by Joan Hess
None of this would be cheap, he’d warned them as ushers passed out brochures, but he’d prayed long and hard and felt sure it could happen—if the folks in the tent would help Jesus. After another round of the buckets, everyone had been blessed and promised a featured role in Malachi’s prayers. The curtain closed, the music faded, and overhead lights came back up. Ushers began to push wheelchairs toward the door, although I noticed that several occupants preferred to walk.
Mrs. Twayblade waylaid me outside the tent. “Mrs. Teasel is spending a few days at the hospital, but the doctor said she didn’t suffer any serious injuries. It wasn’t my fault that she wandered off, you know. I try as hard as I can to take care of my patients. I not only see to their health but also provide crafts projects and a variety of seasonal activities. I can’t lock the exits or chain folks to their beds. There’s a door at the end of every corridor, and—”
“I didn’t say anything was your fault,” I said as she glared at me like a protective hen, “but you’re going to have to find a way to keep Mrs. Teasel from doing this again. Lottie Estes has never driven over twenty miles per hour in her life. Truckers and tourists are another matter. We don’t want Mrs. Teasel to share the same fate as Raz Buchanon’s dog.”
“Which was?”
“Roadkill,” I said glumly, then watched her scuttle away to gather up her gray-haired chicks and hustle them into a large van. I started once again toward my car at the bottom of the hill, but before I could make my escape, Ruby Bee appeared on one side of me and Estelle on the other.
“I told you to come by the barroom,” Ruby Bee said, “and I left half a dozen messages on that answering machine of yours. It seems to me with two murders in the last twenty-four hours, with Lottie running over that old lady, and who knows what else going on in Maggody, you might be more concerned with doing your job than gallivanting all over the place.”
Estelle poked my arm. “Your mother and I sacrificed half the day trying to assist you, and then you don’t have the common courtesy to—”
I held up my hands. “I can assure you that I have not been neglecting my duty. What’s got the two of you stirred up like hornets?”
“Estelle learned something important,” Ruby Bee said with a sniff. “Because of its nature, I didn’t want to say anything about it on the answering machine. You never lock the door at the PD, so anyone could waltz right in and listen to your messages.”
“And what a thrill that would be,” I said. “It’s late and I had all of two hours of sleep last night. Tell me whatever it is that’s so important and let me go home.”
Estelle looked at Ruby Bee. “Maybe we should put it off until Arly here has a good night’s sleep. We don’t have any call to burden her when she’s tired.”
“Just tell me,” I said.
Ruby Bee opened her mouth, but Estelle leapt in first. “I happened to be at Cory Jenks’s house earlier today. I wanted to ask him something, but before I could get out more than a word or two, Chastity came out of the bedroom—practically buck naked. I knew right away that they’d been fornicating, and in the middle of the afternoon, too.”
This stopped me cold. “Chastity and Cory Jenks?” I said.
“He was embarrassed, but she was as proud as a homecoming queen in a taffeta dress. Watching her tonight on the stage, all simpery and innocent—it was enough to gag a goat!”
“I’ll say it was,” Ruby Bee added.
That pretty much summed it up for me, too.
Mrs. Twayblade sat at the table in the foyer, where she could monitor all four corridors and thus prevent any attempts at licentious activity. It was outrageous how some of her charges behaved when they got the chance; Petrol Buchanon in particular imagined himself to be quite the satyr, despite the fact he was hairless, toothless, and witless.
With a pinched frown, she looked down at the medication schedule to make sure everybody had received whatever he or she was supposed to take at bedtime. The new aide was grossly incompetent, always fussing with her hair in the lounge instead of following orders, but it was nigh onto impossible to find reliable girls willing to work for minimum wage.
The new aide’s writing was so cramped and smudged that Mrs. Twayblade had to take the clipboard into the office, where the light was better. It seemed no one was being taught penmanship these days, much less meticulous attention to detail. Or spelling, unless some higher authority had decreed that nite and capsool were now acceptable.
They were not, in Mrs. Twayblade’s opinion.
