by Joan Hess
“Nice Mr. Meredith refound his accent,” Ruby Bee said from behind the bar. “And you know, I was thinking Frederick looked familiar, but I’ve never seen him on television. It must have been a passing family resemblance, like—”
“Like all the Buchanons have,” Estelle interrupted. “This wasn’t near as ugly, but there was something about the shape of the head and ears. I saw it, too.”
“Didn’t hear you mention it,” Ruby Bee said with a sniff.
“You neither, Miss Automatic Recognition,” Estelle countered.
“You can dig through records until your toes turn up,” Frederick said, resuming his smirk. “Hey, you ought to team up with Carlotta and write screenplays. Then you could watch your fabrications in living color.”
Carlotta slid out of the booth and looked down at Frederick. She no longer resembled the confident, efficient assistant who could put a film into production by sheer force of personality. Her face was damp, her eyes red and swollen, her voice ragged. “Did you kill Hal, too? And Gwenneth? Is there some twisted reason to kill all of us because your father didn’t marry your mother?”
“Ask her,” he said, cocking his thumb as he aimed his forefinger at me. “We may end up with a regular mini-series.”
“I don’t think he killed Gwenneth,” I said. “I’ll admit I don’t know where she is at the moment, but Frederick seemed to have a real obsession with the kid sister characterization.”
“Somebody has to watch out for her,” he said. “She’s such a stupid thing, letting Hal use her whenever he was in the mood. She’s going to look fifty before she’s thirty, and be waiting tables forever after. Can we get this over with? I’d like to find her, even if she’s screwing somebody else.”
I looked at Anderson, but I was struggling to connect something he’d said with an elusive idea. It finally came to me, seconds short of a migraine. “Becky Hopperly died when her son was ten years old or so. We’ll know for sure when we get the death certificate and a copy of the coroner’s report, but her father went into a guilt-stricken decline when he heard about it. He told a neighbor it was fitting for her to die for her sins—and we know which sin he felt most strongly about. Maybe she died during an abortion. Not the kind done in a sterile clinic, but the kind done in a kitchen for a few dollars.”
“Done by a butcher!” Frederick exploded. His boyish features almost distorted out of recognition, he began to pound on the tabletop. “She couldn’t afford a clean, decent place, because her father refused to send a few goddamn dollars. While my mother was bleeding to death on a table, the butcher patted me on the head and said I would have had a baby sister. Would have! I would have had a mother if her old man hadn’t written her off! She died because everyone abandoned her—Meredith, her father, and even the fat pig who bought his way into her bed with groceries and a little something to help with the rent. He always gave me a quarter when he left.”
“Did he look like Hal?” I asked.
“He looked like a fat pig, lady,” Frederick said with a snarl. He ducked his face for a moment, and when he lifted it, he was once again the innocent, boyish heartthrob who had kept the local girls in a tizzy with his freckles and pectorals. “It was a long time ago. I wouldn’t recognize the guy if he walked through the door in a pastel polyester suit. I hope you’ve got some evidence tucked away somewhere to back up these slanderous accusations. My reputation’s important in the industry, you know. Once you’re tagged as a homicidal maniac, it’s impossible to work.”
“I’ve already shown motive and opportunity,” I said, as always unnerved by the sudden transformations at which these people—better yet, chameleons—were so adept.
“What about Hal?” Carlotta said.
“Yes, what about Hal?” Frederick said, mocking her. “I can assure you he didn’t knock up my mother in St. Louis twelve years ago. He was much too busy making porn movies and snorting coke to bother with a sad country girl trying to survive in a cold-water tenement on the wrong side of the river.”
“Maybe I’ll think of something while you’re sitting in a cell,” I snapped.
Plover went through the door and returned with a trooper, who took Frederick out of the murkiness of the barroom and into the relentless glare awaiting him outside. Carlotta was slumped against Anderson’s shoulder, crying, while he numbly stroked her hair.
“And then there were two,” I murmured, watching them from across the darkened expanse of the dance floor.
