by Joan Hess
“Murdered?” I said, mentally kicking myself for bringing up another painful topic. “What happened?”
“One night we heard glass break downstairs. Maurice took the thirty-eight from the bedside table and went to investigate. Three shots were fired. I called the police, then went to the top of the stairs. I saw men run out the front door, but it was too dark to get a good look. All I could tell the police was that there were three of them, wearing dark coats and ski masks. I’ve had some training as a practical nurse, but there was nothing I could do to help Maurice. He bled to death before the ambulance arrived.”
“Were the men caught?”
Kayleen grimaced and shook her head. “The police interviewed all the local ne’er-do-wells, but nobody was acting guilty or bragging in the bars. I think the men must have been from Springfield or maybe Kansas City. Maurice was a well-known gun collector. He advertised in magazines, and we used to go to shows as far away as Chicago and Houston and Santa Fe. It wouldn’t take a college degree to figure out there’d be valuable guns in the house.”
I resisted the urge to launch into a lecture that would not amuse card-carrying members of the NRA. Sure, I have a gun (and a box with three bullets), but I keep it locked away in a filing cabinet in the back room. I’m a cop, after all, and may be called upon one of these days to shoot a rabid skunk or an Elvis impersonator. I can’t imagine myself shooting much of anything else, even though Hizzoner the Moron has tried my patience on occasion.
I settled for a vaguely sympathetic smile. “It doesn’t sound like you’ve had much luck with husbands.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not afraid of living alone,” she said as she stood up, buttoned her coat, and pulled on hand-sewn leather gloves. “I need to run out to the house and find out if the electrician ever showed up. I just thought it’d be nice if you and I got better acquainted.”
“Drop by any old time,” I said, my fingers crossed in my lap. She seemed perfectly nice, if a little bit odd about wily government agents. A little bit odd barely rates a mention in a county with Buchanons as plentiful as cow patties in a pasture.
I watched her drive away in a creamy brown car, genus Mercedes, species unfamiliar. I turned off the coffee pot, collected my radar gun, balsa wood, and pocket knife, and was almost out the door when the telephone rang. Despite my instincts to keep on going, I turned back to answer it.
“Get yourself over here,” whispered a voice I recognized as that of the proprietress of Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill.
“I can’t,” I whispered back. “I have to nab speeders at the edge of town so I can earn my minuscule salary at the end of the month. Maybe later, okay?”
“You got to come right this instant, missy.”
I was going to inquire into the nature of the emergency when I realized I was listening to a dial tone. It could have been an armed robbery, I supposed, but it was more likely to be a mouse in the pantry or a snag in her panty hose. My mother dishes out melodrama as generously as she does peach cobbler.
I left the radar gun on the desk, and ambled down the road, pausing to wave at my landlord, Roy Stiver, who was hauling a spindly lamp into his antiques store. I live in an efficiency apartment upstairs, although I’ve begun to wonder if I ought to find something less cramped. It had seemed just fine when I first arrived from Manhattan, even though it was quite a step down from a posh condominium with a view of the East River and the Queensboro Bridge. My current residence has a view of the pool hall and a couple of vacant buildings with yellowed newspapers taped across the windows. It also has cigarette burns in the linoleum, mildew on the walls, and a toilet that creaks to itself in the night.
As a temporary refuge, it was adequate. I sure as hell hadn’t planned to stay any longer than it took to let my bruised ego recover from the divorce. Now it seemed as though I’d never left town, that the blurred memories of cocktail parties and art galleries were nothing more than scenes from a movie I’d seen somewhere.
Shivering, I went into the barroom to find out what, if anything, had provoked the call. The provocation certainly had not come from the trucker snoring in the corner booth, or from the rednecks in the next booth, who were arguing about breeds of hunting dogs.
