Martians in Maggody Page 21

  “Fine.” I finally pried my hands off the steering wheel and got out of the car to join them, although I made sure I stayed out of whacking range. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s this about?”

  Eula smiled grimly. “As any fool can see, we’re picketing the supermarket.” Farther down the line Elsie and Lottie nodded in agreement.

  “Jim Bob may not be an ideal role model, but he’s not a moonshiner,” I said.

  “I happen to know for a fact that he’s delivering moonshine all across the county,” Eula countered. “Lottie heard it from Mrs. Jim Bob’s own lips, and they were in the House of the Lord at the time.”

  Lottie’s smile was no less grim. “We are doing our civic duty by letting the God-fearing citizens of this town know about it.”

  “So they won’t go spending money in an establishment owned by a sinner,” added Elsie. “It’s our obligation as Christians to battle demon whiskey.”

  No cars were pulling into the lot, but I suspected the rain was doing more to deter potential shoppers than the three self-righteous demonstrators. Through the plate glass I could see the sinner under discussion. He had the look of a starving piranha in a fish-bowl as he stared out at us.

  I hastily said, “What did Mrs. Jim Bob say that led you to believe her husband’s running moonshine?”

  “He’s been going up to Cotter’s Ridge at night,” Eula said. “She followed him, but she lost him on the trail that goes to the still.”

  “She did?” I said, recalling the conversation I’d had with her after church. It made a lot more sense, even if her assumption made none at all.

  “It’s about time you got here,” Jim Bob snarled as he came out the door. “These women are disrupting my business and trespassing! I want you to file criminal charges and get them the hell off my property.” He stabbed his finger at Eula Lemoy. “If I’ve a mind to, I can file a civil suit for libel.”

  “Slander is the correct term,” Lottie informed him with the perfect degree of superciliousness to escalate the situation seriously.

  I got in front of her before we had a demonstration of bodily assault. “If you’re not helping Raz with his deliveries, then what have you been doing on the ridge at night? Courting Bigfoot?”

  He chewed on his lip, then caught my arm and dragged me away from the demonstrators. “I went up there to investigate those orange lights,” he said in a low voice, glancing everywhere but at me. “I was thinking I could make a fortune if I captured one of the aliens. I’d parade it on shows like Strange Stories and Good Morning America and eventually sell it to some outfit like Sageman’s foundation for enough money to retire to Florida.”

  I gave him an admiring look. “It was pretty brave of you to go there alone. I’d have been scared the alien might have turned me into a very small pile of ashes.”

  “Roy and Larry Joe went with me, and we took shotguns. A dead one wouldn’t have been worth as much as a live one, but we figured we’d come out okay.”

  “Did you go there last night?”

  “Roy and me did. Larry Joe’s wife had some screwy notion that Bigfoot was in their yard, and she wouldn’t let him set foot out of the house. We tromped around for a couple of hours, but we didn’t find anything.”

  “And went to Roy’s to sit around and congratulate yourselves?” I suggested.

  “I just said we didn’t find anything, dammit.”

  “I didn’t say you did.” I went over to the women, who’d been watching our private discussion with intense interest. “I’m afraid that you really are trespassing on Jim Bob’s property. I’m all for you continuing to picket, but you’ll have to go down to the edge of the road.”

  “In the rain?” Eula said with a gasp. “We’ll get drenched, and none of us can have her hair done till Estelle turns up. Why, I’m presiding over a tea for the Veterans’ Auxiliary on Wednesday.”

  “I have a wedding tomorrow morning,” said Lottie.

  “I’m recovering from a head cold,” added Elsie, coughing delicately.

  “I guess that’s a sacrifice you’ll have to make in order to do your duty as God-fearing Christians,” I said as I got back in my car. I looked in my rearview mirror as I drove away. Hizzoner stayed on the sidewalk, a worried expression marring his already unattractive face. The demonstration appeared to be over, at least until the sun came out.

  Instead of going north, I drove to the Flamingo Motel and found Les, who was huddled in the doorway of No. 5. I ascertained that the current residents of the other units were safely stashed in their respective rooms, went inside to get the tape recorder, and then went to the door of Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill. The Closed sign was in place, but I continued inside.

