murder@maggody.com

by Joan Hess

  “This reception’s in the vestibule?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow evening right after the first class. This will give us an opportunity to evaluate the young man and his wife. I know that I voted in favor of the computer lab, but I have reservations.”

  He gulped. “Where?”

  “In my heart.”

  “I knew that,” he said as he forced himself to dismiss all thoughts of a budget motel with a bed that’d jiggle for fifty cents. “You still think they might be bringing in images of naked women? Sister Barbara, we cannot allow this. Our youngsters are already tempted by Satan hisself most every weekend on the banks of Boone Creek, right through winter. I’ve found blatant evidence of behavior that would make you cringe with disgust. Moses might as well have brought those tablets into the high school gym and smashed ’em on the floor right in the middle of a pep rally.”

  “I suppose,” she murmured, looking at her list. “Lottie has given me the names of those signed up for this adult class. As soon as I get home, I’ll start making calls to let them know about this little reception. It seems to me we’re all entitled to take a close look at Justin and Chapel Bailey before we just hand over the power to control our moral standards. They could be Democrats, you know, or even atheists.”

  “You don’t think …?”

  “It’s possible. That’s why you and I are gonna be in that computer lab every evening during the classes. I don’t see how we can keep an eye on the high school students, but we can make sure that Satan isn’t sending subliminal messages to the likes of Kevin and Dahlia.”

  Reeling with something akin to terror as he envisioned said couple in the very claws of Satan, Brother Verber resorted to mopping his forehead. “Subliminal messages?”

  “I read in a magazine how images can be flashed in front of you so fast that you don’t even realize that your brain is recording them. They used to do it in movie theaters to trick you into buying popcorn.”

  “And now they’re doing it on the Internet? Selling popcorn—and worse?”

  “I don’t know why not. We’re gonna be linked to places all over the world. We may have the Smithsonian Museum on the one hand, but we may have darker forces, too. I know I’d sleep better if Justin Bailey can convince me that I won’t be subjected to split-second messages encouraging me to rip off my clothes and commit wanton acts.”

  “Wanton acts?” croaked Brother Verber, his throat constricted with panic as he envisioned the unthinkable, only some of which involved Sister Barbara and her blessed endowments of femininity. “You think everybody in Maggody is on the brink of diving into the abyss of depravity? I think we’d better kneel together and seek the Lord’s guidance, Sister Barbara. I am beside myself with concern. All I have is my certificate from the seminary in Las Vegas, and most of their lessons involved establishing a tax-exempt house of worship. I should pull out my Bible right this minute and seek—”

  “This is no time to get agitated. I will take it upon myself to determine if these college-educated people are the sort we want to join our community. Lottie may have her classroom and her computers, but I assure you that I’ll have the last say.” She put aside her pencil. “I am, after all, Mrs. Jim Bob.”

  Brother Verber nodded distractedly, his mind racing as he imagined Eileen Buchanon leaping up from in front of a computer, shrieking in ecstasy as she whipped off her blouse and even going so far as to undo her brassiere. Earl dropping his pants to display his manhood. Dahlia tossing aside her tent dress to expose three hundred pounds of undulating flesh. Eula holding up her skirt as she danced on the desk. Sister Barbara herself flashing firm thighs and undeniably jaunty breasts. The portable classroom literally rocking as the bowels of hell erupted beneath it.

  It was too much to bare, so to speak.

  “Tell me more about these so-called subliminal messages,” he begged. “I won’t be upholding my duty as a moral figurehead if I don’t know what all to expect.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob picked up her list. “Expect about a dozen folks tomorrow night at eight-thirty in the vestibule. Make sure the card table’s sturdy. My punch bowl was an inheritance from my great-aunt. I’d had my eye on her silver tea service, but that went to a cousin over in Batesville. I’d be real surprised if she didn’t pawn it on her way home.” She paused, thinking dark thoughts about Batesville white trash, then said, “I’ll trust you to come up with something decent.”

