The Arly Hanks Mysteries Volume One Page 13

  “Of course I do, Jim Bob; I take great pride in serving the people of my district, even if it means late nights with the candle burning away at both ends. Hold on for a minute while I have my secretary round up the paperwork on this here sewage disposal plant. I been out of state for several days, doing an analysis of one of my colleague’s pork-barrel projects. I have to watch every penny of the taxpayers’ dollars.” He chuckled, then covered the receiver and gave out some orders too muffled for Jim Bob to get. “You and the boys all het up for the deer season?” he added.

  “Just get the papers, Fiff,” Jim Bob snarled.

  The line rustled, and he could hear Fiff humming under his breath as he shifted papers. After a long minute, Fiff cleared his throat and said, “On the face of it, this appears to be in order, Jim Bob, and there ain’t a thing I can do about it. Lemme see … Yep, the BOD and the TSS are right at ten parts per million, as specified in our great country’s Federal Water Quality Act, and the phosphorous and ammonia are going to be right good. I remember you telling me about this before, Jim Bob, but I don’t think you have any cause to worry about it anymore. Your creek’ll be plumb full of bass and crappies, and I’ll come over to catch a string and prove it to you.”

  “That’s the shit they’ve been giving us at those damn fool ‘public participation forums’—and what it means is shit! Can’t you file a protest with the federal boys so this can be delayed until we’ve filed another petition for relief? The final papers haven’t been signed as of yet.”

  “I could, Jim Bob, but you got to remember that Starley City has twenty-two thousand fine and upstanding constituents, while Maggody’s got a scant handful. Politics is tricky, and I don’t want to offend anybody if I can help it, but the naked truth is that I’ve got to bend to the biggest breeze.”

  “You windbag,” Jim Bob said, his face purple as he clutched the receiver in a death grip. “You told me one night at the poker table that you’d do something about this, and—”

  “Let’s get together and play another time,” Fiff said genially, overriding the continued sputters and threats with practiced ease. “I had myself a real nice time that night, even if you boys romped me like I was a virgin in the locker room. Thanks for calling, and get yourself a twelve-point buck next week. Take care and have a good day.”

  Jim Bob dropped the receiver and sank into the chair. When the door opened five minutes later, he hadn’t moved further than a rat’s hair, and his face was rigid.

  “Hey, Jim Bob,” Dahlia said, wondering why he looked like something the cat threw up, “did you hear about Jaylee?”

  “Jaylee’s gone to Little Rock. I know that much.”

  “No she ain’t. She got herself murdered last night, over behind Ruby Bee’s Bar and Grill. Kevin said he heard she was naked in one of the motel rooms, with an arrow smack dab in her tit.”

  “What brand of shit are you trying to feed me?” Jim Bob said, turning purpler. “Your brain’s too stuffed with chocolate to know what your mouth is babbling. Get out of here and get your ass back to work before I transport it with my boot!”

  “Dahlia is essentially right,” Mrs. Jim Bob said, gliding past the barricade in the doorway to sit on the couch. She placed her purse on the floor, crossed her ankles, and folded her hands in her lap. “Jaylee was found last night, murdered. Kevin has perhaps exaggerated the melodrama of the scene, but Jaylee Withers is really and truly dead. Murdered. Arly was up at the house to ask you some questions this morning, and she sounded like her questions were going to be more pointed than a piece of barbed wire. I told her that you were out. I did not offer the details of your tawdry affair, but I may change my mind and give her a call after we chat.”

  Dahlia’s mouth fell open and her cheeks ballooned out as she turned to stare at Mrs. Jim Bob. She wished Kevin was there to hear it, too. It sounded like it was going to be real interesting.

  Jim Bob wondered if somebody upstairs was a mite peeved with him.

  Paulie decided to see if he could find any clues about Jaylee’s finances inside her mobile home. Not like a state trooper would, of course—just like a hick small-town deputy who wasn’t even a graduate of the police academy. In four months he’d have to quit the Maggody force, since he probably couldn’t even get in the academy if he tried—couldn’t get in anywhere. He wondered if he would end up as a night watchman at the Pot O’Gold, or pumping gas and diddling Dahlia at the Kwik-Screw while she ate a gross of candy bars and offered helpful hints on technique.

