by Joan Hess
“Oh, shit,” I said under my breath.
“Please, can’t you make her go to the clinic?” Kevin said, leaning so far forward I had a distasteful, view of his latest outbreak of pimples. “She finally agreed to go to the revival last night and make sure Malachi Hope knew she was pregnant when he cured her, but her name din’t get called and she says she won’t go tonight because she’s gonna fry up some chickens.”
I leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. Taking a drumstick out of Dahlia’s fist would be more dangerous than snatching a piece of raw flesh out of a pit bull’s mouth. The so-called miracles from the previous evening had struck me as nothing more than subterfuges to fill the aluminum buckets; now they took on a more sinister air.
“Would you like to come to supper?” Kevin said eagerly. “Mebbe you can reason with her after we eat and she’s in a good mood.”
The thought of watching Dahlia devour an entire chicken and everything else she could reach was enough to make me queasy. “I don’t think I’ll have time,” I managed to say with a measure of regret, all of it feigned. “I’m going to interview Malachi Hope later today. Perhaps I can persuade him to call Dahlia and order her back on the diet until she sees her doctor.”
“Will he do it?”
“He may, if I threaten to file charges for practicing medicine without a license. That’s the kind of publicity he might prefer to avoid. In the meantime, don’t worry too much about Dahlia. She’s been off her diet only two days.”
“Thanks, Arly,” he said. “You know, when I was in the back room I got to remembering how I used to clean the PD for you and be your unofficial deputy. Jim Bob keeps saying how he’s gonna fire me, so I was wondering if—”
“No!” I gestured at the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
He stood up and made it to the door without tripping over his feet. “If you change your mind, just lemme know.”
“May I have my flyswatter?”
He stared at it as if it were an alien life-form that had wormed its way into his hand during the conversation. “Do you want I should put it back where I found it?”
“On my desk will be fine, Kevin.”
Once he was gone, I decided to put off calling Harve and made a list of the so-called miracles Malachi Hope had performed for the gullible crowd. Some of the specifics, such as Leslie Biden’s ulcer and Dahlia’s diabetes, could have been gleaned from prayer cards—but Ruby Bee had said that Petrol Buchanon had not filled one out and Malachi had used his name. The mysterious Wilma had been reluctant to be singled out; even if she’d filled out a card, she would not have described her clothing. Malachi had, though, right down to the color of the flowers on her hat. If Jesus hadn’t told him, someone else had. I sat back and tried again to recall what Joey had told me about the special effects.
Ten minutes later I parked in front of the McIlhaney house. Before I could get out of the car, Darla Jean came out the front door and flew across the yard as if the prison guards and bloodhounds were not far behind.
“You looking for me?” she said.
“You and Heather,” I said, nodding. “Let’s go find her, and then the three of us are going to have a talk.”
Darla Jean looked back at her house as she got into the car. “I already told you what I know.”
“Now you’re going to tell me some things you didn’t know you knew. Where’s Heather likely to be?”
“She’s at home. I just got finished talking to her on the telephone five minutes ago. I don’t understand how I can tell you things I don’t know.”
But I did.
I drove to Heather’s house, and shortly thereafter the two girls and I sat down at the picnic table next to the Dairee Dee-Lishus. They were not pleased that they might be spotted in close proximity to the enemy, but I was hoping some of their teammates might show up and contribute to the subject.
“Okay,” I began, “what instructions did Seraphina give you before the opening night of the revival?”
From her expression, it was obvious Darla Jean had been expecting a different question. She had been holding her cup so tightly that limeade had trickled down her fingers, but now she released her grip and said, “She told us to put on the badges and make sure we greeted everybody by name and talked with them so they would feel comfortable.”
“In a loud voice,” Heather added. “She said most of the folks that come to the revival are older, so their hearing might not be real good. She said old folks get cranky if they can’t make out what you’re saying.”
“Were you supposed to ask questions?” I said.
