Big Foot Stole My Wife Read online
Page 16
“Gayle was having an affair with Buell,” Ruby Bee said.
I did not relent. “I figured as much, and I did it all by myself. I did not require the assistance of two overgrown Nancy Drews to—”
“And Red found out,” Estelle said. “Last week he busted in on ’em and made all kinds of nasty threats. I find that a mite suspicious, considering what happened last evening.” She blinked at Ruby Bee, not blankly but frostily. “If Arly already knew about Gayle and Buell, why did I end up doing her perm for free?”
Ruby Bee retreated until she bumped into the beer tap. “Arly doesn’t know everything. Just ask her if she knows that Buell didn’t like to go carousing like some, and hardly ever got drunk on account of the medication he took for a recurring bladder problem. And wouldn’t have gone riding around with Red if his life depended on it.”
“Don’t ask me anything,” I rumbled. I was about to elaborate on my irritation when I spotted Red coming across the dance floor. He still looked a bit battered, the black eye having blossomed and the swollen lip giving him a petulant sneer. He was not wearing bloodstained clothing, however, and he moved easily for someone reputedly thrown fifty feet from a careening vehicle.
He froze in the middle of the floor, ignoring the couples cruising around him. His fingers curled into fists, and a muscle in his neck bulged like a piece of rope. Clearly, the first of the bottle rockets was lit. I slid off the stool and caught up with him as he reached the booth where Gayle and Les were sitting.
“What the hell did you do to your hair?” he asked Gayle. When she shrugged, he jabbed his thumb at Les.
“Who’s this?”
She looked up defiantly. “None of your business, Red. We’ve been divorced for two years now, and you ain’t got any right to act like a crybaby if I go out with someone.”
“I didn’t act like a crybaby when I caught you in bed with that wimp from the supermarket, did I?” he said, looming over her. “Guess you won’t be romping with him any more, unless you aim to crawl in the casket with him.”
Les put down his beer. “Now, wait just a minute, buddy. This woman doesn’t have to take that kind of talk from—”
“Shut up or I’ll shove that glass down your throat,” Red snarled. “Now, listen up, Gayle Gromwell. You git yourself out of that booth and on your way home afore I drag this mama’s boy outside to rearrange his pretty little face.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” she said sulkily.
Red pulled back his hand to slap her, but I grabbed his arm and hung on until he relaxed. “Gayle’s right, Red—you can’t tell her what to do,” I said. “She’s a single woman, and she’s allowed to date whomever she chooses. In this case, she’s chosen to date a deputy sheriff, which means you’re threatening an officer of the law. In front of an entire roomful of witnesses, too.”
He realized all the customers were watching and, from their expressions, enjoying the scene. Ruby Bee thoughtfully had unplugged the jukebox so nobody would miss a word.
“Okay,” he muttered to me, then stared at Gayle. “You keep in mind what I said to you the other night, you hear?”
I tapped him on the shoulder. “Was this when you invited your old pal Buell to share a bottle of whisky and enjoy the moonlight?”
“Naw, that was yesterday after work. I went by his house to tell him I was wrong to bust down the door like I did. I told him that sometimes I go kind of crazy when I think about Gayle with another man. He was right understanding, and pretty soon we decided to run into Farberville and get ourselves a bottle. We was talking about deer season when he lost control of the truck. You know what happened then.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, nodding. “Why was Buell driving the truck you bought in Little Rock two weeks ago? You paid good money for it, and I’m surprised you weren’t driving.”
The bruises under his eye stayed dark, but the rest of his face paled. “I dunno. I thought he was soberer than me.”
“It’s a good thing you weren’t in the Mustang, isn’t it?” I continued, still pretending we were having a polite conversation. “I know you’re awfully fond of it.”
“Helluva car,” he said.
“Which is why you bought the truck. You weren’t about to total your Mustang that way. I checked around town today, and nobody saw you and Buell driving down the road in the white pickup.” I crossed my fingers. “But Raz saw you drive by his place in the Mustang late afternoon, and come back by. He didn’t see Buell then, but I guess he’d need X-ray vision to see a body in the trunk, wouldn’t he?”
