by Joan Hess
This particular truth could get her grounded until she was old enough to settle into a rocking chair alongside Adele Wockerman at the county nursing home. Telling Arly that she and Frederick had parked on a dark road and fooled around wouldn’t make her parents break into applause, but the truth was downright gawdawful and she was planning to admit only to some kissin’ and neckin’ and a lot of chattering about famous Hollywood stars.
The worst of it was that the gossip was out there, somehow. Otherwise, how could Arly have found out so easily? She rolled over and looked at the clock. It was too late to call Heather or Traci to find out if anyone was talking about having seen the car at the motel. But she couldn’t sleep and she couldn’t stop sniveling, and finally she dialed the number of Frederick’s room.
“Yeah?” he answered in a thick, irritated voice.
“It’s me,” she whispered. “I can’t do anything but toss and turn since you told me about Arly coming to talk to me. What if she knows about the motel?”
“We went over this for an hour. There’s no way she can find out about it. If she knew, she’d have asked me for details. You don’t want me to relate details, do you?”
Darla Jean grabbed her pillow and clung to it as if it were a life preserver and her bedroom a shark-infested pool. “No, and you promised you’d never say nothing. I still don’t understand why it matters where you were if that lady actress had an accident. I mean, why does—”
“Standard police procedure,” he interrupted. “I need to sleep, darling. Carlotta’s handling the camera in the morning, and we’re shooting as many scenes as we can. In that I’m playing a sixteen-year-old, I don’t need bloodshot eyes with bags under them. I told you what to say to Arly. If you can’t lie, tell her whatever you wish. Good night.”
He hung up, but her call had disturbed him and left him wide awake. A drink was in order, he decided, and he got out of bed to find the small flask he kept in the bottom of his suitcase. Sharing a room with Fuzzy had taught him the wisdom of hiding anything he himself had hopes of drinking. As he filled a glass, he glanced out the window and noticed that directly across the lot, a light was on in Carlotta’s room.
Interesting. Were she and Gwenneth staying awake to guard the door, or was Carlotta pecking out revisions while Gwenneth amused Hal in the next room? In a way, he felt sorry for his blond costar. Hal had something on her, something from her past, and he alluded to it often enough to keep her under his control. Frederick had heard rumors that she’d been offered roles by other companies. Not major companies, of course. Her talents were limited, and her capacity to express anything more complex than enthusiasm was unremarkable.
Despite his irritation with her, he realized he felt fraternal affection for her. They’d run away from bad family situations to Hollywood, and arrived with the shared curse of imperfect teeth, blotchy skin, pathetically punk hair and clothing, and arrogance. They were both young and inexperienced in the murky, power-perverted ways of the industry. Since their “discoveries,” Hal’s thumb had held both of them down as if they were insects. Frederick had already decided Wild Cherry Wine would be his last film with Glittertown, but he wasn’t sure Gwenneth could break away as painlessly as he could.
Then again, he thought as he finished off the drink and returned to bed, every now and then her baby-blue eyes turned gray and her voice hardened like that of a motorcycle gang mama. Maybe Sister Gwenneth was capable of all sorts of things.
So, at nearly one in the morning, an incredibly late hour for this much activity in a back corner of Stump County, some folks were awake and others not.
The majority of the citizens of Hasty were, because it was hard to sleep through bombastic explosions, cars, sirens, horns, shouting, and general bustle, the likes of which had never been seen before in town.
In contrast, most of the citizens of Maggody were asleep, with a scant handful of exceptions. Billy Dick’s mother was dishing up eggs and grits at the truck stop; her back was aching something terrible, but her shift didn’t end until six. She refilled an endless line of coffee cups and tried to smile.
The chief of police was in her bed, but she was glaring at a cast-iron character she’d found in a drawer. It was no more than three inches high, cheap and crudely made. The seams were rough, the features indistinct, the base slightly crooked. But anyone with half a mind could see it was a wizard in a pointed cap and a long cloak. He had a beard, a crooked nose, and a sharp chin, but where his eyes should have been, there were unfathomable holes.
