Muletrain to Maggody

by Joan Hess

  He shook his head. “No, I mostly stayed on dirt roads. If you’re looking for some sort of alibi, I stopped at a house and asked to use the phone. This old man, about as strange as I’ve ever encountered, charged me ten dollars to make a one-minute call. You’re not going to believe it, but there was a pig flopped on the sofa, watching an Audrey Hepburn movie. As soon as my minute was up, he shoved me out the door so hard I went sprawling on the porch. After that, I came back here and tried my luck at fishing.”

  “What about you?” I asked Jeb. “Did you wander off to make a phone call, too?”

  He spat in the fire. “Hell no. I went up on the ridge to see if I could find this purported treasure. I ate some hickory nuts and poke salat while I rested, looked around some more, and then came back here.” He gestured with his thumb at Waylon. “I didn’t see him.”

  “I went downstream to fish. You got a problem with that, Johnny Reb?”

  “Showing some spunk now, aren’t you? I’m trembling in my boots.”

  Waylon stood up. “All you’re doing in your boots is bleeding ’cause you think you’ve got to gross everybody out with your bullshit version of authenticity.”

  I intervened before this skirmish escalated. “Sit down, Waylon. Jeb, tell me who you saw while you were on Cotter’s Ridge.”

  “A town girl by a shack. I thought for a minute she might be following me, but she didn’t look as though she had the wits to follow a rock. After a time, I came across an old guy sitting on a log. He asked me if I could make sense of a map that looked as if it’d been drawn by a toddler.”

  “Did he have a notebook?” I asked.

  Jeb rolled his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, he most certainly did. He asked me about my kinfolk who fought in the war. I tolerated his questions for a while, then decided I was wasting my time and left him scribbling in his notebook. My family’s from Mississippi, and none of them was involved in engagements in Arkansas. My great-great-grandfather was killed defending Atlanta from Sherman’s scum. His two brothers died of dysentery and malnourishment in a prison in Pennsylvania. Their bodies were thrown in a mass grave. No medals or citations for the three Stewart boys, or even remains sent home to their mama.”

  I couldn’t help wincing, but it was not the time to mention the reciprocal Southern hospitality offered at such notorious prisons as Andersonville. “So after you left this man with the map, did you see anyone else?”

  “I might have, but I can’t swear to it. I caught a glimpse of a sickly guy in a Confederate uniform, but he was damn quick on his feet and disappeared in less than a second or two. Could have been my imagination.”

  “Starvation can do that,” inserted Waylon. “That and diarrhea. Has anybody told you that you stink like a barnyard?”

  Again, I intervened. “Waylon, it’s time for you to break camp. Pack up your things and I’ll tell you how to get to the low-water bridge at the other end of town. I want you to stay there tonight. The rest of the reenactors are arriving tomorrow. You can join your unit when they get here, but I don’t want to see your face until then. Is that clear?” I turned to Jeb. “And I want you to stay right here. I may have some more questions later. If I come back and find you missing, I’ll get some hounds from the sheriff’s department and turn them loose on you. Got it?”

  They both grudgingly agreed, although I suspected Jeb was whistlin’ Dixie, in a manner of speaking. I left them growling at each other and drove to Raz Buchanon’s shack to have what I knew would be an unsatisfactory confrontation with the surly sumbitch. I had no doubt he’d disclaim allowing a Yankee soldier to use his phone, or even set foot on his property. He’d gone so far as to threaten me with his shotgun more than once.

  Detectives on Law and Order do not have this problem.

  To my relief, the only thing he was holding when he came out on the porch was a red-and-white-striped dishtowel. He was dressed in filthy overalls and boots that might have flattened a few rabbits come suppertime.

  “Whadya want?” he hollered before I could get out of the car. “I got no time for you. Come back long about next year, or mebbe the year after that.”

  I went to the gate. “I need to talk to you, Raz. Don’t make me haul you over to the county jail. Marjorie might pine away, and you’d come back to find nothing on your couch but a snout and a curly tail.”

  “You jest leave Marjorie out of this, Arly Hanks, and do your talkin’ from right where you’re a-standin’.”

  “Does this mean you’re not going to invite me in for coffee? I heard a rumor that you grind your own beans. I was hoping for a steaming cup of mocha almond, with just a hint of French vanilla.”

  Raz ran his fingers through his beard, dislodging dried clumps of tobacco juice, crumbs, and possibly tiny tenants. “State yer business and be done with it. I ain’t got time to listen to the likes of you.”

  I smiled brightly. “You like me? You really like me? Wow, Raz, after all the problems we’ve had—”

  “Spit it out!” he snapped, doing some spitting of his own.

  “Did you see anybody on the ridge yesterday morning?”

  He considered his response. “Yeah, I reckon I might have. Bunch of damn fools, including your mama and that redheaded woman friend of hers. They’s the ones ought to be at the county jail.”

  “Did they get too close to your still?”