  He and Jaylee had been close. Hell, they’d been right on the edge of escaping Maggody, of making something of themselves and seeing how real folks lived. Jaylee had been closer than he’d been, of course, since she’d passed her GED and been accepted at the cosmetology institute. He’d flunked two out of three parts of the test.

  “I still could’ve gone with her,” he said under his breath as he climbed into the police car and drove to the Pot O’Gold. Jaylee’s mobile home was parked near the back fence, which she’d liked. She always said she could watch the pasture for hours on end, although Paulie had never thought it was all that exciting a view. Bunch of dumb cows.

  He slowed down for the cattle guard at the gate, and then drove very slowly down the road, one eye on the kids playing in a drainage ditch. Kids were stupid enough to dart right into the road without a single look to see if a car was coming. Carl Withers had tried to prove the Buchanon boy had done just that the night of the hit-and-run, but he’d also admitted he was drunk and driving a stolen vehicle, so the judge didn’t pay much heed to Carl’s defense. Jaylee talked about it for a long time, as if he’d been the least bit interested in Carl Withers’s crimes.

  Paulie slammed on the brakes as a ball bounced off the hood of his car. He saw the culprits as they dodged under a clothesline, scrambling like a flock of dirty-faced monkeys. He considered whether he ought to go after them, if only to put the fear of God in them. Maybe a lecture, all stern and official, making sure they saw the regulation gun at his side. Kids always got wide-eyed when they saw the gun. If they apologized for the negligence with the ball, he might even let them touch the holster. But he’d never get them now; they’d high-tailed it to one of their holes, where they’d hunker down and tell each other, What a close call that was! Did you see the way he stared at us?

  He reluctantly decided to allow them to escape without punishment this time. He continued at a snail’s pace down the road to Jaylee’s unit, cut off the engine, and picked up a notebook and his fingerprint kit. The chief didn’t know he had one; he’d ordered it from some company in Michigan that advertised in the back of men’s magazines. He doubted he would find any prints that he could identify, since the only ones he had in his notebook were his own and his mother’s, but he could at least try a few surfaces. He might find something worth sticking in his notebook.

  He opened the car door, but he couldn’t bring himself to get out and start playing detective. Poor Jaylee, he thought, remembering how she used to try crazy hairstyles, then call him to come over and judge them for originality or some dumb thing like that. He’d always admired her efforts, even if it made her look like somebody had run her through the rinse cycle of a washing machine. One night when he’d come by, she had a big orange stripe down the middle of her head and green patches over her ears. She’d informed him it was punk, and he’d had to grit his teeth not to laugh. Jaylee’d been real serious about her career in cosmetology. It was hard to overlook some of her other interests, though. Hell, it was downright impossible not to dwell on what he knew she’d been doing with other men. A spark of pain hit his gut, and he pushed the thought aside before it could eat at his insides like some vile, red-eyed rat. He suspected the rat was going to be there for a long time to come.

  Her mobile home (she never allowed anyone to say “trailer”) seemed sad without her laughter drifting through the door. He made himse
lf walk up the little path she’d lined with gay plastic daisies and embedded with white bricks, then halted by the door to compose himself. Which was when he heard the conversation coming from inside the mobile home.

  Paulie whipped out his gun and fumbled for a bullet. Hell, two. One for each of the prowlers in there desecrating Jaylee’s home and stealing every damn thing they could find. He cautiously tested the front-door knob, a bead of sweat popping out at each tiny squeak. Locked. He moved to a window and tried to peek through the blinds, but they were tightly drawn. The murmurs sounded urgent, as if something was about to happen while he hung around outside, clutching his gun and unable to defend Jaylee’s home. He wasn’t sure there was time to try the back door.

  “Paulie Buchanon! What are you doing with your gun? Don’t you go and shoot your foot again!” Eula stood in the doorway of her mobile home, a cup and saucer in one hand and a TV Guide in the other.

  He gestured for her to shut up. “Call the sheriff’s office and tell them to send a backup unit,” he whispered.

  “For Ruby Bee and Estelle? Oh, Paulie Buchanon, you are a scream! Can you imagine their faces if some big sheriff’s deputy came pounding on the door?”