  The lights were off, and it took me a minute to spot Ruby Bee on the end stool. “Did you find her?” she asked in a dispirited voice.

  “Not yet. I need you to do something for me.” I set down the tape recorder and two plastic cassettes. “I listened to most of the first tape. Finish listening to it, then put in the second tape. If you hear anything besides Sageman, Dahlia, and Rosemary spouting nonsense, make a note of where it is in the tape so you can tell me later.”

  “How’s that gonna help Estelle?”

  “Trust me on this. By the way, do you know who Reggie Pellitory is dating?”

  “Darla Jean McIlhaney. Her ma’s dead against it, but she can’t seem to put a stop to it. Estelle said Millicent has grown so many gray hairs that coloring them was worse than painting an old barn. Darla Jean’s pa is threatening to send her away to live with her aunt in Cedar Rapids. That’s in Iowa, I think. Millicent wasn’t sure.”

  “I’ll be back after a while.”

  “There’s something you ought to know,” Ruby Bee said, still talking as if she had one foot in the grave and Vincent Price were hanging on to the other one. “It’s about Lucy Fernclift.”

  “I already know. After you listen to the tapes, you’d better switch on the lights and dust the drawing room. As soon as I run one little errand and make a couple of telephone calls, we’re going to have an old-fashioned denouement.”

  The rain had not eased up, but I was feeling much brighter as I drove to the McIlhaneys’ house. It took Darla Jean less than ten minutes to burst into tears and confess to almost everything but burning down Hiram Buchanon’s barn (she hadn’t been born). I was glowing as I drove to the PD.

  Kevin picked his way across the porch of the cabin, making sure he avoided the worst of the rotted planks. Rain splattered through holes in the roof and pinged off his head like marbles. He was shivering so hard he could barely move, but he kept on going, a veritable Energizer bunny propelled by a love that was stronger than any physical discomfort or AAA battery.

  He’d been stumbling through the woods more hours than he could keep count. At first he’d called Dahlia’s name and paused to shove back branches and search behind bushes for her remains. Once the moon had dropped behind the ridge, there wasn’t any hope he could see her lifeless body unless he tripped over it, so he’d save his strength for the long haul up the ridge.

  There hadn’t been a dawn, but only a faint lessening of the darkness. The rain had started long about then. His progress, which hadn’t been all that good, slowed down to almost nothing as the leaves got slippier and the mud stickier. Water bubbled down the trail, soaking his already icy feet and staining his white socks brown.

  Whoever “They” was, Kevin was gonna strangle them when he found them. But first he had to find Dahlia. The note had said she was going to the top of the ridge. The trail went right by the cabin, though, and it was possible she’d decided to rest there. Lordy, he hoped so. The ridge was a good eight miles of scrawny pines, rocks, and skittery slopes. The nearest ranger station was in Stonecrop County.

  The cabin door hung on one hinge. He ducked under it and went inside, where it was as gloomy as Idalupino Buchanon’s bomb shelter and stank so bad all kinds of critters must have died there over the winter and were commencin’ to thaw. O
ddments of primitive furniture remained: a rocking chair made of crudely hewn oak, a lopsided table, a whiskey crate, a sodden braided rug that had lost all its color.

  There was a second room where once upon a time Robin Buchanon had entertained paying customers on a mattress stuffed with corncobs. Kevin peered from the doorway, but there was no sign of Dahlia. He returned to the porch to scratch his head and squint at the rain.

  A movement in the undergrowth beyond the remains of the fence caught his attention. “Dahlia?” he called hesitantly, unable to make out anything more than a quiver in the foliage. “It’s me, Kevin. I’m here to rescue you, my temptress.”

  The quiver intensified, as did his apprehension. He opened his mouth to repeat her name, but nothing came out. Backing up until he ran into splintery wood, he wiped the rain out of his eyes and tried harder to make out what he’d seen.

  About the time he’d decided that his mind was tricking him, he saw the top of a head rise above a bush. The hair was thick and tangled and stood out wildly despite the rain. Two eyes followed, both of them yellow and glinting angrily beneath a low-slung forehead and bristly black eyebrows. The nose was flat, as if it’d been squashed by a brick.