“We’re back up to three,” Plover said. “I just got the word that Gwenneth D’Amourre was spotted at the supermarket. She was very perturbed that they didn’t carry a particular brand of hairspray. The checker reported as much to the manager, who hustled her off.”
“Then she’s okay,” I said as we went over to the bar. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say she’s in good hands, but I’m not going to worry about her. We need to concentrate on nailing our homicidal friend. Impound the car Darla Jean drove that night and test the exterior of the trunk for Marland’s fingerprints”—I waited for a twinge of nausea to pass—“and the interior for blood. Once it’s matched with Meredith’s, we’ll have a decent case. Still a gawdawful mess, but at least it’s a beginning.”
“So it was all linked to Pineyville,” he said. “I suppose I was being foolish to harp on the other murder, although the similarity was hard to miss.”
I put an elbow on the bar and propped my chin in my hand. “I’d better call Detective Cannelli before too long.”
“To schedule your weekend of passion in Las Vegas?”
“I don’t think so,” I said morosely. “That place is as unreal as these people. No, I need to tell him who murdered the St. James woman.”
Plover stiffened, and if he’d been a hedgehog, he would have bristled. “Did St. James confess to you?”
“No, but the night of the murder he was sharing a room with Frederick, and started talking about his wife’s unilateral decision to have an abortion. It may have ignited something. Anderson’s afraid he doesn’t remember driving to L.A., but I think it’s more likely Frederick decided to save him the trouble of a divorce.”
“A real wacko.”
“The parallel between his mother’s story and the plot of Wild Cherry Wine must have hit him where it really hurt. That, along with the confusion of Gwenneth, his self-proclaimed sister, playing the role of Loretta, who symbolized his mother, and Buddy, his father, being her father … and poor Kitty, who made the mistake of making Buddy happy. Jesus, what a mess.” I was about to sigh when it hit me. I must have had a peculiar look on my face, because Plover narrowed his eyes and leaned away from me.
“What?” he said.
“What about Hal, to be precise,” I corrected him. “In Frederick’s grossly disturbed scenario, everybody was somebody else. The only person who was adamant about his position in the hierarchy was Hal Desmond.”
“Producer? Director? Dope king?”
“The company was just a big, happy family, and Hal seized numerous opportunities to cast himself in the role of its head. A regular Daddy dearest, demanding an incestuous and abusive relationship with his daughter, also known as Frederick’s sister. He not only demanded it, he flaunted it in their faces. I think Hal might have lived longer if he’d chosen another role for himself.”
“Other than Father Phallic, that is,” Plover murmured. He mulled over my theory for a moment, then said, “We’ll have to prove it, but at least we know whose prints to look for first. Frederick Marland really was out of control with all this swirling around him. Fathers, daughters, sons, and lovers. A saner man than he might have snapped, too, just from trying to keep it straight in his mind.”
“I’m sure his lawyer will be eager to mention as much. On the other hand, Frederick didn’t join Glittertown by accident, and he was careful to provide himself with alibis. He knew what he was doing—and why. The why is sick, but it makes sense.” I put my hand on my face and rubbed my temples. “The what isn’t all that charming,
either.”
Plover leaned over the bar and got me a glass of water. “Here, you look like last year’s laundry.”
“Oddly enough, that’s what I feel like,” I said. “Dirty and wrinkled and beginning to mildew.”
Ruby Bee approached cautiously. “By the way, you had a call while you were gone earlier. Les said to tell you he’d finally talked to the folks what live on the Hasty road. The wife let Billy Dick in to call the fire department, but at about the same time, the husband was driving up the road on his way home from Hasty, and he passed a skinny kid on a bicycle, going the opposite way and pedaling so hard his rear wheel was smoking. Thinks he can identify him if he sees him.”
“Bingo,” I said, although without enthusiasm. “One red taillight going over a hill. That’s a case against Willard Yarrow. Billy Dick’s not willing to take the blame; he must have suspected Willard was behind the fires.” I took a mouthful of water and let it dribble down my throat as I considered an unpleasant idea. “I’m surprised I wasn’t invited along on the so-called picnic. Willard was stalking me, and making sure I knew it by leaving little messages. It’s comforting to know I wasn’t paranoid.”
