The Maggody Militia Read online

  Chapter 5

  On Sunday afternoon I’d obliged Harve and gone to the scene of the burglary in Drippersville, but it had been a bigger waste of time than trying to teach Diesel to read (Buchanons don’t get hooked on phonics). The break-in had been discovered by a neighbor who’d stopped by to put bags over the rose bushes to protect them from frost; the owners were on their way back from Florida to make an inventory of the stolen items. A deputy showed up to take fingerprints, but none of the prints from the earlier burglaries had set off bells and whistles in the FBI files. My report had been written Monday morning in less than ten minutes (I left out my poetic musings about the sense of intrusion that lingered like a bad cold).

  By Wednesday morning, I’d written a few more reports, most involving trespassing on private land and one in which a 1982 Pontiac Grand Am was mistaken for Bambi’s dear old dad. If Raz had run into any wayward hunters, he’d buried the bodies in shallow graves and kept it to himself. Which was fine with me.

  I’d just refilled my coffee mug and settled down to do some serious whittling when Dahlia stormed into the PD.

  “You got to look at this,” she said, thrusting a much-creased pamphlet at me. “Kevvie tried to hide it underneath his boxers, but I found it anyway. I wanna know what it means.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  She sat down. “I reckon I’m doing fine, excepting I can’t sleep for more than fifteen minutes without having to go to the pottie. My finger’s a dad-burned pincushion. Kevvie’s scared to so much as touch me ’cause he thinks it’s not fittin’ in front of the baby. I ain’t had a Nehi for seven and a half months.”

  “It’ll all be over soon,” I said soothingly, “and then you can have a Nehi whenever you want. Have you and Kevin chosen names for the baby?”

  “We’re gonna name him Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon, Junior. I think it’s kinda long for such a little thing, but Kevvie won’t have it any other way. Ma suggested we call him Jerry so’s not to confuse the two. I don’t know where she came up with that, though.”

  “Then you’re sure it’s a boy?” I asked. “Did you have some sort of test at the clinic?”

  “I came here ’cause I want you to read that thing and tell me what’s going on. There’s something about it that stinks like a backed-up septic tank, but I can’t rightly put my finger on it.”

  I picked up the pamphlet. “‘Our nation is in terrible danger,’” I read aloud. “‘No longer can we trust our elected officials to run the country according to the premises laid out by the dedicated and selfless patriots who formulated the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States. Many of these patriots lost their families, properties, and lives to make this republic free from oppressive governments and dictatorships, a republic with freedom and liberty, a republic guided by the principles of the one true God.’” Frowning, I turned to the second page.

  “So whatall does that mean?” demanded Dahlia. “Is it true that Congress and all the big corporations can do whatever they please without paying any attention to the needs of the ordinary folks like Kevvie and me? That the ‘Pledge of Allegiance’ we always recited in school should have been called ‘The Pledge of Alliance with the International Conspiracy’?” She put her hand on her pendulous bosom in case I couldn’t follow her. “You know, ‘I pledge allegiance to the flag—’”

  “I know,” I interrupted, continuing to skim the blurry purple words that had been reproduced on an old-fashioned mimeograph machine. When I was finished, I put it aside and said, “This is crazy stuff, Dahlia. Do you have any idea where Kevin got hold of it?”

  “Most likely at the SuperSaver. He don’t go anyplace else except there, the Assembly Hall, and his ma and pa’s house. He promised to stay real close in case the baby comes early and I got to hightail it to the hospital.”

  “Was this all you found in the drawer?”

  “Oh, I forgot.” She dug into a pocket hidden in the folds of her tent dress and pulled out a crumpled slip of paper. “This sez there’s a meeting for concerned citizens on Saturday morning at ten o’clock. They can learn how to protect themselves and their families from”—her brow crinkled with exertion as she sounded out the words—“oppression and submission to a foreign army.”

  I winced. “Does it mention where this is going to be held?”

  “It sez to go one mile east on County 102 and look for signs. Shouldn’t you be doin’ something to stop the country from being invaded by foreigners that want to take away our babies and put us in concentration camps? I don’t want someone to snatch my baby right out of my arms, Arly.”

