Muletrain to Maggody (23 page)

“I’ve got Wendell’s address book. You can send some photos to the brother and let him make the official ID.” I looked at the scribbles I’d made on a legal pad. “Next item on the agenda is to locate Lottie Estes. While I was waiting for you, I called the Farberville PD, but I don’t think they’re impressed with the urgency. Can you send a deputy over to search the Headquarters House tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“And I don’t mean after the baseball game. She could have made it to the basement or even crawled into a closet and lost consciousness. It’s been more than seventy-two hours. Dehydration could be a factor.”

“It’s liable to be locked up tighter’n a tick at this hour. You saying I ought to order a deputy to break into the only Civil War site in Farberville? That ain’t gonna sit well with the locals who take their heritage seriously.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Who might just vent their displeasure at the polls next November?” When he responded with a wheezy nod, I said, “There have to be several keys floating around. I’m sure Harriet has one, but I don’t want to disturb her tonight. Wendell surely had one, too. He didn’t have a key ring when we found him, and I didn’t see one when I searched the bedroom for his address book. He probably left it at home. Have a deputy go by Mrs. Streek’s house and ask this family friend to look around.”

“I s’pose that might work.” Harve made the call while I refilled our mugs, and when I returned, said, “We’re on it. She lives just a couple of doors down from the Headquarters House, so we should hear something afore too long. Satisfied?”

“You got my vote.”

“And you owe me,” he said as he lit a cigar and tossed the match into the wastebasket. “Now from what I can sort out from all these hen scratches I made, Wendell met Hospiss early in the day. She told him about the Confederate officer buried up at her old place and went so far as to draw him a map. As you know darn well from your experiences with Raz, Buchanons can be a tight-lipped lot, not likely to tell secrets to a stranger. So why’d she blab all this?”

I tried not to be distracted by the thin ribbon of smoke rising from the wastebasket. “It may have been nothing more than an impassioned desire on her part to qualify for membership in the Daughters of the American Confederacy, or the chance to be a footnote in Wendell’s historical blockbuster. Maybe she believed she’d be given a role in the documentary. Her story is that her great-great-grandmother appeared after the rebels fled, slung the lieutenant’s body over a mule, and took him back home with her. But Harriet wouldn’t have strayed from the account in that damn journal unless Wendell found proof.” I made a square with my thumbs and forefingers and peered through it like a pretentious Hollywood director. “Yes, I can see it. The last echoes of musket fire have faded to an eerie silence. A haze of acrid smoke still lingers from—” I jumped up and poured my coffee into the wastebasket. “Goddamn it, Harve! Feel free to burn down your own office, but not mine. The town council would decide to set up my office in Raz Buchanon’s barn.”

He grinned. “And then you could hire that pedigreed sow of his to be your second in command.”

I made sure the fire was out before I sat down. “Or I could organize a write-in effort to get her on the ballot for county sheriff. Nobody would notice the difference.”

His grin disappeared. “What you need to do in the morning is get statements from all those folks staying at Mrs. Jim Bob’s house about what all they did after breakfast today. Have a talk with that Stewart fellow, see if he ran into Wendell and heard something of interest. Then find Hospiss’s old place and see if you can find anything that hints of Wendell having been there. After that—”

“Wait just a minute. This is your case.”

“All I want you to do is talk to them. I can’t see any of my boys sweet-talking those ladies from Charleston or getting anything out of Harriet Hathaway without reducing her to hysteria. Tact ain’t their strong point. You, on the other hand, are all refined, having lived in New York City. Mrs. Dorfer keeps harping about us taking a trip there for our anniversary, but I’d just as soon spend two weeks at the state prison farm, chopping cotton and picking up litter alongside a state highway.”

“You’re a weasel,” I said.

“But you got to admit I’m a genial weasel.”

The telephone rang before I could offer a rebuttal. It proved to be the deputy who’d searched the Headquarters House and adjoining yards, and found no trace of Lottie Estes or anyone else. Harve told him to go back on patrol, then stood up and said, “You just talk to those folks tomorrow and call me if you learn anything of interest. I’ll check with the hospital and the homeless shelters in case this fugitive might be hiding there. You might think about changing your coffee filter every few months or so.”