  “I’ve told you time and again I ain’t got no still. If I did, they weren’t nowheres near it. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have never showed up in town again.”

  He made a move toward the door, but I held up my hand and said, “We’re not finished, Raz. If this nonexistent still is elsewhere on the ridge, what were you doing?”

  “Marjorie’s been feelin’ right queasy these last few days. She has a delicate nature, bein’ pedigreed like she is, so I went to pick ’seng to make her tea. I know of some good patches.”

  “Were you anywhere near Hospiss’s old place?”

  “Mebbe.”

  I was actually getting more out of him than I’d expected. “Did you see anyone else?”

  “I weren’t lookin’ for anyone else. I jest told you what I was doin’.”

  I thought for a moment. “Did you and Diesel have a nice visit?”

  Raz squinted at me, and if he’d been holding anything more lethal than a dishtowel, I would have moved behind my car. “I disremember sayin’ anything about Diesel. Why would I want to have a visit with that crazy ol’ coot? I’d sooner crawl into a cave with a polecat. Why don’t you take your skinny little ass up there and ask him for a cup of fancy coffee?”

  “Did you come across Petrol?”

  “What kind of fool question is that? He’s locked up in that place by the low-water bridge, knittin’ doilies or whatever it is they do.” He spat in my direction. “Now git off my property afore I git riled. Iff’n I knew where this gold was, I shore as hell wouldn’t tell you or anyone else. It rightly belongs to Buchanons.”

  I stepped back onto the road. “How do you know about that?”

  “A fat ol’ coon told afore I blowed his head off.” He went inside, slamming the screen door behind him.

  I decided it was prudent to be on my way before he had a chance to make known his intentions, and bringing me a cup of coffee and a biscotti wasn’t likely to be among them. He’d acknowledged seeing people on the ridge, but getting their names or descriptions out of him would be like pulling teeth—which in his case wouldn’t take long.

  Gritting my teeth (all intact and clean, if not flossed), I drove to the Buchanon manor and parked. As I got out of the car, I heard voices from the backyard and headed that way. Corinne, Harriet, and Kenneth were seated at the wrought-iron table, drinking coffee. Sweetpea and Simon were at the end of the yard, standing several feet away and, from appearances, absorbed in a conversation that clearly pleased neither of them.

  I sat down at the table. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” I said to Harriet.

  “Very much so,” Corinne said
. “This morning when I took her up a tray with tea and toast, I couldn’t help noticing how much her color has improved.” She patted Harriet’s hand. “That’s the first thing I said to you, wasn’t it? Last night I was concerned that I might have to fetch my smelling salts.”

  Kenneth snickered. “Smelling salts? Corinne, you’re hopelessly mired in the nineteenth century. Sweetpea might get away with this girlish posturing, but in a woman of your age, it’s rather pathetic.”

  “And you don’t put on your cape and plumed hat so you can strut around like the cock of the roost? In your case, however, your admiring audience is made up of schoolchildren who’re hoping you’re going to stab yourself in the foot with your sword.”

  “Please,” Harriet said, “stop this. Arly, have you found out anything more about Wendell’s accident? Has his mother been informed? I was barely able to sleep last night, worrying about her.”

  “Mrs. Streek has been told. A friend was with her when a representative of the sheriff’s department arrived at her house.”

  Harriet’s hand shook as she put down her coffee cup. “Wendell’s fiancée?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Certain things happened yesterday afternoon that have led Sheriff Dorfer to question whether or not Wendell’s fall was accidental. I’m here to get statements from everyone regarding his or her movements yesterday.”

  “We’re suspects?” Corinne said with a squeak. “Why, I hardly knew the man, and I bore him no ill will.”

  “Corinne’s use of the word ‘bore’ is appropriate,” inserted Kenneth, “but that’s hardly a motive for murder.”

  Harriet looked at me. “Shall I volunteer to go first? Will the living room do, or are you going to take me to the police station to interrogate me?”

  “The living room’s fine,” I said hastily. “I would appreciate it if the rest of you remain available for a while.”

  Kenneth stood up and pulled back Harriet’s chair. “And I had such hopes of visiting the art museum next to the barber shop. I was told there’s a very fine collection of Renoir’s lesser-known preliminary sketches.”

  As Harriet and I went through the kitchen, Mrs. Jim Bob cut me off. “What is this I heard about Hospiss? Eula said you were at the Pot O’ Gold yesterday afternoon and told her—”

  “Yes, I was there,” I said. “Did Eula tell you about Lottie?”

  Mrs. Jim Bob’s beady eyes widened as far as they could. “Why would Eula know about poor Lottie?”

  I eased around her. “I suggest you call her and find out. I’m going to need to use the living room for the rest of the morning. Please let Perkin’s eldest know she won’t be able to vacuum and dust in there until I’m finished.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob was too stunned by the suggestion of Eula’s complicity to do more than nod.

  Harriet sat down on the sofa. “I really hadn’t noticed until now that there are no draperies in this room. Is there a reason?”