  “I think we’re safe. Maggody’s not on the maps, so it’s unlikely the foreigners can find us any time soon. May I keep this pamphlet?”

  “I ’spose so,” she said, sniffling. She wiped her cheeks on her sleeve, then struggled to her feet and trudged out the door. The walls didn’t come tumbling down, but the coffee in my mug may have sloshed a couple of times.

  I reread the pamphlet more carefully. There were no specifics about the ethnicity of the so-called conspirators, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out. A lot of the text was aimed at small farmers, demanding to know why our government ignored their plight in order to bankroll a politically unstable Middle East aggressor state. I doubted the author had North Carolina or Virginia in mind. Affirmative action was another bogeyman under the bed, stealing good jobs from hard-working Christians with families to feed. There were murky references to brainwashing in the public schools, fluoride in the water, and the unlawful imposition of income taxes.

  It was one thing for General Pitts and his group to embrace this dogmatic twaddle and act on it by donning olive drab for a weekend. It was another to attempt to recruit locals to their cause. Maggody was hardly a hotbed of resentment leveled at the federal government; the majority of the residents griped more about the weather than they did about taxes. However, we’d had a manifestation of mass hysteria at the end of the summer that rivaled nothing I’d ever seen. Even Estelle and Ruby Bee had been sucked into the madness.

  I put the pamphlet in my coat pocket and went out to the car. I’d planned to confront Kayleen, but I decided to grab some lunch first and find out what was on the grapevine. There was a smaller than usual assembly of pickup trucks outside Ruby Bee’s, most of them adorned with gun racks and bumper stickers extolling the virtues of the NRA. As I walked across the barroom, I spotted several pamphlets lying beside pitchers and napkin dispensers.

  “Where have you been all week, missy?” Ruby Bee asked as I chose a stool near Estelle’s roost. “I left three messages on that infernal answering machine on Monday and four yesterday. You better take it to be repaired.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said meekly. “Can I have meat loaf and mashed potatoes?”

  She folded her arms. “I don’t believe you answered my question, and I don’t want to hear how you’re cooking for yourself in that dingy apartment. There’s no way to prepare a well-balanced meal on a stove with only one working burner and an oven that never heats up.”

  “That’s why I’m here for lunch, but if you’re not going to serve me, I’ll go across the street to the deli in the SuperSaver and get a ham sandwich. Do dill pickles count as vegetables?”

  “Keep your tail in the water,” she said, conceding defeat as graciously as always, then went into the kitchen.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the customers in the booths, wishing I could eavesdrop to discover their collective reaction to the pamphlets. However, the jukebox drowned out whatever was being said, and everybody appeared more interested in beer than inflammatory rhetoric.

  Ruby Bee returned with a plate piled high with meat loaf, et cetera, and I had just picked up my fork when Estelle skidded across the dance floor, her hair tilting at a precarious angle.

  “Arly! I been looking everywhere for you! I left my engine running so it’ll be faster for you to ride with me!”

  Ruby Bee’s jaw dropped. “Land
sakes, Estelle, you sound like your house is on fire. What’s wrong? Did Uncle Tooly’s lawyer send those sheep?”

  Estelle grabbed my arm, and between gasps, said, “Someone broke into Elsie’s house! Let’s go!”

  “Is he still there?” I said as I reluctantly put down the fork.

  “We don’t know. Lottie went by to feed the cat, and she noticed right away that a window was broken and the back door was open. She wasn’t about to run smackdab into a criminal, so she drove home and called the PD. When nobody answered, she called me to ask me what she should do. I said I had a pretty good idea where to find you.”

  Catching Harve’s professional perps might be more satisfying than meat loaf, I told myself as I slid off the stool. “Can you keep the plate warm in the oven?” I asked Ruby Bee.

  “Where’s your gun?”

  “Where it’s supposed to be,” I said as Estelle dragged me toward the door. “Calm down, for pity’s sake. Why did you come all the way over here instead of calling?”