This narrowed it down to a lone figure on a stool by the bar. There were no antennas bobbling above his head, and he was wearing a camouflage jacket instead of a sequined suit from the Graceland souvenir store. Ruby Bee was standing in front of him, listening while she dried a beer mug with a towel. I couldn’t quite decipher her expression; she was nodding politely, but there was a certain rigidity to her features that suggested she was keeping her opinions to herself.
Which was unusual, to put it mildly.
When she saw me, she dropped the towel and chirped, “Here’s Arly. She took her sweet time getting here, but that doesn’t mean she’s not interested in meeting you. Did I mention she happens to be the chief of police here in Maggody? The mayor’s wife was real annoyed when the town council hired her, but there wasn’t a line of candidates begging for the job.” She took a much needed breath as I came to a stop at the edge of the dance floor. “I was just telling General Pitts about you, honey. He’s in town to visit Kayleen, but she’s not out back in her room.”
I crossed my arms. “If you’d told me you wanted to file a missing person report, I would have brought the forms with me. Before I round up a posse to search the ridge, however, I might mention that Kayleen left the PD about ten minutes ago on her way to the Wockermann place. Something about an electrician.”
“General Pitts, this is Arly. Her real name is Ariel, which I chose on account of it having a nice ring to it. She used to be married, but when she got divorced, she decided to take back her maiden name, which is the same as mine. How long ago was that, Arly?”
The man slid off the stool and spun around in a neat, controlled movement worthy of a ballroom dancer. He had short gray hair, close-set eyes, and thin, taut lips. A jutting jaw gave him an air of belligerence. That, or listening to Ruby Bee dither about me as if I were the hottest thing since sliced bread.
“I’m Sterling Pitts,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, figuring he knew pretty much everything about me from kindergarten to court. “Would you like directions to the house Kayleen bought?”
“Eventually, but why don’t you allow me to buy you a soda?”
I glanced at Ruby Bee, who was rolling her eyes and wiggling her mouth at me as though a bug was crawling up her back. “A beer sounds good,” I said as I brushed past him and sat on a stool.
He frowned at the badge on my shirt. “Are you allowed to drink alcoholic beverages while on duty, Chief Hanks?”
“I’m not on duty,” I said as I took off the badge and put it in my pocket. “My shift ended fifteen seconds ago when I decided to have a beer. I can deputize Kevin if the bank robbers show up.”
Ruby Bee banged down a mug in front of me. “Mind your mouth, Arly. General Pitts may not think you’re as funny as you do.”
“That’s right,” Estelle said as she came out of the ladies room and perched on her customary stool at the end of the bar, where she could eavesdrop without spilling her sherry. “What’s more, you ought to take some interest in your appearance when you’re on duty. I just got in a shipment of lipstick that might give you some color. Why don’t you come by and let me give you a complimentary makeover?”
I ignored her. “You’re a general?”
“It’s really more of an honorary title,” he said, flushing. “It was bestowed on me by the members of a group that I organized several years ago. We adopted military ranking in order to provide internal structure.”
Ruby Bee gave him a disappointed look. “Oh, I thought you were a real general, like Eisenhower and Patton. Go ahead and tell Arly what you’re aiming to do next week.”
Pitts clearly was not pleased to have his rank dismissed so nonchalantly, but after a brief moment of pouting, he turned to me and said, “Please rest assured that our
activities will take place outside your jurisdiction, Chief Hanks. Furthermore, we are law-abiding citizens with no desire to disrupt the community or cause alarm. We simply ask to be allowed to exercise our constitutional rights without undue interference.”
It didn’t sound as if he was planning to stage a beauty pageant to select Miss Stump County—or anything remotely that innocuous. Then again, he’d hardly tell me if he were plotting to overthrow the town council and put in a dictatorship (as if we’d notice).
“Just what do you have in mind?” I asked, setting down my beer in case I needed to put myself back on duty.
“I am the leader of a small group concerned about protecting the American way of life. We are preparing ourselves to fight back in the face of an invasion of foreign troops or even an attempt by the federal government to declare martial law and deprive us of our rights. Should push come to shove, we will not be led to the slaughterhouse like bleating sheep. We will resist.”
