The Merry Wives of Maggody

by Joan Hess

  The telephone rang. I promptly answered it, hoping it was Ruby Bee with a dinner invitation. It was Estelle. I gritted my teeth as I waited for a lecture, but she said, “It’s about time you got back from wherever you went. Where’s Ruby Bee?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought she might be at your house.”

  “Not unless she’s hiding in the cellar. I’ve been calling her unit and the barroom for more than an hour. This ain’t like her, Arly.”

  I would have preferred the lecture. “No, it isn’t. Is Amanda there?”

  “She’s upstairs in the tub. When she got back, I gave her a piece of my mind, and she apologized. Not so much as a word about why she took my car, mind you, but I let it go on account of her being a widow. Grief can make you do crazy things. I knew a fellow back when I was living in Little Rock whose wife died. He wore her clothes every day for a year, right down to her pantyhose and pumps. He got fired from his job at a bank and took up grooming dogs.”

  “I guess I’ll go try to find Ruby Bee.”

  The most logical place to start was Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill, illuminated only by neon beer signs in the front window. Her car was not parked in front of her unit, and it was dark inside. I went to the back door of the barroom, took a key from above the sill, and let myself in. There was enough light to make my way to the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and fixed myself a plate of leftovers, then went to the back booth and sat down. “How’d you get in here?” I asked.

  “Same way you did. Not much of a challenge.”

  “You the escaped prisoner?” I asked.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’d be a lot simpler if you were,” I said as I picked up a drumstick.

  He took out his wallet and showed me his ID. “I thought this case would be a lot simpler,” he said wryly. “This is one crazy place, Chief Hanks. I’m just going to hang around another day and see what happens next.”

  “Can you share any information?”

  “Sure, if I want to be reassigned to border duty in Texas for the rest of my life.”

  “Suit yourself.” I took the plate into the kitchen and left it in the sink, and made sure the door was locked when I left. It was time to talk to Phil Proodle. The light in his motel room was on, the curtains drawn. I could make out shadowy movement inside.

  I knocked on his door. “Mr. Proodle, it’s Arly Hanks. Open the door, please.”

  He was either very slow or very drunk, but he finally yanked open the door and did his best to loom. “This is getting tiresome, Chief Hanks. You have violated my civil liberties by detaining me without any evidence that suggests I’m guilty of some infraction.”

  I scooted past him and sat down. “The infraction happens to be two cold-blooded murders, but you’re such delightful company that I’d detain you for parking in a handicapped space.”

  “That seems to be the level of your competence,” he said, scowling. “I shall call my lawyer tomorrow and file a lawsuit against the town, the golf tournament, and you personally for false imprisonment, mental anguish, loss of income, and anything else I can think of. You’ll be sorry you ever messed with me, missy.”

  “I already am. Let’s talk about this boat you reluctantly offered as a prize.”

  He stayed near the door, his arms crossed. “I am a good citizen, and always eager to assist charity fund-raising events. My business buys ads in the high school yearbook every year, and allows the band to hold car washes on the lot. We sponsor fishing tournaments for disadvantaged youth. Last summer we provided free hot dogs at an outing for nursing home residents.”

  “You were upset when Tommy won the boat. I have several witnesses who can verify this.” Or one.

  “They were mistaken,” Proodle said.

  “They said you were sobbing in your car.”

  “Are you implying that I killed Tommy Ridner because he won the boat? That’s absurd. My loss was minimal. I sold the boat once and made a profit. It depreciated when it was towed off the lot. As it is, I get a hefty deduction for the charitable donation, as well as free publicity. I didn’t really care that he won the boat.” He stepped in front of me so he could peer down from his pedestal. “Why don’t you run along and play somewhere else? I don’t have time for this silliness.”

  “Too busy packing?” I said innocently, gesturing at the open suitcase on the bed.

