by Joan Hess
“This stinks worse than a buzzard’s roost.”
Ruby Bee would have put her hands on her hips if she hadn’t been whisking the eggs. “You saw him, for pity’s sake. He’s nothing but an old man that lost his wife two days ago.”
“I lost her a long time ago,” Bur said from the doorway. He spoke in a monotone, but his eyes were no longer flat and lifeless. “She made me the laughingstock of the town, what with her wanton ways. Now I aim to kill myself. It remains to be seen if I kill you two first.”
Neither Ruby Bee nor Estelle said anything to contradict him. They didn’t say anything at all—not with a shotgun pointing at them.
14
Cory Jenks did not offer me a glass of iced tea, much less a peck on the cheek. He’d tried to keep me standing on his porch, but I’d given him a choice: his living room or the sheriff’s department. The whimsical description of the interrogation room that had worked so well with Heather and Darla Jean had not been necessary.
“What do you want now?” he said as we stood in the middle of the room. “How many times do I have to tell you that after I got back from Emmet I didn’t go anywhere or see anyone? Do you want to count the beer cans in the trash?”
I moved some papers and soiled shirts off a chair and sat down. “I know you were sleeping with Norma Kay. I don’t have adequate evidence to convince a jury, but—”
“Jury?” he said, so startled he dropped his jock posture and sank down on the edge of his couch. “I didn’t hurt Norma Kay. We may have spent some time together at tournaments, but I didn’t pressure her into anything. Hell, it was her idea from the start. Her marriage was dead; she could hardly stand to be in the same room with her husband. She wanted sex and affection—and I couldn’t afford to rebuff her overtures.”
“Because she might screw up your likelihood of getting the head coach position?” I asked. “Are you implying that she coerced you into the affair?”
Cory studied my overtly hostile expression, assessing his chances of conning me with some crock-of-shit story of sexual harassment. “Not really, but there were things she could tell Bur that would hurt my chances.”
“For instance?”
“For some stupid reason, she thought I might have had something to do with Amos Dooley’s accident. I was at a bar in Starley City that night, with plenty of witnesses, but she saw a truck parked down the road from Amos’s house. How many blue trucks with gun racks are there in Stump County, fer crissake?”
“Let’s talk about your truck,” I said. “Yesterday I had a witness who said your truck was not in your driveway at the time Norma Kay was killed. Now I have another witness who puts your truck outside the gym at that very time.”
“That’s crazy,” he growled.
“She saw not only the gun rack but also the bumper stickers on the tailgate.”
“I was here, dammit!”
“Alone?”
Cory slumped back and began to play with a torn throw pillow. “Yeah, alone.”
“It’s too bad Chastity wasn’t here to give you an alibi,” I said, clucking sympathetically. “I haven’t taken her statement yet, but several people have agreed she was in the RV by 12:30 at the latest.” I paused while I ran through the chronology. “Were you still out in your front yard when a white Mercedes drove up the road?”
“After the Cadillac went by, I took the case of beer inside, locked the door, and closed the curtains. I warmed up some pizza, opened a beer, and flipped through the channels until I found a John Wayne war movie with lots of bazookas and hand grenades. When it was over, I found something else along the same lines. I didn’t set foot outside this house until I drove over to the gym a little after eleven yesterday morning. Give me a lie detector test if you want.” He gulped as what I’d said sank through his thick skull, then tried to cover his reaction with unconvincing belligerence. “What’s that smart-ass crack about Chastity supposed to mean? Why the hell would she have been here to give me an alibi?”
“Oh, Cory, I’m disappointed in you. Estelle Oppers saw her in this very room yesterday afternoon, reportedly in provocative attire. Do you truly believe Estelle decided to take it with her to the grave rather than risk tarnishing your reputation? Did you just get off the turnip truck?”