  Kevin didn’t wait to see what else was gonna appear. He flung himself off the corner of the porch and took off down a path alongside the cabin. He heard a howl that almost stopped him in his tracks, then realized it was coming from his own mouth. In front of him was a thicket of blackberry bushes. He skidded to a stop, glanced over his shoulder, and looked around for a place to hide.

  The outhouse was so crooked that it should have blown over in the last williwaw, but it hadn’t. Kevin jerked open the door. The high-pitched scream was the last straw. With a gurgle, he crumpled forward in one hell of an impressive faint. If there’d been a row of judges, he would have received all eights and nines.

  “I really appreciate you all being here today,” I began politely, even though the majority had no choice and the minority would have never forgiven me had they been overlooked. For the record, the majority was comprised of Jules Channel, Lucy Fernclift, Hayden McMasterson, and Rosemary Tant. Arthur Sageman and Brian Quint were present in spirit only. Cynthia Dodder had sent her regrets from her hospital room. The minority was comprised of Ruby Bee and Sheriff Harve Dorfer. There were a couple of deputies outside, but I was in the mood for intimacy. The barroom was the best I could do for a drawing room, since the PD was so small I ran into myself when I paced.

  Everybody was sitting on a stool. I played bartender until everyone had his or her request. “There are a few things you don’t know,” I continued. “For instance, you may not know that Darla Jean McIlhaney has been stepping out with Reggie Pellitory. ‘Stepping out’ is a euphemism in these parts for behavior that’s rarely condoned by the parents of the involved parties.”

  “What’s your point?” asked Lucy Fernclift.

  I rewarded her with an insincere smile. “You’re probably unaware of the Pellitory family, but they have a well-deserved reputation for murdering their grannies and swinging from low branches when the moon is full.”

  Ruby Bee sniveled into her sherry. “So?”

  “So,” I said, enjoying myself immensely, “when a slinky black limo came to Maggody, its occupant searching for local vermin, one of its encounters was with our boy Reggie. Another was with Raz Buchanon, whose credentials are no more impeccable. Deals were struck, instructions and money proffered. Two or three weeks later hell broke out not only in Maggody but also in other parts of the county.”

  Harve took a cigar stub from his pocket and gazed fondly at it. “Like crop circles and cattle mutilations?” he suggested like a benign priest about to say grace.

  I nodded. “Brian Quint started all this with his visit. Perhaps I should have paid attention to the rumors about the limo, but it seemed harmless and was gone by midday. It wasn’t harmless, though. His visit set off a series of events that led to Cynthia’s heart attack, his own murder, and the murder of Arthur Sageman.”

  “Poor Arthur,” Rosemary said sadly. “He was going to do a final book about my abduction experiences. I believe it was to be titled Rosemary: Repentance and Redemption. I’ve come to grips with my trauma, you see, and—”

  Jules cut her off. “Give us a break, okay?”

  Hayden cleared his throat and said, “Abductions are a confabulation offered to a sympathetic hypnotist in response to a personal sense of inadequacy brought on by repressed childhood abuse and—”

  “Please,” snapped Lucy, whipping out a gold cigarette case and lighter, “could we avoid this icky New Age I’m-okay-you’re-fucked-up crap and—”

  “Shut up!” Harve banged his beer mug on the bar in case someone wasn’t paying attention.

  I made sure everyone was before resuming. “Brian Quint was a very ambitious young man, also opportunistic and manipulative. Maggody has received some bad press over the last few years. Anyone who chanced upon the stories might easily conclude that we’re the most artless little town in the world, maybe in the solar system.” I paused to draw myself a glass of beer, even though I was on duty. Ruby Bee snorted just to let me know she disapproved, but I went ahead blithely. “Brian spoke to the two men I mentioned earlier: Reggie Pellitory and Raz Buchanon. The former”—I gave them a moment to sort it out—“agreed to mutilate cattle for a fee and do some other tasks later. The latter was tickled pink to find out how to make big bucks by stomping down a few cornstalks and standing aside to watch the gawkers stream through his gate.”

  Ruby Bee choked on her sherry. After Harve thumped her on the back and Lucy found her a paper napkin, she said, “Raz made those circles?”

