by Joan Hess
I moved to the shade under a persimmon tree and took out my notebook. “You called Billy Dick MacNamara at nine o’clock?”
“I did what? You’d better stay out of the sun, lady, or get yourself a hat.”
I repeated my question and waited as she took a cigarette from a pack concealed by the towel.
“You’ve got it about as wrong as it gets,” she said, blowing smoke at me. “I wouldn’t call creepy Billy Dick if he paid me, and neither would any other girl in the county. Talk to my brother, Willard the Weirdo. He and Billy Dick are real big on some stupid game where they sit around and pretend they’re dwarfs. It makes me want to puke.”
She stubbed out the cigarette and flopped down on the towel. Confused, I stood there for a moment, then went to the back door and knocked.
The boy who appeared was as unattractive as his sister. I estimated his age at thirteen or fourteen. As I took in his slight build and faintly crafty features, it occurred to me he might do the role of dwarf quite well. Not the rollicky, roly-poly kind that belts out, “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho,” but the gnarly kind that lives underground and creeps out at night to create trouble. Then again, it wasn’t Willard’s fault that someone in the lineage had cohabited with a Buchanon. I tried to take a more charitable attitude as I asked him if he was Willard.
“I’m Willard. What do you want?” he said, attempting to sound belligerent.
“I need to ask you some questions. Did you talk to Billy Dick MacNamara the night of the fire?”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I called him about the map at nine o’clock, and he came over to help me get it fixed.” He caught my blank look and added, “It’s a map of the tunnels leading out of the dungeon of Balthazar Castle. We take turns being the dungeonmaster in a role-playing game, okay?”
“Were your parents here?”
“They left to see if my great-aunt was gonna die from some fall.” He glanced at his sister, then lowered his voice. “My pa made me promise to stop playing the game. I’m not supposed to call Billy Dick, so it was the first time all week I had a chance to talk to him. Somewhere in the tunnel there’s a dragon capable of burning up everything in sight. If that happens, this game’s over, and we’ve been in it for more than a month.” He gave me a tight smile. “Then we’ll switch being dungeonmaster. Billy Dick’s still pissed over an earlier game, when he was attacked by an army of trolls after he’d lost his cloak of invisibility. They had him for supper and sucked his bones for breakfast.”
I had to remind myself that I was at the back door of an ordinary house in Hasty, a goodly distance from the dungeon beneath Balthazar Castle. The sun was shining, and rather than the gnashing of trolls’ teeth, rock music was drifting from a transistor radio. “That’s fine, Willard,” I said. “All I need to do is confirm that Billy Dick was on his way to your house when he saw the fire.”
“Well, he was. He got here after ten and stayed for a couple of hours, working on the map. I can show it to you if you want.”
“No, I’ll take your word for it. Why did your father make you promise to stop the game?”
“He says it’s foolishness to pretend you’ve got magical power and can defeat monsters. I say it beats the hell out of living in Hasty, surrounded by pea-brained jocks and fat sluts like my sister.”
“Are your parents here now?”
“No, and you got no reason to talk to them.” He went inside and closed the door.
Trudi did not move as I went past her. A robin perched on the edge of the birdbath watched me as I maneuvered around a truck, pulled out onto the empty road, and headed back to Maggody, rehashing Trudi’s condemnation of Billy Dick and her brother’s of her. The occupants of the middle house on the road had not returned, and the wizened crow was not in her yard.
Traffic seemed heavier than usual as I parked in front of the PD, but I wrote it off as a hot sale at the supermarket and went inside to check for messages. The dispatcher at the sheriff’s office sounded irritated as she told me to hold my horses while she sorted through the unholy mess LaBelle had left at the end of the shift.
“Here’s one,” she said at last. “Somebody name of Wade Elkins wants you to call him. Oh, and some sergeant from the state police, but I can’t rightly make out the name.” Papers rustled for a minute. “Well, ain’t this something?”
“Ain’t what something?” I said, allowing a little irritation of my own to taint the line. As I listened to her relate some garbled message about someone being here, I realized I could smell a minute trace of smoke. I hung up the receiver and walked (okay, crept) to the doorway that led to the back room.