Cory looked as though he wished he could get on the turnip truck and disappear in a cloud of dust. “The one and only time anything happened was yesterday. Chastity showed up at maybe 1:30 or 2:00, asking if she could use the telephone because the one in the RV wasn’t working. I said okay and went back to working on the playbook. Before I knew what was going on, she came out in nothing but her underwear. I told her to get dressed and leave, but she started crawling all over me like a kudzu vine, and we ended up … well, you know.”
“All I know is Chastity is a minor and you just confessed to a felony. Jesus, Cory—did you ever consider saying no to this veritable queue of seductresses outside your front door? Is your brain in your jockstrap?”
“Are you gonna arrest me?”
“When I have time, I’ll discuss it with the county prosecutor. I’m not sure what he’ll do, but if I were you, I wouldn’t be trying on Amos’s whistle. Where’s yours, by the way?”
He gave me a befuddled look. “I dunno. The last time I saw it was on my desk in my office. I haven’t been there since Friday. I guess it’s still there.”
I was beginning to think he might be telling the truth, at least about the night Norma Kay and Seraphina were killed. I repeated my previous order that he not leave town, slammed the door on my way out, and started across the cluttered yard. Cory’s truck was in the driveway, complete with stocked gun rack. The NRA bumper stickers were on the tailgate for the simple reason there was no bumper.
I stuck my head through the open window. The upholstery was cracked and crisscrossed with silver tape, tins of chewing tobacco were scattered on the floorboard, and several magazines indicated Cory’s taste ran in directions other than scientific inquiry or quaint literary journals. The swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated was so smeared with greasy fingerprints that the cover model looked as if she’d been paddling in the wake of the Exxon Valdez. A plastic nude posed on the dashboard. From the key chain dangled another plastic nude.
I got in my car and drove up the hill, wryly noting Estelle’s station wagon parked in front of Bur Grapper’s house. Ruby Bee could have taken my request to heart and was doing nothing more devious than making a condolence call with a green bean casserole and a compassionate smile.
And I could anticipate a dinner invitation from the White House in the morning mail.
I told myself she and Estelle couldn’t get themselves into too much trouble, then resumed thinking about microphones, intercoms, pregnancies, and motives for murder.
Thomas Fratelleon came out of the tent and waited in the shade as I parked and got out of the car. He still resembled a headmaster, but this time he wasn’t playing the gracious host. “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Hanks?”
“You can persuade Malachi to allow me to question Chastity without a lawyer or anyone else present. Otherwise, when I arrange for a formal interview, I’ll request that it be held at the sheriff’s office in Farberville. This isn’t an election year, but the sheriff is as hungry for media coverage as he is for black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day. He usually holds his press conferences on the courthouse steps for the convenience of the television cameras. The angles are flattering.”
“Is that to be construed as a threat?”
“It’s not a dinner invitation from the White House, Mr. Fratelleon. Before we explore it any further, I’d like to see the van.”
“The van?” he said, frowning at me as if I’d asked him to drop his trousers so I could see his boxer shorts. “That is Joey’s realm of expertise, and I don’t think I could explain the equipment with any lucidity. Perhaps you might come back later when he’s here?”
“There’s his bike.”
Fratelleon tugged at his knotted n
ecktie. “Well, it’s possible he’s around here somewhere. I’m so distressed by Seraphina’s death that I hardly know what I’m doing. We worked very closely for the last two years, choosing sites for revivals, dealing with financial aspects, finding reliable employees, even keeping track of other evangelists to make sure we didn’t overlap territories. Malachi can be moody at times, but Seraphina was always congenial and pleasant to be around. She and I were the ones who saw the potential of the City of Hope. I may have been more concerned than she with the financial prospects; she thought about nothing but the sinners who could be saved and the blessings—”
“The van,” I said to disrupt the eulogy.
“As you wish.”
I followed him into the tent, where a few workmen were sweeping up debris and straightening benches. The stillness was a contrast to the previous evening’s electrified atmosphere.
“How much did you rake in last night?” I asked.