Ruby Bee sat in her living room and wondered where her car was and if there’d be enough gas left in it to go to the flea market in Piccard.
Carlotta was talking on the telephone, although the only person (locally, that is) who knew this was the trooper, who’d seen her light go on and dashed down for a peek in the window to make sure she wasn’t in the throes of being murdered. He was kinda disappointed.
Hal, Gwenneth, and Anderson were all beset with insomnia, for a variety of reasons.
But others were asleep, like Mrs. Jim Bob, whose dream was chaste, and Jim Bob, whose wasn’t. Brother Verber’s dream was chaotic, to put it charitably. Raz snored on his lumpy bed, and Marjorie snored on the floor nearby; (any speculation about the content of either’s dream must be of your own doing.) Estelle was in the midst of a steamy dream starring Vidal Sassoon. Since she didn’t know what he looked like—and it was her dream, after all—he closely resembled Buddy Meredith.
The bit players, like Eula, Elsie, Lottie, Kevin’s parents, and Dahlia’s granny, not to overlook the younger set, such as Heather, Traci, and Dwayne (Darla Jean’s boyfriend), were asleep. As were Perkins and his eldest, Roy Stivers, the hippies who owned the Emporium, the two or three drunks sprawled in the mud outside the pool hall, and others of no interest whatsoever to the “sequential development of the plot.” There may be a little white lie in there somewhere, but not a vital one.
Moving beyond the city limits of Maggody, Kevin and Dahlia had opted to sleep in the car until morning, since it wouldn’t be seemly to cohabit with a corpse. Still in his chivalrous mood, Kevin had volunteered to take the front seat so his beloved would have more room in the back. He hadn’t really had much choice, but he made the gesture early in the game and felt real proud of hisself.
Sergeant John Plover’s teeth were grinding as he slept; it made no difference, since he slept in solitude. Eventually Wade Elkins and his fire fighters made it home. Harve Dorfer’s deputies did, too, but he went to his office and slept on the couch.
Toward dawn the rain stopped, and by then every last soul was asleep. Serenely or fitfully, with smiles or with grimaces, under ironed sheets or under nothing but chilly air, all were asleep.
Chapter 13
“WILD CHERRY WINE” (REVISED 5/24)
26 INT. CHURCH—DAY—LONG SHOT
PREACHER PIPKIN and HARRY DORK walk down the aisle of the church. They stop and shake hands.
DORK
I appreciate you takin’ the time to talk to me, Preacher Pipkin. I’m feelin’ better, and I reckon I better get back to the farm.
PIPKIN
Glad to help, Harry. Now you just keep your distance from that pretty little heifer and pay more attention to your wife.
Dork exits, and CAMERA FOLLOWS Pipkin as he sits down in a pew and wipes his face with a handkerchief. CAMERA WIDENS to cover Loretta as she comes in furtively and sits in the pew behind him. Pipkin does not acknowledge her.
(CONTINUED):
Everybody and everything looked dingy as I went into Ruby Bee’s and crawled onto a stool. “Coffee,” I said, ignoring said everybody, which consisted of the proprietress behind the bar, Estelle on her usual roost, and over in the booths a smattering of truck drivers, supermarket employees, and the trooper I’d bawled out the night before. He slid down in his seat, but I lacked the where-withall to ascertain that he was officially off duty. I barely had a wherewithout.
“Nice of you to bring back my car,” Ruby Bee s
aid as she set down a cup of coffee.
I took a sip. “I didn’t bring back your car.”
“You can’t just take people’s property like in a Communist country,” Estelle said from the end of the bar. “What’s more, you owe your mother an explanation for waking her up like that and causing her to sit up half the night sick with worry, Miss Don’t Give a Hoot.”
My mother the martyr nodded vigorously. “There weren’t no way on God’s green earth I could get back to sleep till nearly dawn, and then I had to get up to start my pies. If there’s not enough gas for Estelle and me to go to—”
“Stop,” I said with a growl. “I didn’t get much sleep, myself. I am not commandeering your car; I am borrowing it because I need to run up to Missouri. It has to do with the investigation, but I am not—repeat, not—going to explain the purpose of the trip. Take Estelle’s station wagon wherever it is you’re going.” I took all the change from my pocket and let it clatter on the counter. “Gas money, ladies.”