“What are you saying?” Gayle said, gulping. “Did he kill Buell?”
“I already told the sheriff all about it,” Red muttered.
I shook my head. “You told the sheriff a stale old fairy tale, Red. You went to Buell’s and beat him up, put him in the trunk, and drove to your place to switch vehicles. Then you collected the whisky, went out to the hill on County 103, and sent Buell down the hill and into the creek. He was unconscious, so he didn’t have much of a chance to get out of the truck.”
He gave me a frightened look. “You got any proof, cop lady?”
“You drained the bottle after the wreck, so we’d figure you were drunk. I found it in the woods. If you had it with you in the truck, then you and it went flying out the window together. Why didn’t it break?”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“You’d better hope Buell’s fingerprints are on it,” I said, “and that the alcohol level in his blood indicates he was drunk.” I waited politely, but he didn’t seem to have much to say. “Oh, yes, and there’s one more thing, Red. You’d better start praying the blood on that handkerchief matches your type and doesn’t have any traces of the medication Buell was taking.”
“Medication?” Red said, sounding as if he were in need of some at the moment. He didn’t improve when Les stood up, recited the Miranda warning, and cuffed him.
Once they were gone, I glowered at Ruby Bee until she headed for the jukebox, then sat down across from Gayle. “Red’ll be out on bail by Monday. I suggest you spend the weekend thinking about why you’re willing to play the role of victim. Get some counseling at the women’s shelter if it’ll help, and change the lock on your front door.”
Her smile was dreamy. “Who’d have thought Red would actually kill somebody over me?”
“One of these days he’ll kill you,” I said, then left her to her pathetic fantasies and went back to the PD to brood.
During the course of the weekend, I’d be obliged to run in some drunks, bust a couple of minors in possession, and intervene in domestic disputes. With luck, we’d all survive, and on Monday morning, bright and early, I’d grab my radar gun and a good book, and head for that patch of shade … unless I decided to take a hike on Cotter’s Ridge. You just never know where crime will erupt in Maggody, Arkansas (pop. 755).
The Maggody Files: Death in Bloom
“The thing is,” Ruby Bee announced before Estelle could once again start in squawking like a blue jay, which, for the record, she’d been doing for the last ten minutes, give or take, “Beryl makes superior apple pies. I’m thinking she might be inclined to share her secret. That’s why we’re doing this.”
Estelle adjusted the rearview mirror and made sure her beehive of red hair was securely pinned and ready to withstand anything short of hurricane-strength winds. “I still don’t see why the both of us should close up shop and go over to drink coffee, eat a piece of pie, and be so bored we’re gonna wish we’d joined a book club. Beryl’s pies take the blue ribbon every year at the county fair. That doesn’t mean I want to spend an hour admiring her begonias and zucchinis.”
Ruby Bee sighed as she drove up County 103. “Did you hear what I said, Estelle? Beryl’s apple pies have a certain something. I’ve been trying to figure out for most of thirty years what her secret is. Times I think it’s an extra dash of nutmeg or cinnamon, and then I think it must be ginger. I realize this sounds odd, but there are night
s I toss and turn until dawn.”
“Odd,” Estelle echoed in a voice meant to irritate Ruby Bee, which it most certainly did. “You’re saying you can’t sleep on account of Beryl Blanchard winning the blue ribbon at the county fair every year on account of ginger? I spend a lot more hours worrying if the IRS will come after me—or if a slobbering serial killer will bust into my house.”
Ruby Bee turned up the gravel driveway to Beryl’s house. “I suspect you’re losing sleep over something less likely than Idalupino Buchanon’s face appearing on the cover of People magazine. We’re gonna have pie and coffee, spend a few minutes with Buck, and dutifully admire the garden. If Beryl wants to give me her secret recipe, so be it. If not, no one has yet dared to criticize the apple pie I serve at the bar and grill.”
“Not if they want to live to see the dawning of another day,” Estelle muttered, then looked at the weedy pasture as Ruby Bee’s car bounced up the rutted driveway. The house was, at best, serviceable. The garden, on the other hand, was enough to suck the breath out of any soul’s body. Yellows and reds and fuchsias and oranges and pinks and purples—every glorious color on the spectrum—exploded from all sides. Blooms stretched to meet the sun; others cascaded like iridescent waterfalls.
