The Merry Wives of Maggody Read online

  “Tempting, but I don’t believe the Coulter woman plays anymore, and Amanda will have a fit if she sees me hanging around Natalie. I think I’d better walk the course, then take Amanda out for a leisurely stroll. I must remember to take along a blanket. We might find a grassy clearing alongside the creek.”

  “Hard to imagine her wading with the crawdads.” Tommy punched Dennis on the arm, then assessed the crowd for potential gamblers. Quite a few people had left, he noted, but they weren’t out on the course. He was sure that at least half the field would fail to show up at their appointed tee times the next morning. Those who remained didn’t offer much of a threat. Dennis would be too distracted by the possibility of snakes to focus on his game. He’d checked out Bonaparte Buchanon (of PGA infamy) and decided to offer him a few stiff Bloody Marys before the first round. This would not be hard, since Tommy’s trunk contained a well-stocked bar, with a variety of liquor, plastic cups, jars of olives, a customized ice cooler, corkscrews, swizzle sticks, and cocktail napkins. It was his version of tailgating, a Southern tradition at which he excelled. He doubted he could serve anything other than a Virgin Mary, the alcohol-free version, to Natalie. Her personal gargoyle would see to that. The best he could do was to keep harping on the abundance of bugs and spiders.

  He winced when he saw Kale Wasson and his pasty-skinned mother walking toward the tent. Kale was a punk, but he could hit the ball and had trophies to prove it. His mother was a leech, adept at finding ways to insinuate herself into every conversation and steering the topic to her wonderful, handsome, talented, intelligent son. After all, what could be more fascinating than a pimply, grungy, rude, seventeen-year-old smart-ass?

  Other than those, Tommy recognized a few duffers from the Farberville club, and a couple of guys he’d played against at a Hot Springs tournament. Three boys from the Farber College golf team were already drunk. One of them tried to move in on Natalie, but Janna cut him off and sent him slinking back to his friends.

  Tommy approached them. “Hey, wanna play a round? Ten bucks a hole?”

  They regarded him with arrogant contempt. One of them said, “Sure, old man, but I’d better warn you we’re pretty damn good. Can you afford it?”

  “Maybe I’ll pick up some pointers,” Tommy said modestly.

  Mrs. Jim Bob had insisted that Bonaparte return for lunch. They ate chicken salad sandwiches and the last of the butterscotch brownies on the patio while Perkin’s eldest cleaned up the kitchen and mopped the floor. The sky was clear, the sunshine pleasant. Robins and sparrows hopped about on the lawn, amiably avoiding each other.

  She refilled his glass from a pitcher of iced tea and added a sprig of mint from her garden. “So when did you decide you wanted to be a professional golfer?” she asked him. Not that she cared, but it seemed like the polite thing to say.

  “It was blind luck, Mrs. Jim Bob. I started caddying at a golf course in Springfield to pick up some extra money. The worst thing about it was watching these rich people in their fancy clothes, using the priciest clubs, taking private lessons from the pro, strutting around like they invented the game. Then they’d proceed to hit their balls in the water hazards or the woods. I took to thinking I could play better than that. When there wasn’t no one around, I’d borrow a driver and hit some balls off the practice tee. Turns out I have a real knack for the game.”

  “How nice for you,” Mrs. Jim Bob said. “When did you and Frederick meet?”

  Bony had a feeling the truth wouldn’t sit well. “Oh, some time back. I was in Vegas, doing commentary on golf tournaments on TV. The customers seem to really cotton to the idea of a real professional analyzing every shot for them.”

  “Frederick was a customer in this . . . establishment?”

  “It’s, uh, kind of a place where sports fans hang out. There’s always something going on somewhere in the world—horse racing, soccer, tennis, even cricket. Now there’s a sport I can’t figure out.” He took a swallow of tea, wishing it was bourbon and Coke. “You see, you got these men in white shorts, and they stand by what’s called a wicket, and—”

  “Is Frederick a gambler? I would be very disappointed if he were. He’s such a gentleman. I can’t recall when I’ve seen such clean fingernails on a man. Jim Bob comes home looking like he clawed his way up the driveway. He most likely thinks a manicure is what doctors do in veterans’ hospitals.”

