Muletrain to Maggody Page 12

  “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.”

  “You get a day off almost every week,” said Jim Bob, “along with Christmas and New Year’s Day when we’re closed. Next you’ll be asking for a paid vacation so you can fly off to some island and lie around on the beach. This ain’t a charity—it’s a business.”

  “But I got to…find something afore…”

  “Spit it out, you chunk of gristle. Find what? You ain’t looking for a couple of saddlebags filled with gold, are you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Jim Bob swung around in his chair. “You know something about the whereabouts of this cave? You’d better tell me if you do, because otherwise you’ll find yourself begging for food stamps at the welfare office. Your mama and papa will be so shamefaced that they’ll up and sell their place so they can move to the other side of the county. Buchanons don’t take welfare, even if it means they have to live on squirrel and possum. Remember how they found ol’ Carismatica Buchanon? She starved to death all alone in her cellar because she wouldn’t take any handouts from the government or anyone else. Her body was surrounded by seventeen dried-up cat corpses and what they thought might have been a rabbit. Is that what you want for your family?”

  Kevin was having a hard time following how an afternoon off was gonna result in such a scenario. “I don’t know anything about a cave. All I was wanting was to leave now.”

  “I think you do know something.” Jim Bob came across the room and grabbed the front of Kevin’s shirt. “Tell me what Dahlia lost or I swear I’ll hold your head in the toilet until you howl for mercy. Does she have a map or something like that? Spit it out!”

  “She lost her granny,” croaked Kevin.

  Jim Bob’s hand dropped. “That crazy ol’ bitch? Why the hell would you want to find her?”

  “I don’t rightly know, but Dahlia sez we have to. Iff’n you’re gonna fire me, I reckon you can go ahead and do it.” He stepped back and stuck out what little chin he had. “I’m leaving now. The bucket and mop are over in the produce department next to the yams.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but instead hurried out the back door and down the steps of the loading dock. He was sweating something fierce, though, ’cause he knew he might have just lost his job once and for all. Dahlia’d be mad, but she’d be a sight madder if he didn’t find her granny. He’d searched until long past sunset the previous night, when even he had realized it was foolish. He’d tripped over so many logs that one of them could have been her body without him noticin’ it.

  Things had been mighty chilly when he finally dragged himself home. Supper had consisted of cold collard greens and a slice of bread. He’d been sent to sleep on the couch in the living room, and his whimpers all night had failed to produce a thaw from the bedroom.

  So now he had no choice but to suck in his gut and do the right thing.

  “So there you are, you little polecat!” Estelle said as she came into the barroom and saw Hammet sitting on a stool just like he thought he was sitting in a pew on Sunday morning. “I have been looking for you up one side of the ridge and down the other for the better of three hours! I was convinced you’d been dragged off by a bear—or worse. Now I find you drinking soda pop and eating a hamburger. I’ve a mind to turn you over my knee and—”

  “Calm yourself,” said Ruby Bee as she came down to the end of the bar. “Why don’t you visit the ladies’ room and do something about your hair, then have a glass of sherry? Hammet told me he got lost, so he came down here.”

  Estelle was almost sputtering with fury. “Lost? How in tarnation can he say he got lost? You look at me, young man! See these scratches on my face? These bruises on my shins? Here I was worried about you, when all the time you were sitting right here!”

  “No, I weren’t,” Hammet said. “I watched a game show on TV where they tell the folks the answers right up front. I wish my geography teacher’d do that.”

  Ruby Bee hustled Estelle into the ladies’ room. “You got to remember he’s still a child. He told me he stumbled across Raz’s still and realized he was in danger of a load of buckshot if he lingered. That’s what killed his mama, if you recollect. It was real hard on him.”

  “I’ll bet he went so far as to shed a tear, didn’t he? I swear, Rubella Belinda Hanks, you’d take in one of those Mafia fellows if he had a convincing story about how his mama couldn’t make spicy meatballs so he had no choice but to bury her body in New Jersey.”

  “Did Hammet show you any caves?”

  Estelle dampened a paper towel and dabbed the red welts on her cheeks. “Oh, he showed me more caves than a sow has tits. None of ’em was big enough for a body to squirm into, though. Long about noon, we sat down and had our sandwiches. I did my best to talk about the ridge, but he was turning ornery.” She put the towel into the trash can and leaned against the sink. “About then was when we saw somebody.”

  Ruby Bee gasped. “Who was it?”

  “I ain’t sure, but he was wearing a Confederate uniform sure as God made little green apples. He was watching us from the bluff above us, and as soon as I looked up, he vanished. I mostly saw his backside.”

  “And then…?”

  Estelle snorted. “Hammet said he was going off to relieve himself, and never came back. I stayed where I was, thinking he knew where to find me, but I started getting worried after half an hour and went to look for him. I can’t tell you how many times I ran into brambles or stepped in a hole and turned my ankle. My whole body’s black and blue, while he was sitting down here with a soda pop—”

  “Don’t get all fired up again,” said Ruby Bee, more distracted than sympathetic. “What’s done is done. The important thing is to figure out who this soldier is and if he knows where the gold is.”

  “Why don’t you march yourself up there and sit on a stump until you see him? I’ll wait for you here.”

  “You have to admit it’s curious, what with Earl swearing he saw the same thing on Saturday. Do you suppose it’s one of these reenactors?”

  Estell
e began resettling bobby pins and coaxing curls back into position. “The reenactors ain’t arriving until Thursday.”

  Ruby Bee realized Estelle had been out of pocket most of the day. “It seems plenty of them are already here. Joyce said Mrs. Jim Bob was ripping out her hair on account of the folks from Charleston showing up early, along with Miss Hathaway and that treasurer she mentioned—and the professor from Ohio. The filmmaker and his assistant checked into the motel earlier, as well as a reenactor from St. Louis. Millicent called to say she saw a Confederate soldier going into the PD, and what’s more, Joyce saw a Yankee buying tobacco and papers at the supermarket.”

  “Sounds like we could film this silly thing tomorrow and be done with it.”

  “It might be for the best,” Ruby Bee said, “but there are plenty more soldiers arriving on Thursday. With our drummer boy and this ghost on Cotter’s Ridge, it’s starting to feel kinda crowded, isn’t it?”

  Estelle dampened another paper towel to attend to her shins and ankles. “The next thing you know, Bufferin Buchanon will be calling to report Confederates in her attic. She does that every spring.”

  “This is just charming,” Corinne said as she looked out at the garden. “You have so much more room to have a spontaneous effect. In Charleston, I have only my walled backyard and a few azalea beds at the front of the house. It must be exhilarating to be able to plant things without any thought to space or organization.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob forced a tight smile. “Are you finding your rooms comfortable?”

  “Very much so, thank you. I must apologize again for descending on you like this, but we searched all over Farberville for a reasonable hotel. Sweetpea and Simon were quite amused by some of the motels we saw, but I couldn’t bring myself to stay in one that offered XXX-rated videos and mirrors on the ceiling. I’m no more fastidious than my great-great-grandmother must have been, but even she made sure bedrooms were free of vermin.” Corinne took a sip of tea. “Do you enjoy the peacefulness of a quaint little town? If only I could live in the country, with an office and a view such as this. How many books I could write if I were never interrupted by the commotion of traffic, the streetcars, the gaggles of tourists on my sidewalk, the social demands on my time and energy. The ideas would flow like that charming creek at the bottom of your yard. It’s all so rustic.”