I stalked out of the bar, fuming so hard I nearly ran into Carlotta and Harve.
“Oh, here you are,” she said. “I know this sounds callous, but we’ve got to keep shooting in order to come in anywhere near budget. Sheriff Dorfer has agreed to handle security at the sites, and we’ll keep the sets closed … if you don’t object.”
“Can’t see that it’ll hurt,” Harve said uncomfortably.
I took a closer look at him. “Why are you in civilian clothes, Sheriff Dorfer? Considering the craziness going on, it doesn’t seem like the best time to take the day off to go fishing.”
It was the very first time I’d seen him blush, and it was not a pretty picture. His nose and ears were scarlet, and blotches were creeping up his neck like eruptive hives. He ducked his head and hunted around in his pocket until he found a cigar stub, stuck it between his lips, and mumbled something as he struck a match. Shakily struck a match, that is.
“I didn’t quite catch that,” I said, amusement replacing the deep aggravation that only Ruby Bee and Estelle could arouse in me (and did so on a daily, if not hourly, basis).
He mumbled something again, but Carlotta put her hand on his arm and said, “Since the sheriff’s going to be there, we offered him a small role as a local farmer seeking spiritual guidance. It won’t propel him to stardom, but he thought it might be entertaining for his friends and family to see him on the screen one of these days.”
“Gonna be in the movies, huh?” I said. “Wow, Harve, I’m impressed. Can I have your autograph?”
“This lady called me at the office and asked if they could keep working on their movie. I couldn’t see any reason for them to sit in their rooms, so I said it was all right with me. This way we can keep them in a group and under guard.”
Carlotta shot me a dry smile, but she sounded appropriately humble as she said, “We are so grateful to you people. This murder is a terrible thing; we’re all devastated with shock and grief, and we want nothing more than for you to catch Kitty’s killer. Hal’s popping pills like they were peanuts, and Gwenneth’s convinced her death is imminent. None of us got much sleep last night. Is there any news about Meredith and Fuzzy?”
I shook my head. “I talked to Plover earlier this morning. His men are working their way along the road in both directions, and we may have to start beating Cotter’s Ridge and the banks of Boone Creek if we don’t have any luck. It doesn’t make any sense for either of them to have gone into the woods, but none of this makes any sense.”
“Surely they’ll turn up,” she said without conviction. “Meredith’s a great guy, and even Fuzzy has his endearing moments. But, as the sheriff mentioned, it won’t do any good for us to sit and worry.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “It’s just as well for you to be together and protected, if only by an aspiring student of the art of cinematography. I’ll be gone for a few hours, but I may need to find you all when I return. Where will you be shooting?”
She consulted her clipboard. “The entire schedule’s been modified until we know if Meredith’s coming back. We’re slotted for two scenes at that oddly shaped church at the south end of town. I don’t anticipate any problems there, unless our amateurs are overcome with camera fright. An hour there, maybe twice that, and then we’ll shoot as many as we can at”—she scanned the page—“Jim Bob Buchanon’s house. Two exteriors and three interiors. I should think we’ll be there until dark.”
“Wait a minute—you’re doing two scenes at the Voice of the Almighty?” I said, mystified. “What does Brother Verber have to say about this?”
“He also has a small role,” Carlotta murmured.
“He does?” I said, more mystified.
Her expression was impossible to read, and her voice was as bland as spring water. “He fit into the picture perfectly, and was delighted to offer his church as a site. I did a few revisions, and voilà!”
Throughout this exchange, Harve was scuffling his foot in the gravel like a child in the principal’s office, although it’s doubtful a child would be allowed to puff on a cigar butt in such an august setting. “Well, I’d better get my men organized down at the Assembly Hall. Where’d you say you was going, Arly?”
“I didn’t. Have fun, Harve, and don’t forget to emote.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Carlotta will tell you all about it,” I said. I frowned at her. “Do you have another photograph of Meredith?”
