by Joan Hess
One of the folks got a hard stare.
"Anything else?" I asked Japonica, who was looking rather bored by this time.
"No," she said. "Chief Sanderson's convinced he got drunk and assaulted the victim. We'll get it sorted out one way or another. Thanks for your cooperation." She smiled at each of us, then left.
"A lot of help you were," Estelle began belligerently.
"You planning to gripe much longer?" I said as I picked up my purse and made sure I had a key to the room.
"I'm coming."
We arrived at the hospital without further debate concerning Jim Bob's heretofore unacknowledged virtues or Elvis's fidelity. A woman in a pink jacket was seated at a desk just inside the lobby, resolutely defending the inner sanctum from light-fingered trespassers and misguided tourists.
"Are you looking for someone?" she demanded, making it clear she could see that we fell into one of the above-mentioned categories.
"We're here to see Ruby Bee Hanks," I said.
She looked at her watch. "Visiting hours begin at two o'clock. You're fourteen minutes early."
This was not Southern hospitality at its finest. "Okay," I said, "then I'd like a word with Dr. Deweese, her attending physician."
"Dr. Deweese is out on a house call. One of those trashy Claypitt girls insisted on giving birth at home. The midwife called an hour ago to say the baby was upside down and refusing to come out. Dr. Deweese had to set aside his lunch and go racing over to help. Claypitts are too miserly to come to the hospital like proper folks." She consulted her watch. "You've still got twelve minutes. Sit over there and I'll tell you when it's time."
Estelle may have wanted to argue, but I persuaded her to sit down on a molded plastic chair. After eleven minutes, we were told we could proceed to the ward where we would find our patient.
"At least Ruby Bee's no longer in ICU," I said as we walked down the hallway.
"I'm beginning to think this is some kind of prison camp," Estelle said, glaring at everybody we passed as if each was involved in sinister medical experiments. "What happens if you decide to die when it's not visiting hours? Is your family obliged to wait until the clock chimes before they can boohoo at your bedside?"
"Nobody's dying," I said evenly. "If you can't get that through your head, why don't you sit in the lobby?"
"Oh, Arly," she said, spinning around to squash me in a hug, "I never meant to imply that Ruby Bee was gonna do anything like that. I know you're worried. So am I, but we both have to believe that she'll be just fine. I don't know what else we can do." She released me and turned around, doing her best to square her shoulders and sound resolute. "After all, she's got a business to run, doesn't she? Where would all those truckers have lunch if not at Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill?"
"Yeah," I said as we went into the room.
Our topic of discussion was asleep. She still had an IV needle in her hand and an oxygen tube across her nose, but her color was better. I closed the drapes, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and gestured for Estelle to follow me back into the hallway.
"What do you want to do?" I said.
"What do you want to do? We can stay here, or go back to the waiting room and hope the doctor delivers that baby and shows up, or even go on to the hotel and wait there. I can't think straight anymore."
"Neither can I," I said as we walked through the lobby. "Let's both go watch that movie on cable and relax."
I doubted I was going to be able to concentrate on a movie, but I knew I would crack if I didn't try to turn off my mind for an hour or two. I drove back to the hotel, found a parking spot, and shook Estelle, who'd dozed off.
"We're here," I said as I opened the car door.
"And ain't we lucky?" She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothed her eyeshadow (purple despite her childhood trauma), and patted me on the shoulder. "It's gonna be okay, Arly. Ruby Bee will wake up feeling fine and demand to go home. The police will realize Stormy killed herself and release Jim Bob. Taylor and Todd will live happily ever after. As for the rest of them, I don't give a rat's ass. Do you think I could have room service send up a glass of sherry?"
"Sure," I said, wishing I shared her optimism.
We were walking toward the hotel entrance when Estelle grabbed my arm. "Would you look over there?" she said in a stunned voice.
Expecting to see Elvis in sequinned finery, I did as ordered. "At what?"