  “I intend to leave tomorrow as soon as possible. I’ve already had to reschedule the weekly sales meeting because of your petty dictate. Is it your time of the month, Chief Hanks? Are you depressed because of PMS? That’s the reason why women should stay home and work off their frustration in the laundry room.”

  If there’d been a clothes dryer nearby, he’d have found himself permanently depressed. “I feel the same way about chubby old men with bad toupees,” I said with admirable control. I stood up, forcing him to retreat. “There’s something special about this particular boat, isn’t there? As you said, it’s not a serious financial loss. You must have some perverted attachment to it. Heifers and goats rouse all manner of manly passion around here. It’s rumored that Raz’s sow shares his bed. Oh, and let’s not forget Dawson Deever. He tried to marry his Mr. Coffee machine. He was run out of town for being a homosexual. You like to sit in the bass boat at night, Mr. Proodle? Drink a little wine, stroke the leather—”

  “How dare you!” he sputtered. “I ought to put you over my knee and paddle you, you hussy! This is slander. I’ll see to it that you pay for this!”

  “I was just asking.” I warned myself that I was giving him an excuse to avoid the question. “Does it have something to do with the boat’s original owner? What’s his name?”

  Proodle yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. “I don’t even remember the guy, much less his name. He made the down payment but fell behind on his monthly payments. He was sent a certified letter warning him that he had to catch up or lose the boat. It was perfectly legal. I’m sure he wasn’t happy when the boat was repossessed, but it was his own damn fault.”

  “If you say so. First thing in the morning, the sheriff will get a warrant to paw through your paperwork and find out the owner’s name and address. I hope he backs up your story so you won’t be charged with impeding an investigation. Judges take a dim view of that.”

  His forehead was glistening as sweat coated it. “The guy went to prison, okay? He has nothing to do with any of this. You’re chasing your tail, Chief Hanks. Why don’t you take a harder look at those pissant golfers in your hometown? They’re the ones who were so outraged when Ridner won the boat.”

  “Dennis Gilbert didn’t win the boat.”

  “Maybe they thought he was the most likely candidate to make a hole-in-one tomorrow. Bunch of dumb rednecks. Bony and Natalie better watch their backs, too.”

  “Nobody’s going to waltz off tomorrow with anything more than a recycled trophy,” I said. “The boat’s been impounded. It’ll be covered with cobwebs and mouse droppings before it gets anywhere near a lake.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” he whimpered as he sank down on a corner of the bed. “Go away and leave me alone. I’ve got more important things to worry about than those murders.”

  I didn’t, but I left anyway. Ruby Bee’s car was back in its normal place, and her bedroom light was on. I considered banging on her door, but the idea of listening to even more lies was too much of a burden. As far as I knew, everybody was where he or she was supposed to be, at least for the evening. Natalie was out of Dilaudid, so presumably Janna was safe. Kale was standing at the far end of the building, smoking a cigarette (or something else). His mother was apt to be inside, darning his socks.

  I headed for the PD to work on my theory.

  Sixteen

  The next morning I opened my eyes cautiously. My alarm clock had not yet startled me out of a dream. The sun shone through my dusty window, and sparrows chattered at Roy’s bird feeder. Not a blessed soul was standing over my bed, griping, whi
ning, or demanding answers—or reporting yet another missing person. I could hear the faint drone of an airplane in the great blue yonder, carrying the more fortunate to sanctuaries free of rednecks, mutants, and murderous golfers.

  After the standard morning rituals, I walked over to Ruby Bee’s and sat down at the bar. The only occupants were truckers, strays, and the man in the back booth. I was eating a warm blueberry muffin when the proprietress emerged from the kitchen with plates in each hand. She pretended not to notice me as she went over to a booth.

  When she came back, I smiled and said, “Oatmeal and milk, please.”

  Ruby Bee was unnerved, no doubt having prepared herself to be peppered with questions about her AWOL status the previous evening. “Is that all? Doncha want scrambled eggs and ham with redeye gravy? Are you feeling sickly?”