“I have some standard portfolio shots in the room. Why do you need one?”
“I don’t know if I need one or not, but I’d appreciate it if you’d loan me one for the day.”
Carlotta returned with an eight-by-eleven glossy print of a smiling man with pleasant but unremarkable features. I went back to the PD, checked the map once more, and drove north toward Pineyville, Missouri, intending to use the time wisely to organize my thoughts about the murder. Discipline did not prevail. So Harve and Verber were in the movie, along with Mrs. Jim Bob and Dahlia. By the time I returned, the entire population might be signed up. Hell, I might end up not only with a full dance card but also with a new career.
I began to whistle “Hooray for Hollywood” as I passed the sign that denoted the city limits of Maggody …
“You must take me this morning,” Mrs. Jim Bob said into the receiver. “The movie people are shooting here today, and that’s certainly more important than going to a flea market on the other side of the county.”
“No, it ain’t,” said Estelle. “Ruby Bee and I have been aiming to get over there for more than a month, and I arranged my appointments so we could go this morning. I might change my plans for one of my regulars, but I don’t seem to recall you darkening my doorstep since Eve ate the apple. Why don’t you call that highfalutin place you patronize in Farberville?”
Mrs. Jim Bob figured it wouldn’t be politic to admit she already had and that they were booked solid for the morning. She had a sneaky suspicion they would have accommodated her if she tipped more generously, but she didn’t go into it. “Now, Estelle,” she wheedled, “there’s no reason to get your nose all bent out of shape. I was planning to start using you even before the Hollywood people showed up. I was telling Jim Bob just the other night how much more convenient it would be for me to patronize Estelle’s Hair Fantasies instead of driving all the way to—”
In that she was talking to a dial tone, she gave up and replaced the receiver. “You know,” she said loudly to Perkins’s eldest, who was out in the hallway waxing the floor, “not only is Estelle snooty, she has a lack of charity in her heart. One might wonder if she’s not jealous because no one offered her a role in the movie. Now, I’ll grant you that I prefer to have my hair done in Farberville, but that’s no reason for her to act this way in what is clearly an emergency.”
Perkins’s eldest adjusted the headset and turned up the volume of the transistor radio in her pocket. She was growing fond of rap music and becoming a devotee of the lyrics.
“I don’t suppose y
ou’ve ever fixed anyone’s hair?” Mrs. Jim Bob called from the other room. The inaudible response was not a challenge to interpret. “Considering how you wear your hair, I’d be the first to agree with you that you lack expertise in that area. From the looks of it, I’d be surprised to hear you wash it once a month. Cleanliness is next to godliness, as those of us who attend church know.”
Jim Bob came into the kitchen. He’d been given a list of chores over coffee, even though he’d tried to weasel out of them by claiming he had to be down at the store to receive deliveries. But the trash was in the cans; the cans hosed; the grass mowed (out in front, anyway); the shrubs trimmed (on the side visible from the window); his closet neat (he doubted they were doing closet scenes, but she was adamant); his papers stashed in desk drawers; and his wife, for some inexplicable reason, was again sitting in the living room having a grand conversation with the walls.
If the truth be known, he was planning to take off from work because he was as excited as his wife. Carlotta had said that Gwenneth, the Marland guy, and the saint-somebody guy would be on the set all afternoon. Gwenneth D’Amourre, Jim Bob thought, sucking on his teeth. If her honkers were half so luscious as they’d been in Tanya Makes the Team, he figured he’d be in heaven. Not in Brother Verber’s and Mrs. Jim Bob’s version, which was chock full of harps and angels and that kinda crap. His heaven had honkers.
Saliva trickled down his chin as he went out the back door and drove down to the supermarket, but he didn’t notice. The assistant manager did, though, and gleefully told everyone in the break room that Jim Bob was nearing the time when he could hide his own Easter eggs.
“I wanna be a bad street dude,” Perkins’s eldest said along with the voice blasting into both ears. Her ample rump swishing with the beat, she moved down the hall. “I tell you, Mama, I gonna be rude.”