“How are you preparing yourselves?”
Pitts gave me a smile that oozed superciliousness. “Through rigorous physical training, as well as education and networking with others who share our beliefs. We will establish an encampment at the far edge of Kayleen’s property in order to perform military maneuvers in the more rugged terrain on the ridge. We will perfect survival techniques in anticipation of the day when resources are controlled by the enemy. We will eat off the land.”
Ruby Bee winced. “You’re gonna eat roots and berries when you could have a nice blue-plate special right here? Wouldn’t you prefer chicken-fried steak with cream gravy and your choice of three vegetables?”
“We are not ignorant savages,” he said. “We will simply make do with game or fish, if necessary supplementing it with provisions brought with us. One of the women handles those duties while we focus on important matters.”
“You can’t make decent biscuits over a campfire,” stated Ruby Bee, who clearly fancied herself to be an authority of the same stature as Julia Child.
He gazed coldly at her. “Sacrifices must be made in order to defend the Constitution of the United States of America.”
When he didn’t burst into the national anthem, I said, “I’m not sure it’s wise to play G.I. Joe in the woods next week. Deer hunting season starts this Saturday. A lot of guys stick a bottle of bourbon in their pockets and go stumbling around, shooting at anything that twitches a whisker. There are one or two fatal accidents every year. I wouldn’t set foot out there, even if Raz Buchanon offered to carry me piggyback to his still.”
Pitts climbed off the stool and took a step back, his shoulders squared and that same damn smile on his face. “There are worse dangers than drunken hunters. Now, if you’ll tell me how to find Kayleen’s house, I will be on my way. I’m sure you have more important things to do than sit here and make idle conversation.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I said without enthusiasm. After Ruby Bee had given him directions, no more complicated than left out of the parking lot, right on County 102, he marched out the door. I finished my beer and stood up. “Did Pitts say where he lives when he’s not stalking squirrels and godless communists?”
Estelle snorted. “Farberville. He owns an insurance agency.”
“Then I hope he has a hefty life insurance policy,” I said as I headed for the door.
“Do you think there’s anything to what he said?” asked Ruby Bee. “Could the government up and take over the country?”
“About the time Marjorie sprouts wings,” Estelle said with another snort.
I kept on walking.
Chapter 2
Brother Verber was slumped on the couch in the silver trailer that served as the rectory for the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. It was so small that it was a miracle he didn’t run into himself in the hallway that led to the bathroom and bedroom. What’s more, it lacked the cozy touches only a woman could provide, like doilies on the armrests and china knick-knacks on the table. The counter of the kitchen alcove was cluttered not with the makings for buttermilk biscuits, but with dirty dishes, crusted pots, and empty sacramental wine bottles.
It hadn’t seemed so awful a week ago, when he was resigned to being a bachelor for the rest of his life. He had his pulpit and his congregation, his subscriptions to magazines that kept him informed of any new trends in sexual deviancy, and occasional trips to Little Rock to do personal research into such matters. Still, there’d been times when he wondered if he was missing something.
He put down the plastic tumbler to clasp his hands together and find out what, if anything, the Lord would think about all this. “‘Two are better than one because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.’” He paused, then added, “That’d be from Ecclesiastes, in case You couldn’t quite put Your finger on it.”
The Lord didn’t seem to have a response, so Brother Verber went to the refrigerator and refilled his glass with the last of the wine. Rather than resuming his prayerful posture on the couch, he looked out the window at the Assembly Hall, a metal structure that bore a vague resemblance to the rectory. Kayleen had agreed to come to the Sunday morning service, but she hadn’t promised to join his little flock on a permanent basis. He imagined her in the first pew, her face rosy with religious fervor and her skirt hitched up just far enough to permit a glimpse of her muscular thighs.
