murder@maggody.com

by Joan Hess

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said as I grabbed for my shirt and jeans. “It’s a lot more likely that Gwynnie and Chip are at the bus depot in Farberville. I’ll call the sheriff’s department and request that a deputy go by. In the meantime, I’ll drive around the Pot O’ Gold, but I am not going to beat down any doors.”

  “She’s run off with Justin Bailey.”

  I made a last attempt to reason with her, although I could smell the alcohol on her breath despite the fact that we were talking on the telephone. “You have no cause to think she did, Leona. She’s liable to be on a bus, with Chip asleep in the seat beside her. Seventy-two hours from now, you can report her as a runaway. What does Daniel think?”

  “I’m not about to wake him up at this hour.”

  She seemed to have had no reservations about waking me up, I thought as I replaced the receiver. Gwynnie and Chip had vanished no more than two hours ago. For all I knew, she’d stuck him in a stroller and headed out for a long walk. It may have been rude of Gwynnie not to inform Leona, but hardly worthy of an APB. But there had been the incident at the supermarket a few days earlier. Chip was, as Gwynnie had repeatedly stressed, two years old.

  I dialed the number of the sheriff’s department. Harve and LaBelle were gone for the day, but some smart-mouthed adolescent said he’d make a note of my request to check the bus depot for a teenaged girl with a toddler. I stopped short of suggesting he take a class in civility at the community college—if it were offered, which it most likely wasn’t.

  It wasn’t a requirement at the police academy in Camden, for that matter.

  I was dressed and I was wide awake. The stoplight would continue doing its thing as it had since I’d moved into the drafty apartment with a primitive kitchen concealed by a shower curtain and a bathroom that might have disgraced a budget hotel in Calcutta.

  Leaving the cockroaches to frolic in my absence, I went down to my car and drove over to the Pot O’ Gold. Gwynnie and Chip were not sitting outside any of the dark trailers. If Justin Bailey had fled with her, his wife was not keeping the home fires burning, in any sense of the phrase. Lazarus’s motorcycle was parked beside his back door. Eula’s clothesline was devoid of unmentionables.

  I came to a stop to admire the full moon above the ridge. I wish I could say I came up with some poetic observations, but I was pretty much staring blankly when a heartstopping ululation shattered the serenity of the moment.

  Diesel was indeed likkered up, courtesy of Raz Buchanon, my least favorite moonshiner. It was a toss-up, but I vowed one or the other of them was going to be real sorry he’d ever been born.

  So many morons, so little time.

  8

  I knew what was awaiting me when I came into the PD the next morning. I dealt with the coffeepot, watered the yellow fern on my desk, randomly opened and closed desk drawers, waged a gut-wrenching internal debate whether or not to leave the front door ajar (Raz v. Mold, which will never make it to the Supreme Court), and finally punched the persistent red eye of the answering machine.

  “What the hell’s going on out there?” drawled Harve’s voice, sounding more peeved than Custer must have been when he led his troops over the crest of the hill at Little Big Horn and realized he had himself a significant problem. “As much as we’d like to cater to your ever’ whim, we don’t have the manpower to stake out the bus depot, fer chrissake. You got a runaway missing for all of twelve hours now? I got newspaper reporters breathin’ hot and heavy over a rash of stolen pickup trucks, not to mention a meth lab in Bedelia and a floater in the reservoir. Before you get all flustered, the floater’s been there for at least a month.”

  “And good morning to you, too,” I said as I filled a mug with coffee.

  Harve grumbled on. “One of the boys on the night shift went by the bus depot, but, needless to say, he didn’t find any runaway teenaged girls with toddlers. He did chance on a drug dealer we’ve had an eye out for, but don’t go thinking you’ll get any credit for it. I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with that would-be pervert you’re so fired up about. Sounds like you been out huntin’ the wiffle bird. Don’t call us; we’ll call you.”

  I rocked back in my chair and debated other possibilities. There were no more messages, which led me to think either Gwynnie had returned to the fold or Leona was too hung over to care. I was, however, concerned about Chip’s whereabouts.

  I let an hour pass before I called the Hollifleckers’ house. Leona answered just as I was about to give up.