  Instead of answering my question, she dove into the driver’s seat and slammed the car into reverse. Before I could close my door, we were halfway across the parking lot.

  “Slow down, damn it!” I said as she pulled out in front of a truck.

  “If we get there quick enough, we can catch ’em in the act,” she said. “You’ll be a hero and get a reward from Elsie’s insurance company. It seems to me giving you a small sum would be a sight cheaper than replacing Elsie’s Hummel collection.”

  I closed my eyes and reminded myself of the necessity of breathing as she squealed around a corner and headed down an unpaved road. The station wagon was bouncing madly, but the grim driver made no concessions to the specter of bent axles and broken oil pans.

  She slammed on the brakes at the foot of Elsie’s driveway. “I’ll watch the front of the house while you go around back. We don’t know how many there are of them or if they’re armed, so keep your eyes peeled.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said as she opened her door. “For starters, you’re going to stay right here until I make sure there’s no one, armed or otherwise, in the house. If you don’t see me on the porch within five minutes, drive back to the bar and call the sheriff’s office. Have them send a backup to the bar, then lead them here.”

  Estelle hesitated, one foot on the gravel. “Maybe we ought to go to the PD to get your gun. Ruby Bee’d never forgive me if you got yourself killed.”

  “Neither would I.” I left her twitching indecisively and walked up the driveway, fairly sure the burglars were long gone. There had been no mention of a vehicle by the back door, and even if there’d been one, Lottie’s arrival and hasty departure would have sent the burglars on their way.

  The back door was ajar, and a window next to it was broken. I eased open the door, listening for an indication someone might be in the house (“fairly sure” is not the same thing as “absolutely certain”), and stepped into the kitchen. When nothing much happened, I veered around a muddy path and continued into the living room, then poked my head into the two bedrooms and bathroom. I was tempted to make sure no one was hiding in a closet or under a bed, but I was worried that Estelle might panic and drive away to summon the sheriff, the state police, and the National Guard. The Mounties, too, if she could find their telephone number.

  I went out on the porch. “It’s okay, Estelle,” I yelled, waving at the station wagon. “Go let Ruby Bee know I didn’t get myself shot defending the Hummels.”

  Her face popped up from the far side. “How do I know there ain’t someone behind you sticking a gun in your back?”

  This was not your typical crime-scene scenario in which the ranking officer on the scene barks out orders that are promptly and unquestioningly obeyed.

  “Suit yourself,” I yelled, then went back inside, sat down on a settee, and called the sheriff’s office. LaBelle did her best to remind me I’d fallen from grace, but eventually put me through to Harve.

  “Another one?” he said after I’d told him where I was. “Goddammit, I feel like I should put bars on all the windows here—the ones that don’t already have ’em. Can you tell what was taken?”

  I looked around the room. “Probably a TV set, if the cable dangling from the wall is any indication. The Hummel figurines were not deemed worthy. I doubt Elsie had a computer or a silver tea service, but we’ll have to wait until she can get back here and determine what’s missing. Lottie Estes probably knows how to reach her.”

  “We’ve got to put a stop to this, Arly. The election’s coming up real soon, and this is making me look bad. If my opponent wasn’t dumber than a possum, I’d think he was behind it.”

  “There has to be a link,” I said, feeling slightly dumber than a possum myself. “The houses are too far apart to have the same carrier, but the owners might have notified the post office to hold their mail. Same thing with the area newspapers, although there’s no home delivery in Maggody. Even if she could afford it, Elsie wouldn’t have a cleaning service. She didn’t leave her cat at a kennel.” I plucked at a crocheted doily on the armrest as I racked my mind for other feasible links. “Do you want me to interview all the previous victims and see if I can stumble onto something useful?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Harve said with a drawn-out wheeze. “Your phony soldiers caused any problems as of yet?”

  I decided not to mention the pamphlet for the moment. “They won’t be here for another two days, which gives me some time to work on the burglaries. It’ll be more stimulating than trespassers and drunks.”

  “I’ll send Les out to take fingerprints and photos of whatever footprints you find. He can bring copies of the reports, but they don’t say anything that’s gonna inspire you. Lemme know if you get anywhere.”