“Nobody accused you of that,” Plover said. “Well, except for the bomb squad. Your breathless demand that they examine the two cars with microscopes cost them several hours. All they found in yours was a loose battery cable. Oh, and tell Ruby Bee to have her oil changed and stop leaving apple cores under the front seat.”
“So I’m a little bit paranoid,” I said gracelessly. “Blame it on the lack of a father figure in my formative years, and congratulate me on becoming such a charming, intelligent, law-abiding person—compared to all these other products of dysfunctional families.” I finished off the water and banged down the glass so hard that everyone turned to stare at me. “I wish somebody’d tell me one thing: What the hell happened to Ward Cleaver?”
“Bring me a fresh compress when you have a moment,” Mrs. Jim Bob called from the living room to Perkins’s eldest, who was scouring pans at the kitchen sink. “I don’t remember when I’ve had such an excruciatingly painful headache—and it’s entirely the fault of those lascivious Hollywood people and their corrupting influence. To think they could pull the wool over Brother Verber’s eyes like that!”
Perkins’s eldest put the last pan on the counter, removed the plug, and listened to the gurgly water swirl down the drain.
“He never would have allowed nakedness in the house of the Lord,” Mrs. Jim Bob continued as she adjusted a throw pillow under her head. “He may have slipped on occasion, but he was truly repentant when I pointed out his sinfulness. He was grateful, too, although it was nothing more than my Christian duty. Are you bringing that compress?”
Perkins’s eldest went out to the breakfast room and looked at the couple in the backyard. Gwenneth D’Amourre looked real sweet as she lay draped in the hammock, and Jim Bob looked pleased as he sat close enough to rock the hammock and twirl golden curls around his finger. It occurred to Perkins’s eldest that the two might like some lemonade, so she slipped back into the kitchen and carefully opened the cabinet.
“You don’t suppose anyone in the Missionary Society’s going to look askance at me because my house was supposed to be in that filthy movie?” Mrs. Jim Bob said, sitting up so quickly that the folded washcloth fell off her forehead. She waited for a moment. “Well, of course you don’t know how anyone in the Missionary Society might react; I was merely airing my concern aloud. Membership is restricted to those women of the congregation who’ve shown unfailing piety and a willingness to aid the unfortunate.”
Perkins’s eldest fixed a tray and took it out to the backyard. She came extremely close to smiling when the actress cooed at the dainty linen napkins and the porcelain plate with artfully arranged lemon cookies, but she didn’t.
“I imagine you’re wondering how we display our Christian zeal,” Mrs. Jim Bob said. She held the compress to her forehead and, despite the flickers of pain, patiently explained to Perkins’s eldest how the society prayed for heathens and sinners everywhere for fifteen minutes straight before they broke for coffee and dessert.
Darla Jean reluctantly answered the telephone, not in the mood to talk to anyone and especially not in the mood to talk to Heather.
“Want to go shopping?” Heather began, even though she knew what the response would be.
“I’m grounded for the summer.”
Heather gave Traci a mischievous smile but turned on the sympathy as she said, “Oh, Darla Jean, that’s terrible. How come?”
“Because I had to go to the state police office to tell them about something, and my parents kept nagging until I told them what I said. That’s how come I’m grounded—as if you didn’t already know. Arly came by and talked to them a couple of times, so I may be allowed out of the house for the first football game next fall.”
“Is there any chance you’re … pregnant?”
“No.” Darla Jean hung up and lay back on the bed, thinking that famous Hollywood movie stars weren’t all they were cracked up to be. The more she thought about it (and she had plenty of time), the better Dwayne looked, and before too long she called him to tell him as much. Sad to say, access to her second-story bedroom window was discussed.