Darla Jean shrugged. “Yeah, if we didn’t know ’em, we asked their names and where they lived. If this was the first time they’d been to a Hope Is Here revival. If they were wanting Malachi to say a special prayer. I smiled so much my cheeks were aching by the end of the first hour.”
I turned to Heather. “Last night I saw you escort the woman named Wilma to her seat. What happened with her?”
“I guess she’s shy. I had to ask her three times what her name was before she mumbled that it was Wilma. When I asked her about the special prayer, she finally said she was worried about losing her job. I couldn’t get another word out of her, even after I lied and said I liked her hat. It looked to be right out of a thrift shop.”
“What did Leslie Bidens say to you, Darla Jean? Did she mention her ulcer?”
“Yeah, and she made me swear not to say anything until she finds out for sure how serious it is. I suggested she write it down on the prayer card, but she just took the card from me and stuffed it in her purse.”
This pretty much fit my theory concerning Mala-chi’s inside knowledge. I moved on to the next issue. “I want you to tell me every last word you said to Heather after Norma Kay told you to deliver her note.”
“I can’t tell you,” she said, staring down at the table. “I promised that I wouldn’t.”
“Two women have been murdered,” I persisted. “I can’t stop this madness unless I know what’s been going on. A half-truth’s no better than a lie. If you don’t tell the whole truth right now, I’m going to take you and Heather to the sheriff’s office and keep you in separate interrogation rooms until you change your minds. Some real unsanitary suspects have sat in those rooms, spitting and scratching. The sheriff has been trying for years to convince the mayor to supplement the budget so the rooms can be fumigated, but he hasn’t had any luck.”
Heather’s imagination was working well. Gulping, she said, “Go ahead and tell her, Darla Jean. If you won’t, I will.”
“Okay,” Darla Jean said unhappily. “I pulled Heather over to one side and asked her if she thought Coach Grapper had found out somehow that Chastity’s pregnant and if the coach was going to tell Malachi. Heather said she didn’t see how Coach Grapper could have, so I went behind the curtain and delivered the note like I told you earlier.”
I nodded as if I’d known this all along. “What did you say to Chastity while you waited for Malachi to finish his conversation with the other man?”
“Pretty much what I said to Heather. Chastity tried to convince me not to give it to him, but I was afraid Coach Grapper would find out and kick me off the team. Then my parents would get all fired up and go ask her why, and she’d tell ’em, and I’d be up to my neck in bull hockey. I said all that to Chastity. She was pissed, but after I wouldn’t back down, she made me promise to wait for her after the revival.”
“Who’s the father?” I asked.
Darla Jean hesitated for a moment, working the straw up and down in her cup. “I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. Besides, all I know is what Chastity said in the locker room after the first practice. She could have been lying, and it’s a sin to bear false witness.”
“You already told Heather,” I said. “Now tell me.”
“Joey,” she whispered.
“What else did Chastity say in the locker room?”
When Darla Jean mutely shook her head
, Heather said, “I don’t see what difference it makes now. Chastity wanted to know where she could get an abortion without her sister or Malachi finding out. Or Joey, for that matter.”
“That’s why you took her to Farberville,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, if not downright omniscient. “Which clinic did you take her to?”
Darla Jean looked up with a trace of defiance. “I told Chastity I didn’t know of any place in Farberville where a minor could get an abortion without parental consent. All she said when she called yesterday morning was that she was desperate for a ride into town. We dropped her off where I told you; she didn’t say where she was going and I didn’t ask her. For all I know, she was planning to panhandle on the street to get enough money to run away.”
I watched a yellow jacket wallowing in a puddle of limeade as I struggled to assimilate all this. It was obvious that Seraphina knew about the pregnancy; she’d fired Joey, then tracked Chastity down at the table where I was currently sitting. They’d argued for more than an hour before Seraphina had left Chastity at the RV and driven away. Or had she?
I thanked the girls for their candor and drove back to the PD. As soon as Harve came on the line, I said, “You mentioned there was no driver’s license in Seraphina Hope’s purse. Was there any money?”