  I froze as I heard a creak in the kitchen. “Stay on the line,” I whispered, then put down the receiver and tiptoed to the doorway. The back door was as I’d left it, and the muddy tracks on the linoleum appeared undisturbed. I took one step, then caught movement in the corner of my eye and leapt back just in time to save myself from being smacked on the head with a broom.

  “Estelle, damn it,” I said shakily, “what do you think you’re doing? You came within an inch of giving me a heart attack.”

  “Is that what I get for risking life and limb to make sure you weren’t being held hostage? If that’s all the gratitude you can show, I’ll take Elsie’s cat and be on my way.”

  “Good idea.” I returned to the telephone to assure Harve I hadn’t been beset by burglars. He was in a much better mood when we ended the call.

  “That was a real pretty sermon on Sunday morning, Brother Verber,” Kayleen said as she poured a cup of tea. They were in her motel room, but she’d made sure the drapes were pulled back so there’d be no gossip about her entertaining a gentleman. “Would you like lemon and sugar?”

  “Yes, and thank you kindly for your compliment. I have to admit I was a little nervous about those unfamiliar names, but I just told myself nobody’d notice if they came out wrong. I must have spent an hour the night before practicing ‘Nebuchadnezzar.’ It’s a sight harder than Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John.”

  She set the cup and saucer on the table beside his chair, then poured a cup for herself. “You sounded like you’d been saying ‘Nebuchadnezzar’ since you were in grade school. In fact, I can’t think when I’ve heard it said so melodiously.”

  He lowered his face to hide its pinkness and tried to keep his hand from shaking as he picked up the dainty porcelain cup. “Mighty fine tea, Sister Kayleen,” he said after a tiny slurp. “If I may be so bold, can I ask you why you decided to move to our little community?”

  She launched into the story of her ill-fated first marriage, stopping every now and then to wipe her eyes or give him a rueful smile. “So I suppose the reason I’m here is because of that anonymous Good Samaritan. If I could remember his name or where his house was, I’d go over and thank him for bringing me back here.”

  “I’m su
re he was a member of the Voice of the Almighty Lord congregation on account of what a good Christian he was,” Brother Verber said, shrewdly doing a little public relations work. “The Methodists down the road are real big on how devout they are, but their teen group had a dance in the basement last spring and they’re talking about holding another one before Christmas.” He tsked sadly. “Dancing in the basement of the church. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear they’ll be serving alcoholic beverages to celebrate Baby Jesus’ birthday.”

  “Oh, dear,” Kayleen murmured. “I’m confident you’d never allow such a thing in the Assembly Hall. How long have you been a pastor?”

  “Long enough to make sure there’ll be nothing of a sinful nature taking place in our basement.” He finished his tea and stood up. “I’m supposed to go by Sister Barbara’s house to finalize plans for the Thanksgiving pageant. Will we be seeing you tonight at the prayer meeting and pot luck supper, Sister Kayleen?”

  She thought for a moment, then said, “It’s possible, but I’m not promising anything. I’m a little disappointed that you have to leave so soon. I was hoping you might be able to help me find that Samaritan so I can give him a big ol’ hug. I’m not familiar with the back roads. Perhaps another time when you’re not too busy, you could drive me around. I might recognize the house if I saw it again. It would mean so much to me, Brother Verber, and I’d be real grateful.”

  He glanced at his watch. It was already past the time he was due at Sister Barbara’s house, and he knew he’d have some explaining to do as it was. But Sister Kayleen was watching him with pleading eyes, as if he was the only person who could bring joy into her life. And weren’t all Christians admonished to follow in the footsteps of the Good Samaritan by rushing to the aid of their fellow travelers?

  Kayleen looked down at the avocado shag and said, “I don’t want to interfere with your afternoon. You just run along and get prepared for the pageant. I’ve met so many nice people here in Maggody, and I’m sure one of them will be willing to help me. A gentleman named Lewis Fernclift greeted me real warmly after the service on Sunday and said I should call on him if there was any favor at all he could do for me. And a widower named—”