  “Who’s this?” she demanded with enough hostility to cause Diesel to freeze in his tracks, if only momentarily. “If you’re selling something, I don’t want it.”

  “This is Arly. Have Gwynnie and Chip come home?”

  “No.”

  “Have you thought where they might have gone?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Gwynnie’s gone. It’s a shame about Chip, but there’s nothing more Daniel and I can do. She signed her contract with the devil. I’ll keep praying for her, although I doubt it’ll do any good. Will we be seeing you at the Missionary Society brunch this morning? Brother Verber let drop that his inspirational message will be about the use and abuse of the Internet. Even though I haven’t been going to the classes, I expect to find it very interesting. Mrs. Jim Bob and I may have our differences, but she was right to be worried about our youth. I know for a fact that more than one of the boys in the fifth-period class is finding his way to pornographic material.”

  “Let’s talk about Gwynnie and Chip, Leona. You mentioned a sister in Omaha. Have you called her?”

  “There’s no reason to do that. Gwynnie’s more likely to be headed for Las Vegas. Daniel tried to keep her focused on the GED, but she’s not interested in anything but sex. She had Jessie Traylor panting all over her not a week after she moved in with us. I don’t put much credence on her story about meeting him at the supermarket. In my day, girls met boys at school and at church, and maybe at the roller rink.”

  I forced myself to stay on topic, despite the urge to say something that might have been a bit off-color. “Wouldn’t Gwynnie have taken more than Chip’s blanket?” I asked.

  “She was real fond of dressing Chip up in clothes she found at garage sales and consignment stores. I have to admit I was surprised that she left all of them behind. She took the diaper bag and a bottle of apple juice from the refrigerator. It’s impossible to tell about toys; they’re strewn all over the house. We might as well set a washing machine on the porch and put a rusted pickup truck on cement blocks in the yard. Maybe we can rent some chickens to scratch in the dirt.”

  “What did Daniel say this morning when you told him?”

  “He left before dawn for a weekend conference in Springfield. There wasn’t any point in disrupting his plans. Gwynnie’s old enough to know her own mind.”

  “And Chip is two.”

  Leona remained silent for a long moment. “I’m sorry I called you last night, Arly. Gwynnie may be young, but she knows what she wants and how best to get it. All we can do is let her be, whatever may happen.”

  “And Chip is two,” I repeated.

  “She’s not going to let anyone hurt him.”

  As tempting as it was to tear into her with the fury of a hurricane as yet unnamed but destined for the annals of FEMA, I forced myself to take a couple of deep breaths. “She’s seventeen, Leona. She can’t vote, buy cigarettes, or open her own account on the Home Shopping Network, which we don’t get, but may someday. Don’t you think you ought to be worried about her and Chip?”

  “I am planning to spend the afternoon at the old folks’ home, helping them make daffodils out of tissue paper and pipe cleaners. If you want to spend yours hunting for Gwynnie, so be it.”

  “Okay,” I said, then replaced the receiver. They had last been seen less than twelve hours ago; no law-enforcement agencies would take heed for another two and a half days. Which would, of course, give Gwynnie ample opportunity to be three and a half states a
way. Which might be fine. Leona did not sound as though she were disturbed by the unannounced departure, and I certainly wasn’t.

  Or maybe I was.

  I left the unread newspaper on my desk and drove over to the Pot O’ Gold Mobile Home Park. Snotty-nosed children were hurling various things at each other; inquiring minds did not want to know what they were scooping out of polluted drainage ditches. Eula’s clothesline flapped harder than the flags in front of the UN building. Dogs looked ready to chew off my tires if I dared slow down. Men in torn undershirts and boxer shorts scratched themselves in the limited privacy of their patios. If ever there were an enclosure that should have been overshadowed by a nuclear power plant, it was the Pot O’ Gold. Mutations were already in progress.

  Justin and Chapel Bailey were renting a trailer once occupied by Vitrio Buchanon, who’d involuntarily taken up residence in the state prison some five years ago for digging up half the bodies in a private cemetery out past Hasty. He’d claimed to be investigating a miracle cure for impotency, but the county prosecutor hadn’t bought it. Pawnbrokers across the county had bought plenty of antique jewelry, however, as well as creepy little nuggets of gold and silver.