“Just some loose change. You think she might have picked up a hitchhiker that robbed and killed her? I s’pose I can call down at the FBI office in Little Rock and see if they know of a serial killer that might have come this way. I don’t much like talking to those shiny-shoed sumbitches, but I will.”
“Why would he take her driver’s license instead of her credit cards? If he was on foot, why didn’t he dump the body in some isolated spot and take the car?”
Harve rumbled, no doubt belching smoke like an awakening volcano. “I ain’t got time for guessing games, Arly. The county prosecutor’s on my ass like a spotted tick, wanting to know when we’ll have something. McBeen is convinced you strangled the victims just to screw up his vacation plans. I’ve got a damn bevy of reporters outside my office—you can expect ’em out your way within hours as soon as the autopsy reports are released. Malachi Hope may not be as famous as some of those ol’ boys, but Elvis hasn’t been seen since his granddaughter married that stringy-haired fellow with the glove, and this story’s gonna make good copy.”
I related what I’d learned from Darla Jean and Heather, then said, “Chastity may have stolen the driver’s license to use as proof of age at an abortion clinic. There’s some family resemblance. I didn’t think to ask what Chastity was wearing or if her hair was fluffed out like Seraphina’s, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that it was. She probably took money, too, so she could pay cash. Can you have somebody check with all the clinics and family planning centers and find out if she was there?”
“I don’t know if they’ll tell us without a warrant.”
“This is a murder investigation, dammit, and all we’re asking is if someone calling herself Seraphina Hope came into the office yesterday morning. It doesn’t matter whether they performed a procedure, made an appointment, or even booted her out on her butt for using a phony ID. What matters, Harve, is how Chastity ended up with the license.”
“Are you saying she might have strangled her sister?” asked Harve. “How old is she—fifteen, maybe sixteen? Doesn’t that sound a little cold-blooded?”
“It sounds real cold-blooded,” I said. “She was upset yesterday when I informed her of her sister’s death, but maybe what I saw was guilt. It’s possible that during the argument Seraphina threatened to send Chastity to some sort of fundamentalist boot camp for unwed mothers. Chastity flipped out and strangled her, then drove the car to the creek, stole what she could use from Seraphina’s purse, and was back at the RV when Malachi arrived.”
“How did Seraphina know Chastity was pregnant?”
I permitted myself a smug smile. “I haven’t confirmed this yet, but I think the badges the ushers wear have concealed microphones. The girls had no idea that everything they said was being monitored in the van. Joey mentioned that once the show starts, he listens for indications of trouble. My guess is that Seraphina takes the first shift, choosing potential patsies and making notes based on what they let slip to the ushers. Later, when she’s onstage, Joey or perhaps Thomas Fratelleon communicates with Malachi through a hearing aid. When Malachi presses his temple in order to hear Jesus better, he may be listening to a less divine source.”
“Did he know about the pregnancy?”
“I don’t know. Seraphina might have told him, or Chastity, or he might have been hiding in a dirty towel hamper in the girls’ locker room when Chastity told Darla Jean.”
Harve chuckled at the frustration in my voice. “Guess you’d better get in gear and solve this before you find yourself featured on one of those unsolvedcrime shows.”
I replaced the receiver. After some more thought, I drove to the high school gym to see for myself how big the dirty towel hampers were.
What I ended up staring at was the intercom speaker above the door.
Brother Verber was on his knees in the sanctuary, his elbows propped on the back of the next pew, his fingers entwined, his eyes squeezed closed, and his face awash with sweat.
“How much trouble could it be to let me heal folks, Jesus? It’s not like I’d tackle things like cancer or heart disease or kidney stones. I’d be pleased as punch to go after bunions, rashes, minor problems like that. Why, for the first year, I won’t try poison ivy. It doesn’t seem fair to let Malachi Hope be the only preacher in Stump County blessed with the ability to heal folks and fill those buckets with dollar bills.”