“You got to admit,” Ruby Bee said solemnly, “that this is something. Beryl may not be on the top of my list of favorite people, but you’d almost think she gets seed catalogs direct from the Garden of Eden.”
“Then we’d better keep an eye out for the serpent,” Estelle said as she unbuckled her seat belt.
Ruby Bee frowned but held her peace as they got out of the car. Maggody was a quiet little town most of the time, although things seemed to keep happening. Today, however, held no undertones of menace. Arly, who just happened to be the chief of police as well as Ruby Bee’s daughter, had last been seen napping at her desk at the two-room police department, most likely dreaming of an escape to a somewhat more invigorating lifestyle that precluded moonshiners and dim-witted locals. There were no banks in Maggody, so the odds of a robbery-in-progress were limited. Anyone who imprudently ran the sole stoplight was in luck for the next hour or so.
“Ruby Bee, Estelle!” shrieked Beryl as she arose from a bed of exceedingly tall purple perennials. “I am delighted that you came! This is such a treat for me. So few people drop by these days. Buck and Sylvie are as excited as I am.”
Ruby Bee pasted on a smile. “You know I’m always in the mood for pie and coffee. How’s Buck doing?”
Beryl, whose gray hair held a tint of the same purple as the flowers surrounding her, wiped her face on her shirt cuff, leaving a smudge of dirt on her otherwise properly school-marmish features. “The wheelchair’s not been easy for him, but he knows he has to be careful. He gets all these crazy ideas about European tours and African safaris and how we can travel to all these places like he never had the heart surgery. Sylvie’s forever bringing home brochures about cruises and the like. Silliness! You name another place on earth more beautiful than where we’re standing.” She spread her arms as if embracing nature in its entirety. “What more could anyone want?”
“Something more exciting than Maggody,” Buck said as he wheeled onto the porch. “I just want to go while we can. A few years from now, maybe I’ll be content to sit here, watching the turkey vultures circle in on me. I was in the United States Navy, as you ladies must know. We had shore leave in Athens and Naples and a whole lot of fascinating places. I keep trying to persuade Beryl here to take a gander at them while we can. I drank a little ouzo in my time, I did, and climbed to the very rim of Vesuvius. One night when I was on the Isle of Capri—”
“We don’t have any reason to travel,” Beryl cut in. “We’ve got a vegetable garden, an orchard ripe with peaches and apples, and flowers that could dazzle a blind man. Why would I want to go to some foreign place where I’m likely to get a disease? Home is where you get meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and apple pie.”
Buck made a gesture that indicated he’d heard the argument more times than he could count. “Just thought I’d mention it,” he said darkly as he spun around and went inside.
“He doing okay otherwise?” asked Ruby Bee.
Beryl shrugged as she picked up a, muddy trowel and stacked together several empty plastic pots. “He’d do better if he did away with all his foolish ideas about traveling. Taking care of the property is a full-time job, what with planting in the spring, tending in the summer, harvesting in the fall, and pruning and planning in the winter. It’s not like Sylvie could step in for even a week or two. I’d be terrified that she’d make such a mess of everything that it’d take me two or three years to recover.”
“I just love your hollyhocks,” Estelle said tactfully.
“Me, too,” Beryl said. “Now let’s go inside for pie and coffee, and then we’ll have a nice stroll. I’m particularly pleased with the dianthus along the back fence. It has a wonderful cinnamon scent.”
Ruby Bee smiled with all the subtlety of a fox teetering on the henhouse roof. “Speakin’ of cinnamon, Beryl …”
They went into the house. The living room was dark and sparse, what with the drapes drawn and the wood floor unadorned. The obligatory crocheted doilies were spread across the arms of the sofa. Photographs of dyspeptic ancestors glowered from the walls. Tables that might have held vases of nature’s glories were bare, with the exception of the odd crystal dish that most likely had arrived as a wedding present and had never since held so much as a mint. The only book in sight was a family Bible.
