Muletrain to Maggody

by Joan Hess

  “Dahlia’s granny is up there?”

  I nodded. “As well as Private Jeb Stewart.”

  “I though he was a general.”

  I felt as if I were slogging through molasses. “Look, why don’t we go to the PD and I’ll fill you in. Once the trailer’s aired out, have the deputies search for the family Bible. Hospiss wouldn’t have left it behind when she moved down here. There’s no way we can find her homestead in the dark, but I’ll see if Hammet can help me tomorrow.”

  “Hammet? I thought he was staying with a foster family over in—”

  “He is, but at the moment he’s here. Now unless you want us to be standing here when McBeen comes out and he and I end up mud wrasslin’ in the ditch, you’d better come on to the PD. I’ll make coffee, and you can make notes. I’ll even loan you my only pencil.”

  “Am I wrong in thinking I’m the one what’s supposed to be giving the orders?”

  “No problem,” I said. “There’s nothing I’d rather do more than go to my apartment, take a long bath, put on my robe, and curl up to watch TV. What channel is this baseball game on? I love poetry in skin-tight pants.”

  Harve seemed to sense that he, like Wendell Streek, was getting too close to the edge of a particular bluff. “You go on to the PD and start the coffee. I’ll tell the deputies to search for the Bible, then knock on some doors and ask if anyone saw something this morning. Give me ten or fifteen minutes.”

  I figured I’d won the Skirmish at the Pot O’ Gold, but not necessarily the Battle of the Stump County Sheriff’s Department.

  Mrs. Jim Bob eyed her dinner guests, all of whom had seemed to enjoy her chicken casserole with mushrooms, slivered almonds, and imported black olives, as well as her molded cabbage salad and homemade cloverleaf rolls. Under no circumstances could she be blamed for the Yankees’ wine bottle in the middle of the table. She’d been putting the empty bottles in a cardboard box in the garage so that they could be left discreetly in a Dumpster in Farberville in the future. “Is anyone ready for pecan pie and ice cream?” she asked, hoping they’d all decline and just go to bed, even though it wasn’t yet eight o’clock.

  Jim Bob tried to muffle a belch, but with little success. “That was a mighty fine supper, if I do say. Maggody’s famous for its warm hospitality and home cookin’.”

  “Oh, a fine meal indeed,” said Kenneth, who was hoping Mrs. Jim Bob had not gone tripping through the woods picking the mushrooms herself. He figured he’d find out within an hour or so. “So, Corinne, are the schools expecting us tomorrow?”

  Corinne shook her head. “The teacher in charge of all this has gone missing, and no one else in either the elementary or high school seems to have a clue. I really don’t know what we’re supposed to do.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Mrs. Jim Bob said numbly.

  “Maybe I ought to fix a plate for Harriet,” said Sweetpea. “The poor thing looked so pale this afternoon that I was worried she might collapse. Maybe soup might be better. What do you think, Corinne?”

  “Let’s allow her to rest for the time being. Such a terrible shock for her, I should think. I do believe that she was emotionally involved with Wendell, and had expectations of a permanent arrangement. The announcement of his engagement to another woman was as devastating as his demise.”

  “God, Mother,” Simon said as he tossed down his napkin, “this is not one of your novels. Do you suspect this spurned spinster followed him up that mountainside and pushed him off the bluff? Doesn’t that seem a bit far-fetched?”

  “I said no such thing.”

  Simon smirked. “Well, it sounds like somebody did, but more likely to get his hands on the notebook and find the treasure. What about you, Jim Bob? Where were you this morning?”

  “At Jim Bob’s SuperSaver Buy 4 Less, with half a dozen employees to vouch for me. What about you?”

  Sweetpea pushed back her chair and stood up. “This is not some silly parlor game! That nice man died this morning. I am not going to sit here and listen to any more of this.”

  “Sit down,” Simon said curtly. “It’s a very entertaining little game. What about you, Kenneth? You said you were going to familiarize yourself with the terrain or some such shit. Did you take a little hike?”

