Big Foot Stole My Wife Page 14

  Car doors slammed as the mourners began to depart. Bambi sat talking to her mother, who shook her head vehemently. After a moment, Bambi shrugged and stood up, and escorted her grandmother to the baby blue limousine. The preacher handed Michelle a Bible, held her hand for a moment, and walked toward his car with the obligatory introverted expression of the professionally bereaved. Michelle remained in the chair, her hands folded in her lap and her head lowered.

  I walked toward my car, wishing I’d tucked more sensible shoes in my purse in anticipation of the distance. The gravel was not conducive to steady progress in even moderately sensible low heels, and I was lamenting the emergence of at least one blister when I saw a figure partially shielded by an unkempt hedge. Despite her sunglasses and a scarf, I recognized her from an earlier newscast when she’d been transferred from the hospital to the county jail. I had no doubt I could confirm the identification when the evening news covered her arraignment in a few hours.

  It was curious, but so was my accountant when I tried to report financial quarterly estimates. I reopened the Book Depot, sold a paperback to my pet science fiction weirdo, and tried to reimmerse myself in paperwork, but I was distracted as much by the idea of Caron visiting her father’s grave as I was by the image of Charlie Kirkpatrick observing the graveside service from behind the hedge. I finally pushed aside the ledger, propped my elbows on the counter, and, cradling my face in the classic pose of despondency, thought long and hard about the nature of friendship … not only between Michelle and Charlie, but also between Caron and Inez.

  A theory began to emerge, and I called Luanne. “Would you have had an affair with Carlton?” I asked abruptly, bypassing pleasantries when thinking of my former husband.

  “Not on a bet. From what you’ve said about him, he was a pompous pseudo-intellectual with an anal-retentive attitude about everything from meat loaf to movies.”

  “Did I say all that?”

  “I am astute.”

  “I am impressed with your astutity—if that’s a word.”

  “Not in my dictionary. If that’s all, I just received a consignment from Dallas, some really nifty beaded dresses. I need to inventory the lot.”

  I rubbed my face. “Hold on a minute, Luanne. What if Carlton had been more like … say, Robert Redford. Would you have had an affair in spite of our friendship?”

  “And when he dumped me, drive to your house and run him down in the driveway? Is that your point?” I made a noise indicating that it was, and after a moment of thought, she said, “No, but I’d be seriously tempted. You know how I feel about blue eyes and shaggy blond hair.”

  “Even sprinkled with gray?”

  “I assume you’re making rude remarks about his hair, but I wouldn’t mind if his eyes were sprinkled with gray. I must count beads. Talk to you later.”

  I replaced the receiver and resumed staring blankly at the cracked plaster above the self-help rack. Luanne had answered honestly. She wouldn’t have betrayed me, although the leap from Carlton to Robert required the imagination of a flimflam artist and the thighs of an aerobics instructor. Ethan to Robert was equally challenging.

  Some women would, and had done so since the monosyllabic hunter had run into his distaff chum posing coyly in a scanty mastodon stole. But those weren’t the women who had deep and long-lasting friendships with other women. They lacked the essential mechanism to bond, and most of us had learned to spot them quickly and clutch our men’s arms possessively when they approached to poach.

  I hung the fly-splattered Closed sign on the door, locked up, and let myself out the back door. I then unlocked the door and went inside to find the McQueens’ address in the telephone directory. I was still clad in funerary finery, and I hoped I would be inconspicuous in the crowd of lawyers, their spouses, and whoever else was there.

  Nobody was there. There was not one blessed car parked out front, not one mourner visible in the living room window, with a cocktail in hand and misty stories about good ol’ Ethan. Wishing Luanne were beside me to dissuade me, I forced myself to go onto the porch and ring the doorbell.

  Bambi opened the door and gave me a puzzled look through red, puffy eyes. “You’re Caron Malloy’s mother, right? You subbed for Miss Parchester for a few days when she was trying to poison everybody in the teacher’s lounge.”