After he left, I made sure the coffeepot was turned off and was about to turn off the lights when the phone rang again. As much as I wanted to ignore it and go hide in my bathtub, I answered it.

“What’s this about Hospiss?” demanded Ruby Bee.

“Talk to Eula.”

“I already did, but she knows next to nothing beyond the pitiful little thing was killed.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, then hung up and left before she could call me back.

Enough, already.

T
he next morning I inspected my many bruises in the bathroom mirror, then gingerly dressed and went over to the PD to find out if Robert E. or Ulysses S. had left any messages of significance. Neither had bothered, but the day was in its infancy (or infantry, perhaps). Mrs. Jim Bob had left a hysterical message demanding to know the whereabouts of Lottie and Brother Verber. All I knew about Lottie was where she’d last been seen, and to some extent, where she wasn’t. As for Brother Verber, I’d noticed while crossing the road that his car had not reappeared. As far as I knew, he could be anywhere in the tri-state area, indulging in things I didn’t even want to imagine.

I went to Ruby Bee’s and sat down in a booth with Jack. “Enjoy the movie?”

“Was the child raised by wolves?” he said.

“Pretty much.” I told him about Hammet’s upbringing on the ridge, then paused as a sleek, silvery man came to the table. He looked as though he could afford the high-maintenance costs of disguising his age.

“Andrew Pulaski,” he said to me. “I’m one of the reenactors. Do you mind if I join you for breakfast?”

I told him who I was as he pulled up a chair. “Are you the Yankee who was stirring up trouble here last night?” I asked. “You’re lucky you didn’t find a bunch of rednecks with baseball bats waiting outside for you.”

“Just having a bit of fun with them.” He picked up a menu. “I suppose I’d better have oatmeal and dry toast. My cholesterol level has been climbing steadily since I arrived. How do you keep yourself so trim, my dear? Diet pills, aerobics, bulemia?”

“Mostly hiking on Cotter’s Ridge. You been up there in the last day or so?”

Ruby Bee came over to the table with three coffee mugs and a full pot. “You might think twice before you come to happy hour again,” she said to Andrew in an icy voice. “You pull that kind of crap again, I’ll just duck behind the bar and let them beat you until you’re seeping like a rotten tomato. Why don’t you go to Mrs. Jim Bob’s house and spend the evening with your friends?”

I glanced at Jack, who was observing the scene with muted amusement, then looked at Andrew. “You’re acquainted with some of Mrs. Jim Bob’s houseguests?”

“The trio from Charleston. I met them when I was on the set of the miniseries. Corinne dashed about, trying to get the director’s attention, while Simon complained about the heat, the mosquitoes, and his uniform, which he felt failed to accentuate his abs and pecs. Sweetpea, in contrast, spent her time sitting on a quilt in the shade, sketching the action. She’s really quite talented.”

Ruby Bee rumbled. “Are y’all gonna order? I got other customers, you know.”

“Oatmeal, with skim milk,” said Andrew.

Jack grinned at me. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

I could feel Ruby Bee’s stare as my face turned warm. “We’ll have the works.”

“Is that what you call it these days?” she said, then stomped away.

“So,” I said to Andrew, “did you decide to do this reenactment so you could see your dear friends Corinne, Simon, and Sweetpea?” I gave the third name a nuance of emphasis, just to see if he squirmed.

He did not oblige. “In fact, I did. Sweetpea was kind enough to drop me a note about this particular reenactment. I’m hoping to take the three of them to lunch today or tomorrow in a somewhat more upscale dining environment. Can you recommend a place?”

“You came all the way from St. Louis for an upscale dining environment?”

“Oh, I do several of these reenactments a year, as long as I’m not expected to run around a pasture in blistering heat. In the upcoming skirmish, I shall stay on a horse and ride up and down the lines, shouting encouragement. Because of my unflagging leadership, my men will prevail.”

“I didn’t notice a horse trailer out back,” Jack said.

Andrew took a sip of coffee. “A comrade from the Missouri unit provides one for me. Not a thoroughbred, but a good, sturdy animal. I own a highly successful car agency, which is both physically and emotionally draining. Sometimes I like to escape and indulge in childish fantasies. Even though I’m obliged to camp out, I do not deprive myself of basic comforts.”

