by Joan Hess
He stood up, but to my relief moved to the other end of the trailer. At worst, all he could do was pull pens out of the plastic holder in his pocket and hurl them at me like inky little spears. “It’s possible I had sex with her,” he said, “but I wasn’t responsible for her pregnancy. I took precautions.”
“Semen stains on the sheets, Justin.”
“She said she was on the pill.”
“How might this have worked? You told your wife you were going to Farberville, but instead went to the Flamingo Motel and poured enough alcohol into Gwynnie to silence her permanently. You then put her body in the trunk and took Chip into Farberville. Later, you left Gwynnie in the shack.”
“What shack?”
“The map’s on the web site, Justin. While you were fishing yesterday morning, whoever was maintaining this ‘safe house’ panicked and dropped Chip at the hospital.”
“I don’t even know what a ‘safe house’ is! I never saw the E-mail and I had no idea she was pregnant. I didn’t meet her at the motel. I didn’t kill her.”
“But you admit you slept with her?”
“Of course he did,” Chapel said as she came into the portable classroom and carefully locked the door behind her.
Inky little spears were one thing, bullets another.
Daniel smiled sadly at Miss Benightly, who was having trouble with the snaps on her brassiere. She was so blond, so svelte, so filled with enthusiasm for the less intellectual pursuits of life. He’d sworn to see her only twice a year, but what with Leona’s increasingly pervasive problems, he was tempted to rethink his vow. A sin was a sin, no matter how often it was committed.
“I may be up this way next month,” he said as he watched her wiggle—something she did with great charm. “Perhaps you might put me on your calendar.”
“Whatever you want, honey,” Miss Benightly muttered. “Aw shit, I think I broke a nail! If I did, it’s gonna cost you extra.”
“This is by far the stupidest thing in my entire life I’ve ever been talked into doing,” whispered Estelle as she and Ruby Bee made their way along the increasingly familiar road in the Pot O’ Gold. Most of the lights on utility poles had been used for target practice, and potholes were darn hard to see in the dark.
“Eula saw Seth leave Lazarus’s trailer, and he looked pained, according to her. Arly’s already searched there, but I don’t reckon she’s thought to search Seth’s trailer.”
“We don’t know anything about him, including whether he’s at home with a loaded rifle across his lap.”
Ruby Bee hung on to Estelle’s arm, as much to prevent a defection as to keep her footing. “All we’re gonna do is get close and take a quick peek in the window. If he’s not there, we’ll—”
“I’d like to think I know the drill by now,” Estelle said with a snort. “I hear there’s a cable channel called ‘A & E.’ Maybe they’ll start a new one called ‘B & E,’ featuring us. Each week we can break into a different trailer.”
“Nobody said we were gonna break into it. All we’re gonna do is peek in the window. I don’t reckon there’s any harm in that.”
“What good’s supposed to come of it? Just because Eula saw him earlier doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he remembered it’s his ma’s birthday. Maybe he was feeling the aftermath of a chili dog from the Dairee Dee-Lishus.”
“Keep your voice down,” commanded Ruby Bee. “There was something wicked going on in Lazarus’s trailer, and this boy named Seth was involved. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was the one who killed Gwynnie and kidnapped Chip.”
“And why would he do something like that?”
Ruby Bee tightened her grip. “If you don’t hush up, Idalupino’s likely to come barreling out of her trailer with a can of pepper spray.”
Estelle yelped as she stepped into a good three inches of slimy water. “For your information, Idalupino’s gone to Crosset on account of all the perverts lurking around here. Anyone with a brain half the size of a peanut would steer clear, but here we are, begging to get ourselves murdered. Pictures from our funerals will be showing up on the Maggody web site.”
“Here’s the trailer,” Ruby Bee said, “and the lights are off. You go around that side and I’ll stand on my tiptoes on the patio. If you see anything, hoot like an owl and I’ll find you.”
“I don’t know how to hoot like an owl any more than I know how to swoop down out of the sky and snatch up a field mouse.”
“Just do something.”