  “Something like that,” I murmured. “I came by to offer you and your mother my condolences. This has been such a terrible time for you, and all I can say is that I’m really sorry. If there’s anything Caron can do for you …?”

  “She’s like a sophomore,” said Bambi, clearly appalled at the concept. “Thanks, but no thanks. Listen, it was nice of you to come by, and I’ll pass along the message to my mother when she gets back.”

  “From the cemetery?”

  “Yeah, she was afraid those howling reporters would be here, and she said she wanted to be alone while she tried to understand how … Charlie could have done what she did.”

  “They were really close friends, weren’t they?”

  “That’s what’s killing her, she says. They’ve stayed in touch since college. When Charlie was married, she and my mother didn’t talk on the phone every week, but they called at holidays and wrote a lot and sent funny cards and stuff like that. We visited them when they rented a beach house.”

  “She must have been thrilled when Charlie moved to Farberville and they could see more of each other,” I said encouragingly, telling myself I was allowing Bambi to express her grief and confusion—rather than interrogating her four hours after her father’s funeral.

  “I suppose so.” Bambi stepped back as if to close the door, but I opted to interpret it as a gesture of welcome and came into the entry hall. “Like I said, Mrs. Malloy, I’ll tell my mother you came by,” she said with an uneasy smile, “but it’s about time for me to pick her up and—”

  I radiated warmth like a veritable space heater. “Of course it is, dear, and I know you’re not in the mood for visitors. I’ll be off in a minute or two. From what I’ve heard, your mother began to suspect the two were having an affair about six months ago.” I clucked my tongue disapprovingly.

  Bambi conceded with a sigh, unable to withstand the persistence of dedicated meddler. “Right after they came back from a weekend at some bed-and-breakfast in Eureka Springs, they stopped seeing each other. My mother just said she’d learned disturbing things about Charlie and didn’t want to be around her anymore. I think my father was secretly pleased that she didn’t call all the time or show up Sunday mornings with cinnamon rolls and the newspapers. He seemed happier, but maybe it was because he and Charlie were—you know. Everybody in town knows, so why wouldn’t you?” Her eyes brimmed with tears and her hands curled into fists. “Everybody at school knows, along with everybody at church and everybody at the goddamn grocery store! They probably knew the entire time.” The tears spilled down her cheeks, but she ignored them with fierceness well beyond her years. “I guess that stupid saying is true—my mother was the last to know.”

  “One final question,” I said despite the guilt that was gushing inside me and threatening to choke my despicable throat. “Were you here the night of the … accident?”

  “No, I was over at Emily’s house cramming for history. My mother usually won’t let me go out on school nights, but this time she did on account of how it was the midterm exam. She was supposed to pick me up at ten, but Emily’s father had to tell me what happened and drive me home.”

  “Why don’t you rest, Bambi? I’ll drive over to the cemetery and bring your mother back.” I patted her on the arm and left before she could protest, if she intended to do so. She was more likely to be so relieved at my departure that she was unable to get out a single word.

  I parked beside the stone wall girding the cemetery, stuck my fists in my pockets, and walked up a path tangential to the canvas tent. I made an effort to keep my face lowered, although I doubted Michelle would recognize me—since we’d never met. I was not surprised
to see two women seated on the grass, legs crossed, hands flickering as they talked. Nor was I surprised to hear laughter. After all, these were two old friends with a history that spanned twenty years. They’d shared stories of married life, of children, of financial woes, of vacations, of triumphs and disasters.

  They froze when I veered at the last minute and stopped in front of them. “Charlie Kirkpatrick and Michelle McQueen?” I inquired politely, if rhetorically. “I’m Claire Malloy. I own the Book Depot, and my daughter, Caron, works on the school newspaper with Bambi.”

  I studied their faces; neither had the glint of a predatory woman incapable of female friendship. Michelle was pretty, if not beautiful, and there was a gap between her front teeth that indicated she was not obsessed with perfection. Charlie had cropped dark hair, a wide mouth, and a longish chin that reminded me of Luanne, especially when she was tired.