  Bony puzzled over this for a moment. “Oh, yeah, I get it. Aunt Eileen warned me that you have a sly sense of humor.”

  “Did she?” Mrs. Jim Bob’s eyed narrowed.

  “Anyway,” he said, scampering to higher ground, “Frederick and I got to talking one evening. He was real interested in Maggody, for some crazy reason. I told him it wasn’t no more than a wide patch in the road, but he wanted to know all about the folks who live here and what they do. You’d have thought he was going to write a book about this place. Damned if I know why anybody’d bother to read it.”

  “Maggody has a long and rich history,” she said automatically, still distracted by the very idea of Eileen Buchanon having the nerve to call her sly. It was clearly a case of envy. She took a breath and exhaled vigorously to cleanse her mind of unkind thoughts. “Has Frederick mentioned anything about his personal life? Is he a widower or a bachelor?”

  “He’s never mentioned a Mrs. Cartier. For some reason I get the impression he’s from Mississippi or Alabama, but he wouldn’t say when I flat-out asked him.”

  “What about his profession?”

  “Beats me,” Bony said. “He’s smart, and dresses in expensive clothes. Could be he’s a lawyer or a banker. He seemed to know a lot of the big spenders in Vegas. He doesn’t ever have to call his office or anything like that.”

  “And he’s interested in Maggody.” Mrs. Jim Bob watched the birds as she thought this over. She was so engrossed in speculation that she failed to notice when Bony slipped inside the house, or Perkin’s eldest’s screech seconds later.

  On Saturday I ambled into Ruby Bee’s for a late breakfast (in other places, it might be called brunch, but I doubted the proprietress would appreciate being enlightened). Estelle sat on her stool, while Ruby Bee tidied up behind the bar. Their conversation stopped when they saw me.

  “Good morning,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll both be delighted to hear that Maggody’s first charity golf tournament is under way. Parking wasn’t a problem, since a lot of people who’d registered either failed to show up or took a look and got back in their cars. It could have something to do with Marjorie watching them from the porch swing. Did you know that sows can grind their teeth?”

  “They can not,” Ruby Bee said.

  I sat down on a stool. “Maybe I was hearing Raz grind coffee beans in his kitchen. How about a plate of biscuits, gravy, and sausage?”

  “Do I look like a short order cook? I don’t know why you think you can waltz in here like a duchess and bark orders at me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you was raised in a barn.”

  “Living in Manhattan,” Estelle said, waggling her finger. “Those Yankee manners must have rubbed off on you.”

  Ruby Bee dried her hands on her apron. “I’ll rustle up something for you to eat, but it’s only because of your condition. Anything that Mexican sells at the Dairee Dee-Lishus is liable to give you heartburn.”

  Yeah, or heartache. I gazed at a neon beer sign until Ruby Bee reappeared with a heaping plate of all that I’d requested, as well as scrambled eggs and hash browns. It would definitely hold me until lunch.

  “What all’s going on at Raz’s pasture?” Ruby Bee asked as she started filling salt shakers.

  “Mrs. Jim Bob seems to have everything under control. The tent’s up, and there are tables and chairs. Once she realized no one else was going to show up, she made a new sign with tee times. None of the wives are playing with the local men. Since the two groups aren’t speaking to each other, it’s probably a good idea. A bunch of the teenagers are standing around. One of the players offered
them beer, but Mrs. Jim Bob overheard him and started squawking like a Canada goose with a feather up its ass.”

  “I can guess who offered them beer,” Ruby Bee said in a tight voice. “There’s a man staying out back who caused all manner of trouble last night. He and some of the others got stinkin’ drunk here, then went to his room and partied ’til three in the morning. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear ’em.”

  “Not just out-of-towners,” Estelle contributed. “Plenty of locals like Jim Bob, Jeremiah, Earl, and Larry Joe were having themselves a fine time, too. They got crabby when Bony showed up, since he was giving golf lessons to their wives, but he weaseled himself into their favor after he swore none of the women could hit the ball more than ten feet.” She rolled her eyes. “Not in the direction they were aiming, anyway. Bony was saying how he takes cover whenever Mrs. Jim Bob tees up. The other day she hit three balls on the roof of some church, and they’re still in the gutter.”