The back room was smaller than the front, and its only redeeming feature was that I didn’t have to go in there very often. There was a scarred wooden table that was covered with all the idiotic paperwork that came at me on a regular basis. On the wall, the county survey map was curling at the corners. The lone chair was laden with manuals and ancient newspapers.
I made sure that the coffee pot was turned off. The metal cabinet that housed the radar gun, the .38 Special, and other toys of the trade, such as my box with three real bullets, was as I’d last seen it.
Wrinkling my nose, I told myself that I was imagining the smell, that I’d had arson on the brain too long. However, as I started back, I glanced into the metal trashcan. In the bottom was a small pile of feathery white ashes. I bent down and poked my finger into one; it immediately disintegrated into drifting flakes. A dozen blackened matches ringed the ashes, as if someone had struck them methodically, one by one, and dropped them into the trashcan.
I asked myself why someone had burned a piece of paper and a bunch of matches in my trashcan, but nothing much came to mind. I was back at my desk before it occurred to me that this mysterious someone had come into the PD while I was gone, started a fire, and left without leaving a courteous note explaining the purpose of the visit.
Neither door had been locked, naturally. I’d been gone most of the afternoon, but I hadn’t kept anyone informed of my plans. Most days I’m in and out, depending on my mood. I have visitors on occasion, Raz Buchanon being the most frequent, but he was hardly the type to leave such a peculiar calling card.
I was shaking my head and making all sorts of unattractive faces when the front door opened. I looked up into the eyes of a Greek god. A middle-aged Greek god, but that was perfectly all right with me. Dark hair with a touch of silver, milk chocolate brown eyes, a nose carefully sculpted, a friendly smile exposing teeth as evenly aligned as markers in a military cemetery. The rest of him wasn’t bad, either, particularly in an Italian silk suit that had been tailored down to the last stitch.
“Well, hello,” he said in a deep voice that did nothing to mar the package.
“Hi,” I squeaked. Sad, but true.
“Is the chief in?”
I couldn’t tell him the truth—that the only thing the chief was in was the throes of a torrid pubescent fantasy. I managed a nod.
His smile broadened as he approached the desk. “And might I see him, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“You can’t see him because he’s a she.”
“Is he, now? That’s intriguing.” He sat down in the chair across from me and silently studied me as if I were a unfamiliar tidbit on a dinner plate. He wasn’t appalled by what he was seeing, but he wasn’t prepared to take a bite until he knew what it was.
“I’m the chief,” I said at last. “Arly Hanks.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name Arly before,” he said. “Is that a local tradition?”
“It’s Ariel.” Gawd, I love it when I’m articulate and witty, each phrase exquisitely turned, each inflection and gesture meritious of an Oscar award.
He put his hand on his chest and cocked his head. “‘Go make thyself like a nymph o’ the sea; be subject to no sight but thine and mine.’ That kind of Ariel?”
He got my Oscar. “Yes,” I lied, seeing no reason to admit that I’d been named after a photograph take
n from an airplane. It now hung over Ruby Bee’s bed, the contour of the bar and grill outlined in ink. Although her spelling was faulty, she’d thought the word had a nice ring; her mother had held similar thoughts about an outbreak of measles fifty-odd years ago. Spots and shots—a family heritage.
“Then I’m delighted to meet you, Chief Hanks,” he said, standing up and extending a manicured hand.
I was getting up my nerve to extend my own when the door banged open.
“They’re here,” Plover said. He stopped as if he’d run into an electric fence. “But I guess you know that, don’t you?”
It had been easy to get into the PD through the back door. Ridiculously easy. If he’d had to worry about her returning while he stood there, sending flaming arrows at the wadded paper in the trashcan, maybe that would have increased his sense of danger.
He’d found the gun but had left it on the shelf. A bullet could miss its target. His weapon was fire. He could control fire, make it obey him, make it crackle and explode and ultimately suffocate the stars.
