by Joan Hess
“Oh, he’s just fine. It’s mighty hot out there, so I took him a piece of pie and a glass of iced tea. He was real grateful.” Her tone indicated who wasn’t.
“And Frederick Marland told you that Fuzzy wasn’t in the room?”
“In a manner of speaking, he did. I got to run now. I’d tell you to come down for supper, but it’s more crowded than last year’s ice cream social at the Methodist church.”
She hung up before I could respond, which was just as well. I sat back and looked at Plover, who was trying not to grin. “That was a news bulletin from the Pinkerton Agency. Detective Petunia reported that Fuzzy left his room and hasn’t returned. The trooper on duty is enjoying the snack said detective was gracious enough to take out to him.”
“Shall we mosey down there and have a word with him?”
“Yes, I think a mosey might be in order.” I stood up and headed for the door.
22 INT.—LUCINDA’S TRAILER—NIGHT
Billy Joe comes into the trailer, his cap in his hands. CAMERA WIDENS to include Lucinda in a rocking chair.
LUCINDA
Is you okay, Billy Joe?
BILLY JOE
Sure am. Why wouldn’t I be?
LUCINDA
Ain’t you heard? Cooter says he’s gonna kill you iff’n he so much as lays eyes on you. He’s carryin’ a shotgun. You better not set foot in town.
BILLY JOE
But what about Loretta? We got to make plans to escape.
He sinks to the floor in front of her and puts his head in her lap. She begins to ruffle his hair.
LUCINDA
I’d take a message to her, but Cooter knows I’m your first cousin and he’d be mighty suspicious.
(beat)
What if I was to take a message to Preacher Pipkin? Then when Loretta goes to the church, he kin slip it to her.
BILLY JOE
Kin we trust him?
LUCINDA
I don’t reckon you got a choice, Billy Joe … unless you aim to let Cooter have his way with Loretta.
BILLY JOE
(brokenly)
I jest don’t know what to do, Cousin. I feel so cold and lonely.
LUCINDA
You poor baby. You come with me to my bed and I’ll make you nice and warm like we used to do in the hayloft all the time.
CAMERA FOLLOWS them as they head for the bedroom. Billy Joe remains tortured by his thoughts, but Lucinda has an excited look on her face as she unbuttons her blouse.
CUT TO:
Brother Verber was on his knees, not in the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, where he might be interrupted, but in the privacy of his living room. He was in the midst of an almost testy conversation with His Superior about the lack of divine protection during a stressful time when he (lower case) had been investigating Satan’s handiwork and He (upper) hadn’t so much as lifted a Finger. It wasn’t at all like those Hollywood people had said. Brother Verber had never peeped in a window in his life, except when he was doing so for the good of his flock.
“It was most humiliating,” he said, his eyes uplifted and, despite the potential for retribution, his voice tinged with accusation. He considered a few other remarks, then realized he might better spend his time trying to think what to do.
To heap injury on top of insult—and there was a heap of insult—some woman claiming to be the director’s assistant had called a while back and told him that he was going to be in the movie or else. Else, she’d explained, was telling folks in town exactly who’d been immortalized in a window with his eyes popping and his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a hound in heat. She’d gone on to mention how easily they could allow everyone to screen it for himself or herself.
Herself included dearly beloved Sister Barbara. After the unpleasantness the previous year, he’d been obliged to listen humbly for hours about his lapse from grace, and had been reduced to whimpering on his knees in front of her and swearing he would never again entertain the slightest lust in his heart or so much as glance at what he himself considered illuminating study material to aid him in his relentless war against Satan.
He flopped back on the sofa and fanned himself with a catalog. “What kind of a name is Preacher Pipkin!” he muttered to himself, having given up pleading with the Lord. “I should have told her I was a man of the cloth and entitled to a name befitting my—”
The telephone rang. Gaping at it as if it were a rattlesnake, he finally reached out his hand and picked up the receiver. “Praise the Lord,” he said in a shaky voice.
“I would like an explanation,” Mrs. Jim Bob said briskly.
