Up on Cotter’s Ridge, about a mile past Robin Buchanon’s shack. There’s a bluff. The body’s laying there at the bottom.”

“Whose body?”

“I dunno.” Kevin sat down across from me and began to wring his hands as if we’d been dropped into an opera (or a soap opera, in his case). “A fellow, I think. Most of what I could see was his arms on account of the brush kinda swallowing him up.”

“Did you make sure he was dead?”

“Gosh, Arly, it would have taken me a good whiles to climb down and twice that long to get back up. The drop looked to be twenty or thirty feet smack onto rocks. There ain’t no way he’s not deader’n a stewed squirrel. Besides, I knew I should tell you right away.”

“You did the right thing, Kevin,” I said as I sat back and tried to decide what I ought to do. The police car so graciously provided to me by the city council couldn’t make it more than halfway to Robin’s cabin before fallen trees, stumps, and rocks blocked progress. An hour there and an hour back, even if I didn’t attempt to reach the body. “Are you really sure about what you saw?” I asked. “It couldn’t have been a piece of discarded clothing or newspaper?”

“I think that mysterious fellow at the Flamingo Motel must have shot him and throwed him off the bluff,” Hammet contributed from the doorway. “I saw right away that he was a killer. They was most likely partners.”

Kevin nearly fell out of the chair. “What are you doing here?”

“What he is doing,” I said icily, “is hauling himself back to his room at the motel to wait until Ruby Bee and Estelle appear. In fact, if he’s not out of here in five seconds, I’m going to call the county social services department and have him picked up as a runaway.”

“I dint run away!” Hammet protested.

“So I’ll cross my fingers when I say you did. I’m counting, Hammet.” Once he was gone, I reluctantly returned my attention to Kevin. “All I can see to do is call the sheriff’s department, report the body, and request deputies and ATVs. You’ll have to go with us to find the site. If this is some sort of joke, you’re liable to be doing a lot of time at the county jail. Do you understand?”

Kevin nodded glumly. “I know what I saw.”

Harve wasn’t any happier than I about the situation, but promised a couple of men and a Jeep as soon as he could round them up. Once I’d hung up, I quizzed Kevin but he had nothing else to add to his description of bluff and body. He’d neither seen nor heard anyone else. There’d been no indications that anyone had been prowling around Robin Buchanon’s derelict shack. Recently, anyway, since the teenagers have been known to buy ’shine from Raz and leave jars scattered in the yard.

“Why were you up there?” I asked. “This buried treasure thing?”

He rubbed his face. “No, nuthin’ like that. Do you think I can go over to the Dairee Dee-Lishus and get a burger afore the deputies get here? I ate my last peanut butter sandwich long about midnight, and I’m feeling peckish.”

“You were up there all night?”

“It’s a long story. I can be back in a few minutes.”

“Sure, go ahead,” I said. While I waited for the posse to come storming into town in a cloud of carbon monoxide, I went ahead and wrote up the beginning of the report, which would end with either a cursory pronouncement from the coroner regarding cause of death or a great deal of trouble for Kevin Buchanon, who didn’t really deserve it—unless he’d concocted his story. If he had, I would cheerfully push him off the roof of the antiques store.

I was admiring my succinct yet colorful prose when Dahlia banged open the door.

“You got to find Kevvie!” she shrieked. She disappeared for a moment, then came backing inside with the stroller and its pudgy occupants. “He’s been gone all night! First thing this morning I took the babies down to his ma’s so I could go into Farberville for my monthly checkup. The blankets on the couch were folded, so I just thought he’d got up extra early and gone to work. But when I got back to town and stopped by the SuperSaver to pick up some groceries, Idalupino told me that Kevvie dint show up and Jim Bob was nigh onto spittin’ nails.” She mopped her nose on the back of her hand. “I can’t stand thinking of him stuck in a cave or all bloodied on account of falling out of a tree.”

“He’s at the Dairee Dee-Lishus, Dahlia.”

“No, he ain’t,” she said tearfully. “He’s up on Cotter’s Ridge, most likely dead. So’s my granny, but she was real old and liable to die right soon, anyways.”

I stood up. “Sit down and listen to me. Kevin was sitting in that very chair less than ten minutes ago. I saw no evidence of blood. He may have bruises on his butt, but he did not drop his pants to show me. At this moment, he’s at the Dairee Dee-Lishus buying a hamburger. He should be back here at any minute. Now what is this about?”

