The Merry Wives of Maggody Read online

Mrs. Jim Bob moved on. “Elsie, is the hospitality committee ready?”

  Elsie blushed as everyone looked at her. “We sure are. The tent will be up by noon tomorrow. The tables and chairs are stored in Earl’s barn. It would have been handier to put them in Raz’s, but he was right rude about it. I suspect he’s got a few cases of his filthy moonshine hidden in there.”

  Brother Verber realized this was his cue to assert himself as the spiritual leader of his flock. His hands entwined over his heart, he stepped forward and intoned, “ ‘Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived; neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.’ First Corinthians, book six, verses nine and ten, for those who might want to study this passage.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob paused to regather her thoughts. “Is Raz causing any problems with the green committee, Eileen?”

  She shook her head. “No, he’s still letting Earl mow the pasture, and he agreed to keep his mule penned up until the tournament’s done with. Earl’s gonna mow a final time in the morning. For all I care, he can mow hisself right into Boone Creek! Why on God’s green earth does he have the right to tell me that I don’t have any business playing in this—”

  “Thank you, Eileen,” Mrs. Jim Bob cut in before everybody got all prickly again. “What about the food, Elsie?”

  “Muck Haskell over in Hasty is smoking briskets and chicken wings for us. He’s my second cousin-in-law once removed, so he’s doing it at cost. I have two big pans of scalloped potatoes in my freezer. Crystal will pick up buns, bread, and doughnuts from the day-old shop tomorrow afternoon. Lucille’s making three gallons of her pecan cranberry slaw, and Millicent will fix baked beans. I’ve lined up a half a dozen sheet cakes.” Elsie, being one of the top quilters in the county, prided herself on the details. “The high school girls will make sandwiches and cookies for lunch.”

  “I volunteered my home ec classes,” Lottie added, unwilling to let Elsie take all the credit. “They been properly trained to handle food in a hygienic fashion.”

  Darla Jean made a note to bring a sack lunch.

  Mrs. Jim Bob nodded. “I had a talk with Mr. Cartier and Bonaparte about the scheduling. We have twenty and a half foursomes. Each will have a designated tee time that I’ll put on a poster board. In order to get everybody around the course, half of the foursomes will start on the back nine. There’ll be a ten-minute interval, and it’s vitally important that we enforce this. Bonaparte said this was cutting it close. I told him that folks who couldn’t play at a brisk pace had no business entering this tournament in the first place. A high school boy will monitor each hole. We can’t have someone claiming a hole-in-one without official verification. Mr. Cartier’s going to meet with them Saturday morning to tell them the rules. Other boys will be there in case someone wants a caddy.”

  “Is Mr. Cartier here tonight?” asked Bopeep, her eyes glittering like a hawk perched on a fence post.

  “No, he is not. He is a very thoughtful houseguest, and assumed I might be too busy to prepare yet another elegant meal. When I told him about this meeting, he asked me to pass along his warmest regards and hopes for our success this weekend.”

  “He dropped by my house for coffee yesterday morning,” Cora said. “We had a lovely chat.”

  “I served him lunch on Tuesday,” Elsie said, sneering. “He was smitten with my chicken salad with almonds. He said it was the best chicken salad he’d ever had.”

  Millicent was having none of that. “Well, he certainly enjoyed my cherry cheesecake yesterday afternoon. We must have sat on the patio and talked for more than an hour. He even kissed my hand before he left.”

  “You never said one word about it!” Joyce said. “Any of you.”

  Elsie smiled modestly. “Mr. Cartier was concerned about my reputation. He is, after all, a bachelor. The two of us, unchaperoned, in my home . . .”

  “And I’m a married woman,” Millicent added. “Mr. Cartier suggested discretion.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob forced herself to loosen her grip on the gavel before she behaved rashly. “I’m sure Mr. Cartier was motivated by his Christian conscience. He’ll be too busy for that sort of gadding about tomorrow. He most kindly offered to handle the beverage purchases. We’ll have coffee, tea, and sodas during the day. He and Bonaparte both insisted that we serve alcoholic beverages in the evening. I protested, naturally, but it seems to be customary at golf tournaments. Mr. Cartier understood my reluctance and promised to buy the minimum we can get away with. I gave him a blank check from the account so he can negotiate with distributors in Farberville.”