  “I did. I went out to the area by the bridge, where the Confederates will be camping in two days. Strangely enough, I encountered a Union private who claimed he was sharing the site with a rebel. That would never have happened. I told him as much and ordered him to move his tent elsewhere, but he refused. There was something about him that made me uneasy.”

  “Did he have a copy of the journal?” asked Corinne.

  “He said all of the participants were sent one.” Kenneth refilled his glass and leaned back. “I don’t seem to recall that Simon explained where he was today.”

  Simon reached across the table for the wine bottle. “I was supposed to do the audio in a studio in Springfield, but I couldn’t find the place. Eventually I had lunch in some fast food joint and came back here to take a nap. I have to be rested for this reenactment thing, you know.”

  “You ever ridden a mule?” asked Jim Bob, snickering. “Unlike your fancy thoroughbreds, they’re as bony as anything you’d find in a pit behind a slaughterhouse. You’re gonna end up with bruises on your butt till the fireworks fade on the Fourth of July—and that’s if you’re lucky. You might be walking bowlegged till Christmas.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob was on the brink of losing what little composure she’d clung to for the last twenty-four hours. She’d imagined a dinner party in which music and literature would be the topics, or at least documentaries on PBS. “I do believe it might be nice for us to go out to the patio for dessert and coffee. I’ll be out there as soon as I’ve cleared the table.”

  “Let me help you,” said Sweetpea. “You’ve been so lovely about our unexpected arrival. Dinner was divine. Is there any chance I can wheedle that recipe out of you? I was thinking it would be perfect for my bridesmaids’ luncheon.”

  Corinne began stacking plates. “You boys just go on outside and smoke your smelly ol’ cigars. We’ll join you after a while.”

  Kenneth picked up the wine bottle and his glass. “Come along, boys.”

  Harve ended up with several pages of notes, but he was still scratching his head and mumbling to himself. “Lotta crazy folks doing a lotta crazy things, all for the sake of this fairy tale about lost Confederate gold. You don’t reckon it’s still up there, do you?”

  “What skimpy evidence there is suggests that it might be,” I said wearily. “It’s the least of my problems at the moment. Did you have someone go by Wendell’s house and tell his mother what happened?”

  “Yeah, I sent LaBelle, thinking she might be more tactful than any of my boys. They’d most likely just spit it out and leave without waiting to see if the old lady collapsed. LaBelle said it was painful, but there was someone else there, a family friend, who started fluttering around like a nurse.”

  “I’ve got Wendell’s address book. You can send some photos to the brother and let him make the official ID.” I looked at the scribbles I’d made on a legal pad. “Next item on the agenda is to locate Lottie Estes. While I was waiting for you, I called the Farberville PD, but I don’t think they’re impressed with the urgency. Can you send a deputy over to search the Headquarters House tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  “And I don’t mean after the baseball game. She could have made it to the basement or even crawled into a closet and lost consciousness. It’s been more than seventy-two hours. Dehydration could be a factor.”

  “It’s liable to be locked up tighter’n a tick at this hour. You saying I ought to order a deputy to break into the only Civil War site in Farberville? That ain’t gonna sit well with the locals who take their heritage seriously.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Who might just vent their displeasure at the polls next November?” When he responded with a wheezy nod, I said, “There have to be several keys floa
ting around. I’m sure Harriet has one, but I don’t want to disturb her tonight. Wendell surely had one, too. He didn’t have a key ring when we found him, and I didn’t see one when I searched the bedroom for his address book. He probably left it at home. Have a deputy go by Mrs. Streek’s house and ask this family friend to look around.”

  “I s’pose that might work.” Harve made the call while I refilled our mugs, and when I returned, said, “We’re on it. She lives just a couple of doors down from the Headquarters House, so we should hear something afore too long. Satisfied?”

  “You got my vote.”

  “And you owe me,” he said as he lit a cigar and tossed the match into the wastebasket. “Now from what I can sort out from all these hen scratches I made, Wendell met Hospiss early in the day. She told him about the Confederate officer buried up at her old place and went so far as to draw him a map. As you know darn well from your experiences with Raz, Buchanons can be a tight-lipped lot, not likely to tell secrets to a stranger. So why’d she blab all this?”