“It ain’t gonna be hootin’,” said Estelle, then began to edge around the trailer. She’d taken no more than half a dozen tentative steps when an explosive sound of gunfire erupted in the darkness behind her. A pinging sound against the siding suggested a bullet had been aimed in their direction. A second shot shattered the window above Ruby Bee’s head.
They had no choice but to duck under the trailer. The muck was no better or worse than either expected. It was getting old, though.
“Where did you get that?” Justin asked Chapel. “A year ago you organized a demonstration on campus to ban handguns. You and Armenia passed out flyers at the farmers market only last fall. Shouldn’t you put it down before somebody gets hurt?”
Chapel’s smile was chilling. “Somebody already got hurt, Justin.”
“Gwynnie, for instance?” I suggested, always helpful.
She aimed the gun at me. “Do you know anything about Gwynnie? As a feminist, I suppose I should have set aside my class prejudices and tried to help her reaffirm her identity as a worthwhile woman. She was one little bitch, though. Real women don’t betray each other, but she was intent on snaring Justin, no matter what damage resulted. Then again, we all have our goals, don’t we?”
“And what’s yours?” I sat down, not so much out of bravado as necessity, my knees having turned into something resembling Mrs. Jim Bob’s molded pineapple salad.
“I thought we could stick it out here for a year,” she said. “I was even thinking I might write an article or two about my experiences in whichever ring of hell this is. Assuming we survived, Justin would have a graduate post and we’d be able to escape into an intellectual community, where the most fiercely debated topic was not the need for a palace coup in the Missionary Society. We’d have children and a modest house with a driveway cluttered with tricycles and anatomically correct dolls. Once the children were of an age, I’d organize a community day care center, and eventually a cooperative preschool. Perhaps we’d get a grant and be able to open a private academy.”
“And Gwynnie was in the way,” I said. “How did you find out she was pregnant?”
Chapel laughed, but her eyes were filling with tears. “Gwynnie thought she was sending her little love notes to Justin, and receiving them from him.”
“She never said anything,” he protested.
“I doubt she ever said much of anything at the Flamingo Motel!” snapped Chapel, sounding the tiniest bit unhinged. “You and she were too busy for conversations, weren’t you? She only determined that she was pregnant on Friday morning. She was assured via E-mail that you were pretending to go to Farberville so that you could meet her at ten. ‘Don’t bring anything,’ the message read. ‘If you get caught sneaking out, you can say you were going for a walk.’ It was lame, but she wasn’t likely to win any international prizes in physics, was she?” The laughter was too shrill for a woman holding a handgun. Way, way too shrill.
“What about Chip?” I asked ever so calmly. “Were you planning to include him in the community day care and cooperative preschool?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I knew Justin wouldn’t tolerate having a baby for a year or two. A toddler might be different. They’re quieter and more interactive.”
“You didn’t think he’d wonder where this toddler came from?”
“I hadn’t quite worked that out, but once he found out Gwynnie was pregnant …”
“He’d feel obliged to do the right thing? Divorce you and marry her to provide for the baby, even if
it meant delaying his graduate degree?”
Justin moved into the middle of the trailer. “Excuse me? Shouldn’t I be included in this conversation?”
“I suppose so,” Chapel said sourly. “It’s all your damn fault, anyway. If you’d screwed around in high school like other post-pubescent boys, you wouldn’t have started panting when some marginally attractive young woman winked at you. You know something, Justin—you’re still a virtual virgin.”
We all froze as the door opened, proving you’ll never achieve a high level of security with what amounted to a flimsy storm door.
Jessie Traylor took a step or two, then saw the gun in Chapel’s hand. “Lab closed, Mr. Bailey?” he said in a voice that might have qualified him for the Vienna Boys Choir.
“For the time being,” I said as I tackled Chapel, who sprawled onto her backside. I retrieved the gun, then sat up and frowned at her. “Which of you was driving the four-wheel that night? When I cruised by, all I saw parked out front of your trailer was a battered compact. Trust me when I say it takes a serious vehicle to get that for up Cotter’s Ridge.”