  I parked, stared down a child with a water gun until he dodged behind a tree, then knocked on the door.

  The woman who opened it failed to smile. “We’ve already had eleven invitations to area churches, from the Assembly of God to the Zion Fellowship Hall. I can assure you that we will not be attending any of them, or yours, either.”

  “I’m the chief of police,” I said, “and the PD can’t afford hymnals.”

  “Good. Arrest that biker down the road. He was roaring around half the night, and every coyote in the county was howling.” She gave me a dry smile. “While you’re at it, turn off the damn tree frogs.”

  “You’re Chapel Bailey?”

  “Arly Hanks, right? Come in and have some coffee. Justin’s off fishing. His only encounters with nature thus far have been to pay some kid to mow the lawn. Now he’s Stanley Kowalski, survivor of the Stone Age, bearing the raw meat home from the kill in the jungle. If he so much as holds up a dead fish, I’m on the night train to Memphis.”

  “Not into the rural thing?” I said as I followed her into the living room.

  “I throw up when I successfully swat a fly. Milk, sugar?”

  “Milk, please.”

  “Justin told me about you,” she said as she handed me a mug and gestured at the sofa. “Women are rarely given your position. Don’t you find your gender problematic when confronting dedicated male chauvinism?”

  “Nobody’s dedicated to much of anything in Maggody.” I took a swallow of coffee. “I was hoping to speak to Justin. Do you have any idea where he’s fishing?”

  “A couple of the high school boys picked him up this morning at a ridiculous hour. He said he’d be back by the middle of the afternoon, so we can rule out Canada and Key West. Other than that, I don’t have a clue.”

  “Has Gwynnie been by today?”

  “No.”

  The flatness of her response stopped me for a moment. All things were possible, but she should have been surprised, mystified, or offended by the question. As it was, I could have asked if she’d seen any birds on the power line.

  I changed the subject until I could get a better handle on her. “Are you finding ways to occupy yourself while Justin teaches all the classes?”

  “Well, let’s see,” she said rather sourly. “I declined to join the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, even though I was assured I could work in the nursery three times a week and teach the kindergarten Sunday school class. Leona Holliflecker invited me to attend her Monday morning Extension Club and learn how to make peach preserves, but I passed on that. Lottie Estes wants me to volunteer in the high school library twice a week, but I don’t think so. I’m expecting to be offered an apprenticeship to a midwife. I have, however, perfected the art of driving the four-wheel across Boone Creek, spewing crawdads into the woods. My next goal is to persuade Huckleberry Buchanon to build a raft so we can run off to New Orleans.”

  “Not so happy, huh?”

  Chapel grimaced. “Should I be? I haven’t had a single conversation requiring words of more than one syllable. Some feral maniac roots through our garbage can every night. Justin rarely comes home before nine o’clock. I spend the days with Oprah, Jerry, Judge Judy, and crude home videos of people crashing into boat docks and being hit in the crotch by projectiles. I would not describe myself as ‘happy.’ The word ‘suicidal’ comes to mind.”

  “I know what you’re going through. I grew up here. I spent a lot of time watching moss grow on the tree outside my bedroom window. I used to write stories that featured ‘Arly of the Amazon.’ I don’t think they were very good.”

  “I’m making too much of it,” she said, trying to smile. “Justin promises we won’t be here for more than a year. I’m hoping to take a seminar at Farber College this summer, and I can apply for a fellowship in the fall. It just seems as if every time I turn around, I encounter someone drooling—or a crawdad begging to be sent into the top of a pine tree.”

  “Could be.” I put down the mug. “Gwynnie and her child have disappeared, Chapel. I’m under the impression she’s been asking Justin for guidance. When was the last time she was here?”

  She thought for a moment. “A couple of nights ago.”

  “Not last night?”

  “No. After the class, Justin went into Farberville to drink beer with his friends from the department. I went with him a few times, but I couldn’t begin to figure out what they were even talking about. Frat boys fight over women in tight jeans; these guys go wild over esoteric things like systems applications.”