She returned to the table and sat down, planning to read a journal geared toward nursing-home management. Something was not right, however, and she could find no distraction in an article discussing ways to integrate the four food groups into each meal in exciting and innovative ways.
Armed with a small flashlight, she prowled down the corridors, occasionally shining the light into rooms to assure herself that the residents were peaceful. The snores and gurgles were as pleasing to her as a pastoral, yet she remained uneasy as she sat back down.
It had to do with this latest evening at the revival, she decided as the recipe for sweet potato puff pancakes blurred before, her eyes. Mr. Buckhorn had been taken onstage to be cured of his rheumatism, but he’d griped afterward about how much his knees still ached that there had been an attempt to shove him out a window in the van. Mrs. Teasel’s roommate had not been given a chance to be cured of her gallbladder infection, nor had Petrol …
Mrs. Twayblade put her hand to her mouth to muffle a gasp. After she had supervised the loading of the van, she’d counted heads as best she could in the dark. She’d asked very clearly if everyone was there and been assured they were. The subsequent altercation had given her a dreadful headache; back at the county home, she’d ordered the new aide to help everyone out of the van, then gone into her office for a well-deserved swallow of the brandy she kept hidden for such moments.
But she hadn’t heard Petrol’s voice as they had come into the foyer, and he was by far the loudest of her charges. His choice of words was often enough to merit a scolding or a withholding of dessert.
She hurried down the hall, counting doors under her breath, and went into the pertinent room. In one bed, Mr. Linum snored like an outboard motor. In the other bed, the blankets were bunched enough to allow a casual observer to see a human form, but the mound on the pillow was a bathrobe.
“I am going to throttle that aide,” Mrs. Twayblade said, but softly, so as not to disturb Mr. Linum. The only time he wasn’t a pain in the ass was when he was asleep. The last thing she needed was to deal with his puerile complaints.
Eula Lemoy sat on her sofa and stared at her ankle, which was propped on a stack of pillows. The skin seemed unnaturally white, almost opaque, and her whole leg felt like it had been squeezed into a support stocking. Jesus most likely wouldn’t mind if she finished what pills she had left, but she wasn’t sure. There wasn’t any way she could sneak into the bathroom and take one, on account of Jesus always knows what you’re doing. Brother Verber was real fond of that theme and only last month had delivered a stirring sermon about folks that thought they could keep their perversities a secret. He’d practically begged the sinners in the congregation to come to him and confess all the sordid details—because they couldn’t fool Jesus. Brother Verber had made Jesus sound like J. Edgar Hoover.
Eula was afraid to risk doing something that might get her labeled as an atheist, so she took the pillows into her bedroom and arranged them so she could keep her leg elevated while she tried to sleep.
Guilt had sent Lottie Estes into her kitchen to bake cookies, even though it was nearly midnight. She didn’t know how she was going to get them to the hospital in Farberville, since she wasn’t supposed to drive without her glasses. She wouldn’t drive if she had them, either, because that would tell folks that her faith was flawed so badly that Jesus hadn’t cured her astigmatism.
She opened her file box and hunted for her sister’s recipe for lemon snaps. Sh
e found it but then realized there was no way she could decipher her sister’s spindly handwriting. Having taught home economics all these years, Lottie knew what could happen if you used a tablespoon when a teaspoon was called for or put in a third of a cup of something when you needed a fourth of a cup.
She put the card back into the box. Hadn’t she made enough sugar cookies in her lifetime to pave the road all the way to the Missouri line? She set out the canisters of flour and sugar, took eggs and butter from the refrigerator, and preset the oven. Only when she opened the cabinet to get out the bottle of vanilla extract did she hesitate. There was a whole line of little brown bottles of extract, all with small print on the labels.
She opened the first and took a whiff of almonds. It was going to be a long night, she thought as she reached for the next bottle.
“Doncha want to come to bed?” Kevin said, watching Dahlia from the doorway to the bedroom.