  “All them golfers deserve to be in a gutter,” Ruby Bee said. “They’d go down the drain and I wouldn’t have to put up with them a day longer.”

  “You should have called me,” I said to her.

  “I didn’t want to mess with it. Yesterday was a bad dream from dawn ’til I fell in bed. Estelle missing, people checking in all afternoon, an overflow crowd at lunchtime and suppertime, lots of complaining about the golf course—as if it had anything to do with me—and two groups checking out and demanding a refund, even though I had to clean their rooms again. Oh, you’ll never guess who showed up at about six o’clock. I was so flabbergasted that I nearly dropped a tray in the middle of the dance floor.”

  “I myself choked on a peanut,” said Estelle, making it clear that Ruby Bee wasn’t the only one with a fragile nature, “and was gasping for air. Bopeep’s boyfriend had to pound me on the back.”

  “Tiger Woods?” I said.

  “No, I seem to think his name is Luke something.”

  “The person who came in last night,” I said, spearing another bite of sausage.

  “Tiger Woods?” Ruby Bee’s brow crinkled. “Is he any relation to Woodrow Woods that lives out the dirt road past where Hiram’s barn burned?”

  “I doubt it. So who came in?”

  “Phil Proodle,” Ruby Bee said grandly. “My eyeballs liked to pop out of my head when I recognized him, and my heart was fluttering.”

  I poised my fork above my plate. “Of all the beer joints in all the towns in all the world he walks into mine . . .”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

  “Who’s Phil Proodle?”

  Estelle stared at me. “You don’t know who he is? Why, he has a big boat store and is always advertising on TV. He did one where he was a superhero in a cape and mask, dangling from a crane. He must have been forty feet above his lot. It was so windy that he was flipping and flopping every which way.”

  “It sounds silly, but I held my breath every time it came on,” added Ruby Bee. “It had to do with how he was gonna save Stump County from high prices, I think.”

  “Oh, yeah, he donated the bass boat,” I said, resuming my attack on the biscuits and gravy. “His name’s on a tournament on the bulletin board at the Suds of Fun.”

  “According to Elsie McMay’s second cousin’s sister-in-law in Starley City, poor ol’ Phil didn’t have a chance once Mrs. Jim Bob showed up,” Estelle said. “After she finished her spiel, he was practically on his knees begging her to take the boat. You’d think a celebrity like him could stand up to her.”

  Ruby Bee sniffed. “From the way she carries on, you’d think she redecorated the Garden of Eden to suit her fancy.” She snatched my plate from under my nose. “You keep eating like that, you’ll end up looking like a blimp.”

  I was almost finished, so I didn’t bother to argue. “What did the renowned Phil Proodle want last night? Applause for his generosity?”

  “I ain’t sure,” Ruby Bee said. “He asked if I had any rooms available, which I did. After he got settled in, he came back in here and started buying pitchers like they cost a nickel apiece. He ran a tab over three hundred dollars. The thing is, when nobody was watching him he’d get a pissy look on his face, like he wanted to beat ’em senseless with a crowbar. Then he’d be all smiling and wishing ’em luck.”

  “Maybe he was assessing his competition,” I suggested.

  “Not according to Millicent,” Estelle said. “She came by early this morning for a trim. Darla Jean kept track of everybody who registered to play. Millicent took a peek at the list Thursday and didn’t see his name. She was sure she would have noticed, since he’s so famous.”

  “Then he’s a spectator,” I said. “If anybody wins the boat, he’ll present the key and get his picture in the paper. If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have to go arrest someone. I’m behind on my monthly quota.”

  “Most everybody’s at the golf tournament,” Estelle said. “Even the geezers from the barbershop and the pool hall. Who’re you planning to arrest?”