Even though the blood was draining from his face, Brother Verber fumbled frantically in his mind and came up with an approach. “Yes, praise the Lord, Sister Barbara. Let us lift up thine eyes and offer a prayer of thanksgiving.”
“Have you been in the sacramental wine again?”
He avoided looking at the glass on the coffee table. “No, I have such wonderful news that it qualifies as a miracle.”
“So was water being changed to wine. I am calling about where you were earlier in the day. I happen to know—”
“Praise the Lord!” he persisted, fanning himself to keep from passing out. “Now those little orphans can have warm food and new shoes. It’s all I can do not to break into a hymn right here so you can share the miracle with me.”
“Lottie and Eula are coming by to discuss certain factions in the Missionary Society who are disruptive. I need to put on the kettle and set out some cookies. Stop dithering about orphans and explain this miracle business so I can see to my duties as a hostess.”
He swallowed nervously. “I have been asked if I would be willing to participate in this movie that’s being made here in Maggody. I believe its title is Wild Cherry Wine.” Her snort warned him that he needed to get on with it. “I won’t be paid much, but I can consider this a windfall for those little orphans, because every last penny will go right to them.”
“Why do they want you to be in the movie?” she asked, not sounding as impressed by his generosity as he’d hoped.
“So I can donate all the money to the orphans. I am on my knees this minute, Sister Barbara, and my heart is overflowing with the bountiful joy that comes of being able to help orphans, even the ones of a different-colored persuasion.”
Mrs. Jim Bob worked on it for a minute, but concluded it wasn’t worth the effort. A minor white lie seemed in order; that kind didn’t count, especially when done in order to salvage the Missionary Society election and get the kettle on. “I think I hear Lottie and Eula on the porch, so I must run.”
“Praise the Lord,” Brother Verber intoned. Once he’d hung up, he repeated the phrase two or three more times, with increasing sincerity. He went so far as to lift his glass in salute before gulping down its contents and heading for the kitchenette to refill it.
Chapter 11
After I’d berated the trooper, who had flakes of crust on his chin and a decidedly penitent expression on his face, Plover and I went to #4. I managed to knock without putting my knuckles through the door. Frederick Marland opened it, a sandwich in his hand, and said, “My turn for the rubber hoses and cattle prod?”
“It will be shortly,” I said. “I’ve heard a report that Fuzzy Indigo left this room earlier this afternoon and hasn’t returned. Is this true?”
He held up his hands. “Whoa there, Chief Ariel. Don’t rearrange my boyish features; they make me lots of lovely money. Why don’t you and your friend step inside to avail yourselves of the amenities of the Flamingo Motel? Would you like a drink? How about an egg salad sandwich? Mighty good, lemme tell you.”
Plover plowed into the room, almost running me down. “Mr. Marland,” he said coldly, “a violent crime was committed in the next room, and a woman was killed. If she was not a close friend, at the least she was an associate with whom you’ve worked for a year. We’re taking this very seriously. I suggest you do so, too.”
“Sorry, I
’m like really sorry about that. I admired Kitty and Meredith. They were old enough to be my parents, so we didn’t see much of each other when we weren’t on location. But I didn’t mean to sound so flip; it’s a defense, I suppose. A way of coping.” He pulled up the bedspread to cover the rumpled sheets and gestured at it. “I’m afraid the seating’s limited.”
Plover sat down on the chair, but I leaned against the wall by the door, my arms crossed, and said, “When did Fuzzy leave?”
“I’m not sure about the exact time. We came and talked for a few minutes about—what we’d heard.”
“And what were your opinions?” I asked.
He sat down on the corner of the bed and rubbed his temples. “I was upset, and to be real blunt, scared shitless. I thought we ought to pack up and get out of Dodge while we could. Fuzzy ranted incoherently about pigs and perverts, and managed to trip over the bed twice. The second time he got the sheet wrapped around him and started screeching that he was being attacked by a loaf of bread. I don’t know how he manages to stay drunk all the time. He must have some sort of I.V. hooked up to a bottomless bottle in his pocket.”