He took a handkerchief out of his bathrobe pocket and blotted his forehead. This wasn’t anything to do with lust, he told himself. It had to do with warm, loving companionship as they traveled down the road to the Pearly Gates. There was nothing wrong with that, surely. They were both too old to go forth and multiply, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t partake in a few worldly pleasures of the flesh.
Sweat was dribbling into his ears and his eyes were glazed with the particulars of his fantasy when he heard a knock at the door. He shoved as many wine bottles as he could into the garbage bag under the sink, took a last swipe at his forehead, and opened the door.
“Why, Sister Barbara,” he began in what he hoped was a voice of surprise and delight, “I wasn’t expecting to see you this afternoon. Why don’t you—”
“You’re not dressed,” Mrs. Jim Bob said as she swept past him. “Shouldn’t you be out visiting the sick or over in the Assembly Hall working on your sermon? The devil finds work for idle hands, as you well know.”
While she took off her coat, he snatched the tumbler off the kitchen table and stuck it in the nearest cabinet. “I was headed for the county nursing home this morning,” he improvised, “but then I started feeling like I had a touch of the stomach flu. Not wanting to inflict my germs on those feeble old things, I came right home where I could pray for them without endangering their health.”
“You do look kind of damp,” she said as she sat down on the couch. “If you’re still feeling sickly tomorrow, I’ll make a pot of chicken soup and bring it over here.”
“You are so selfless,” he said, sitting down next to her so he could pat her knee. “That’s why you’re such an inspiration to the congregation.”
“I understand you’ve been doing some recruiting.”
“It’s my duty to bring sinners off the street and into the bosom of the Lord, Sister Barbara. I know for a fact that the angels burst into song whenever a lost soul finds salvation through prayer and Bible studies.”
“I assume you remember how Jesus ran the moneylenders out of the temple, saying it had become a den of thieves. You wouldn’t want that to happen at the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, would you?”
Brother Verber was more than a little mystified by her remark. “I should say not,” he said, trying to sound emphatic. “In this sea of wickedness that surrounds us, the Assembly Hall is our lifeboat, and you, Sister Barbara, are right there at the helm beside me.”
“I’m glad to hear we have an understanding.” She
removed his hand from her knee and picked up her purse. “I’ll be by tomorrow with the soup.”
“God bless you,” he called as she went out the door, then retrieved his wine and watched her drive away in the pink Cadillac Jim Bob had bought for her after she found out about his relationship with a divorcée living at the Pot O’ Gold trailer park.
Thinking about that reminded him of Kayleen, with her shapely figure and loving nature. He wouldn’t rush her, of course, but instead give her time to learn to appreciate his finer qualities, like his compassion for the little heathen children in Africa, his spirituality, his sacrifices to battle Satan’s soldiers.
Imbued with optimism as well as wine, he sat down on the couch and considered when it would be fitting for him to drop by the Flamingo Motel again. He’d give it a day or two, he decided as he took a swallow of wine and let it dribble down his throat like diluted honey.
The sun was shining the next morning, but the wind was frigid. I kept my hands in my coat pockets as I hurried across the road to the PD, accompanied only by skittering leaves and litter. As soon as I’d made coffee and was settled at my desk, I called the sheriff’s department in Farberville and asked to speak to Harve Dorfer.
“Is there something goin’ on out there?” asked LaBelle, the dispatcher. “More Martians?”
“No,” I said, struggling to keep the irritation out of my voice. LaBelle covertly runs the department, deciding whose calls to put through and whose to leave indefinitely on hold. She was enough of a pain in the rear that I almost would have preferred voice mail: “If you’re in the act of committing a felony, press one.”
LaBelle sniffed. “Sheriff Dorfer’s been real busy these last few days, what with the upcoming election and all. He’s speaking at the Rotary meeting at noon about all the drug busts he’s made in the last year, then he’s supposed to—”
“Just put him on, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she retorted, no doubt already plotting her revenge.