Chapel sat up and glared. “When Justin came home and fell asleep, I drove back to the motel and tossed Gwynnie’s body in the back of the car. The next morning, I drove to the shack and left her.”
I took a deep breath. “So which one of you had sex with her that night—and left semen stains on the sheets?”
Justin moved away from me, which was for the best, since I was not disinclined to shoot him. “Maybe I was at the motel,” he said. “The E-mail was crazy, but if she really was pregnant, and I was responsible …”
“Then you’d have to kill her,” I said flatly, “which you did. You didn’t bring a quart of vodka on a whim, or fail to notice that you were pouring the booze down her throat after she passed out. You’re too much of a geek to cover your tracks. You’re damn lucky your wife came through.”
Jessie Traylor would have handed over a month’s salary to be anywhere else, but nobody was beaming him up. “He killed her just because she was pregnant? Chip’s a fantastic little boy. I would have taken them in and raised Gwynnie’s baby as my own. I may not have a college education, Mr. Bailey, but I ain’t a cold-blooded killer.”
I waved the handgun so that both of the Baileys understood they had no options. “No, Jessie, you may earn minimum wage and get your kicks at the pool hall on a Saturday night, but you’re not and will never be a coldblooded killer. Folks like Justin and Chapel assume they’re superior, that they shouldn’t have to suffer any consequences when their inferiors disrupt their carefully prepared plans. At this point, I’m not real sure which one of them killed Gwynnie—and I don’t care, since I can nail them both with conspiracy.” I stared at Chapel. “Were you really going to shoot a sister in the cause?”
“Yeah. There’s something about your scrawny ass that pissed me off the first day I met you.”
I was offended, but I did not, for the record, retaliate against Chapel in any way, form, or fashion. It is possible, however, that a number of cockroaches did not live to see the sunrise the next morning.
Life does or does not go on, depending.
Earl bit the bullet, in a manner of speaking, and called over to the house formerly inhabited by Kevin and Dahlia. “Lemme speak to Eileen,” he said when the latter answered. “It’s real serious.”
“Is something wrong with Kevin? Is he sick?”
“Just get Eileen, okay?” He picked at a scab on his arm until she came on the line. “This ain’t about me,” he said hurriedly. “There’s something strange going on at Jim Bob’s house. I called over at the supermarket, but nobody’s seen him all day. Kevin here says I shouldn’t call the fire department, but I ain’t sure. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, or so everybody claims.”
“What are you talking about, Earl?”
“A while back I noticed smoke coming out of a window over there. It stopped for a time, but it’s started up again. I figure Mrs. Jim Bob is in there.”
“Did you go over?” she asked.
“The doors are locked. I shouted, but she didn’t poke her head out the window. You think I ought to break down a door and barge upstairs?”
“How much smoke is there?”
“Not much, mostly little puffs. What if the second story’s liable to burst into flames any second? I was thinking she might listen to you and get out of the house.”
Eileen sighed. “Fetch the garden hose from the garage, just in case. I’ll be there in five minutes.” She hung up and took her car keys out of her purse. The twins and Chip were asleep, as well as Dahlia, who’d spent most of the morning throwing up in the bathroom and deserved whatever rest she could get.
Earl was standing by the mailbox when she drove up. “See what I was saying?” he demanded, pointing at the window in question. “It looks to be getting worse. I went back over and begged her to come out. Now I ain’t so sure she’s even in there.”
“Wait here.” She drove between the brick pillars and up the hill to the house and stood under the window. “Mrs. Jim Bob?” she yelled. “If you don’t answer, we have no choice but to call the volunteer fire department in Hasty. They’ll come tearing over here and park their pickup trucks all over your yard. I’d hate to see anything happen to these azaleas, but—”
Mrs. Jim Bob appeared at the window. Her eyes were red, most likely from the smoke, but she didn’t appear to be on the verge of passing out. “Everything’s fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine. What’s burning?”
“It’s under control,” Mrs. Jim Bob said firmly.