  “Ruby Bee and Estelle are in there?” He lowered the gun, reluctantly. “You sure about that, Eula?”

  “I seen them with my own eyes when they snuck around to the back door and went inside. I told Mr. Harkins they looked like they were playing cops and robbers, silly old women! He said he’d never heard such nonsense in his life.”

  Sighing, Paulie removed the bullets and put them in his pocket, replaced the gun in its holster, then pounded on the door with his fist. “You open up in there, Ruby Bee! Estelle, I know you’re in there, too, so you just open this door before I get any madder than I already am!”

  The door opened. Ruby Bee waved him in, looking real downcast about getting caught. Which she damn well ought to be, Paulie told himself. Estelle was sitting on one end of the sofa, and she didn’t look very happy either. As he opened his mouth for the introductory words of what was going to be a long lecture, Ruby Bee pointed to a figure behind the door.

  “You remember Carl Withers, don’t you? Carl, this is Paulie Buchanon. His parents own the Pot O’Gold, and Paulie’s a deputy on the local police force.”

  Introductions over, conversation came to a standstill. Carl showed Paulie the knife in his hand and gestured for him to sit by Estelle. Ruby Bee joined them. Carl came over and pointed at Paulie’s gun. It passed hands, along with both of the bullets. Carl peeked through the curtains, his brow scrunched up real tight. The three on the couch squeezed together, although they did not arrange their hands over their eyes, ears, and mouths respectively.

  “Snoopy bitch,” Carl breathed. He looked over his shoulder. “You really screwed up, you broads. If you’d stayed clear of the mobile home, I would have been able to get the payoff and get my ass out of this crappy town. Now I’m stuck with you—and this Deputy Dawg character. One of you fix me something to eat, and the other see if there’s medicine and bandages in the bathroom, anything to ease the pain in my leg.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Ruby Bee said, staring at his leg. “That looks awful. It must be hurting you real bad by now, and I think you’d better go straight to the hospital and get it attended to by a doctor.”

  Carl gave her a smile, albeit not too warm. “If I did that, they’d want me to go back to prison, wouldn’t they?” He waited until the three on the couch nodded, then said, “It’s hard to understand if you haven’t been there, but prison is not my idea of a real good time. For one thing, they lock you up all the time. They also are insistent that you hoe fields in the hundred-degree heat, eat slop pigs wouldn’t touch, and spend time with bad men. You wouldn’t want me to go back, would you?” He waited until they shook their heads. “Now how about some food and medicine, if you could get your asses up and in action before I cut somebody’s throat!”

  He pulled back the curtain again and scowled at the scattered mobile homes and road. Once he’d concluded his business, he realized he’d have to do something with his three idiotic prisoners. If he left them behind, he wouldn’t reach the county line without a battalion of police cars wailing down the highway after him.

  “Get that attended by a doctor,” he said in a squeaky, bitter falsetto. “Get yourself carved up, lady.”

  11

  It was getting pretty boring in the deer camp trailer. Larry Joe was enthralled by the tips of his shoes, and Roy was meandering through his own thoughts, which probably weren’t altogether cheerful from the way he studied the wall. Sergeant Plover appeared to be in the middle of a nap. I wasted most of an hour considering the wisdom of a permanent versus a haircut and finally decided to do nothing rash for another year or two.

  The current theory was that Jim Bob and Ho would be back in another hour, if they hadn’t been detained in town or stopped by a flat tire on the road. Plover had communicated with the sheriff’s office, and they had agreed to keep an avuncular eye on the two but not stop them. They’d promised to search the back side of the ridge for the kidnappee, but they’d also muttered something about the size of said woods, haystacks, and pine needles. In the meantime, we were hoping Drake would stumble out of the underbrush to explain himself. Mostly we were sitting.

  “Anybody want to play cards?” I said. I got blank looks from three different directions, but at least Plover wasn’t asleep on the job. “We don’t have to, guys. It was a suggestion, that’s all. We’ve been sitting here a long time and I’m bored, but maybe I’ll take a walk instead.”

  I stood up, but Plover caught my arm and pulled me back down. “That’s a good idea, cards. You know how to play poker?”

  “I was thinking of canasta.”