  I tried not to be distracted by the thin ribbon of smoke rising from the wastebasket. “It may have been nothing more than an impassioned desire on her part to qualify for membership in the Daughters of the American Confederacy, or the chance to be a footnote in Wendell’s historical blockbuster. Maybe she believed she’d be given a role in the documentary. Her story is that her great-great-grandmother appeared after the rebels fled, slung the lieutenant’s body over a mule, and took him back home with her. But Harriet wouldn’t have strayed from the account in that damn journal unless Wendell found proof.” I made a square with my thumbs and forefingers and peered through it like a pretentious Hollywood director. “Yes, I can see it. The last echoes of musket fire have faded to an eerie silence. A haze of acrid smoke still lingers from—” I jumped up and poured my coffee into the wastebasket. “Goddamn it, Harve! Feel free to burn down your own office, but not mine. The town council would decide to set up my office in Raz Buchanon’s barn.”

  He grinned. “And then you could hire that pedigreed sow of his to be your second in command.”

  I made sure the fire was out before I sat down. “Or I could organize a write-in effort to get her on the ballot for county sheriff. Nobody would notice the difference.”

  His grin disappeared. “What you need to do in the morning is get statements from all those folks staying at Mrs. Jim Bob’s house about what all they did after breakfast today. Have a talk with that Stewart fellow, see if he ran into Wendell and heard something of interest. Then find Hospiss’s old place and see if you can find anything that hints of Wendell having been there. After that—”

  “Wait just a minute. This is your case.”

  “All I want you to do is talk to them. I can’t see any of my boys sweet-talking those ladies from Charleston or getting anything out of Harriet Hathaway without reducing her to hysteria. Tact ain’t their strong point. You, on the other hand, are all refined, having lived in New York City. Mrs. Dorfer keeps harping about us taking a trip there for our anniversary, but I’d just as soon spend two weeks at the state prison farm, chopping cotton and picking up litter alongside a state highway.”

  “You’re a weasel,” I said.

  “But you got to admit I’m a genial weasel.”

  The telephone rang before I could offer a rebuttal. It proved to be the deputy who’d searched the Headquarters House and adjoining yards, and found no trace of Lottie Estes or anyone else. Harve told him to go back on patrol, then stood up and said, “You just talk to those folks tomorrow and call me if you learn anything of interest. I’ll check with the hospital and the homeless shelters in case this fugitive might be hiding there. You might think about changing your coffee filter every few months or so.”

  After he left, I made sure the coffeepot was turned off and was about to turn off the lights when the phone rang again. As much as I wanted to ignore it and go hide in my bathtub, I answered it.

  “What’s this about Hospiss?” demanded Ruby Bee.

  “Talk to Eula.”

  “I already did, but she knows next to nothing beyond the pitiful little thing was killed.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, then hung up and left before she could call me back.

  Enough, already.

  12

  The next morning I inspected my many bruises in the bathroom mirror, then gingerly dressed and went over to the PD to find out if Robert E. or Ulysses S. had left any messages of significance. Neither had bothered, but the day was in its infancy (or infantry, perhaps). Mrs. Jim Bob had left a hysterical message demanding to know the whereabouts of Lottie and Brother Verber. All I knew about Lottie was where she’d last been seen, and to some extent, where she wasn’t. As for Brother Verber, I’d noticed while crossing the road that his car had not reappeared. As far as I knew, he could be anywhere in the tri-state area, indulging in things I didn’t even want to imagine.

  I went to Ruby Bee’s and sat down in a booth with Jack. “Enjoy the movie?”

  “Was the child raised by wolves?” he said.

  “Pretty much.” I told him about Hammet’s upbringing on the ridge, then paused as a sleek, silvery man came to the table. He looked as though he could afford the high-maintenance costs of disguising his age.

  “Andrew Pulaski,” he said to me. “I’m one of the reenactors. Do you mind if I join you for breakfast?”

  I told him who I was as he pulled up a chair. “Are you the Yankee who was stirring up trouble here last night?” I asked. “You’re lucky you didn’t find a bunch of rednecks with baseball bats waiting outside for you.”