“Then if I come upstairs, you’ll let me in?”
“I know you’re acting out of Christian charity, Eileen, but this is not the moment. Maybe I’ll see you Wednesday at the potluck.”
Her head popped out of view. Eileen drove back to her house. “It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t know what all she’s doing, but it’s none of our concern. Don’t call Hasty unless the roof goes up.”
Earl scuffled his feet in the driveway. “I appreciate you coming like this. I wasn’t sure what to do. What if you and me go into Farberville and see a movie?”
“Where’s Kevin?”
“I sent him to get the hose. It’s like to be wrapped around him like one of those South American snakes. Guess I’d better fetch him before the breath’s squeezed out of him.”
She got out of the car. “No, you go put on some clean clothes and comb your hair if you want to be seen in public with me. I need to have a word with him.”
She found him in the garage. The hose was not attacking him, but somehow he’d managed to loop it over both arms and his neck. “Listen up,” she said, ignoring his bleats, “Dahlia has two things that are making her miserable, unless I count you. For one, she’s exhausted on account of not having a single decent night’s sleep for five months. From now on, Kevvie and Rose Marie will have to make do with bottles after bedtime—and you’re going to be in charge.”
“Okay, Ma,” he said as he tried unsuccessfully to squirm free of the hose. “What’s the other thing?”
“She doesn’t realize she’s pregnant.”
“She’s what?” he yelped as he lost the battle with the hose and fell back into a wheelbarrow. Once he’d struggled to his feet, he cleared his throat and said, “But she’s still breast-feeding. The nurse at the clinic told us that she couldn’t get pregnant until she stopped.”
“Stop by the SuperSaver on your way and buy a home pregnancy test. Buy some rocky road ice cream while you’re at it. You’re going to need it.”
Eula stood in the middle of the road, the gun wobbling. “Now that the moon’s full, you think you can sneak back here and murder us, doncha?” she shrieked. “I saw you sneaking by, you filthy animal! If you so much as stick your nose out from under that trailer, I’ll shoot you! We got no tolerance for this kind of behavior at the Pot O’ Gold. I’m not a good shot, but I got a pocket full of bullets and as much time as y
ou do!”
“This ain’t going well,” Estelle commented as she tried to find a more comfortable position.
Ruby Bee wasn’t doing much better. “She can’t stand there all night. I don’t want to think what she’d look like if she didn’t get her beauty sleep.”
“This is not the time for jokes, Mrs. Milton Berle.”
“It ain’t like we can play pinochle.”
Mrs. Jim Bob counted the socks laid out on her bedspread. She’d started with seventeen, each one black. No two had matched. They were of different lengths and styles, and in an amazing array of subtle variations of black, which heretofore she’d always considered a consistent color. Over the years, she herself had methodically thrown away seventeen socks because they didn’t have a match and Jim Bob had been a real stickler.
Seventeen socks, retired prematurely because he’d been leaving them in the bottom drawer of his dresser. How one but not the other was assigned to such a fate might possibly go beyond human understanding. She’d certainly never ask him.
But these socks had faced nothing more than a meaningless existence in a smelly drawer until she’d decided to liberate them, one by one, in the metal wastebasket. The negligee had gone first, of course, and she was down to the last six socks.
After she was done, she figured she might take a second look at all of his underwear.
It was after midnight when I left the sheriff’s department. Harve had shown up with a sunburn and a frown, but he’d lightened up when I assured him I would not attend any press conferences. Child endangerment, even if the child had never actually been endangered, always played well with the media.
Harve had pulled me aside and asked what I was planning to do in regard to said child. I’d shrugged, but I had a feeling Seth Smitherman would be over at the social services department bright and early in the morning, trying to establish paternity and take custody. Testing was likely to back him up, and no one else would be contesting it.
When I got back to Maggody, I swung by the Hollifleckers’ house. Daniel’s car was parked in the driveway. The upstairs was dark, but a light was on in the back of the house. I supposed Leona was too seasoned to play with matches.