“A farb, huh?” I said drily.

“Of the worst kind.”

Ruby Bee returned with our food. While we ate, Andrew tried to sell Jack a Mercedes and me a 1992 pickup with low mileage and new shocks. As soon as I’d had enough food to sustain me, I told Jack I’d see him later and left before Ruby Bee could haul me into the kitchen to demand details about Hospiss.

Although I knew I was going to have to question the houseguests, I decided to cover a few other bases first. I did a posthaste tour of Lottie’s house and determined she had not come home. I then tossed a mental coin and drove out to the bridge to talk to Private Jeb Stewart.

He and Private Waylon Pepperstone were sitting by the campfire, drinking coffee out of battered tin cups. I hoped they’d enjoyed their hardtack as much as I had my heady dose of cholesterol. Both leaped to their feet as I approached.

“Sit down,” I said. “There were two deaths yesterday, one in town and the other on Cotter’s Ridge. I want to know exactly where each of you were in the morning.”

“I was right here,” Waylon said, gulping. “Well, after you left, I went into the woods, thinking I might be able to catch a rabbit for supper.”

Jeb hooted derisively. “With your bare hands? Or were you planning to set a snare with a piece of fishing line? God, boy, you wouldn’t last three weeks in a real war unless your mama sent you packages with granola bars and clean pajamas.”

“Tell me more precisely where you went,” I said to Waylon, ignoring the rude noises from the far side of the campfire. “Up on the ridge?”

He shook his head. “No, I mostly stayed on dirt roads. If you’re looking for some sort of alibi, I stopped at a house and asked to use the phone. This old man, about as strange as I’ve ever encountered, charged me ten dollars to make a one-minute call. You’re not going to believe it, but there was a pig flopped on the sofa, watching an Audrey Hepburn movie. As soon as my minute was up, he shoved me out the door so hard I went sprawling on the porch. After that, I came back here and tried my luck at fishing.”

“What about you?” I asked Jeb. “Did you wander off to make a phone call, too?”

He spat in the fire. “Hell no. I went up on the ridge to see if I could find this purported treasure. I ate some hickory nuts and poke salat while I rested, looked around some more, and then came back here.” He gestured with his thumb at Waylon. “I didn’t see him.”

“I went downstream to fish. You got a problem with that, Johnny Reb?”

“Showing some spunk now, aren’t you? I’m trembling in my boots.”

Waylon stood up. “All you’re doing in your boots is bleeding ’cause you think you’ve got to gross everybody out with your bullshit version of authenticity.”

I intervened before this skirmish escalated. “Sit down, Waylon. Jeb, tell me who you saw while you were on Cotter’s Ridge.”

“A town girl by a shack. I thought for a minute she might be following me, but she didn’t look as though she had the wits to follow a rock. After a time, I came across an old guy sitting on a log. He asked me if I could make sense of a map that looked as if it’d been drawn by a toddler.”

“Did he have a notebook?” I asked.

Jeb rolled his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, he most certainly did. He asked me about my kinfolk who fought in the war. I tolerated his questions for a while, then decided I was wasting my time and left him scribbling in his notebook. My family’s from Mississippi, and none of them was involved in engagements in Arkansas. My great-great-grandfather was killed defending Atlanta from Sherman’s scum. His two brothers died of dysentery and malnourishment in a prison in Pennsylvania. Their bodies were thrown in a mass grave. No medals or citations for the three Stewart boys, or even remains sent home to their mama.”

I couldn’t help wincing, but it was not the time to mention the reciprocal Southern hospitality offered at such notorious prisons as Andersonville. “So after you left this man with the map, did you see anyone else?”

“I might have, but I can’t swear to it. I caught a glimpse of a sickly guy in a Confederate uniform, but he was damn quick on his feet and disappeared in less than a second or two. Could have been my imagination.”

“Starvation can do that,” inserted Waylon. “That and diarrhea. Has anybody told you that you stink like a barnyard?”

Again, I intervened. “Waylon, it’s time for you to break camp. Pack up your things and I’ll tell you how to get to the low-water bridge at the other end of town. I want you to stay there tonight. The rest of the reenactors are arriving tomorrow. You can join your unit when they get here, but I don’t want to see your face until then. Is that clear?” I turned to Jeb. “And I want you to stay right here. I may have some more questions later. If I come back and find you missing, I’ll get some hounds from the sheriff’s department and turn them loose on you. Got it?”