“I noticed his condition in the barroom,” I admitted. “Then what happened?”
“I was still in makeup, so I took a shower and changed clothes. When I came out of the bathroom, he was gone.”
“And you have no idea why he left or where he might be? He didn’t say anything at all?”
“No, but I’d suspect it has something to do with his fondness for alcohol. While we were playing poker yesterday, he finished off the last drop in the room. If his bottomless bottle finally went dry, he might have gone stumbling along the highway in search of a liquor store.”
Plover stood up and came to the door. “I’ll send someone to the pool hall. Is there anyplace else?”
I thought for a minute, then shook my head. “Not until the edge of Farberville. He wasn’t with the group last night, either.” I frowned at Frederick. “Do you know where he went last night and when he returned?”
“He didn’t say anything to me, and I didn’t ask. He’s a live wire, good ol’ Fuzzy. He reminds me of those Vietnam vets who go crazy and climb a tower to snipe at anything and anybody that moves. He hardly ever says a word, but he’s very aware of what’s going on—when he’s sober. When he’s not, he wouldn’t notice being flattened by a cement truck.”
“Is he capable of the sort of violence that took place in the next room?”
“I wouldn’t think so, but I don’t know him that well. I see him during production. I don’t even know where he lives. I think his wife finally gave up and left him not too long ago.”
“I’ll be back,” Plover said, then left to rally a second search party.
“And you have no idea about last night?” I said, trying to think of a place Fuzzy could have gone on foot. I gave Frederick a sharp look. “What time did you say he returned?”
“I didn’t say. I told you we didn’t discuss it.”
I sat down in the chair Plover had vacated and whipped out my notebook and a pencil that looked as if it had been attacked by tiny beavers. “What’s your real name, Mr. Marland?”
He stalled in much the same way Wanda Sue Thackett had, but eventually we determined that his birth certificate was graced with Freddie Marland, originally from San Diego, age twenty-five, currently residing in an apartment in Burbank. He’d enjoyed a brief stint on a soap opera, followed by a less stimulating stint in a pizza parlor before he’d been (he sketched quotation marks with his fingers) “discovered” by Hal.
As I read what I’d scribbled, a fragment of conversation came back to me. “Did you suggest this area for the location of the film?”
“Cannes, I would have suggested. Paris, Rome, Acapulco, all sorts of places. But Maggody, Arkansas?”
“Carlotta said someone in the group had suggested it,” I said. I made a note to ask her, then crossed my legs and gazed at him. “Okay, where were you last night?”
“I ate at the barroom, then came back here and worked on my lines. We are making a film, you know.”
“Then why don’t you know what time Fuzzy returned?”
“Because I don’t keep track of him.” He took a bite of the sandwich and chewed it slowly, all the while covertly watching me to see if I was buying. I made it clear I wasn’t. He swallowed, then put the remainder of the sandwich down and said, “I was with one of the local girls, and I don’t want to get her in trouble, okay? She drove me into some town so I could buy some decent suntan lotion. We grabbed a bite, and then she brought me back here.”
“Who’re we talking about?”
“I promised her that I wouldn’t tell anyone about our jaunt. She doesn’t want her parents to know about it, or her boyfriend, for that matter.”
“May I use the telephone?” I asked for form’s sake. He nodded, and I dialed the number of Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill. When the proprietress answered, I said, “Which local girl took Frederick Marland for a drive last night, where’d they go, and what time did they return?”
“Is this some kind of spy service?” he said angrily as I listened to the response and hung up.
“This is a very small town,” I said. “Darla Jean McIlhaney picked you up at seven-thirty in her mother’s car, drove you to Farberville, and the two of you had not returned by one in the morning. The only weakness in the grapevine is after midnight, since folks tend to go to bed early in order to rise with the chickens and get started on the biscuits.”
His mouth opened and closed several times. “All that just by one telephone call?” he said at last.
“I have excellent sources. You do realize I’ll have to talk to Darla Jean, don’t you? If you tell me what happened, I can try to avoid embarrassing her more than necessary.”