  “Does he need anyone to help him?” Joyce persisted. “I’ll be happy to go with him.” Several other volunteers raised their hands.

  Mrs. Jim Bob crossed her arms. “Those of you who will be playing this weekend need to spend every minute of your spare time practicing. Those of you who backed out because of arthritis, rheumatism, back ailments, and so forth can use your time more wisely by helping make sure the tournament runs smoothly. Just because Mr. Cartier is handsome and charming does not excuse unseemly thoughts concerning his personage. We are all ladies.” Her lips were tight as she waited for her words to sink in. “In the morning Bonaparte will be here at ten for our last lesson. He thinks that we should learn how to putt. I have no idea why, since the boat will be awarded for a hole-in-one. Putting can’t be that hard.”

  “I’m gonna beat Earl’s score if I have to wrap a golf club around his neck,” Eileen said. “If I don’t win the boat, at least I’ll have some satisfaction.”

  Cora stuck out her chin. “I feel the same way. Ruddy’s gonna have to eat his words before he eats one bite of my meatloaf.”

  “Rip’s gonna be eating crow,” said Audley, “and I hope he chokes on it. I won’t be able to save him, since I’m nothing but a feeble-minded housewife who belongs in the kitchen. I made a quiche for supper. It’s been so long it’s a miracle I could remember how to do it.”

  “I ate a box of chocolate-covered cherries for supper,” Crystal said proudly.

  Brother Verber lunged for the pound cake.

  Four

  I was gazing numbly at a late-night talk show when my phone rang. All manner of bizarre images raced through my mind as I grabbed the receiver. Had the host heard me yawn? Was the call coming from a pay phone in a Brazilian hospital?

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Estelle’s back,” Ruby Bee said calmly. “I thought you might want to know.”

  I waited until my adrenaline simmered down. “Back from where? Is she okay?”

  “You’ll have to ask her yourself. She’s sputtering like a wet hen and I can’t make heads or tails of what she’s saying. I still got some cake.”

  I yanked on a pair of jeans, switched off the TV, and went to the bar and grill. Only one truck was in the parking lot, and as I walked across the road, two men climbed in it and drove away. If I’d been a diligent law enforcement agent, I would have chased them down and issued tickets for public drunkenness and DWI. I was more interested in hearing Estelle’s story.

  She was sitting on a stool but had run out of sputters. A bottle of sherry was within her reach. She didn’t so much as glance at me when I sat down on the adjoining stool. Her hair had held its shape for the most part, but frizzly curls strayed down her neck and covered her forehead. Her face and bare arms were covered with smears of dirt and red welts. Her blue blouse was missing a button and decorated with muddy polka dots.

  Ruby Bee put a slice of cake and a glass of milk in front of me. “She makes a smidgeon of sense every once in a while,” she whispered, “but I ain’t sure what all happened.”

  “I heard that!” Estelle snapped. “You know how much I hate it when folks talk about me behind my back.”

  “I’m standing right here in front of you,” Ruby Bee said. “Un
less, of course, you got your head swiveled all the way around.”

  Estelle snorted. “Maybe I do. That’d be the perfect ending to the day.” She refilled her glass. “It was my own damn fault, so feel free to make fun of me. Make sure everybody in town hears about it. My clients will take to going to Casa de Coiffure over in Hasty. When my savings run out, I can move to an old folks’ home and make birdhouses out of Popsicle sticks.”

  I kept my fork out of her reach. “What did you do to deserve such a fate? Hold up a bank? Run down a bunch of schoolchildren?”

  “Dahlia had a flat tire.”

  Ruby Bee frowned. “Dahlia had a flat tire, so you’re moving to an old folks’ home to make birdhouses?”

  “Likely so. It’ll be hard to get used to oatmeal, fish sticks, and canned peaches.”

  “Explain, okay?” I said, my patience disappearing as fast as the chocolate cake.

  Estelle sucked in a breath and said, “Dahlia was worried about Kevin. He’s been coming home late and acting all mysterious. I told her I was going to follow him and Jim Bob when they left the SuperSaver yesterday afternoon. She insisted on going, too. The children were in their car seats, so we took her car.”

