Muletrain to Maggody Read online

  Petrol’s place, and then the PD to analyze my reaction to learning that Jack Wallace would be back in town in a matter of days.

  Mrs. Jim Bob rapped with the fury of a ravenous woodpecker on the door of the rectory. “Brother Verber? I need to speak to you this very minute! I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but I’d better not find a hussy inside there!”

  After he’d stuck the wine bottle and tumbler in a cabinet, crammed a magazine under a cushion, and smoothed back what hair he had, Brother Verber opened the door and gestured for her to come inside. “Sister Barbara, I don’t know how you could even entertain such a sinful idea. I was resting on the sofa while making some notes for my sermon tomorrow. I was thinking about a war theme, maybe comparing the Civil War to the eternal battle between good and evil. ’Course therein lies the problem, since—”

  “I’m sure we’ll all find it very enlightening,” she said, perching on one end of the sofa. “You did not come to the meeting last night. I almost felt like I should apologize to all the righteous members of the congregation for your absence. You are the spiritual leader of our little community, Brother Verber, and you have an obligation to set an example.”

  He was sure that the truth, which involved movies at a back alley theater in Starley City, would not sit well, even though he’d forced himself to sit through all four of them only in order to broaden his awareness of the depths of depravity awaiting his lambs should they stray. Instead, he hung his head. “I should have been at the meeting, Sister Barbara, but the Lord had a mission for me.”

  “Which was?”

  Which was, in fact, a very good question. Brother Verber tugged on his nose while he thought. “Why, a tent revival on the other side of Hasty, sponsored by the Pentecostal church. I don’t agree with some of their positions, but I’ve always thought they had dandy revivals. I was thinking to make some notes in case we ever decided to have one right here in Maggody. I can just hear us shouting ‘Hallelujah!’ as the stars begin to flicker and the moon rises above Cotter’s Ridge. Can’t you feel the rapture, Sister Barbara? Can’t you feel it?”

  Mrs. Jim Bob wasn’t sure he was telling the truth, but let the matter drop since his presence at the meeting hadn’t been all that important, anyway. “I need you to help me put together the details for next week. We can’t have people darting every which way like headless chickens.” She pulled a thick sheaf of papers from her handbag. “Now here’s what I have in mind for the opening event Thursday evening right here on the lawn of the Assembly Hall. You’ll begin with an invocation asking the Lord to watch out for us in case one of the reenactors accidentally shoots someone. Then—”

  “I didn’t think they was allowed to load their weapons.”

  “Well, no, they’re not, but there have been some incidents. After that—”

  “There’ve been incidents?” he said as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. “Folks gettin’ shot?”

  “Rarely. Let’s move on to more practical matters, Brother Verber. After our regular potluck supper on Wednesday evening, have the teenagers fold the tables and prop them against the side of the church so they can set them up the next afternoon. I think it will be easier to use butcher paper rather than tablecloths. Do you agree?”

  “Those big ol’ musket balls could do some damage to a body’s insides.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob rattled the papers in irritation. “The hundreds of thousands of boys and men killed during the war would agree if they could do so. Did you check the supply of paper plates and plastic forks like I asked you to? From what Miss Hathaway said, we can expect about forty or fifty people.”

  Brother Verber felt a searing pain. “Rip right through you, they would. Your guts would go spewing like spaghetti in tomato sauce.”

  “Is there any hope you can stop this blathering and offer me some guidance? I should not have to take this entire burden on my own shoulders. I need you to pay attention while I tell you what I’ve decided, and then assure me that it’s all under control. The meek may inherit the earth one of these days, but in the meantime we need to get organized.”

  He wished he could slip into the kitchenette for a swallow or two of sacramental wine, but he could see that he’d be pushing his luck right up to the edge. He squeezed Sister Barbara’s knee and said in the solemn, rumbly voice he used at funerals, “I already know in my heart that you’ve done a right fine job. Just looking at all those lists instills me with admiration for your undeniable talent in matters of organization. That rummage sale we had last summer wouldn’t have netted us fifty cents without you overseeing every detail. The Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall would be lost without you, our guiding angel.”