  I held up a hand before she could whip out a thermometer. “I need to get over to the PD. I assume you heard that the golf tournament’s final round starts at ten. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, but there are a couple of corpses on the tracks.”

  “That Coulter woman told me when she came in for coffee as soon as I opened. I haven’t seen any of the others yet. I expect all of them to drag in pretty soon. Oatmeal, coming up. You want a couple of muffins to take with you?”

  I shook my head and turned around to gaze at the scattered customers. No one bothered to gaze back. After I finished eating, I gave Ruby Bee a little wave and went to the PD. I looked over my notes, sighed, and called Harve at home.

  “Hope you got some good news for a change,” he said.

  “Maybe,” I said. “Is Les at the Farberville PD?”

  “No, he’s back at the office, and I’m on my way there. The fire didn’t damage the front rooms. The quorum court has an emergency fund, and they coughed up enough to clean up the foam and spray air freshener. The inmates have been dispersed to other jails.”

  “You find the third inmate?”

  “Not yet, but we will. The dumb shit’ll be wearing the orange jumpsuit. The only rehabilitation for some of these fellows is a brain transplant.”

  “Your job’s safe,” I said. I brought him up to date on what I’d learned (and what I’d hadn’t), my theories, and my conspicuous lack of proof. He failed to sympathize or offer any advice, so I hung up.

  Les was more helpful. He agreed to send a team to the warehouse where the bass boat rested on its trailer, and promised to call the Jackson courthouse at nine. After some searching, he came up with the telephone number of the Yazoo City nursing home where Mrs. Rosalie Wicket, purported owner of a Chrysler Imperial Crown Coupe, resided.

  I dialed the number and rocked back, bracing myself to deal with a frigid bureaucrat armed with government rules and regulations concerning privacy.

  “Good morning, Sunset Valley Manor. May I be of help to you?” The woman’s voice dripped with molasses, although considering the locale, it might have been Spanish moss.

  I explained who I was and asked for information concerning Mrs. Wicket. “Whatever you’re allowed to tell me,” I added.

  “Why, honey, I’m just glad to know somebody still cares about that sweet lady. Miss Rosalie’s been here since God made little green apples. Her kinfolk used to come visit, but they died or moved away.”

  “Could I speak to her?”

  “All you want, but she won’t have a clue who you are or what you’re asking. She’s in her happy place, cuddling her pillow like it was a baby. Yesterday she thought I was her sister and we were getting ready for cotillion. Better than last week, when she thought I was her mother. I ain’t near that old.” The woman laughed.

  “Do you know anything about these kinfolk who moved away?” I asked.

  “Lemme think. One of her brothers died in World War I, and the other one moved north during the Depression. Her sister married a preacher man. After he died, she came back with her children and lived with Miss Rosalie. Miss Lucy died a good thirty years ago. Miss Rosalie’s babies died as infants, so she was real partial to her nieces and her nephew. The nieces never married and are buried side by side in the family plot. I don’t recollect what happened to the nephew. There were some cousins from Hattiesburg, but we ain’t seen them in a coon’s age. When you get to be Miss Rosalie’s age, you discover that you’ve outlived your generation.”

  “How long have you worked at Sunset Valley Manor?”

  “Thirty years, give or take. My family lived across the street from the Wickets. Miss Rosalie was always good for a cookie and a glass of cold lemonade on a hot afternoon. Hold on a minute.” She muffled her receiver and spoke to someone. When she came back on the line, she said, “It’s been real nice talking with you. Yesterday during visiting hours, someone snuck a bottle of scotch to Epiphany T. Jones. He’s hollering at the top of his lungs. You have a nice day, honey.”

  I’d hoped to ask her more about the nephew, but I didn’t need to. My theory about how Frederick acquired the Imperial Crown Coupe made sense, although I didn’t know if Miss Rosalie had given it to him or he had simply taken it. He could renew the license plate every year on a Web site. He’d mentioned that his family had moved around a lot while he was a child. He could have been born in a different state, I supposed, but that meant he’d lied. It was challenging to come up with an explanation, especially when the truth was liable to be innocuous, as was his alibi for Saturday night.