  “I’ll work on it.” I walked down the road to the PD, flipped through the mail, and leaned back in my chair. Under different circumstances, I would have taken off the rest of the weekend and driven to Springfield to see Jack. I was crazy about him, and he seemed to reciprocate. We shared a somewhat odd sense of humor, we could talk endlessly, we were more than compatible between the sheets (and in a sleeping bag, alongside a creek, on the rug in front of the fireplace, and once, quite recklessly, in a canoe). He had custody of his two children, but they were happy to see me when I visited—or did a fine job of pretending they were. As soon as I told him I was pregnant, he would be cleaning out half of his closet and pricing cribs online. Marriage was a given. Springfield was only a two-hour drive, so Ruby Bee and Estelle could show up with crocheted booties and embroidered bibs whenever they liked.

  “So what the hell’s the problem?” I said aloud, thoroughly frustrated with myself. A spider building its web in the corner of a window failed to weave any insights. Out back a blue jay scolded an interloper. A pickup drove by. Sunlight illuminated the motionless dust in the air. Where were the felons when you needed them?

  I wiggled around in the chair until my butt was aligned with the saggy seat, leaned all the way back, and closed my eyes. I was envisioning myself rowing up the Amazon, piranhas darting at the surface, giant snakes slithering into the muddy water, fiercely colored birds watching me from thick branches above me, when I fell asleep.

  When the phone rang, I nearly fell out of the chair. It took me a moment to realize that I was no longer chatting with Tarzan. I grabbed the receiver. “Yeah?”

  “Mercy me, Arly, you sound like a rusty transmission. This is LaBelle. I got to speak to Sheriff Dorfer. I don’t suppose he’s there, is he?”

  I blinked. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’s not cowering under my desk or sitting across from me, smoking one of his cigars and flicking ashes on the floor. He could be in the back room, but there’s not much to do in there. I’ll look if you want me to.”

  “There’s no call to get snippety,” LaBelle said.

  “Does that mean you do want me to look or you don’t want me to look?” I raised my voice. “Harve? You back there? Sorry I’m out of coffee. I’ve cut back on office amenities because I’m saving up for another bullet.”

  “This ain’t funny,” LaBelle said huffily. “You just go rustle him up and tell him to call me. Lemme give you my home phone number. I don’t know when we’ll be able to go back in the building, so there’s no use him calling that number.”

  “What happened?”

  “About two hours ago most of the inmates were in the lounge, watching TV. Deputy Murtle had to leave for a minute to . . . well, to see a man about a horse. Soon as he was gone, the scumbags set the couch on fire. The alarm went off. Nasty black smoke was pouring down all the halls. My eyes were streaming so bad I could barely call nine-one-one. We had no choice but to evacuate the bui
lding.”

  “Was anybody hurt?” I asked.

  LaBelle harrumphed. “No, but three of ’em escaped in the confusion. It being Saturday afternoon, only Deputy Murtle and Sergeant Beluga were on duty. I was there on account of needing overtime pay. The fire engines showed up, as well as ambulances, municipal police cars, the local TV station van, and reporters. Lights were flashing, everybody was hollering. One of the firefighters accidentally turned the hose on Deputy Murtle and flattened him against the fence like a bug on a windshield. The paramedics insisted on treating me and some others for smoke inhalation. Keeping the inmates together was worse than trying to herd squirrels.”

  “You still can’t get back in the building?”

  “Would I be trying to call Harve if all the inmates were in their cells and it was business as usual? The fire chief sez we can’t do anything until they inspect for damage. There’s water and foam all over the walls and floors, and it smells to high heavens. Right now we’ve got the inmates stashed over at the city jail. The ones we got left, anyway. Harve is gonna have a fit, but there ain’t much anybody can do.”

  “What about the three inmates who escaped?” I asked. “I don’t suppose they were locked up for unpaid parking tickets.”

  “Two of ’em were involved in a brawl at the Dew Drop Inn last night. Ugly sumbitches, with oily hair and tattoos. The third one was picked up for a parole violation. He’s headed back to the state pen on Monday.”

  “What was he in for?”

  “How should I know? I ain’t their guidance counselor, for pity’s sake. The deputies take ’em in and out the door at the back. I just process the paperwork when I’m not too busy making coffee or fetching doughnuts for Sheriff Dorfer. If he doesn’t stop gulping down those jelly rolls, he’s gonna bust out of his britches one of these days.”

  “Hold that thought, LaBelle,” I said. “I assume you called here because Harve’s playing in the golf tournament.”