  “Well, yes,” she said, somewhat appeased. “Here’s the menu I’m proposing.”

  He squinted at her spidery notes. “That looks mighty fine, Sister Barbara.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob removed his hand before she developed circulation problems and ended up in the hospital like Dingaling Buchanon, who’d had an embolism shoot right up to his brain. It’d taken several days before the staff had realized he’d slipped into a coma, and then it was too late. “Of course it’s fine,” she said. “On Friday afternoon I’ll have a luncheon for our special guests. I’m thinking about a garden party, with round tables set up outside the sun porch. Chicken salad with apples and walnuts, asparagus, and Perkin’s eldest’s fluffy biscuits with my own grape jelly. I can’t decide about the dessert. We could have some sort of chocolate cake, but I don’t want anything too heavy. What do you think?”

  Brother Verber’s mind had been straying, as it often did. When he realized she was staring at him, he sidled in and put his hand on her thigh. “Where would we be without your inspiration, Sister Barbara? It’s so easy to wander off the path and give way to Satan’s temptations, allowing ourselves to succumb to lust and degradation, but you are always leading us, swinging your lantern to guide us back into the ways of eternal bliss.”

  “I asked you about dessert, Brother Verber. Should I serve something lighter, like angel food cake?”

  “I do believe you should,” he said. “Shall we fall to our knees right here and now and ask the Good Lord to bless this menu?”

  She stood up. “Another time might be better. I need to catch Joyce Lambertino and see if she’ll bring potato salad on Thursday.”

  When Dahlia arrived at the old folks’ home, the decoupage class was in full swing. Snippets of paper cluttered the floor, and several of the residents were decorating not only pie plates but also themselves. She stood in the doorway for a long while, then grabbed Vonetta’s arm.

  “Where’s my granny?”

  “Under the table,” Vonetta said grimly. “I must have told her a dozen times to stop eating the glue, but she kept sucking on the paintbrush until I had no choice but to take it away from her. Now she’s sulking.”

  Dahlia squatted and waved at her granny. “I brought you a treat.”

  Her granny glowered like a treed coon. “Like’n I care?”

  “I come to visit,” Dahlia said, trying to sound all soothing. “I got some cookies.”

  “Don’t like cookies.”

  “I reckon you like lemon snaps.”

  “Mebbe I do.” Dahlia’s granny crept between the thicket of bony legs and emerged from under the table. “Give ’em to me and be on your way, you ungrateful girl! Dumped me here like I was nothin’ but a mess of turnip greens, you did. What’d you want from me now? I ain’t got any organs to donate, not at my age. I slaved away all my life to take care of your mama, and then, when she upped and died, to take care of you. So how’d you repay me? Why didn’t you just put me in a gunny sack and toss me in Boone Creek? It might have been a sight more merciful.”

  “Amen,” chimed in Mr. Whitbreedly. “It would have saved us from all her bitching and whining. The chicken’s too dry, the meatloaf’s too greasy, the collard greens are too tough, the soap operas ain’t to her liking. Go get a gunny sack, girl.�
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  Vonetta dearly wished that Miz Pimlico hadn’t gone into Farberville to do whatever she did like clockwork every Saturday afternoon, rain or shine. The fact of the matter was that Shirlee was supposed to have shown up at half past three, but gossip had it that she entertained callers in her trailer at the Pot O’ Gold. Minimum wage could lead someone to do that, Vonetta supposed, but that wasn’t much help what with the riot brewing in the crafts room.

  “I can’t believe my ears!” sputtered Dahlia. “Here I am with homemade lemon snaps, and you have the nerve to say something like that! I’ve a good mind to march right out and never set foot in here again!”

  “Suits me,” said her granny. “You was always scheming to get what you wanted, even back when you had pigtails.”

  “Oink,” Miz Claplander said, not exactly helping things.

  Dahlia realized she could wrap her hands around her granny’s throat and choke the life right out of her. As satisfying as it might prove to be, it would not give her any clues about the cave where the Confederate private had hidden the gold.