  Brother Verber wheezed an assurance, although, for the record, he hadn’t the foggiest idea where to find a card table, sturdy or otherwise.

  I should have hauled Lazarus over to the Stump County jail and demanded that he be booked for irritating me, which surely qualified as a high crime, or at least a misdemeanor. I should have detoured long enough to disarm Eula Lemoy and give her a stern lecture about handgun safety. And I should have taken the next flight out of the Farberville airport to any destination at least five hundred miles away. While crammed in steerage, my knees under my chin, a cabin attendant determined to make my flight pleasurable with a complimentary beverage and six honey-roasted peanuts, I could have used the time to consider the wisdom of coming back to Maggody. In all reality, you can come home again. You can also poke yourself with a rusty nail.

  When I got back to the PD, I started a pot of coffee and called the sheriff’s department. “Hey, LaBelle,” I said politely, “how are you today?”

  “Fine, thank you, if you don’t count the fact that my sister-in-law just ran off with a Rotarian.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I seem to think he was selling used cars out by the highway to Siloam. His wife happens to be a member of my church. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say this Sunday when she prances up in her tacky pink maternity dress and asks me what’s going on. I’m not hardly my brother’s keeper, so why should I be expected to be my sister-in-law’s keeper? I can’t even keep a Chia pet alive for more than a week.”

  “Maybe this is the time to drive up to Branson and have a nice Sunday brunch,” I suggested.

  LaBelle snuffled. “I am not the sort to abandon my responsibilities. If I don’t tackle the sixth-grade Sunday school class, no one will. Unlike some folks that have no compunction about running off to places like New York City, leaving their mothers to toss and turn like—”

  “Is Harve there?”

  “You want to speak to him?”

  “That would be the reason I called, LaBelle,” I said with commendable restraint. Although LaBelle is Harve’s cousin, she has many a Buchanon lurking in her lineage.

  “What’s your problem, missy?”

  “My problem is that I want to speak to Harve. If I have to go into Farberville and come bursting through the doors like a crazed Roto-Rootarian, I will do so. Your hair will never be the same.”

  “I swear, you must have been raised in a barn. All I was doing was sharing my concerns, but you up and—”

  “Harve?”

  “Oh, all right!”

  She put me on hold for a good five minutes, but eventually he came on the line. “You got any leads on those truck thieves? That justice of the peace out in Hasty is carryin’ on like a stuck pig. All they did was take his four-wheel out of his front yard while he was at church, but you’d think they’d hog-tied his granny and left her in her skivvies on the porch swing.” He exhaled noisily. “Not that either of us wants to envision that. Soaking wet, she don’t weigh but eighty pounds, and she’s ninety-seven if she’s day. You ever seen a sweet potato that’s been left in the back corner of a cabinet for six months? ‘Puckery’ don’t begin to describe it.”

  “No, I don’t have any leads, but give me a break, Harve,” I said as I rocked back in my chair and gazed, as I was inclined to do, at the water stains on the ceiling. One of these days I’d end up with a deluge of Spackle on my face, but, hey, life’s ripe with potential.

  I told him what had or hadn’t occurred at the SuperSaver, then added, “I need you to run a motorcycle license plate for me. Based on our less-
than-satisfactory interview, I think the guy’s likely to be harmless. However, I’d like to confirm he isn’t a convicted child molester who served a few hours of his sentence and is out here on probation.”

  “You just said the little boy wasn’t harmed.”

  “I know I did,” I said, “but Lazarus was seen in the vicinity, and he made me uneasy. There are lots of unsupervised kids in the trailer park. Will you please run the plate and get back to me?”

  “I can have him picked up for questioning if you’re all this concerned. I can’t promise you we’ll return him in good shape, though. One thing my deputies don’t tolerate is child molesters. A goodly percentage of ’em have to be taken by the emergency room before they can get booked.”

  “I don’t think he did anything. He was evasive and decidedly peculiar, but those aren’t crimes. Run the plate—okay?”

  Harve chuckled. “Anything to cooperate with a fellow law-enforcement agent. You planning to visit chop shops any time soon?”