“Close to twenty thousand dollars,” Fratelleon said as he held back the curtain and gestured for me to proceed him. “That’s the gross amount. We have expenses such as salaries, housing, restaurant tabs, publicity, and utilities. The contributions usually taper off during the week, then shoot up, on the final night. The trend may be different this week. When Seraphina’s death is more widely publicized, people will come out of curiosity as well as spiritual concerns.”
“To take a stroll through the valley of the shadow of death,” I said, glumly acknowledging the accuracy of his observation.
“Very good, Miss Hanks. I understand you attended the revival last night. Did it stir up some deeply buried memories from your religious training as a child?”
I didn’t bother to answer him. The equipment behind the curtain was impressive, although I wasn’t sure of each component’s purpose. Multicolored cables and wires curled across the floor like motionless snakes; some disappeared beneath the curtain, while others went under the back wall of the tent. Cardboard cartons were set along one side; the nearest one was filled with cellophane-wrapped packages of blank prayer cards. Two cots were stacked in a corner, and at least three dozen buckets made a precarious pyramid. The fuse box could have hung on a wall in a modern art gallery.
“Making miracles requires an investment in technology,” Fratelleon murmured. “We were exceedingly lucky to find Joey.”
“Then why don’t we find him now?”
He led the way out of the tent and rapped on the windshield of a large van. “Joey’s redoing the portion of the programming that involved Seraphina’s dramatic descent. Eventually we’ll put it back in, when Chastity feels able to assume more responsibility.”
Joey slid open a door on the side of the van. “Can it wait; Thomas? I’m right in the middle of making the changes, and I don’t want to …” He looked at me. “Is this official business?”
“I’d like to see the interior,” I said.
He stepped back to allow me to climb inside. It was cool, almost chilly, and very crowded with panels, monitors, a control board, and headphones. Two folding chairs had been fitted in, but there was scarcely room for two people.
I told Joey to close the door. Once he’d complied, leaving Fratelleon outside, I said, “Let’s not waste any time. The badges the ushers wear have concealed microphones. Someone can sit in here and listen to what’s said in the tent.” I picked up a file card from a stack on the narrow table and scanned it. At the top was an unfamiliar name and beneath it: “Sprained left ankle while gardening.”
“I guess sprained ankles are too tough to tackle,” I said to Joey, who was watching me with a wary expression. “The person might still be limping at the end of the show. Something with no overt symptoms, like an ulcer or diabetes, would be a better prospect. By the time the victim is doubled over with pain, Hope Is Here is long gone.” I sorted through more cards until I found one with my name on it and a notation that read: “Divorcée, not adjusting well.” I managed not to wad it up and hurl it at him.
He nodded. “Yeah, Seraphina was always real careful to choose people in wheelchairs who’d made it to the tent under their own power. The ushers are supposed to coerce the elderly into agreeing to the wheelchairs in order to have the best seats. Most of them get so caught up in the enthusiasm that they don’t want to spoil the moment. Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame, I guess.”
I tapped the microphone. “And this is how the information is sent to Malachi. He wears some sort of device in his ear, doesn’t he? Which of you tells him about his next quarry?”
“Me, since Thomas and Seraphina are onstage a lot of the time.”
“Was Seraphina here Sunday night during the hour before the revival started?”
“More than likely. I was doing a last-minute tour to make sure everything was set. When I got back here, she was gone but the cards were arranged in the order she’d decided on. All I did after that was listen to what was happening and feed Malachi bits when he cued me. The music, smoke, and lights run themselves. Every now and then a problem arises when Malachi screws up the timing, but it all went smoothly Sunday night.”
“Until Seraphina fired you,” I said. “I know why, Joey. She heard two of the ushers talking about Chastity’s pregnancy. Your name was mentioned. She waited until the show was over, hunted you down, and let you have it, didn’t she?”
“She was furious,” he admitted. “I just let her scream at me until she ran out of steam. Then told her I’d be gone first thing in the morning. That’s when she got in her car and went to find Chastity. I’m glad I wasn’t there when she did. Seraphina believed in the old-fashioned version of morality—all the ‘thou shalt not’ stuff. She truly wanted to save Chastity from doing things that might ruin her chances of a normal, happy life.”