"That's the C'mon Tours van. The man in the cap is Baggins." She dropped my arm. "You stay and find out what Baggins knows. I'll meet you upstairs."
Before I could react, she darted between two cars, came damn close to sideswiping a bellman, and disappeared into the lobby.
11
I walked over to the man Estelle had identified in her typically theatrical fashion, as if Charlton Heston-as opposed to Moses-had descended on the scene with a matching pair of tablets.
"Mr. Baggins?" I said. "I'm Arly Hanks."
"I know who you are. Don't go thinking C'Mon Tours is taking any responsibility for this. Everybody signed a disclaimer that said whatever happens ain't our fault. There's no way we can be held liable if people get sick."
"Nobody's blaming you," I said.
"Nobody better be," he muttered. "I ain't never seen a group more cantankerous than this. The bickerin' started before we ever left Farberville. The professor wasn't making it any easier, I'll admit, but all of them were fussing every mile of the way to Memphis."
"At which time they discovered they'd be staying in a dump in the sleaziest part of town. My mother forgot to pack her bulletproof vest and sidearm. What kind of company puts clients in that kind of danger?"
Baggins looked away. "Elvis slept there. I told 'em that."
"And the overnight stay in Tupelo? Did he forget to sleep there?"
"Things changed. Say, how's your mama doing? I sure am gonna be sorry if she can't go back with us in the morning. She's a fine lady."
"I doubt she'll be allowed to leave for a few days, and Estelle will want to stay here with her. You know about Stormy, of course?"
"The police told me. It's real sad, her being so young and all, and C'Mon Tours will be sending a condolence card soon as we get an address. Listen, miss, I need to find an auto-parts store before we drive home tomorrow. You tell your mama how sorry I am about her ailment."
"I most certainly will," I said, smiling so sweetly my teeth ached. "By the way, I need to ask you about the man in the black car at the motel in Memphis. What's his name?"
"How should I know something like that? I don't work for the Memphis Welcome Wagon." He edged away from me as if I, like beef past its prime, had a pungent odor. "There's close to a million people that live there. I ain't on speaking terms with all of them. Why would I know what cars they drive?"
He was so nervous that I began to think Estelle might be onto something. I bore down on him and said, "Did he want to know where the tour group would be staying last night?"
"Why would anybody care about that?" he said as he continued to back away from me. "All he wanted to know was how to get on the road to Nashville. If I don't find a place to buy a fan belt, this van's gonna be dead as an armadillo on the interstate come noon tomorrow."
I grasped his shoulder. "I need to know if he's stalking Estelle. Who is he?"
Baggins flinched as my fingers tightened. "It don't have anything to do with Estelle, your mama, or you. Leave it at that. He's not somebody you need to cross paths with. His problem was with Stormy. Now that she's dead, he'll give it up and go home."
"Give what up?"
He squirmed out of my grip and gave me a churlish look. "Don't go trying to trick me like I just got off the turnip truck. It's nothing to do with you. When I get back to Farberville, I'll try to talk Miss Vetchling into returning some of the money your mama paid for the tour. She's tighter'n bark on a tree, but you never know."
He climbed into the van and drove away. I was thinking about what he'd said as I walked toward the
entrance. It sounded as though Stormy had been followed all the way from Farberville to The Luck of the Draw, where her luck had clearly and most sincerely run out.
I paused in the driveway to look up at the balconies on the eighth floor. The metal railings hindered the view but did not completely block it; voices, especially agitated ones, could have carried in the stillness of dawn. Japonica had no doubt recorded the exact words the witness heard seconds before the body came slamming down onto the pavement. Jim Bob's lawyer would be given access to her report when the trial date approached, but I decided to see if I could wheedle a copy of it in a more timely fashion. She wouldn't cooperate as long as she saw me as Jim Bob's staunch defender. I was trying to envision a way to inveigle my way back into her favor as I went through the revolving door.
"Arly!" shrieked Estelle. "You make him let me go or I'm gonna-I don't know, maybe I'm gonna do something we'll all live to regret!"