  “Did he say anything about Gwynnie before he left?”

  She shrugged. “He stopped to change clothes, took off, and came home shortly after one. The high school boys pounded on the door at seven this morning. He wasn’t pleased, but he yanked on some clothes and went off with them. I suppose he’s up to his ass in bass by now.”

  I gave her a moment to express some concern for Gwynnie and Chip, then said, “Justin didn’t mention anything about what he and Gwynnie might have discussed over the last few weeks?”

  “I think we can rule out astrophysics and Eastern philosophy.”

  I stood up. “Will you please ask Justin to call me when he gets back?”

  “Without fail,” she said as she picked up my mug and headed for the sink.

  Her back was toward me as I left the trailer. She clearly felt no sympathy for Gwynnie, but I could understand. My ex-husband had worked late many a night to counsel interns and promising young doey-eyed (but not doughy-thighed) models. He’d ended up with the twelve-piece setting of china, the sterling silver service, a signed Salvador Dali print, and a rent-controlled apartment on the Upper East Side, while I had two plastic plates, a fork and three bent spoons, a one-room apartment over an antiques shop—and a chance of regaining some self-respect.

  I had no idea what Chapel’s chances were, or Gwynnie’s, for that matter. For the time being, there wasn’t much I could do for either of them.

  “This is kinda fun,” Dahlia said as she dribbled chocolate syrup into a glass of milk. “We ought to rent some movies this evening. We can put on our pajamas and make up a big batch of popcorn.”

  Eileen shoveled a spoonful of strained beets into Kevvie Junior’s mouth, then took aim at Rose Marie, who was more finicky but temporarily affable. “We ain’t in middle school, Dahlia. You’re married, same as me, and our husbands are fending for themselves at my house. Neither of them is capable of heating up a can of soup. I love these little babies, but they should be spending time with their pa.”

  “He’s been comin’ by.”

  “That’s well and good,” Eileen said as she ducked a split second before Rose Marie rejected the beets in a forceful manner. “This can’t go on. Soon as we get the babies down for their naps, we need to sit down and talk.�
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  Dahlia’s chins began to quiver. “I don’t want to. You’ve been real good to come and stay with me, but if you reckon you ought to be heating up that can of soup, I ain’t here to stop you.”

  Eileen did as best she could to throw her arms around Dahlia’s broad shoulders. “We’ll just rent those movies and have ourselves a right jolly time. There’s no computer class tonight, so Earl and Kevin can have their supper at Ruby Bee’s. Soon as Rose Marie here stops sneezing and takes a few more bites, I’ll go down to the supermarket and buy the fixin’s for a tasty pizza. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Pepperoni and sausage?”

  Dahlia wiped her eyes. “I have a fondness for anchovies and black olives.”

  “Whatever you want, honey,” said Eileen, wondering why she hadn’t listened to her sister some twenty-five years ago and gone on birth-control pills.

  And gone off to California.

  “Did you hear?” Ruby Bee demanded as Estelle came clattering across the dance floor. “Gwynnie’s run away.”

  “’Course I did. Lottie called me while I was doing my nails, and not ten seconds after we hung up, Eula called to say how she saw Arly driving by on her way to Justin and Chapel’s trailer. I think there’s something going on here.”

  “Like what?”

  “How on earth should I know?” Estelle sat down on her bar stool, although she made it a policy never to drink in the morning, unless it was a cold day, in which case the sherry served to warm her innards, or a hot day, in which case liquids were all that could save a body from dehydration and certain death. On middling days, she figured it settled her stomach and prevented heart disease. Most mornings qualified.

  “Did Eula have anything else to say?” asked Ruby Bee.

  “Arly stayed for no more than fifteen minutes, then left. Chapel was standing in the kitchen in front of the window. Both their cars were there. She didn’t catch sight of Justin, though.”

  “You think him and Gwynnie ran off together?”

  Estelle regarded the ceiling until a glass of sherry found its way to the countertop in front of her. “No, it’s mighty hard to imagine. Justin’s in his mid-twenties, with a degree, and married. Now I have to say we haven’t seen much of his wife, but—”