  “Hell freezing over any time soon?” I responded sweetly, then replaced the receiver and headed for the back room to fix myself a cup of coffee. I was stirring in powdered creamer when the door of the PD banged open.

  Ruby Bee came skittering in, her face flushed as if she’d just peeked inside Raz Buchanon’s bedroom window and learned once and for all what went on between him and his sow on a Saturday night.

  “Half the town’s been trying to call you,” she said between labored gasps. “Gunfire at the Pot O’ Gold! I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen! Eula’s likely to be dead by now. Estelle’s down by the cattle guard, but she swore she wouldn’t set foot any further until you got there. For once, you’d better take your gun!”

  “Gunfire?” I said.

  “Like when people shoot guns at each other. You want to yammer about it or get yourself over there?”

  “Who’s doing the shooting?”

  Ruby Bee yanked the cup out of my hand: “Estelle is there, Arly. I don’t know why, but she is. What do you aim to do about it?”

  “I don’t have a clue unless you tell me what’s going on,” I said as I backed away from her. “Why don’t you take several deep breaths and explain?”

  “Listen here, missy—get yourself over to the trailer park right this minute!”

  I was propelled into my car. I drove to the Pot O’ Gold and stopped at the arch.

  Estelle popped up like a resident groundhog. “Thank gawd you’re here,” she said, hanging on to my car as if it were an ambulance on a battlefield strewn with bodies. “People are killing each other. Any minute now they’ll be hurling grenades. After all these years, you’d think the Pot O’ Gold would be a quiet, respectable place to live, but—”

  “Why are you here?” I demanded.

  Estelle straightened up so she could look down her nose at me. “I did not come by to snoop, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just thought I’d remind Eula that I’m having a discount on manicures next week, this being a slow time and all. It was such a nice day that I thought I’d walk, despite the arthritis in my knees. It can happen no matter whatever your age is, I’d like to point out. It’s never too early to take preventative measures. I’m planning to carry a wide variety of all-natural herbal remedies that—”

  “Let’s go back to bullets and grenades. Is Eula taking potshots at her neighbors?”

  “Somebody is,” Estelle said grimly. “You can hear it from here.”

  And I could. The shots were sporadic, but fairly persistent. There were no indications of more significant explosives. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?” I asked.

  She shook her head so hard her hair swayed. “Like I said, I was just out taking a walk when I realized what I was hearing. I ran across the street to the pool hall to call you, but your line was busy. I finally called Ruby Bee and told her to fetch you at the PD. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You did just fine,” I said as I studied the road into the Pot O’ Gold. No children were riding bikes or playing catch. The swaybacked aluminum chairs were unoccupied. Doors were closed, curtains drawn. The haggard dogs that usually skulked in the weeds surrounding the trailers were elsewhere. Perhaps wisely so.

  I caught Estelle’s wrist. “I’m going to see what’s happening. If I encounter a problem, I’ll honk my horn. That’s your signal to call the sheriff’s office and request support. Don’t let LaBelle argue with you—okay?”

  “I don’t think that’s a real good plan. What if you get shot or something? There you’d be, seeping like a slab of raw meat, while Lazarus makes his escape. He could be in the next county before Harve Dorfer shows up.”

  “Got a better plan?” I said, hoping she did.

  She shrugged. I gave her a crooked smile, then drove into the war zone. The gunfire was not emanating from Eula’s or Lazarus’s units. Johnna Mae Nookim and her brood had moved out a year or so ago, according to Ruby Bee; the unit appeared to be unoccupied. The late Jaylee Withers’s trailer had so many tricycles and bicycles outside it that a platoon of pint-sized clowns might have taken up residence.

  Not that I was in the mood to be entertained, had any of them ventured outside.

  I kept on driving, albeit slowly, all the while coaching myself to dive like a loon if need be. Courage is best left to miniseries heroines confronted by terminal diseases; I had no intentions of sacrificing myself for a drunk with a deer rifle.