  “Just having a bit of fun with them.” He picked up a menu. “I suppose I’d better have oatmeal and dry toast. My cholesterol level has been climbing steadily since I arrived. How do you keep yourself so trim, my dear? Diet pills, aerobics, bulemia?”

  “Mostly hiking on Cotter’s Ridge. You been up there in the last day or so?”

  Ruby Bee came over to the table with three coffee mugs and a full pot. “You might think twice before you come to happy hour again,” she said to Andrew in an icy voice. “You pull that kind of crap again, I’ll just duck behind the bar and let them beat you until you’re seeping like a rotten tomato. Why don’t you go to Mrs. Jim Bob’s house and spend the evening with your friends?”

  I glanced at Jack, who was observing the scene with muted amusement, then looked at Andrew. “You’re acquainted with some of Mrs. Jim Bob’s houseguests?”

  “The trio from Charleston. I met them when I was on the set of the miniseries. Corinne dashed about, trying to get the director’s attention, while Simon complained about the heat, the mosquitoes, and his uniform, which he felt failed to accentuate his abs and pecs. Sweetpea, in contrast, spent her time sitting on a quilt in the shade, sketching the action. She’s really quite talented.”

  Ruby Bee rumbled. “Are y’all gonna order? I got other customers, you know.”

  “Oatmeal, with skim milk,” said Andrew.

  Jack grinned at me. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  I could feel Ruby Bee’s stare as my face turned warm. “We’ll have the works.”

  “Is that what you call it these days?” she said, then stomped away.

  “So,” I said to Andrew, “did you decide to do this reenactment so you could see your dear friends Corinne, Simon, and Sweetpea?” I gave the third name a nuance of emphasis, just to see if he squirmed.

  He did not oblige. “In fact, I did. Sweetpea was kind enough to drop me a note about this particular reenactment. I’m hoping to take the three of them to lunch today or tomorrow in a somewhat more upscale dining environment. Can you recommend a place?”

  “You came all the way from St. Louis for an upscale dining environment?”

  “Oh, I do several of these reenactments a year, as long as I’m not expected to run around a pasture in blistering heat. In the upcoming skirmish, I shall stay on a horse and ride up and down the lines, shouting encouragement.
Because of my unflagging leadership, my men will prevail.”

  “I didn’t notice a horse trailer out back,” Jack said.

  Andrew took a sip of coffee. “A comrade from the Missouri unit provides one for me. Not a thoroughbred, but a good, sturdy animal. I own a highly successful car agency, which is both physically and emotionally draining. Sometimes I like to escape and indulge in childish fantasies. Even though I’m obliged to camp out, I do not deprive myself of basic comforts.”

  “A farb, huh?” I said drily.

  “Of the worst kind.”

  Ruby Bee returned with our food. While we ate, Andrew tried to sell Jack a Mercedes and me a 1992 pickup with low mileage and new shocks. As soon as I’d had enough food to sustain me, I told Jack I’d see him later and left before Ruby Bee could haul me into the kitchen to demand details about Hospiss.

  Although I knew I was going to have to question the houseguests, I decided to cover a few other bases first. I did a posthaste tour of Lottie’s house and determined she had not come home. I then tossed a mental coin and drove out to the bridge to talk to Private Jeb Stewart.

  He and Private Waylon Pepperstone were sitting by the campfire, drinking coffee out of battered tin cups. I hoped they’d enjoyed their hardtack as much as I had my heady dose of cholesterol. Both leaped to their feet as I approached.

  “Sit down,” I said. “There were two deaths yesterday, one in town and the other on Cotter’s Ridge. I want to know exactly where each of you were in the morning.”

  “I was right here,” Waylon said, gulping. “Well, after you left, I went into the woods, thinking I might be able to catch a rabbit for supper.”

  Jeb hooted derisively. “With your bare hands? Or were you planning to set a snare with a piece of fishing line? God, boy, you wouldn’t last three weeks in a real war unless your mama sent you packages with granola bars and clean pajamas.”

  “Tell me more precisely where you went,” I said to Waylon, ignoring the rude noises from the far side of the campfire. “Up on the ridge?”