“Later.” She belched delicately and put another cookie into her mouth. “I’m watching this movie about this rancher’s daughter and an outlaw. You kin watch it with me if you want.”
“I got to be at work at five. Jim Bob wants the floors waxed, so I got to start early so they’ll be dry when the store opens. They always look real pretty afore folks track mud on ’em.”
“That’s nice,” Dahlia said as she chewed thoughtfully and tried to decide if the rancher’s daughter was falling in love with the outlaw. It looked like it, but movies could fool you sometimes.
Kevin held in a groan as her hand slid into the box and emerged with another cookie. “Honey bunch, doncha think you should stay on your diet until the doctor at the clinic does a test and makes sure you’re cured? I ain’t saying you’re not, mind you, but it can’t hurt to make sure.”
“Are you sayin’ Jesus needs a second opinion? If that don’t smack of blasphemy, I don’t know what does,” she said, albeit distractedly on account of the rancher’s daughter riding out by her lonesome to save a heifer in a blizzard. Dahlia could tell from the way the horse was floundering in the snowdrifts that the rancher’s daughter was in for a hard night.
I turned off the overhead light, thus granting kitchen and bathroom privileges to the cockroaches with which I cohabited, and crawled into bed with the thick folder of letters that Norma Kay had written to Malachi over the last decade. I doubted they could compete with the lurid potboilers I’d read on the beach; Norma Kay had not been a member of the jet set or waged any battles for control of an international diamond cartel.
I debated whether to start with the most recent letter and work my way back, or tackle them in chronological order.
Choices, choices.
13
“You aim to question Cory Jenks?” Ruby Bee asked me as she set down a plate of buttermilk pancakes and sausage.
According to my calculations, I was still short on sleep by about eight hours. Norma Kay had kept me up until two with her steady litany of complaints of injustices, sacrifices, and pathetic entreaties for Malachi’s prayers. If she’d been at Ruby Bee’s drinking coffee (instead of at the state lab on a stainless-steel table), I would have lectured her up one wall and down the other about personal responsibility. All of which was why I was feeling surly.
“When I get around to it,” I said.
Ruby Bee was equally chipper. “And that’ll be when you’ve finished stuffing your face, I suppose. I don’t recollect Perry Mason asking the judge for a recess so he could go have a pizza.”
“Sure he did,” I said between bites. “I think his favorite was pepperoni—or was it Italian sausage?”
This sent Ruby Bee into the kitchen, which was what it was intended to do. I was not left to eat in peace, of course. Cabinet doors were slammed and pots and pans banged about so I would appreciate exactly how irritated she was. Ruby Bee is many things, but never subtle.
“I want to ask you something,” I said when she came out of the kitchen. “Did you notice any differences between the first night of the revival and last night’s performance?”
Momentarily defused, she thought for a moment. “On the first night, Seraphina came floating down in a big billow of pink smoke. You could see the wires, but it was still enough to take your breath away. She sang a real sweet song about the angel of love coming into folks’ heart and helping them to find Jesus. Last night Chastity just came out and sang a second hymn. I guess she couldn’t bring herself to do what her sister used to do. I wonder why they didn’t just skip that part?”
“All the lights and music are run by computer. It may require major programming to make any changes,” I said, trying to remember what Joey had said about controlling the special effects from a van.
“The ushers were subdued last night,” Ruby Bee continued, oblivious to my faint frown. “That’s understandable, what with their coach being murdered. On the first night, they were as friendly as puppies. Darla Jean took my arm and escorted me right down to the front row, all the while asking how I was doing and if I had any health problems that Malachi should pray about. I considered mentioning my ingrown toenail, but decided not to.”
“Did you fill out one of the cards?”