  Which is what I found at the trailer closest to the back fence. A guy most likely in his early twenties, with unkempt brown hair, baggy jeans, a T-shirt too faded to be read, and a discolored John Deere cap, stood on the small patch of grass, taking shots at a line of beer bottles set on the top rail of the fence. My dear friend Lazarus was observing him from beneath the shade of a sickly pine tree.

  I got out of my car and approached cautiously. “What’s going on?”

  Lazarus took a swallow of beer. “Don’t distract him. He’s up for an Olympic medal, or so he thinks. It’s like the triathlon or something. After he blasts enough beer cans, he’s gonna swim Boone Creek and then run to the Missouri line.”

  “Who is he?” I asked as I watched the guy reload the rifle.

  “Name’s Seth,” Lazarus told me. “I don’t reckon I know how he achieved Olympian status, living here and all. He moved in a couple of days ago, and now he’s going for the gold. Commendable, if you ask me.”

  The rifle fired and a beer bottle splintered into the pasture beyond the fence.

  “Gotcha!” said the alleged athlete, who was visibly unsteady on his feet (and possibly elsewhere). “Don’t the rest of you go thinkin’ you’ll be safe any time on account I’m gonna blow ever’ last one of you to Kingdom Come. Ain’t no point in beggin’ for mercy, neither. I drunk you, and I have no choice but to kill you so you can’t testify against me.”

  I moved in. “It’s illegal to fire a gun inside the city limits,” I said as I grabbed the barrel of the rifle.

  “City limits of what?” he replied with an unfocused stare. “Who are you, fer chrissake—the beer angel? As you can see for yourself, most of them are doing just fine. I ain’t hit no more than two of them this whole time. Now if you’ll just let loose and back away, I feel the Lord is with me.”

  I tightened my grip as he tried to pull the rifle free. “I realize that there’s nothing beyond the fence but a pasture and some scrawny cows. Believe it or not, you’re still within the city limits. The circuit judge takes a real dim view of citizens engaging in activities that may threaten the well-being of their neighbors. Firing a weapon is right at the top of the list.”

  “This ain’t a weapon,” he said. “This is my cousin Kyle’s new Remington. He brought it out so I could try it.”

  “Where is he?”

  Seth sniggered like a fifth-grader. “He got some chili fries at the Dairee Dee-Lishus, but they didn’t agree with him. Last time I went into the trailer, he was clutching the toilet for dear life. You’re welcome to go on in if y
ou want. Now if you’ll kindly remove your hand, I’d like to—”

  It took little effort to remove the rifle from him. I gave him just enough of a shove to send him sprawling on his butt. “Let me see some identification,” I said.

  “You say that to all the guys?” drawled Lazarus. “Is the Pot O’ Gold the local version of a singles bar? I’m a Capricorn, if that matters, and I just love to take long walks in the rain.”

  I tossed the rifle in the backseat of my car and grabbed Seth’s ankle. “Start explaining.”

  “Kyle ain’t gonna like that. He only bought it day ’fore yesterday at a gun show in Springfield. Claims he paid a hundred dollars, but as far as I can tell, the sight’s way off. If he thinks he can get a deer with that piece of crap, he might as well close his eyes.”

  I realized the guy was far too drunk to offer anything marginally coherent. My choices were, alas, to leave him in the muddy grass or haul his sorry ass into Farberville, book him, and fill out yet more paperwork. You never see cops on television filling out paperwork, but bear in mind the show’s only on once a week. The other six days of their fictitious existence are occupied with paperwork. High drama it’s not.

  “How old are you, Seth?” I asked, my foot planted on his back as I felt his back pockets for a wallet.

  “Twenty come May.”

  “And your last name?”

  “Smith.” He wiggled free and sat up to give me a wounded look. His features were even, his hair hacked off at his ears, his complexion comparable to raw biscuit dough. A jagged scar on his forehead and a bump on his nose suggested he’d been in a fight or two. I had a feeling he hadn’t fared well, but the justice of the peace’s granny could have gone a round or two with him and come out on top.