  “All five of them,” I said, then looked at Hayden McMasterson. “You must be devastated. After all, you’ve already spoken to your publicist about network coverage and a hefty book contract. Oh, and don’t let me forget the conference in Houston, where you and Dr. Sageman were going to go into battle to defend your hypotheses. He’s beyond caring, but you’re still stuck with faked crop circles and some embarrassing contacts, aren’t you?”

  He eyed me coolly. “It remains to be proven that this ignorant hillbilly made the circles. Very often a legitimate phenomenon is covered up with facile explanations and coerced admissions of guilt. Take the sightings in Gulf Breeze, for example. Despite the obvious geophysical correlation with the Bimini Road, people are quick to dismiss—”

  Lucy reached across Ruby Bee to pick up Hayden’s glass and pour the contents in his lap. She didn’t say anything, but it did distract him.

  I continued. “So Brian set it all in motion, then went back to California and waited for his choreographed shit to hit the fan. When it did, he made sure Sageman, McMasterson, and Cynthia Dodder learned of it. They reacted exactly as he’d planned, which was to come rushing here in hopes this was one truly awe-inspiring invasion of extraterrestrials.”

  “Or intraterrestrials,” McMasterson inserted petulantly, still mopping his lap and flickering at Lucy.

  “Brian also had a conversation with some local dignitaries. I don’t have the details, but I’d surmise that he pointed out the infusion of tourists would have a positive impact on local trade. Said local dignitaries were willing to learn how to add a little pizzazz to the madness by releasing UFOs on Cotter’s Ridge.”

  “Those orange lights?” Harve said.

  “Most likely plastic garbage bags with candles taped in the opening,” I said. “The heat caused the air to expand and rise, but when the oxygen was spent—poof.”

  “Poof,” they all intoned obediently, their heads bobbling as if they were a row of dashboard hula girls.

  “Poof,” I said. “Let’s return to Brian Quint. Why did he go to all this trouble to set up bogus incidents? If I were charitable, I’d suggest all of it was done for Arthur Sageman. His publisher was losing interest. His lectures were stale. He was out of abductees. How noble of his secretary to create an exciting new subject for books, lectures, television in
terviews, and even an episode on Strange Stories. Noble—and cheap, too.”

  Ruby Bee stared at me. “But he told Dr. McMasterson. They’re in opposing camps. Why would Brian do him such a big favor?”

  “Good question,” I said. I waited for conjectures from the audience, but none were forthcoming. In the interim, I noticed that McMasterson was struggling not to slip off his stool. A shame. “All along I’ve heard how much money there is in ufology. I didn’t believe it at first, but I looked into it. There’re millions of dollars to be collected from a broad socioeconomic spectrum. Book sales are, if you’ll excuse me, astronomical. Conferences charge hundreds of dollars for registration, and much of it ends up in the lecturers’ pockets.” I again focused on McMasterson. “How much does your foundation receive every year from donations and subscriptions to your journal?”

  “Not that much,” he said. “Couple of million maybe.”

  “And you’re a nonprofit corporation?” I asked. “I suppose you pay yourself a salary out of the proceeds?”

  “A minimal one.”

  “How about your wife? Does she take a salary? Do you have an allotment for living expenses? A car? Travel? Herbs?”

  “We use the foundation’s funds to cover our needs, which are simple. Insinuations to the contrary are a manifestation of negativity.”

  Ruby Bee leaned across the bar to shake my arm. “Are you aiming to delve into finances all day or to find Estelle?”

  “We’re getting there,” I told her quietly, then resumed business. “Does everyone have the picture thus far? Brian Quint came to Maggody, told various people how to fake things, then made sure all the luminaries in the field showed up. I mentioned the charitable explanation, but it won’t wash. I think Brian wanted Sageman and McMasterson to commit themselves to the validity of the circles and the UFO sightings. He wanted them to go on network television, dash off books, and make presentations at this conference in Houston. He wanted them to stake their professional reputations on their interpretations of these incidents. In general, he wanted them to crawl so far out on their respective limbs that there’d be no retreat—with the exception of splattering to the ground like ripe persimmons.” I wadded up a napkin and dropped it on the bar.