“Darla Jean made me take one, but I didn’t have a pencil handy and Estelle’s pen was leaking all over her fingers, so I put the card in my purse.” She paused, her eyes flickering as she thought. “Do you reckon Malachi knew about folks’ problems from reading their cards before he came out onstage? He’d sure have to have some memory to keep all the names and details straight. What’s more, on the first night I was sitting so close to Petrol Buchanon that I couldn’t help but be aware of his body odor—and I happened to notice he stuck his card in his pocket instead of writing anything on it. Just the same, Malachi Hope called Petrol by name, prayed over him, and told him to stand up out of his wheelchair and walk. Estelle and I weren’t all that impressed, since we’d seen him walking under his own steam toward the tent before the revival started. He had a walker, but he was moving right sprightly for an old geezer.”
I finished my coffee and slid off the stool. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Are you going to Cory’s house now? The fact that he and Chastity were carrying on like that gives him a motive to kill Seraphina, assuming she found out about it. Maybe she went to Norma Kay to get Cory fired. That’s why Cory killed her, too.”
“He killed two women in order to continue coaching the Maggody Marauders?”
“Well, maybe he was afraid he’d go to jail on account of Chastity’s age.”
“Even if he were convicted of statutory rape or contributing to the delinquency of a minor, he’d end up on probation. The state prisons are packed to overflowing with violent criminals; having consensual sex with a fifteen-year-old wouldn’t earn him a cell.”
“I’m just trying to help,” she said, sighing.
She looked so dejected that I went behind the bar to give her a hug. “I know you are, but I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. I also wished that Third World nations would quit having civil wars, Mexican food would be determined to be fat-free, people would stop talking about cyberspace until I figured out what it meant, and a publisher would show up at my front door with a million-dollar contract for my memoirs.
Ruby Bee arched her eyebrows. “What about John Robert Scurfpea? He might—”
“Do I smell something burning in the kitchen?”
As she bustled away, I headed across the dance floor. Cory Jenks would have to wait while I made a small detour by the PD to call Harve and hash over the significance of the thread linking Norma Kay and Seraphina.
The door of the PD was ajar, which meant what precious little cold air the air conditioner produced was escaping. It also meant I’d had a visitor. Or still had one. I eased open the door and looked around, but the stacks of notebooks and folders on the desk appeared to be undisturbed. The pile of catalogs and magazines in the corner had shifted, but that could have happened during the Mesozoic period when a brontosaurus thudded by. (Did I menti
on I’m not much on housekeeping?) The answering machine, bless its fiendish red flasher, was still on the desk. I continued inside and was reaching for the telephone when I heard a noise in the back room.
It was not the snarl of a homicidal maniac, but I rather wished I had a weapon more lethal than a rolled-up copy (complimentary) of Field & Stream. Reminding myself that I’d once been trained in self-defense, I tiptoed across the room, mentally composed a sentence along the lines of “Come out with your hands up or I’ll shoot,” and stepped into the doorway.
And promptly crashed into Kevin Buchanon.
Both of us were too alarmed to do more than stagger backward, gasping and gaping. Kevin looked as if he might pass out; I myself was having trouble keeping my balance as I banged into the desk.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded when I found my voice. “Get your sorry ass out here and explain before”—I struggled to find a suitable threat—“I get out my gun and shoot you between the eyes! I mean it, Kevin.”
He came to the doorway. “Golly, Arly, I din’t mean to scare you. I came by to ask you something, but you weren’t in here so I went in the back room to see if you were there. Then all of a sudden, I heard somebody sneaking into the PD, so I thought I’d better make sure who it was in case it was a criminal that was going to steal your gun.”
“And you were going to render him unconscious with that?” I asked, pointing at the flyswatter in his hand.
He blushed, but it was not becoming. “I ’spose I’m acting doddly on account of being about as worried as my skin will hold.”
Accepting the inevitability of the situation, I sat down behind my desk and said, “About Dahlia, right?”
“Yeah, like I tried to tell you yesterday, Malachi Hope called her up on stage and told her that if she trusted Jesus, she was cured of diabetes. She swears she felt a tingle when it happened, so it had to be true. Now she’s back to eating cookies and pork chops, even more than she used to in order to make up for when she was on the diet. I tried to talk to her, but she just keeps saying that I’m blasphemin’ if I don’t believe Jesus cured her.”