“Sylvie!” Beryl called as they went down the hall. “We have company. I hope you’re not sulking in your room.” She lowered her voice and looked back at Ruby Bee and Estelle. “Sylvie’s not always fit for company. She did insist on baking the apple pie this morning, though.”
The baker under discussion trudged into the kitchen. She was thick, pale, somewhat sallow, and clearly unhappy. “You didn’t mention company, Ma.”
Ruby Bee managed a smile. “And how are you doing these days, Sylvie? Still attending the community college in Farberville?”
“No,” Sylvie muttered. “I did for a year, but now I’m here, taking care of things. Maybe down the road I can get some kind of degree.” She put on an apron and began to shove pots and pans into the gray dishwasher in the sink. “How’s Arly doing?”
“Real fine,” Ruby Bee said, looking at Estelle for help. A bullfrog caught in a spotlight might have appeared less panicky.
“Yeah, real fine,” said Estelle. “Why, Arly’s just as happy as a hog in a wallow. I’m sure she’d like to be out and about with men of an acceptable persuasion, but she’s willing to settle for a grilled cheese sandwich and happy hour at the bar and grill. How about you, Sylvie? You ever think about coming by for a beer? Things start jumping on Friday afternoons.”
Rather than responding, Sylvie grimly set a pie on the dinette. “Coffee’ll be ready in a minute,” she said, then disappeared down the hallway.
Beryl sighed. “I just don’t know what to do with that girl. I’ve made it clear she can take a class or two at the community college, as long as she can work around Buck’s needs. I’m just not strong enough to deal with him. I can’t help him in or out of his chair, or see to his basic needs in certain matters. I want you to know I’ve tried, Ruby Bee and Estelle; the spirit is willing, but …”
“How about I pour the coffee?” Ruby Bee said. She waited until Beryl nodded, then found cups and saucers in a cabinet and filled each cup. “Shall I cut the pie?”
Beryl sighed. “These days, the complaints are enough to wear me out. Sylvie acts like we should find a way to pay a private nurse to see to Buck, but we can’t. He spends his days whining about trips to foreign places. He needs the wheelchair, for pity’s sake. I can’t see myself lugging it up the gangplank of a ship or through the streets of some nasty place like Rome. I’ve been told that men”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“urinate in the streets. Can you imagine?”
“What ab
out a cruise?” said Estelle as she accepted a plate from Ruby Bee. “Seems like there’d be one that caters to folks with disabilities. If Sylvie went along, you could visit some exotic ports and Buck might feel better.”
“Some of the brochures say they do,” Beryl said, “but most likely all they offer is wide bathroom doors. Besides, who’d look after my hybrid tea roses and prune the flowering crab apples? My garden means everything to me. I can’t leave it to amateurs.”
Ruby Bee was trying to come up with a rebuttal as she took a bite of the blue-ribbon pie. It was not easy to swallow. “A bit tart,” she mumbled.
“I’d say so!” Beryl banged down her fork. “Sylvie! You march yourself in here right now, young lady. Here I invited guests for a nice dessert! This pie could pucker a face inside out. I’m so embarrassed I could just crawl under the table. I would never have served this if …”
Sylvie came into the kitchen. “Sorry, Mother. We ran out of sugar, and I thought I could adjust the recipe with honey. We’ve got some oatmeal cookies in the freezer. Maybe I can—”
Beryl rose with the menace of a summer squall. “That’s quite enough, Sylvie. Give your father his bath, then remain in your room until I call for you.”
“Now, Beryl,” said Estelle, “it isn’t like this was submitted to the committee at the county fair. All of us have substituted ingredients on occasion, although I can tell you molasses and Karo syrup just don’t—”
“Shall we go outside?” Beryl said coldly.
Ruby Bee could tell it was not the moment to broach the most delicate topic of ginger versus an extra pinch of cinnamon. “It isn’t that bad,” she said to Sylvie, who was hovering in the doorway with a very peculiar look on her face. “The crust is very flaky and light, and nicely browned. Sometimes, mine are so soggy I feel like I plucked ’em out of a swamp.”