  “Just quit your complaining and come sit out on the porch,” she said real nicely, like one of those smarmy ladies selling jewelry on TV. “We’ll have ourselves some cookies and talk about when you was a girl.”

  “And I was Batman,” said Mr. Whitbreedly. “Me and Robin, we was a team like nobody’d ever seen before.”

  “Oink,” repeated Miz Claplander, this time for no apparent reason, but seeming to enjoy it. “Oink, oink!”

  Dahlia’s granny stared at her, then nodded at Dahlia. “I reckon we can sit for a spell. Don’t go thinkin’ I’m gonna tell you about Tishew Buchanon, though. Some memories are best left out in the back pasture.” She took a second look at Dahlia’s generous contour. “You still breedin’ like a rabbit?”

  “Kevvie and I are expecting a child,” Dahlia said with as much dignity as she could muster, since Miz Claplander was still oinking like a greased pig at the county fair and ol’ Mr. Fondro was tweaking every breast, no matter how deflated, that he could reach. Vonetta was in tears, but nobody was paying her any mind. They never did.

  4

  Mrs. Corinne Valenthorpe Dawk appeared to be a tiny bit perturbed as she studied the bank statement. Perhaps more than a tiny bit, in that her face was flushed and her blood pressure was shooting skyward like a rocket over Charleston Harbor. She forced herself to put down the paper and gaze out the window at the creamy flowers and dark, shiny leaves of the magnolia tree that was by far the tallest in her neighborhood. No one with functional eyesight could dispute that. There was absolutely no reason to pay for the services of a surveyor, as Lucinda Met-tier-Longley had suggested. Corinne made a mental note to exclude Lucinda from her next luncheon, presuming she could afford to have one.

  The bank statement lay in a stripe of sunshine, looking as innocent as an invitation to a dinner party or a charming letter written by a fan. It was far from either, however. She picked it up and frowned at the expenditures that Simon had made the previous month. Two thousand dollars at an electronics store, more than six hundred dollars at a men’s clothing store, and nearly that much at a sports equipment outfitter. How many ties and tennis rackets did a boy need?

  What’s more, she was certain that the credit card statements would reflect equal, if not greater, damage. Simon seemed to take great pleasure in treating his friends to lavish dinners and chartered cruises. He was going to have to learn self-discipline, she thought. She’d warned him time and again that her resources were not bottomless, and that money did not grow on the magnolia tree or on the massive azaleas in the front yard.

  She was still seated at the desk in her office when she heard Simon and Sweetpea come into the house, laughing as they always did. Such an attractive couple, the envy of so many at the country club, Corinne thought, forgetting her financial woes for the moment. Simon was six feet tall, with curly hair and an adorable smile rivaled only by the marble cherubim in the cemetery. Sweetpea was several inches shorter, so she fit nicely when he draped his arm over her shoulder. She had the Yarborough family coloring: auburn hair, freckles, and clear green eyes. Both were tanned and healthy, as if they’d stepped off the cover of one of the nicer magazines.

  “Hey, Mother,” called Simon, “you want to join us for a gin and tonic on the porch?”

  Sweetpea, known in formal situations as Frances Butler Yarborough, came to the doorway of Corinne’s office. “That mean ol’ Simon beat me three straight sets without even working up a sweat. I s’pose I’m going to have to take some more lessons this summer.”

  Simon appeared behind her. “It won’t help. What you need are some sessions with a shrink to get over your irrational fear of fuzzy balls.” He raised his eyebrows at Corinne. “Shall I make you a drink?”

  “Thank you, dear,” she said. “There are fresh limes in the refrigerator. Come along, Sweetpea. I have a few suggestions for the flower arrangements at the reception.”

  Once they were on the porch, Sweetpea sank into a wicker chair. “My mama’s been driving me crazy as a loon. I’m even thinking Simon and I ought to skip out on the wedding and head straight for Aruba. Surely we can find somebody there who can marry us without any folderol. People did used to get married in the parlor, you know, and then serve tea and cucumber sandwiches. ’Course Daddy’d have a stroke if I canceled the wedding after all the money he’s shelled out for deposits. Most every day Mama makes me sit down at the dining room table so we can make decisions about the silliest little ol’ things! Just this morning we had the most awful row about the color of the candles.”