  These women were tired, but I would be, too, if I’d been propping up a facade for six months, culminating in what amounted to premeditated murder.

  “Why are you here?” asked Michelle.

  “A better question,” I said, gesturing at Charlie, “is why is she here? Isn’t she the woman that took advantage of your friendship to have an affair with your husband and then run him down in the driveway?”

  Charlie winced. “I came by after the funeral to try to explain what happened to Michelle. Having an affair with Ethan was the lowest, vilest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I’d been deeply depressed all winter, drinking too much and thinking too hard about how empty my life was. It’s taken five years for the divorce to sink in, and once my son left for college and I had the house all to myself, I fell apart.”

  Michelle squeezed her friend’s hand and said, “I knew you were unhappy when Chad left, but I had no idea how bad it was. Ethan must have sensed your vulnerability and moved in like a vulture, just like he did with his clients, such as that woman who was brutalized by her husband and the poor girl last year whose husband and baby were killed in a car wreck.” She grimaced. “I’m sure there were others, but I was naive, and he was adept at lying.”

  “And you were always the last to know,” I said as I looked down at her watery eyes and white face. “I wish I believed it, but in this case, Ethan was the last to know, wasn’t he?”

  “To know what?” Charlie said, then exchanged a quick look with Michelle.

  “To know he was having an affair with you,” I said. “The plan is very good, by the way. Two old friends stop seeing each other when one suspects the other of the affair. The husband purportedly breaks it off, and the mistress storms the house in a drunken rage and manages to kill him in the ensuing scene. Why, with the wife to testify, the mistress might get off with only a few months in the county jail—or even working weekends in a crisis center or a nursing home. In the meantime, the grieving widow collects the insurance money and bravely faces the future with a daughter who’ll be away at college in a year. What were you two planning to do?”

  “Buy a bed-and-breakfast,” Charlie admitted in a low voice. “The one we stayed at in Eureka Springs is on the market.”

  “And travel during the off season,” added Michelle. “Ethan refused to go anywhere that didn’t have at least one championship golf course, which ruled out most of the planet. Charlie found a great deal on a two-week trip to France, but Ethan wouldn’t even open the brochure. I was so excited about bicycling and hot-air ballooning through the chateau country, and all he did was shake his head and mention that damned resort on Hilo we’ve been to every year for the last decade.”

  I sighed. “I don’t know what will happen now. I’ll have to tell the police what I know, but it’s up to them to prove it.”

  Michelle smiled serenely. “There’s a paper trail of motel receipts, dinners for two on nights when I was visiting his mother, long-distance calls to Charlie, credit card invoices for expensive gifts that never made it home.”

  “I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist,” Charlie contributed, “and I was so overwhelmed with guilt that I had to tell him about the affair. He’s been very worried about my rages and occasional suicide attempts. In the last few months, his service has logged quite a few hysterical midnight calls.”

  Michelle rolled her eyes. “You’ll never get those bloodstains out of the bedspread, dummy. You’re dying to get the sofa recovered, but you have to slit your wrists in bed.”

  “I am so confused,” Charlie said, then started to laugh.

  Michelle leaned against her, her laughter lilting despite the proximity of her freshly planted husband, and looked up at me with a grin. “Please forgive me—it must be the shock. But if you could see this hideous mauve sofa …”

  I turned away and took several steps, then looked back at them. “A friend in need, huh?”

  They were already lost in a conversation of bicycles and passports. I walked back to my car and drove home, imagining a scenario in which Luanne would risk a jail sentence, albeit a short one, to murder an inconvenient husband in exchange for a trip to France. It was easier than I’d anticipated. I refused to allow myself to ponder the inverse position.

  When I arrived home, I went to Caron’s door and was about to knock when I heard her say, “I can’t tell you my source, Louis, but I swear on last year’s Falcon Crier that Rhonda has a date with Bruce this Friday while you’re at the Southside game. All you have to do is call her the next morning and ask her why she was seen at the drive-in movie with him, and why the car windows were steamier than a sauna.” There was a pause. “I can’t tell you, but my source is very, very good. We just thought you’d be interested, that’s all. I’ve got to work on this really mindless algebra assignment, so ’bye!”