He took a short recess to pull out a handkerchief and wipe his face, all the while searching his mind for the most eloquent way to phrase his petition. “Jesus,” he began again, “I don’t have to have a cotton-candy machine or a fancy crystal cathedral. That’s not to say a radio show wouldn’t be right nice. It wouldn’t have to be more than once a week for an hour. We might ought to find someone who can play the piano better than Lottie Estes, but she’ll do at first. With all the offerings folks mail in, we can do wonderful things for the heathens in Africa. We can send them shoes and Bibles every month.”
He waited to see if he felt a tingle that would let him know Jesus was mulling over the proposition. The only thing he felt was a dull ache in his knees.
“We can call it ‘Brother Verber’s Hour of …’” He stopped and scratched his chin. Nothing seemed to rhyme with Verber, except Gerber, which was baby food, and Thurber, which was a street in Farberville. Maybe they could fudge on the rhyme. “‘Brother Verber’s Hour of Fervor’?” he suggested tentatively. “Just give me one little ol’ tingle if I come across one you like, okay? I don’t need a bolt of lightning or anything wasteful—just a tingle.”
Ruby Bee knocked on Bur Grapper’s door, and when he opened it, said real smoothly, “Estelle and I thought we’d drop by and see how you’re doing, Bur. We brought casseroles for when all of Norma Kay’s kinfolk arrive for the funeral. Why don’t I just put ’em in the refrigerator for you?” She pushed past him and into the living room, dearly hoping Estelle wasn’t dashing for the station wagon.
“That’s right nice of you, Ruby Bee,” Bur said as he shuffled back to let them come inside. “I just this morning got hold of Norma Kay’s sister, but I couldn’t tell her when the funeral will be.”
He was wearing a bathrobe and slippers, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. It wasn’t hard to see that he hadn’t shaved in two days. His eyelids were puffy, his nose red, his skin slack and sallow. The floor was strewn with beer cans, but there were no dirty dishes to indicate he’d had a meal.
Ruby Bee had anticipated resistance, even anger, but he looked so pathetic that she said, “You sit down and let me fix you something to eat, Bur. Estelle, why don’t you come into the kitchen with me and start a pot of coffee while I make some sandwiches?”
Bur sat down
on a tattered recliner and picked up a remote control. His thumb moved across the buttons, but the television screen remained as blank as his expression.
“What’s wrong with him?” Estelle demanded in a low voice as she filled a glass pot with water.
“We might have been mistaken,” Ruby Bee said, peering at the skimpy contents of the refrigerator. “His heart may be broken on account of Norma Kay.”
“The only thing about him that’s broken is his nose,” Estelle countered.
Ruby Bee found that on the uncharitable side, but she didn’t say so as she took out eggs and butter. After all, they’d agreed on the purpose of their mission, and squabbling wouldn’t help. “How ’bout an omelet and toast?” she called to Bur. She took silence for agreement and got busy hunting for a spatula and a skillet. “He barely knows we’re here,” she whispered. “This is a golden opportunity for you to search the other rooms.”
“Me? I wouldn’t know where to start, and besides, what if he catches me red-handed?”
“He ain’t gonna do anything but sit out there and stare at the wall like he’s been hit up the side of the head with a two-by-four.” Ruby Bee raised her voice. “Bur, would you happen to know where Norma Kay keeps her spatula?” When there was no reply, she said more softly, “See? He’s too depressed to catch a cold, much less catch you snooping around in the bedroom. Look for a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon, or a heart-shaped box.”
Estelle took a quick peek into the living room. “He hasn’t twitched,” she said, “but what if he starts roaming around?”
“I’ll keep him occupied,” Ruby Bee said firmly. She put on the apron she’d found, turned on a burner on the stove, and took a bowl from a cabinet. “We don’t have all day, Estelle. As soon as this is ready, I’ll sit with him while he eats. If he acts like he’s gonna get up, I’ll say something real loud about how we have to go. You can come out and say you were washing your hands in the bathroom.”