Mackenzie Cutting had her by the wrist. "Miss Hanks, approximately five hours ago you assured me that you would keep Miss Oppers out of trouble for a few days. I trusted you to keep your word. I think it would be better for all concerned if you and she checked out immediately and graced another hotel with your presence."
I stared at Estelle. "Now what?"
"I ain't saying a word until he lets go of me. He's gonna be darn lucky if I don't sue the hotel for a million dollars. Every time I turn around somebody on the staff's grabbing me and carrying on like I planted a bomb in a wastebasket?"
"A bomb?" said a cadaverous man in a lime green leisure suit.
"A bomb?" said the woman behind him, collapsing into a chair. "Julian, I need my pills!"
"No bomb!" Mackenzie yelled as the word began to ricochet around the room.
"We're all going to die!" screamed a women clutching a bug-eyed spaniel. She dropped to her knees and crawled under a table. "Oh, Bertie, Mumsy's so sorry she brought you here?"
"No bomb!" Mackenzie yelled once more, releasing Estelle in order to thrust his arms in the air. "No bomb! Nobody's in any danger!"
"Julian!" the woman sprawled across a chair screeched. "I am having palpitations! Call an ambulance!"
I caught Estelle and propelled her to the side of the lobby as the babble of voices grew louder. "Look at this," I said. "You were in here less than five minutes, for pity's sake! What did you do this time?"
"I'll tell you when we get to the room," she said haughtily, then removed my hand from her arm and strode toward the elevators as if she were Cleopatra boarding a barge. The queen of denial.
I looked back at Mackenzie, who appeared to be going down for the third time in a sea of panicky guests. His mouth was moving, but it was impossible to hear him in the increasingly frenzied din.
It seemed like the time for a prudent, if also cowardly, retreat.
The sheriff of Stump County, Arkansas, was counting the number of days until he could retire and devote all his time to fishing, when LaBelle clattered down the hall and commenced to rap on the door. He put aside the calendar, popped an antacid tablet in his mouth, and said, "What?"
"There's somebody to see you."
"I ain't here."
"I swear, Harvey Dorfer, if you keep this up much longer, I won't be, either. My sister-in-law makes better money at the poultry plant in Starley City, and all she has to do is pull out gizzards and livers. She never has to deal with task forces and bosses that hide in their offices while other people have to deal with the public. Are you gonna open the door or are you gonna sit on your fat butt and listen to me while I go down the hall and out the front door for the last time?"
Harve considered his options. "How much does she make?"
"That's it! As of this very minute, I am no longer an employee of this office. I am going to empty my desk drawers, rip up my time card, and go home to write a letter to the quorum court explaining why this job is unbearable. Your name is going to get mentioned more than once, Harvey Dorfer. I don't care if you're my cousin and your wife is having a bad time with her rheumatism and your son-in-law has so many speeding tickets that he could wallpaper his bathroom with 'em. My mind is made up. You can kiss my typing skills good-bye!"
"Aw, LaBelle," Harve said as he hastily unlocked the door, "you don't got any call to resign. What's going on?"
"A fellow calling himself Reverend Hitebred is sitting on the couch in the front room. He sez he'll sit there as long as it takes until you agree to hear him out. He has these creepy pale eyes and he stares at me like he thinks I'm doing the Devil's own work when all I'm doing is totaling up the monthly expenditures at the jail. I can't take any more of him."
Harve led her into the office and pushed her onto a chair. "You know you're the only one who keeps things running smoothly here," he said, going so far as to scoot a tissue box within her reach in case she turned weepy. "Soon as the task force gets some decent leads, they won't be here so much. I know for a fact that they're narrowing in on a couple of employees that didn't show up for work the day after the incident. Both of their apartments are under surveillance, and the minute either one of them comes home, we'll start getting some idea of what went on."
"I don't care," LaBelle said darkly. "It'd save us a lot of bother if they'd all shoot each other. That way there won't be any cocaine or crack dealers and we can go back to worrying about moonshine and marijuana."