“By dressing her in a halo and shoving her out in front of a thousand religious zealots?”
“Bringing Chastity on these tours was the only way Seraphina could keep an eye on her night and day.”
I gave him a wry smile. “But they slipped up at least one time, didn’t they? Chastity didn’t get pregnant up onstage while everybody was occupied passing buckets.”
“Chastity is her stage name,” Joey said, rolling his eyes. “Seraphina and Malachi must have chosen it in hopes that hearing it all the time might influence her behavior. ‘Lolita’ would have been more accurate.”
“So she seduced you, huh?”
“You could say that.”
“I just did, Joey.” I gave him a moment to embellish his response, then said, “I’m a little surprised Malachi asked you to stay. He’s not what I’d call a liberal thinker in matters of parenting.”
“He’s as determined as Thomas to build the City of Hope and make a friggin’ fortune. He eventually could find someone to replace me, but right now he needs the razzle-dazzle to keep his audience entertained enough to shell out big bucks. He can’t risk not having someone who can handle the glitches that inevitably happen.”
“What about Chastity?” I said, trying (but not very hard) to keep the disgust out of my voice. “Is he going to drag her onstage as a reminder of the consequences of lust? Public degradation was big in the seventeenth century, but I’m not sure it’s all that popular these days.”
“I dunno what he’ll do. I’m probably not going to stick around much longer, even for seventy-five hundred a month. I think I’ll get a job with a Southern California outfit so in my free time I can do something more stimulating than count cows.”
In that he earned roughly ten times what I did, I didn’t offer any financial advice. I stood up, banging my head on the roof of the van in the process. “Don’t leave town until I give you permission.”
“Hey, I didn’t murder Seraphina,” he said quickly. “Malachi was certain he could convince her to keep me on until he had the funding for the project lined up. If not, I just told you I’m not worried about finding another job. These guys spy on one another all the time, and they care about results, not references.”
My
head was spinning as I stepped back out into the sweltering sunshine. Evangelical espionage? Maybe I’d have to recruit Ruby Bee and Estelle to investigate. One of them could slap on an usher’s badge and artfully grill suspects while the other one eavesdropped from the station wagon.
Thomas Fratelleon had vanished. Wondering if he’d gone to the RV to relay my message to Malachi, I went back into the tent and lay down on a bench by the stage. The cleaning crew had departed. A faint breeze made the heat tolerable. The only sound was that of the distant generator.
It was time to do some serious thinking.
“Honey,” Jim Bob began tentatively, “I had a funny phone call at the store this morning.”
Mrs. Jim Bob did not look up from the notebook in her lap. “Take your feet off the coffee table. This is not a pool hall, despite the stench of beer that seems to surround you all the time. Furthermore, I distinctly smelled cigar smoke when I came home last night. I thought we’d agreed that you would go outside when indulging in that filthy habit.”
She’d done the agreeing for the both of them, but he wasn’t about to point that out. “About this phone call,” he tried again.
“Were you smoking a cigar in this, room yesterday?”
“I smoked one out in the hammock. Maybe there was smoke in my clothes when I came back inside. Now, this woman called from—”
“I have no desire to hear about your womanizing, Jim Bob. You may think I was unaware of your late-night visits to that harlot’s apartment last spring, but I can always tell when you’re bending the truth. I cannot begin to count the hours I’ve spent in the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall on my knees to pray for your soul. I have beseeched the Lord to forgive your lascivious ways and put you back on the path of righteousness. If Malachi Hope wasn’t a charlatan, I’d ask him to cure you. It’s going to take a miracle.”
Jim Bob sat back, resigned to waiting until the bill came and he could find out where she’d spent the two thousand dollars that had caught the notice of the credit card company. He had a pretty good guess what was likely to be involved; whenever she got a bug up her ass, new upholstery was in the foreseeable future.