Had she been frightened when she found his message, or was she too stupid to understand that he was showing her that he was smarter than she would ever be? If she missed it this time, he’d be forced to show her again and again until she humbly acknowledged the truth.
Chapter 5
“WILD CHERRY WINE” (REVISED 5/20)
19 EXT. WIDOW THIGPEN’S HOUSE—DAY
Billy Joe stops in the yard and gazes morosely back at the bedroom window. He then puts his hands in his pockets and heads for the gate. CAMERA WIDENS to include LUCINDA, who’s waiting by the fence.
LUCINDA
Well, don’t you look like what the cat spit up!
Sighing, Billy Joe joins her at the gate.
BILLY JOE
I ain’t in the mood for your jokes. What do you want, Lucinda?
LUCINDA
No luck with Loretta, huh?
BILLY JOE
I’m tormented. I can’t sleep at night thinkin’ of Cooter Grimmley and what he aims to do to my angel.
LUCINDA
Mebbe I can help you all so you can be together.
BILLY JOE
(brokenly)
That’d be swell, Lucinda. Why don’t I visit your trailer tonight so’s we can figure out how to save Loretta?
LUCINDA
Lucinda’ll take care of you, you poor baby. You can come at midnight … or as many times as you want.
She puts her arms around him and gently kisses him.
DISSOLVE TO:
Ruby Bee was almost hidden behind the stack of towels in her arms, but she was eager to make her guests feel right at home. She couldn’t precisely remember who all was staying where, so she decided to start at #2 and work her way around.
Since she couldn’t knock, she kicked the door smartly, and when she heard it open, said, “I’m Ruby Bee. I brought you all some fresh linens.”
“Put them on the bed,” she heard Carlotta say in a distracted voice. “Fuzzy’s telling everybody he saw it, damn it. He even mentioned the butterfly tattoo on her butt.”
Ruby Bee blinked into the terry-cloth barrier. “I beg your pardon, but I’m not—”
“He wouldn’t know a butt from a butterfly,” a male voice interrupted, relieving her of the necessity of further response. “You, put the towels down and pop on out of here like a champagne cork. Listen, baby, did you ask Fuzzy if—”
“Hal,” Carlotta said, “this is Ruby Bee Hanks, the owner of the motel and the adjoining restaurant. She’s agreed to do breakfast and dinner whenever we want, and to pack sandwiches for lunch. Ruby Bee, this is Hal Desmond, the producer and director of Wild Cherry Wine, and the CEO of Glittertown Productions, Inc.”
“Oh, right, yeah,” Hal said in an unconvincing attempt at contriteness. “Glad to have you on the team, Aunt Bea.”
Ruby Bee put down the towels and opened her mouth to correct him. However, she couldn’t get it out (or much of anything beyond a gurgle) when she looked at the man on the bed and determined real fast that he was buck-naked.
Carlotta took the top towel and tossed it at him. “Cover yourself up, for pity’s sake,” she said. “She’s going to think we’re making a documentary about walruses.”
Once he’d covered his privates with the towel, Ruby Bee took a better look at the fellow who was so all-fired important. He did bear a passing resemblance to a walrus, she thought with a wince. His face, on the other hand, made her think of Marjorie, what with his squinty little eyes and thick, wet lips. Raz would have been offended by the comparison.
“I’m real pleased to meet you,” she said from a safe distance.
“Join the club. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Carlotta and I are discussing the distribution of the last flick.”
Before she could catch herself, Ruby Bee heard herself blurt, “Does it have a name yet?”
“At wrap it was Prickly Passion, but now—who the hell knows?” Hal curled his lip at Carlotta, and his crackle of laughter could have sliced a ripe tomato. “Or cares?”
He began to toy with the towel. Ruby Bee snatched up most of the pile and fled out the door before he—well, exposed himself like—well, not like anyone she’d met before. Of course, she amended as she stopped to catch her breath, there was Burl Buchanon and his raincoat shenanigans, but everybody kind of got used to it, and before too long his family remembered a conveniently distant cousin in the Canadian wilderness.