Her eyes kept flitting toward the door as she sputtered out an explanation of how she’d taken her granny up to Cotter’s Ridge and subsequently lost her. “It’s not like the dead of winter or anything,” she added in her defense. “My granny’s scrawny but tougher’n a weasel. Ornerier, too.”

“And this was forty-eight hours ago? You didn’t feel the need to mention it to the staff at the old folks’ home—or to me?”

Dahlia gave me a defiant look. “Kevvie swore he’d find her. Me and the babies are going home. You tell him he’d better get his sorry ass there if he knows what’s good for him. I’ve a mind to smack him with a skillet for causing me all this worry. I’m in the family way, so I’m s’posed to stay calm.”

I spotted Kevin approaching, a greasy sack in one hand. “Go outside and let him explain why he won’t be home for several hours. This is more your fault than his, Dahlia, so I suggest you listen to him, then use the skillet to make cornbread.”

“What about my granny?”

“I’ll put her on the list,” I said with a sigh.

It took the rest of the afternoon for the three deputies and me to bring the zippered body bag to the top of the bluff and stretch it out next to the Jeep. Kevin had been sent home on foot hours earlier, when his bleating became intolerable. Now the only sounds were birds, chattering squirrels, and heavy breathing as the four of us sat down on the rocky ground. I was surprised I couldn’t hear sweat dripping: The temperature was mild but the exertion had not been.

Corpses can be less than cooperative.

“So what’s with this old guy?” asked Les. “What was he doing out here by himself?”

I brushed a spider off my arm. “Wendell Streek is—was—the treasurer of the Stump County Historical Society, which may not have made him a local celebrity. He said last night that he intended to track down private family plots to further his genealogical research. I hate to think how many Buchanons are buried somewhere on Cotter’s Ridge. Generations of them, I’d think, all the way back to the early nineteenth century. Buchanons wouldn’t have seen any sense in paying for a plot in a proper cemetery. Maybe the ginseng grows so well because the patches are well-fertilized.”

“So he was looking for family plots. That doesn’t explain what he was doing down there. I ain’t a medical examiner, but I can tell you he hasn’t been dead all that long. He didn’t get lost in the dark and walk off the bluff.”

“I agree,” I said as I struggled to my feet. “Let’s put him on the backseat and get him to the hospital so McBeen can examine him in the comfort of his air-conditioned morgue. The cause of death is pretty damn obvious, though.”

The two younger deputies didn’t look pleased to be sharing a seat with the lumpy black bag, but obliged. When we got back to town, Les dropped me off at the PD before heading for Farberville in the makeshift hearse.

The evil eye was flashing. I went into the back room and dampened a paper towel, then sat down at my desk, blotted a few oozing scratches, and punched the button. The first message was from Ruby Bee: It was sputtery and defensive, and in some obscure way, accusatory. I moved on. Darla Jean had come home and gone to her bedroom without so much as a word of apology, if you can imagine. I moved on. Harriet Hathaway was concerned about Wendell. I moved on. Mrs. Jim Bob was concerned about Brother Verber. I moved on. And then, of course, Sheriff Harvey Dorfer, wanting to know what the holy hell had been goin’ on for the last four hours and why hadn’t he heard from anyone.

That one I couldn’t ignore. I wiped my face, tossed the towel into the wastebasket, and called him.

“A guy from Farberville,” I told him. “Retired, prissy, a self-proclaimed expert in area genealogy. Not the sort to have a rap sheet for anything more heinous than an overdue library book. His body should be arriving at the morgue shortly.”

“So cut to it,” Harve said. “I’d like to get home and have supper before the baseball game comes on. Mrs. Dorfer is real adamant that we eat at the table so she can tell me all about the gossip at the quilting club and the neighbor’s garbage being scattered all over the damn place.”

“Most likely an accident. I met him last night, and he didn’t sound suicidal or so addled that he might have been oblivious to the bluff. I’d be hard-pressed to think alcohol or drugs were involved, but I presume McBeen will order a blood test and a tox screen.”

“You know how to get in touch with his next of kin? Somebody’s gonna have to identify him and sign the paperwork.”

I propped my feet on the corner of my desk and tried to ignore the rips in my pants. “Yeah, I’ll take care of that, but I don’t have time to take this case, Harve. The Civil War is scheduled to break out any day now. General Grant’s at the south end of town, and General Lee’s moving in from the north. Stonewall Jackson’s camping in Estelle’s backyard and Sherman just burned Hasty in his march to Boone Creek. I can already hear cannon fire in the distance.”