Miracles in Maggody

by Joan Hess

  He pleaded some more, but her only responses were melancholy rumbles and an occasional despondent belch. He finally gave up and went into the kitchen to see what he could find to fix for supper. It wasn’t hard to see why she was suffering; the refrigerator was nigh onto empty except for carrots, celery, and the dried remains of a piece of fish neither of them had been able eat. The cupboards were empty, too. He himself had cleaned them out and taken all the cookies and chips to his parents’ house for safekeeping.

  “I have an idea,” he said from the doorway, hoping she’d at least look at him. “After the revival, we can stop at the Dairee Dee-Lishus and share an ice-cream soda. I know your doctor won’t like it, but a few calories is better than all this heartache.”

  “What if folks at the revival start whispering about how I’m a shoplifter?”

  “Why, I’ll slap ’em across the face,” he said gallantly.

  Dahlia opened one eye to regard him. The pregnancy made her sick to her stomach in the mornings, but it was making him downright manly. She wondered if she ought to ask the nurse about it.

  “Did you see the signs out in front of the Assembly Hall?” asked Estelle from the living room of the two-room unit at the Flamingo Motel. She’d arrived earlier than expected and was having to wait while Ruby Bee finished getting gussied up.

  “Can’t say I did,” Ruby Bee called from the bathroom. “What do they say?”

  “There’s gonna be bingo games every Sunday and Wednesday evening, with prizes and free popcorn.”

  “Isn’t bingo illegal?”

  “I ain’t a lawyer. Are you ready to go?”

  Ruby Bee went into the bedroom and clipped on the earrings Arly had given her for her fiftieth—or fifty-fourth—birthday, the number having been disputed. “Wasn’t there something on the news about the Veterans’ Auxiliary down in Little Rock being ordered to stop running their bingo games?”

  “It must have been before my time. What are you doing in there—giving yourself a manicure? If we don’t get there early, we’re liable to have to park in the back of the pasture. I’m wearing my new shoes, and I’m not about to go stepping in cow patties.”

  Ruby Bee tucked a scarf into her purse, hitched up her girdle, and came into the living room. “I told Arly about the passes to sit in the front row, but she turned up her nose and said she wasn’t going. I don’t know what’s gotten into that girl. All she ever does in the evenings is mope around that pitiful apartment of hers, watching television and reading magazines. What kind of life is that, I ask you? That’s not to say it isn’t a sight better than living in Washington, D.C., of course, but it’s got to be lonely.”

  Estelle was shaking her head as she stood up. “She sure isn’t gonna find a husband that way. Maybe you ought to convince her to talk to Malachi Hope.”

  “Are you out of your mind? I’d sooner try to convince her to go on a date with Diesel Buchanon, for pity’s sake!”

  “Is he still biting heads off squirrels and rabbits up on Cotter’s Ridge?”

  “When he’s not exposing his privates at the school yard.”

  Ruby Bee made sure the front door was locked and then climbed into the front seat of Estelle’s car. Shortly thereafter, they were waving at a sheriff’s deputy as they turned down County 102.

  “I for one disremember voting to have bingo games at the Assembly Hall,” Lottie said as she turned down County 102. “If Mrs. Jim Bob wants to give away a Mr. Coffee, she’s welcome to do it.”

  “Just because she’s the president don’t give her the right to act like a dictator,” said Elsie McMay.

  “Bingo is just another name for gambling,” added Eula Lemoy from the backseat. “And gambling is a sin.”

  Lottie hit the brakes as they arrived at the rear of a long line of cars and trucks that stretched clear to the low-water bridge. “You’d have thought Brother Verber would have objected to gambling in the sanctuary, but he didn’t say a word.”

  The conversation grew louder as the participants expressed their outrage. The fact that Lottie’s air conditioner wasn’t strong enough to ruffle a gnat’s hair was a contributing factor.