  “The husbands have been practicing for the golf tournament,” Ruby Bee said. “They were talking about it earlier. They’ve all been going to a sort of driving place. I swear on my granny’s grave that I didn’t know about it until they came in for supper.”

  “I don’t care if they was sneaking off to take tango lessons. They left at four in Jim Bob’s truck. Dahlia wanted to drive right on the back bumper, but I explained to her that we had to keep back so they wouldn’t see us. We were doing fine until she noticed that we were about to run out of gas. She pulled over at a convenience store and pumped a couple of gallons. Once we got back on the road, they were nowhere to be seen. Dahlia wasn’t going to have that, so she put the medal to the petal, or whatever they say, ’til we were going too fast for my liking. The twins loved it. They were screaming and banging on Daisy. I was feared my eardrums were gonna explode.”

  “Did they?” I asked.

  “I don’t have to put up with your attitude, young lady. Just hush up and I’ll go on.” She waited until I meekly nodded. “Well, after a few miles, Dahlia swore she saw Jim Bob’s truck turn onto a narrow road. I didn’t see it myself, since I was twisted around to tell the twins what I’d do to ’em if they kept throwing Tinker-toys at the back of my head. So there we were, going down this road that was getting bumpier by the minute. After ten miles, it petered out at a wood bridge that had collapsed decades ago. Dahlia ran over some rusty nails when she turned around. I got out to check, and there was the tire, limp as a rubber band. It took twenty minutes to unload the trunk, what with the stroller and fishing gear and boxes of junk. We finally found the spare tire, which turned out to be flat as well. I seriously considered knocking her upside the head with it.”

  Ruby Bee’s eyes were wide. “I don’t blame you.”

  Mine were drooping. “You’re all in the middle of nowhere. There’s no sign of Jim Bob’s truck. The vultures are circling.”

  “And somebody needed a fresh diaper,” Estelle continued grimly. “The last house we drove by was a good five or six miles back. If I hadn’t been wearing my new blue heels, I would have walked. Dahlia kept getting madder and madder, blaming the whole thing on Kevin. She was huffing and puffing so fiercely that the cows in the pasture moved away. I took the twins down to the creek and let ’em chase minnows. We had to see to personal business in the woods. When it started getting dark, we sat in the car and ate peanut butter crackers and drank apple juice.”

  “But then you were rescued,” prompted Ruby Bee.

  “Do I look like I’m sitting in Dahlia’s front seat with cracker crumbs all over my lap? Dahlia and the children finally fell asleep. The snoring and snuffling was bad enough, but then it turned out that Dahlia must have been fixing beans for supper every night for the last month. It got so thick I had to go sit on the hood of the car. The mosquitoes were all over me, and the weeds kept rustling like something was out there.”

  I finished my milk and stood up. “I assume that instead of being attacked by a mountain lion, somebody came along, took the spare to be patched, and changed the tire for you.”

  “A very nice old coot,” Estelle said, annoyed that her saga had been cut short. “He wouldn’t take a dime for helping us.”

  “A good Samaritan,” Ruby Bee said.

  Case closed, I told myself as I left.

  At nine o’clock the next morning I was drinking a small carton of milk and munching a store-bought cinnamon roll when Kevin Buchanon skittered into the PD. “Hey, Kevin,” I said, forcing myself to smile. He was not a sight for sore eyes, especially on an empty stomach. “You want something?”

  “It’s Dahlia and the younguns,” he said as he collapsed into the uncomfortable chair I found at a landfill. It does a good job keeping long-winded visitors from overstaying their welcome (which is five minutes, max). “They din’t come home until nigh on eleven last night, and they looked like they’d been rolling in dirt. The twins have bug bites all over. Dahlia must have got into a chigger patch. Her ankles are all swollen up and red. She hasn’t said one word to me. I begged and pleaded, but all she does is snuffle.”

  I put down the cinnamon roll. “That pissed, huh?”

  He scratched his head. “I wish I knowed why. We all had breakfast yesterday morning. I told Dahlia I had to work late again. She got awful het up, like a widow woman with a spider in her hair. I left afore she could throw something at me. I called long about lunchtime to find out if she’d calmed down, but nobody answered. I figured she must’ve taken the younguns outside afore she put ’em down for naps, but—”

  “Moving right along . . .”