Kevin Buchanon held three large sacks emblazoned with the logo “Jim Bob’s SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.” When the door opened, he took a deep breath and said, “My beloved honeybee, I’ve brought you vanilla sandwich cookies, chocolate-covered raisins, a dozen doughnuts, a six-pack of orange soda pop, and all the cream-filled sponge cakes they had at the store. Please accept them and—”
He broke off as the sacks were yanked out of his arms, and he was still gaping as the door slammed in his face, missing his nose by no more than a scant inch. “Women!” he muttered as he trudged back down the road. “I just don’t understand ’em.”
“Did you come out of desperation?” Plover asked amiably.
“Yeah,” I said, settling my feet on the dashboard, “I did. Now that Glittertown Productions, Inc., is long gone and the fire department’s watching the ninth inning, there’s nothing else to do.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Oh, I tried to find Raz’s still yesterday, but he was crafty enough to move it. Ruby Bee said she heard it’s in a shallow cave toward the south end of Cotter’s Ridge. Estelle, on the other hand, heard it was near Boone Creek. Once my poison ivy eases up, maybe I’ll take another stab at it. Or let it go.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d come tonight,” he said.
He looked as if he had something more to say, but I didn’t want to hear any awkwardly phrased sentiments. I didn’t want to hear any elegantly phrased ones, either. I held up my hand and said, “Don’t forget I was reared on the timeless adage ‘Save the last dance for the feller what brung you.’ If you’ll turn up the speaker, I’ll share my popcorn.”
The opening credits of Tanya Makes the Team began to flash on the vast screen.
FADE-OUT.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Arly Hanks Mysteries
CHAPTER ONE
Ruby Bee squeezed by Perkins and perched on the edge of the pew next to Estelle. “You ain’t gonna believe this,” she whispered, her face flushed with excitement clear up to her grayish-brown roots. Her eyes glittered like little sugar cookies, and her best blue dress had been buttoned so hastily that her bust looked as lumpy as an ungraded county road. “Why, you could have knocked me over with a feather duster when I opened the letter.”
Estelle glanced at her out of the corner of her good eye. “It’s about time you got here,” she said. Her lips barely moved, and her tone made it clear that certain people’s disreputable appearance and lack of promptness would be discussed later. She herself was above reproach in her aquamarine dress with matching shoes and eyeshadow. Her red beehive hairdo towered less than usual out of deference to those in the pews behind her, but there were some fanciful ringlets below her ears and framing her face,
and the overall effect was appropriately festive.
“I’d say this letter’s a sight more important than an ordinary wedding, Estelle Oppers, and I don’t appreciate being scolded, neither. If you’re so dadburned worried about—” Ruby Bee stopped as she realized half of the congregation were openly staring and the other half pretending they weren’t but listening just the same. Even Brother Verber, his fingers entwined on his belly, was regarding her disapprovingly from the pulpit. She sat back and fumed in silence.
Having squelched the behavior in the fifth pew, Brother Verber figured it was time to get the show on the road. He nodded at Lottie Estes, who was sitting at the upright piano (the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall was not yet able to afford an organ, although another bake sale was in the planning stages).
Lottie stopped wondering what Ruby Bee was hissing about, poised her hands, and hit the keys with enthusiasm, if not accuracy. As the somewhat familiar strains of the wedding processional filled the room, throats were cleared, eyes turned misty, hands automatically fumbled for tissues, and everybody got down to the serious business of watching Dahlia O’Neill marry Kevin Buchanon. The general feeling was that both of them ought to listen real carefully to the vows before they took ’em.
“A lovely ceremony,” I said for the umpteenth time as I wiggled through the crowd at the door of the Assembly Hall. I was having to bite my lip to keep from giggling, but anything that involved Kevin and Dahlia was apt to amuse me, and bless their pea-picking hearts (and pea-sized brains), they hadn’t let me down. Three inches of the groom’s white socks had been visible below his pants cuffs, his knees had knocked so violently we could hear them, and he’d had to be coached word-by-word through the entire ceremony, including his name. The bride, a majestic alpine figure in her voluminous white tent dress, had gone along with the love and honor stuff, but turned ornery when Brother Verber suggested she ought to obey Kevin, clamped her mouth closed, and refused to continue until a compromise was reached in which she grimly agreed to hear him out even when he was “bein’ stupider than cow spit.”