  As I lowered my hand, I heard Inez’s muted laugh. It was nearly drowned out by Caron’s cackles of victory. Shrugging, I went to the kitchen to fix a drink, then got comfortable on the sofa and reached for the telephone. I should have called Peter to tell him what I’d learned, but I found myself automatically dialing Luanne’s number. After all, a good friend deserves to be the first to know.

  The Maggody Files: D.W.I.

  Thursdays aren’t the busiest days for outbursts of criminal activity in Maggody, Arkansas (pop. 755). Neither are Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays. Long about Friday, things pick up in anticipation of the weekend, although when we’re talking grand theft auto, it means some teenager took off in his pa’s pickup. A hit-and-run has to do with a baseball and a broken window at the Pot o’ Gold trailer park. The perpetrator of larceny tends to be a harried mother who forgot to pay for gas at the convenience store, most likely because one of the toddlers in the back seat of the station wagon chose that moment to vomit copiously into the front seat.

  I say all this with authority, because I, Ariel Hanks, am the chief of police, and it’s my sworn duty to drag the errant driver home by his ear, and send the batter over to mumble a confession and offer to make reparation. Why, I’ve been known to go all the way out to Joyce Lambertino’s house to have a diet soda and a slice of pound cake, admire her counted cross-stitch, and take her money to the Kwik-Stoppe-Shoppe. And bring her back the change.

  Other than that, I occasionally run a speed trap out by the skeletal remains of Purtle’s Esso Station, where there’s a nice patch of shade and some incurious cows. I swap dirty jokes with the sheriff’s deputies when they drop by for coffee. Every now and then I wander around Cotter’s Ridge, on the very obscure chance I might stumble across Raz Buchanon’s moonshine still. It’s up there somewhere, along with ticks, chiggers, mosquitoes, brambles, and nasty-tempered copperheads.

  The rest of the time I devote to napping, reading, wondering why I’m back in Maggody, and doing whatever’s necessary to eat three meals a day at Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill. The proprietor (a.k.a. my mother) is a worthy opponent, despite her chubby body and twinkly eyes. She’s adjusted to having her daughter do what she considers a man’s job, and she’s resigned to my divorce and my avowed devotion to the single life. Thi
s is not to say I don’t hear about my failings on a regular basis, both from her and her spindly, red-haired cohort, Estelle Oppers, who runs a beauty shop in her living room—and is as eager as Ruby Bee is to run my life. But I don’t believe in running; there’s nothing wrong with a nice, easy walk (except on Cotter’s Ridge, and that’s already been mentioned).

  But the particular Thursday under discussion turned ugly. I was at the PD, yanking open desk drawers to watch the roaches scurry for cover. When the telephone rang, I reluctantly shut the drawer and picked up the receiver.

  “Sheriff Dorfer says to meet him by the creek out on County 103,” the dispatcher said with her customary charm. “Right now.”

  “Shall I bring a bucket of bait and a six-pack?”

  “Just git yourself over there, Arly. Sheriff Dorfer’s at the scene, and he ain’t gonna be all that tickled if you show up acting like you thought it was a picnic.”

  It was not a picnic. I parked behind several official vehicles, settled my sunglasses, and slithered and slipped down a fresh path of destruction to the edge of Boone Creek. Harve Dorfer was talking to a man in a torn army jacket who was wiping blood from his face with a wadded handkerchief. A pair of grim deputies watched. Beyond them lay a lumpish form covered by a blanket. The rear half of a truck stuck out of the water as if poised in a dive.

  “You’re a real work of art,” Harve growled, then stalked over to me, an unlit cigar butt wedged in the corner of his mouth. He aimed a finger at me, but turned and looked at his deputies. “Les, you and John Earl take this stinkin’ drunk up to the road and have the medics check him. If nothing’s broke, take him to the office and book him. If something is, go along with him and wait at the emergency room until he’s patched up. Then take him to the office and throw the whole dadgum book at him.”