  I couldn’t construct a motive for him to have killed Tommy. No one seemed to have a motive to kill Dennis—unless he had seen someone attack Tommy. If he had, then why hadn’t he told me? And according to Amanda, she and Dennis had returned to their motel room after the stoplight shoot-out.

  Kathleen Wasson had been on her own at the significant time, I realized. I had no idea how long it actually took to drive to Tibia and back, or if she’d really gone there. Maybe Kale’s sacred blue shirt had been in the bottom of her suitcase. She’d lied to him because she wanted to spy on him. If she was pretending to be meek and drab, she was doing a damn fine job of it. I tried to imagine her face contorted by rage, her teeth bared, her arms wielding the golf club without mercy. She would have had to climb into the boat to attack Tommy, which meant she was packing a stepladder in her trunk. She’d hadn’t been at the wake when Dennis staggered out of the room, but she could have seen him go into Tommy’s. It was a hard sell, even for me.

  I called Les again. Ignoring his groan, I said, “Can you get in touch with the police in Tibia and ask them to check with the Wassons’ neighbors? I need to know if anyone saw signs of activity at the house between nine and midnight on Saturday night.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to rustle up a herd of singing cows?”

  “Oooh, that’d be cool.”

  “You were right about the bass boat, by the way. The original buyer was a scumbag who insists on being called ‘Da King.’ He’s doing time at the state prison for drug trafficking. He should be out on parole, but he tried to kill a guard with a broomstick last month. Da King isn’t going to regain his throne any time soon.”

  I rewarded myself with a small smile. “Also, see if anyone knows how long it takes to drive between Tibia and Farberville.”

  “Did young Kale rush home for a quickie with his girlfriend?”

  “You think young Kale has a girlfriend?”

  “I’ll get right on those singing cows,” Les said. “Do you want me to keep on Cartier’s birth certificate? The courthouse staff should be arriving soon.”

  “This is more important. Let me know what you find out.” I fiddled with my notes until I could no longer put off the call to McBeen. My stomach began to roil as I dialed the number.

  “What?” McBeen barked with his typical charm. “I told you not to call me, Chief Hanks.”

  “And good morning to you, too,” I said. “Did you complete the autopsy on Dennis Gilbert?”

  “Don’t you think I’d call you if I had?”

  “No. You wouldn’t call me to tell me my hair was on fire. What ab
out the autopsy on Dennis Gilbert?”

  “I’ve got the preliminary report here somewhere. There were two car wrecks and a suicide over the weekend. Your guy died of blunt force trauma. Low priority, since I’m trying to establish the identity of the passenger in one of the wrecks. Dental records don’t help when the guy had no teeth. What’s more, he was fried to such a crisp that we can’t get a usable print and—”

  “The blood work on Dennis Gilbert is all I need. I certainly wouldn’t want to distract you from more important cases.”

  “Hold your horses. Here it is.” He cleared his throat to annoy me. “Blood alcohol was two point one. The Dilaudid . . . hmmm . . . quite impressive. I rarely see a level like this. Occasionally the police bring in a DOA, usually a filthy addict that smells to high heavens.”

  “Please don’t make me drive over there and shake it out of you.”

  “His level was extremely high, enough to kill him even without the alcohol. He was alive when he was beaten, but most likely comatose. I’d estimate he ingested a dozen pills.”

  “He was beaten to death while he was unconscious?” I said.

  “Definitely a waste of time and energy. Just like this conversation.”

  I was appalled, but not surprised. Both victims were unable to defend themselves, Tommy because of his alcohol consumption and Dennis because of the overdose of Dilaudid. I was beginning to see the link between their deaths. Seeing, however, was not the same thing as proving. I returned to the issue of the bass boat, which was at the core of everything that had happened. Proodle produced the bomb; Tommy’s hole-in-one lit the fuse. The explosion had been fatal.