  “I still say we should have gone to the Assembly Hall,” said Eilene Buchanon as her husband turned down County 102. “We’ve been attending Sunday evening services for more than thirty years. We were married there, and Kevin and Dahlia were married there, too. You may not care all that much for Brother Verber’s long-winded sermons, but we have to remain loyal—”

  “The hell we do,” said Earl. “Besides, there wasn’t a single car in the parking lot. If everybody else is going to the revival, then so are we. Malachi Hope asked to give a presentation at Kiwanis next week. As the program chairman, it’s my responsibility to check him out. Besides, I’m partial to cotton candy.”

  “Oh, Earl …” she began, then conceded defeat and sank back into the seat. Sometimes there wasn’t any point in trying to reason with a Buchanon—and Earl was the product of third cousins once removed.

  Norma Kay watched the traffic crawl up County 102 as she waited on the porch for Bur to join her. He’d refused at first, but she’d kept at him until he agreed to attend this one time. After that, he’d growled, she could do what she damn well pleased but he was staying home.

  Not that she wanted his company, of course. It just didn’t seem fitting for her to show up by herself and have to find someone to sit with who wouldn’t ask where Bur was and was he sickly. Married women didn’t do that, except for morning coffees and meetings of the County Extension Club and Missionary Society.

  She was about to go back inside and holler at him when she saw Cory Jenks walking up the road. He looked real nice in a blue dress shirt and trousers; she didn’t want to think how slovenly Bur would look in whatever he found on the floor of the closet or in the clothes hamper.

  “Evening, Norma Kay,” Cory said as he came across the yard. “You and Bur going to the revival?”

  “If he gets his butt out here before it’s over.”

  He stopped at the edge of the porch. “Where’d that bruise on your cheek come from?”

  “I got all tangled up when I was pulling on my dress and lost my balance,” she said evenly. “Before I knew what was happening, I ran into the closet door.”

  “Like last time?”

  “Yeah, like last time.” She turned her face so the bruise was less prominent. “I’m surprised you’re coming to the revival, Cory. I’d have thought you’d be home working on game plans or devising new drills.”

  “I’m curious about this Hope fellow, and I hear his wife’s a real looker. Besides, the boys are in charge of parking cars and handing out hymnals. I thought I’d better make sure they all showed up sober.”

  Bur came out onto the porch, clearly uncomfortable in a white shirt and tie. “Why, look who’s here!” he said with facetious enthusiasm. “You and Norma Kay having yourselves a cozy little conversation?”

  Cory’s ears turned pink, but he held his ground. “Evening, Coach Grapper. Norma Kay and I were talking about the varsity team’s odds on a conference title. Did she tell you about that transfer student that can slam-dunk on a good day?”

  Bur slid his arm through Norma Kay’s and yanked her into step. “I can’t say she did, Cory. Why don’t you tell me all about him while we walk up the hill together? Maybe if we all three pray hard enough, you’ll be adding a big silver trophy to the case come next spring.”

  Norma Kay bit her tongue as they joined the parade heading up the hill.

  7

  The telephone jarred me out of a dreamless sleep. I fumbled my way from under the sheets to peer at the dial of the clock. It was a few minutes past 1:30, I realized as I lunged across the bed and grabbed the receiver.

  “What?” I demanded gracelessly.

  “Is this Arly Hanks?”

  “Except for the monsters under the bed, nobody else lives here. Who’s this?”

  “Malachi Hope. There’s been an accident.”


  I rubbed the grit out of my eyes as I tried to assimilate his words. “What kind of accident? What are you talking about?”

  “A suicide, I think, but you’d better get over here.”

  “Whose suicide? Get over where?” I said. “For that matter, how do I know this is really Malachi Hope?”

  After a pause, he said, “I met you in the tent yesterday afternoon. I was wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans, and you were visibly surprised when you found out who I was. You also express a certain degree of skepticism in regard to my healing powers.”

  I switched on the bedside light. “Okay, you’re Malachi Hope. Now explain what you said earlier.”

  “I don’t think I can explain much. I’m at the high school gym, using the telephone in the office. The girls’ basketball coach is—well, I hope she’s not a close friend of yours … because I don’t know how to put this any other way. She’s dead. Somebody has to do something.”

  “Are you sure she’s dead?” I asked.