"The good ol' days," Harve said as he sat down behind his desk.
"That's right."
"Along with polio, lead poisoning, bomb shelters-"
"I am not in the mood for this. You decide here and now if you're ready to resume your responsibilities. Otherwise, I may not enjoy plucking chickens, but I can do it. The going rate's eight dollars an hour, with benefits and two weeks' paid vacation."
The telephone rang. Harve looked at it, as did LaBelle. They looked at each other. The telephone rang again. LaBelle settled back in the chair and studied her fingernails.
Wheezing, he picked up the receiver. "Sheriff's office, Harvey Dorfer speaking."
He listened for a few minutes, making notes and mumbling, and then replaced the receiver. "That was the state police. Let everybody know to watch for a stolen vehicle. The driver is acting real peculiar, so tell 'em not to be heroes and get theirselves shot. All they should do is follow it." He handed her the slip of paper on which he'd written the license-plate number.
"Are they supposed to call the psychic hotline to find out what kind of vehicle?" said LaBelle, taking the paper.
Harve told her, then rocked back in his chair and felt in his shirt pocket for a cigar. Maybe he'd take his son-in-law deep-sea fishing down in Florida. There wasn't any way to get a speeding ticket for that, or so he supposed.
Rex Malanac was waiting by the elevators when I arrived on the eighth floor. "Oh, good," he said with all the cheerful sincerity of a telemarketer, "I was hoping I might catch you. Would you like to have a drink in the bar? I've been told they make passable margaritas here."
"Thanks, but I'm busy," I said, attempting to sidle around him.
He cut me off. "It'll do you a world of good to relax for a few minutes and stop worrying about your mother. I can give you some tips for the blackjack table. Do come down to the bar with me, Miss Hanks. I can assure you that I'm harmless."
In that we were the same height, I looked him in the eyes. "I said I'm busy. Is there something about this particular concept that baffles you?"
The elevator doors opened and Mackenzie Cutting emerged. "We need to talk, Miss Hanks."
Rex stepped into the elevator. "I'll see you later, then."
I waited until the doors had closed. "Have you heard anything more about the alleged homicide this morning?"
"As far as the casino is concerned, it was a suicide. Miss Zimmerman had emotional problems when she came. The croupier at the roulette wheel noticed how high-strung she was, and went so far as to suggest the pit bosses keep her under observation. This is meant to be a carefree place, Miss Hanks, where adults drink,
socialize, and play games of chance. When people begin to lose heavily, we discourage them from further gaming by cutting off their free drinks and their credit. Habitual losers who get in over their heads are barred from the casino and given information about Gamblers Anonymous."
"Stormy was losing a lot of money?"
"No, but she was in a foul temper. She complained loudly whenever she lost a bet and used language that some of her fellow players found offensive. After a streak of ill-fated spins, she called the croupier a 'limp-pricked penguin.' He was taken out on break and she was asked to find other amusements."
"Was she by herself?" I asked.
"Our policy is not to gossip about our guests. We have a clientele that includes politicians, celebrities, investment brokers, and so forth. We show them every courtesy, of course, but we never discuss their companions for the evening or their outcomes at the tables. They would hardly give us their business if they weren't convinced of our complete discretion."
"I understand," I said, "but this doesn't qualify as gossip. A man followed Stormy from Farberville to Memphis, and possibly here. The witness in the parking lot is convinced that she saw a man on the balcony. I'd just like to find out who he is and if he's involved."
"Then you'll have to ask Chief Sanderson," he said dismissively. "Shall we discuss Miss Oppers's latest escapade?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"From all accounts, she burst into the men's room around the corner from the reception desk. Several gentlemen were at the urinal. She grabbed one of them by the arm and spun him around. In that he was in the midst of… ah, relieving himself, it resulted in an awkward incident. I was on my way to my office when I heard shouting, and was about to enter the restroom when Miss Oppers ran out. I detained her until I could find out what was happening."