  “Anyways,” he said with a gulp, “they weren’t anywhere to be found when I got home a little after seven. I called my ma, but she said she hadn’t heard from Dahlia since early in the afternoon. I had to go . . . someplace at eight. I figgered they’d be safe at home by the time I got back.” He deflated in the chair as tears zigzagged down his acne-scarred cheeks. “You got to make Dahlia tell me what happened and why she won’t talk to me.”

  “That’s not in my job description, Kevin. Where did you go last night?” I doubted it had any significance, but I was curious. Potlucks and prayer meetings are reserved for Wednesdays, and the county extension club on alternate Mondays. Maggody once had a chamber of commerce for about a week. Kiwanis and Rotarians have yet to organize, and nobody seems eager to prance around in a bedsheet. Kevin was not among the poker players who gathered at Roy’s apartment at the back of the antiques store several times a week. If nothing else, he couldn’t afford it. I could hear them from my apartment, and I knew they weren’t gambling with pennies and nickels.

  “Out,” Kevin squeaked, his Adam’s apple bobbling like a dried leaf in a stretch of rapids. “Nowhere important, just out.”

  “Why have you been working late?”

  “Not all that late. I been gittin’ home long about eight. It ain’t like I’m draggin’ in at midnight with lipstick on my collar. Dahlia wants me home to help with baths and bedtime. Three kids is a mighty big handful, you know. Dahlia runs the washing machine all day, hangs laundry on the clothesline, fixes meals, tries to keep the house clean, along with changing diapers and—”

  I interrupted before he listed all of her domestic complaints, which might take another twenty-four hours. “Why have you been working late?”

  “I cain’t tell you.”

  “Why not?” I knew the answer, but decided to bait him as punishment for the melodrama of the previous afternoon and evening. “And where did you go last night?”

  He hung his head. “Jim Bob said he’d fire me if I told anyone.”

  “If Jim Bob’s engaged in criminal behavior, you have to tell me. Otherwise, you’re an accessory.” To what, I had no clue. Jim Bob wasn’t smart enough to commi
t an elaborate felony. Raz Buchanon wasn’t likely to take on a partner in his moonshine operation. And Jim Bob certainly wouldn’t have bullied Kevin into accompanying him to a daily dalliance in a motel.

  “It ain’t criminal!” Kevin protested. “It’s called a tan-tin or a tom-tom or somethin’ like that.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Are you sure it’s not a tutu? Have you boys been taking ballet lessons? I’d sell my soul for a photograph of Jim Bob in the midst of a grand jeté. Why, we may have to take to calling him Jim Baryshnikov Buchanon.”

  “A tutu like what Perkin’s eldest wore to church last month? No, it ain’t anything like that.” Kevin came over to the desk and leaned forward. “You got to make her tell me, Arly.”

  I rocked back to avoid a view of his molars. “I’ll do everything I can. Why don’t you go talk to your ma?”

  He pondered this for a minute. “Okay, I’ll go over to Ma’s and see if she has any ideas.”

  I tossed the cinnamon roll in the wastebasket.

  Brother Verber sat forward, his elbows on his knees and a glass of sacramental wine handy, as he stared at the video playing on his TV. Who would have dreamed that golf widows were young, voluptuous, and very naughty while their husbands were at the golf course? Apparently, they were so distraught that they did housework buck naked, found comfort in fornication with plumbers and electricians, battled loneliness and depression by engaging in perverted pleasures with UPS delivery men—and still had supper on the table when their hubbies got home. Their courage and selfless dedication was inspiring, he thought mistily.

  He hit the rewind button, determined to watch the video another time or two so he could figure out how best to prepare himself to chase ol’ Satan off golf courses and protect poor golf widows from further degradation. He could see himself thundering down a fairway, brandishing a golf club above his head, his eyes blazing with the fury of a soldier in the army of the Almighty Lord. Since he had a diploma from the seminary, he’d surely be a colonel, if not a general. Why, he could get some medals and ribbons at a flea market and pin ’em on his chest like General Patton.