  Corinne smiled uneasily. “Oh, honey, you’re just getting jittery like every other bride throughout the ages. Your mother’s been gracious enough to keep me informed, and I’m quite sure everything will be perfect. Let’s not have any more talk about eloping.”

  “Sounds like a fine idea to me,” said Simon as he set down a tray on the coffee table. “As long I still get a bachelor party, that is. Parker and Trey are plotting something totally nefarious.”

  Corinne accepted the proffered drink. “Are the two of you packed for our upcoming adventure? It may be cooler in the mountains than it is here. I’m going to take a sweater and my wool shawl, just in case.”

  “I still can’t believe we’re going someplace that’s not even on a map,” Simon said. “This reenactment business is absurd. When I was on the set of your miniseries and obliged to wait around with these unshaven, filthy wretches stuffed in stinking uniforms, I was terrified I’d end up with lice. Thank gawd I could go back to a decent hotel every night and take a shower. Most of them insisted on camping out so it would be more authentic. How authentic can it be with cameras, booms, lights, prop girls, makeup trailers, a director and producer, and even a damn catering trailer serving Dijon chicken and veal scallopini for lunch? Jesus, it was unreal.”

  “I think it will be interesting,” Sweetpea murmured with a sly smile. “When my cousin Yancy Lee over in Mississippi told me about it, I knew right then and there it was something I wanted to see, especially if you had the starring role. Who knows if this documentary might earn some critical attention and get shown at film festivals? You could end up being an A-list Hollywood actor. We could end up going to parties with Julia Roberts and Tom Cruise.”

  “Or not. All I’m going to do is sit around a campfire with a bunch of fat old men who smell worse than the runoff from a hog farm. Their idea of a good time will probably be to see who can rip off the loudest fart.”

  Corinne clucked her tongue. “It’s much too early in the afternoon for that sort of remark, dear. I thought Sweetpea’s idea was very clever. If the documentary is a tasteless disaster, then it will never be mentioned again. If it has any charm whatsoever, we’ll have our own little film festival right here, and then I’ll see if I still have any connections in Hollywood.”

  Simon slouched further down. “So everybody in Charleston can watch me make an ass of myself? What could be more entertai
ning?”

  “Now, Simon,” Sweetpea said, putting her hand on his knee, “there’s no way you’re going to make any bigger ass of yourself than you did when you ran my daddy’s sailboat into the pier during the regatta last summer. You’ll look real dashing in your uniform.”

  “You haven’t seen my uniform. Mother insisted on buying it at an antique clothing store, and wouldn’t even allow me to have it dry-cleaned. The coat cuffs are two inches short, and half the buttons are missing. The stains are either blood or shit.”

  “Simon,” his mother said indulgently, “please watch your language. Sweetpea’s not used to that sort of vulgarity.”

  Sweetpea giggled. “It’s a good thing you weren’t watching our tennis match earlier. I was bitchin’ so loud the pro got complaints. I’m afraid I could never be a heroine in one of your books, Corinne. The only time I’ve ever felt faint was when Daddy gave me a Jaguar on my sixteenth birthday.”

  “The women in my books do not swoon. They held together the very structure of the Southern way of life even as Yankee soldiers burned their houses, stole their crops, and raped their sisters. My great-great-grandmother took in wounded Confederate soldiers and nursed them until they could continue to their homes. She also insisted that the ladies of Charleston meet weekly for their book club even as Sherman’s army advanced.”

  “My great-great-granduncle freed all his slaves as soon as the war started and told ’em to go North. Only two or three of the house slaves stayed put, and he insisted on them being paid every week. ’Course it was probably twenty-five cents, but it wasn’t like they could go to a mall.”

  Corinne decided to change the subject. “Simon, have you memorized your lines? A sloppy performance on your part will reflect on me. I only agreed to do my presentations if you were given the leading role. This will not be like the miniseries, when you were one out of hundreds of soldiers. This is your only chance to be noticed by important directors and producers.”