She went on to #3 and knocked on the door, but no one answered and she figured it was Carlotta’s room. Now that she’d come across Carlotta in the same room with a buck-naked man—and not acting the least bit perturbed—maybe the gal didn’t deserve any towels.
Directly across the expanse of gravel was #4. Ruby Bee held her head high as she marched right over and knocked on the door.
“It’s open!” yelled a male voice.
She’d had quite enough exposure for one day. “I brought you some extra towels,” she yelled back, “but I’ll just wait until you’re decent!”
“That could take decades, considering the business we’re in!”
Ruby Bee was still mulling that over when the door opened. The man was normal-looking and dressed in regular clothes. He gave her a smile. “I’m Buddy Meredith, madam. Please allow me to relieve you of this unconscionable burden.”
“Haven’t I seen you on television?”
“You and millions of other oblivious fans,” he said, although nicely and with a little twinkle. “Most recently you might have seen me attempting to persuade you that my detergent is better than yours. It isn’t, though; they just pay me to say so.”
“You’re the Wite & Brite man,” Ruby Bee said, suddenly feeling woozy as she stood face to face with a celebrity. He was so close she could have touched him—not that she’d have dared. “I tried it once, but I was a might disappointed with it.” She realized what she said and blushed all the way up to her roots. “Not that it was your fault, Mr. Meredith. It was on sale, and I had a coupon, too.”
“Please come in,” he said with an eloquent flip of his hand.
Trembling, she entered the temporary abode of an honest-to-goodness television star. Two men were sitting on the nearer bed, a mess of cards and dollar bills scattered on the bedspread between them. One of them looked to be the other’s grandfather, but it seemed the younger one, who was vaguely familiar, was old enough to drink whiskey and gamble. In the afternoon, too. She mutely held up the towels as an offering.
“This is our star, Frederick Marland,” nice Mr. Meredith said, “and this is our production man, Fuzzy Indigo.”
She was about to say howdy when she heard her name being hollered from the parking lot. Battling back a growl, she managed a polite smile. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Marland,” she said to the handsome young man who was reputed to be a star even if she couldn’t quite put her finger on where she’d seen him. “And you, too, Mr. Indigo. Welcome to Maggody and the Flamingo Motel. You be sure
and call me night or day if—”
“My goodness, Ruby Bee,” Estelle gasped from the doorway, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
She stood there, blinking worse than a condemned man in the electric chair, until Ruby Bee took pity on her and introduced her to the three men. She wasn’t the least bit surprised when Estelle pranced over to Mr. Meredith and said, “Ain’t I seen you on television?”
“He’s the Wite & Brite man,” Ruby Bee said briskly. “I recognized him right off. Now, why in heaven’s name were you out there bellowing like a sick cow? Don’t you know the Flamingo Motel has paying customers that would appreciate a little peace and quiet?”
“We’ve got what some might call a situation in the kitchen,” Estelle shot back.
“Ah, a situation,” Frederick Marland said, mimicking Estelle’s high-pitched voice and undeniably twangy accent. He did something to his face so he looked about sixteen years old. “Gee, I ain’t seen a situation since Ma knocked over the butter churn and Granny slid right off the porch into the lilac bushes.”
Reminding herself that he was a famous celebrity, Ruby Bee opted to ignore him and pulled Estelle over to the door. “What are you talking about?” she whispered.
“Kevin is what I’m talking about.”
Over Estelle’s shoulder, Ruby Bee watched nice Mr. Meredith sit down on the bed and begin to shuffle the cards. Famous Mr. Marland was still looking ever so proud of himself for being a smartmouth. The third man, the one who reminded her of a wino she’d seen in a Little Rock bus station, was staring at the wall, his lips moving just a little bit and his hand shaking enough to splatter the bedspread with drops of whiskey. He was a real odd fish, she thought before she returned to the business at hand, which was trying to figure out what Estelle was so antsy about.
“What about Kevin?” she said, still whispering.
“You know how you left Dahlia in charge of the bar and grill while you came out here to meet the movie stars before anyone else had a chance? Some of us had to change clothes before we could come over, but you just—”