  Roy and Larry Joe started shaking their heads, and even Plover looked nonplussed. Don’t men ever play anything but poker? “Oh, all right,” I said. “I’ll play poker, if someone will write down what beats what. I always get confused with straights and flushes, but I happen to be a very good poker player. We used to play all the time at the dorm at college, after we got in from our dates. Who deals first?”

  Everybody looked a darn sight more cheerful as they scooted chairs around the table and started counting chips. Roy offered to open a round of beers, and Larry Joe said he would make some sandwiches after a few hands. Plover took out his wallet and extracted a wad of bills. “Let’s consider ourselves off duty until we hear something. What’s the limit?”

  “I say a dollar,” Roy said. He looked at me, no doubt thinking he was gazing at dead meat. “Dollar okay with you, Arly?”

  “A dollar a hand is fine with me,” I replied. I downed half my beer in a gulp and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, trying to get in the proper frame of mind. I even managed a delicate belch.

  “A dollar limit on bets,” Roy said, pained but gentle. “Three raises, no check and raise, dealer’s choice, first jack deals, and if nobody cares, I’ll run the bank.”

  We didn’t do all that stuff in the dorm, but it sounded okay with me. I took out a five-dollar bill and tossed it on the table. “I’m ready when you are, gentlemen. By the way, what’s wild?”

  For some reason, they thought that was a riot. Nobody laughed out loud, but I could see them fighting it. I decided to fleece them for every last penny. No mercy. Not even for the Nameless Wonder, who was trying the hardest not to laugh.

  “Deal the cards,” I commanded in a cold voice.

  Robert Drake opened his eyes slowly, shuddering as his head exploded with pain. His eyes refused to focus at first, but at last he blinked away the hazy blur. There was a ceiling above him, and shafts of light that came through the numerous cracks like knife blades. He realized he was inside a house of some kind, a ramshackle shanty from the looks of the ceiling. For a moment, he thought it stank worse than a pigsty, but then he remembered the source of the stench an
d closed his eyes.

  It had to be a nightmare. Nothing like this could happen to him, a bright, semi-young civil servant with two cars, a ranch house with a swimming pool right off the patio, membership in the right country club, and a wife who….

  His eyes shot open hard enough to bruise his eyebrows. He’d seen Dawn Alice. The clubhouse and the tennis court. He’d tried to get her, but something had stopped him in the middle of the lunge. It’d stopped his head, anyway. Had he managed to throttle Dawn Alice while unconscious? God, he hoped so.

  It didn’t exactly explain where he was, why his head hurt worse than any hangover he’d ever had (and he’d had some doozies), or where he was. Not the woods; he could tell that much.

  Heaven didn’t sound probable, and he wasn’t about to dwell on the alternative. It was too damn cold, for one thing; the wind blew through the room as if the walls didn’t exist. The ceiling didn’t stop much either; there’d be a goddamn monsoon inside when it rained.

  He was on a bed of sorts, covered with a scratchy tattered quilt that looked brown until you noticed a few white creases that had missed the dirt. The mattress felt as if it were stuffed with dried corncobs. Nothing remotely resembled sheets or pillows.

  He was also buck-naked. He thought about that for a long time, but an explanation didn’t come. It sure wasn’t some kinky hospital where they stripped you before putting you in a filthy bed that was on par with torture. It wasn’t his bedroom at home. Dawn Alice had had everything done in some putrid shade of pink and tried to convince him to use the word coral when he bitched about it, which he did often. The scuzzy Flamingo Motel was a damn sight better, even if it wasn’t the Hilton. It had come with some tasty perks.

  He wondered where Jaylee was. After finding the room empty and him gone, she’d probably been real pissed. Bounced out on her lovely buttocks, calling him all sorts of ugly names. Driven away from the motel in a full-fledged snit that wouldn’t have eased for fifty miles. She was in Little Rock by now. He was nowhere. He wanted her to smother down on him like a warm blanket and do things to make him feel better, then bring him a tray filled with food, anything so long as it was hot and plentiful—and accompanied by a bottle of bourbon. God, even beans and cornbread or those leaden biscuits that could choke a catfish. He’d even eat one of Dawn Alice’s unholy messes she insisted on calling French kwe-zeen.