They both grudgingly agreed, although I suspected Jeb was whistlin’ Dixie, in a manner of speaking. I left them growling at each other and drove to Raz Buchanon’s shack to have what I knew would be an unsatisfactory confrontation with the surly sumbitch. I had no doubt he’d disclaim allowing a Yankee soldier to use his phone, or even set foot on his property. He’d gone so far as to threaten me with his shotgun more than once.

Detectives on
Law and Order
do not have this problem.

To my relief, the only thing he was holding when he came out on the porch was a red-and-white-striped dishtowel. He was dressed in filthy overalls and boots that might have flattened a few rabbits come suppertime.

“Whadya want?” he hollered before I could get out of the car. “I got no time for you. Come back long about next year, or mebbe the year after that.”

I went to the gate. “I need to talk to you, Raz. Don’t make me haul you over to the county jail. Marjorie might pine away, and you’d come back to find nothing on your couch but a snout and a curly tail.”

“You jest leave Marjorie out of this, Arly Hanks, and do your talkin’ from right where you’re a-standin’.”

“Does this mean you’re not going to invite me in for coffee? I heard a rumor that you grind your own beans. I was hoping for a steaming cup of mocha almond, with just a hint of French vanilla.”

Raz ran his fingers through his beard, dislodging dried clumps of tobacco juice, crumbs, and possibly tiny tenants. “State yer business and be done with it. I ain’t got time to listen to the likes of you.”

I smiled brightly. “You like me? You really like me? Wow, Raz, after all the problems we’ve had—”

“Spit it out!” he snapped, doing some spitting of his own.

“Did you see anybody on the ridge yesterday morning?”

He considered his response. “Yeah, I reckon I might have. Bunch of damn fools, including your mama and that redheaded woman friend of hers. They’s the ones ought to be at the county jail.”

“Did they get too close to your still?”

“I’ve told you time and again I ain’t got no still. If I did, they weren’t nowheres near it. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have never showed up in town again.”

He made a move toward the door, but I held up my hand and said, “We’re not finished, Raz. If this nonexistent still is elsewhere on the ridge, what were you doing?”

“Marjorie’s been feelin’ right queasy these last few days. She has a delicate nature, bein’ pedigreed like she is, so I went to pick ’seng to make her tea. I know of some good patches.”

“Were you anywhere near Hospiss’s old place?”

“Mebbe.”

I was actually getting more out of him than I’d expected. “Did you see anyone else?”

“I weren’t lookin’ for anyone else. I jest told you what I was doin’.”

I thought for a moment. “Did you and Diesel have a nice visit?”

Raz squinted at me, and if he’d been holding anything more lethal than a dishtowel, I would have moved behind my car. “I disremember sayin’ anything about Diesel. Why would I want to have a visit with that crazy ol’ coot? I’d sooner crawl into a cave with a polecat. Why don’t you take your skinny little ass up there and ask him for a cup of fancy coffee?”

“Did you come across Petrol?”

“What kind of fool question is that? He’s locked up in that place by the low-water bridge, knittin’ doilies or whatever it is they do.” He spat in my direction. “Now git off my property afore I git riled. Iff’n I knew where this gold was, I shore as hell wouldn’t tell you or anyone else. It rightly belongs to Buchanons.”

I stepped back onto the road. “How do you know about that?”

“A fat ol’ coon told afore I blowed his head off.” He went inside, slamming the screen door behind him.

I decided it was prudent to be on my way before he had a chance to make known his intentions, and bringing me a cup of coffee and a biscotti wasn’t likely to be among them. He’d acknowledged seeing people on the ridge, but getting their names or descriptions out of him would be like pulling teeth—which in his case wouldn’t take long.

Gritting my teeth (all intact and clean, if not flossed), I drove to the Buchanon manor and parked. As I got out of the car, I heard voices from the backyard and headed that way. Corinne, Harriet, and Kenneth were seated at the wrought-iron table, drinking coffee. Sweetpea and Simon were at the end of the yard, standing several feet away and, from appearances, absorbed in a conversation that clearly pleased neither of them.