  “I’m very sure, Chief Hanks. Otherwise I would have called an ambulance.” He gulped like a clogged drain. “Should I call the sheriff’s office?”

  I was already on my feet, pulling on jeans and looking around for my shoes. “Just sit tight, Mr. Hope. I’ll be there in less than five minutes.” I replaced the receiver, debated calling the sheriff’s office myself, and finally decided to see what the hell was going on at the gym before I called anyone. It was possible I’d fallen for a prank and would find myself in front of a locked building, cursing my stupidity while juvenile delinquents tittered in the brush.

  Four and a half minutes later I parked between a gold Cadillac and a less majestic Toyota. The door to the gym was unlocked. I eased it open and squinted into the dark interior, but all I could make out were oblique shadows and corners darker than the inside of a cow. A light was on in a room at the far end, however, so I took a breath and walked briskly across the court.

  Malachi Hope was slouched in a chair behind a cluttered desk, his forehead propped on his fists. Whatever evangelical finery he’d worn earlier had been replaced with a more secular sweater. As I stepped into the room, he stood up. “This is a nightmare, Chief Hanks. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before.”

  “Where’s Norma Kay?”

  “Come back into the gym and I’ll show you. I almost feel responsible for this tragedy. If I’d known how desperate she was …”

  He stopped outside the door to flick a switch. Overhead lights flooded the room with a harsh white glare that glinted off the varnished benches of the bleachers. Mutely he pointed at the basketball goal at the opposite end of the court. Below it dangled a body, toes just short of the floor. The bright yellow hair was distinctive, the bilious pink sweatsuit infamous. Nearby was an overturned stepladder.

  “Oh, my gawd,” I said. “Are you sure …?”

  “Yes,” Malachi said, resting a hand on my shoulder to steady either me or himself. “I forced myself to take a closer look. There’s no doubt she’s dead.”

  I pulled away from him, ran across the court, and halted beneath the body. As he’d said, there was no doubt, and there was no point in disturbing the scene and destroying what evidence might be gleaned. Once my queasiness subsided and my knees stopped quivering, I returned to the office. “What are you doing here, Mr. Hope?”

  “It’s a complicated story. Maybe you ought to call someone before I get into it.”

  I edged into the room, keeping an eye on him, and felt behind my back for the telephone. His face was pale, his eyes imploring, his hair rumpled as if he’d been running his fingers through it continually since he’d called me. Then again, he’d yet to explain what he was doing in the gym—beyond discovering Norma Kay’s body, that is.

  It took a lot of willpower on my part to turn around and punch the numbers of the sheriff’s office. After a certain amount of incredulity, the night dispatcher agreed to call Harve at home and let him know what had happened. I promised to wait by the telephone should instructions be forthcoming, hung up, and turned back.

  “Now, Mr. Hope, would you care to explain?” I said.

  “Call me Malachi,” he said in an unsuccessful attempt to evoke a sense of camaraderie. He gave me a minute to respond (I didn’t), then sighed and said, “Norma Kay Grapper has been writing me letters once a month for the last ten years, asking for spiritual guidance. I always tell my most loyal followers that I’ll meet with them for a private counseling session should the opportunity arise.”

  “That happen often?”

  “Not if it can be avoided,” he said dryly. “I’d forgotten that Norma Kay lived here, so it was a bit of a surprise when she told me who she was.”

  Deciding he was not going to fly across the room and attempt to throttle me, I risked sitting down behind the desk. I’d have thought he would have been a garrulous witness, eager to dominate the exchange with long-winded speculation, but it looked as if getting information out of him was going to be like pulling dandelions out of sun-baked ground. “When was that?”

  “Friday morning. Chastity supposedly came here to shoot baskets with some local girls. I needed to speak to her, so I drove over and ended up talking with Norma Kay. She was overly emotional, I’m sorry to say, and I deeply regretted my presence.”

  “Was that the last time you spoke with her?”

  He sat down on a bench and rested his head on the wall. “She wanted to schedule a counseling session, so I told her to call Thomas. She did, and according to him, she was almost hysterical. He made it clear he could do nothing until Monday morning and promised to call her back. That was the end of it until earlier this evening, just before the revival. Were you there?”