He laughed. “You’re one mean cop. I heard how you solved the cream-filled sponge cake murder, so I guess grilling a high-school girl won’t be much of a challenge.” He realized I was not sharing his amusement. “Okay, she picked me up and drove me into town. After I’d bought the lotion, we went to a bar and had a few drinks. Talked about this and that, drank some more, and somehow it was really late. She drove back here as fast she dared, dropped me off, and made me swear not to tell anyone.”
“Which bar?” I asked innocently, very aware that bars in Farberville were careful to avoid serving minors. Because of the college there, showing one’s driver’s license was ritualistic. Darla Jean looked her age.
“How would I know? It was a bar, that’s all. Little tables, loud music, watered-down drinks, dark as the inside of a cow.” He stood up and began to pace, although the room was small and he couldn’t do more than a few steps without risking an encounter with a wall. One, two, three—oops; one, two, three—oops.
“No problem. I can ask Darla Jean. She must know the name of the bar where the two of you stopped.”
“All right, maybe we went somewhere for some privacy. Ever since the soap, I get propositioned in the supermarket at home. Girls send me X-rated videos of themselves. They knock on my door and try to invite themselves in for a little romp. This Darla Jean’s no different. She made it clear she was … interested. She’s a pretty little thing, and I was bored. No big deal.”
I tried not to grimace as I gazed at him. “And where did you find this privacy?”
“A dark road, downwind from a chicken house.” He was trying to sound nonchalant, but his hand trembled as he picked up the sandwich, studied it, and dropped it on the bedspread. “This doesn’t have to be put on the grapevine, does it? The girl and I had a little fun, that’s all. No one was harmed, and there’s no reason why she should catch hell from her parents and her boyfriend.”
There probably were several very good reasons why she should, but I wasn’t in the mood to cause Darla Jean any grief. “I’ll have a quiet word with her,” I said, “just to confirm the story. I suggest you keep away from the local girls in the future, Mr. Marland. They may be impressed with your stature as a
movie star, but I’m not. If this gets out, you may find vigilantes knocking on the door, and that would seriously interrupt the shooting schedule, wouldn’t it?”
I stomped out of the room, and stopped in the parking lot to cool off. I wanted to find Darla Jean and give her a long, harsh lecture about her lack of judgment, but I decided to wait until I was calm enough to do so without shaking her so violently the barrettes flew out of her hair.
I closed my eyes and tried to think about my next move. The sound of voices interrupted my thoughts, which weren’t going anyplace, anyway, and I spotted Estelle at the edge of the parking lot, griping at the trooper. He was defending himself as best he could, but I took pity on him and went over to rescue him.
“Well, thank goodness,” Estelle said as I approached. “This boy’s being about as ornery as a treed coon. You just go ahead and tell him that I can take this tray to Mr. Desmond in number two. It’s a mite heavy, and I have no intention of standing here wearing myself out on account of—”
“Stop,” I said. I gave her a second to settle her lips into a bloodless line of indignation, then said, “This officer is under orders not to allow anyone to go to any of the motel rooms.”
“Are you aiming to starve them into confessing?” Estelle countered. “I watch enough lawyer shows on television to know that confessions have to be made voluntarily. If you so much as slap your suspect, the judge can—”
The noise that came from my throat was primitive, perhaps primeval, but it was effective. I finally got my teeth unclenched far enough to say, “Take the tray to Desmond. Just don’t pester him or ask him any questions—okay?”
“Okay, Miss Mussolini,” Estelle said, then marched off before I applied an egg salad sandwich to her face.
I followed her across the gravel, but continued on to #3 to ask Carlotta if she had any ideas about the latest defection from the production company. I knocked on the door; Estelle did the same at #2. Carlotta opened the door, but as I started to speak, I heard a shriek. I jerked my head around in time to see Estelle shove the tray at someone inside the room and scuttle away more quickly than a sand crab. Self-righteous mutters drifted after her as she went past the trooper and around the corner of Ruby Bee’s.