  “No, Mr. Hope, I was not.” And damned if I was going to apologize, either.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said with a small smile. “Anyway, Norma Kay asked one of the ushers to deliver a note to me. In the note, she begged me to meet her here at midnight to discuss something of a critical nature.”

  “So you came here at midnight?”

  “I wasn’t going to come, but I started feeling guilty about her waiting for me in some dark, deserted building. I arrived about ten minutes late, came inside, and found her in the office, bawling her eyes out.”

  When he failed to continue, I said, “Why was she doing that?”

  “Now that she’s beyond caring, I don’t suppose there’s any reason to bring up the issue of confidentiality, is there?” he murmured, wincing as he glanced at the door to the gym. “She was having an affair with a local man. She’d been trying to end it for some time because she knew it was sinful, but he refused to leave her alone. She was also terrified her husband suspected something was going on. He doesn’t sound like an amiable person.”

  “No, that he’s not,” I said as I found a very dull pencil and wrote “12:10” on a scrap of paper. “Who was the lover?”

  Malachi shrugged. “She didn’t mention his name, but I would imagine in a town this size … Anyway, she carried on for a while, moaning about her sin and begging me to absolve her. I finally told her that her only chance to find inner peace was to break off the affair, confess to her husband, and put her excessive energy into charitable work. I even offered to let her do some office work for us during the week, although I wasn’t sure how Seraphina and Thomas would feel about that. When I left at 12:30, she was much calmer and seemed resolved to take my advice.”

  I dutifully scratched “12:30” on the paper. “You left her here by herself? Wouldn’t it have been chivalrous to escort her to her car and make sure she got home safely?”

  He stood up and came over to the desk, his face distorted with anguish. “Don’t you think I realize that now? Of course I should have insisted that she leave at the same time! I suggested it, and when she said she had work to do, I offered several times to wait until she was ready to go home. She remained adamant that I leave. I drove back to the RV and watched for headlights in her driveway. I finally came back to make s
ure she was all right.”

  “The door wasn’t locked?”

  “No, but when I left the first time, she walked with me to the exterior door and locked it behind me.”

  I heard cars arriving outside the gym. Leaving Malachi to assess his guilt, I went to meet Harve and whichever deputies he’d brought along.

  “Hanged herself, did she?” Harve said, gazing at the body. “What’s that she used?”

  “A cord,” one of the deputies volunteered.

  I pulled Harve aside and gave him a summary of what Malachi had told me. We agreed further interrogation could wait while we dealt with the corpse. It was time for photographs, fingerprints, telephone calls, and a visit from McBeen, who was a long cry from Marcus Welby. In fact, he was rumored to be the crabbiest county coroner in the entire state.

  Lucky us.

  Long about sunrise, I knocked on the Grappers’ front door. Blistering heat would descend by mid-morning, but now it was nippy enough to make me wish I’d grabbed a jacket when I left my apartment. I stuck my hands in my pockets and turned around to look at the scruffy yard and neglected flower beds. Down the road a piece was a weathered house set among scrub pines, weeds, a pile of busted chicken crates, and tires (traditional landscaping in Maggody). Parked in front was a dark pickup truck with a well-stocked gun rack across the back window. After a moment of reflection, I remembered it was the Jenks place, currently occupied by the prodigal son.

  The door opened behind me. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  I gave Bur a minute to recognize me, identified myself when he didn’t, and then said, “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mr. Grapper. May I come in?”

  “Hell, no. I ain’t in the mood for company. State your business and be on your way.”

  “Your wife’s body was discovered in the high school gym.”

  My blunt recitation gained me entry to the living room, although not an invitation to sit down. I did so anyway, waited until he’d taken a seat across from me, and studied his face for any flicker of emotion whatsoever. When none was forthcoming, I said, “She was hanging from the basketball goal. Her body will be sent to the state lab in Little Rock to determine if it was a suicide. Someone will notify you as soon as we hear anything.”