  “Every time Mrs. Jim Bob finds out about one of Jim Bob’s…dalliances, she redecorates. There’s probably an upholstery store in Farberville with a wing dedicated to her.” I sat down across from her. “I understand you were upset with Wendell at breakfast yesterday. Something about his fiancée?”

  “Well, yes,” she said, sighing. “I had no intention of allowing myself to speak of such personal matters, but I simply couldn’t keep it bottled up any longer. I’d counted on Wendell to advise me on every decision concerning the documentary. He and I have relied on each other for more than twenty years, and I was under the impression we had an understanding that we would be married after his mother passed away. He was adamant that the shock of even hearing of his marriage would send her into a downward spiral that could only result in her death. I resigned myself, year after year. Then, on Saturday, while we were at the Headquarters House to offer guided tours to visitors, he told me of his plans to marry Lydia Berle within a month. He was going to share this joyous news with the society at our next meeting.” She discreetly blotted her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m sure a child like you can’t understand the humiliation that I felt. I did not demand an explanation or attempt to plead with him, but instead left the room immediately. Lydia was sitting by the front door, collecting the entrance fees, as I went out the door.”

  “But he rode out here with you on Monday,” I pointed out.

  She looked away. “I thought we might discuss his impetuous decision, but all he did was gabble about his most recent genealogical discoveries. I don’t think I said more than two words the entire trip.”

  “You said more than two words yesterday.”

  “Yes, I suppose I did,” she said brokenly. “I suppose I did.”

  I went into the kitchen, found a box of tissues, and took it back to her. After she wiped her eyes and blew her nose several times, I said, “I won’t keep you much longer. What did you do after breakfast?”

  “I decided to take a walk. I went by the bridge, where I saw that two reenactors had already arrived and set up tents. I was hardly in the mood to deal with them. I chose instead to follow a primitive road of sorts up the hillside to find a secluded place to sit and examine my unseemly outburst in front of strangers.”

  “Did you notice an abandoned shack?”

  She brightened. “I did. I studied it for quite a long time, wondering if there might be a way for the historical society to transport it to the grounds behind the Headquarters House and include it in the tour as an example of nineteenth-century living conditions in rural populations. I concluded that so much as pulling away one board would cause it to collapse into a heap of tinder. I continued on my way, and eventually found a flat rock overlooking the valley beyond the ridge. The view did much to revive my spirits and ease my pain. Eventually I returned here. Finding no one present except for the cleaning woman, I fixed myself a sandwich, fetched my reading glasses and a copy of Henry’s journal, and went down by the creek. I do think Wendell was wrong when he claimed to have found a clue as to the location of the Confederate gold. I most assuredly found nothing.”

  “Would Wendell have written something in his notebook?” I asked.

  “He wrote down everything in his notebook. If he’d carried around a thermometer, he would have kept a record of his body temperature on an hourly basis. He was the perfect treasurer for the society. Whenever the accounts were off by so much as a penny, he’d pester all of us relentlessly for receipts, invoices, ticket stubs, anything. Wendell could be”—she looked at me with a bland expression—“a real pain in the ass.”

  “Well, uh, thank you, Harriet,” I said, flustered. “I appreciate your candor. You’re welcome to go back out to the patio or upstairs to rest. If you happen to think of anything that might help us, please let me know.”

  After she left, I gave myself a moment, then went outside to stalk my next victim. Corinne and Kenneth were still at the table, although their coffee cups had been replaced with glasses of orange juice. I wondered if vodka had been added.

  “Ladies first,” Kenneth said before I could speak. “Don’t intimidate Arly, my dear. She may think you’re a best-selling author with a grand mansion in Charleston, but a little Carolina wren perched on my shoulder and told me you’re up to your alabaster neck in debt. Perhaps your future in-laws will let you live in the old slaves’ quarters. A bit primitive, I should think, and without running water. The best you can hope for is an outhouse.”

  Corinne’s hand tightened around her glass, but she put it down and swept into the house. She was already seated on the sofa with a tissue in her hand when I joined her.

  “He is the epitome of the abhorrent, overbearing, conceited Yankee,” she said, her lilting accent missing for the moment. “I’m sorry no one saw fit to shove him off a bluff yesterday. His ancestors in the army must have been among those who raped widows, burned their homes and crops, stole their heirlooms, and rode off with whatever food they’d hoarded for the winter. His revered General Wallingford Ames was a drunken pig, and so
is Kenneth Grimley!”

  I did not offer an argument. “I just have a few questions, Corinne. After breakfast, what did you do?”

  “Simon dropped me off at the high school on his way to Springfield. I spoke to the secretary and the principal, but it seems the only person who knew anything of the schedule was not present. I was appalled that they could be so disorganized. I normally charge a substantial honorarium, although in this case I waived it.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “As a favor to Sweetpea. She heard about this documentary from her cousin—what was his name? Darcy? Darby? Oh, I don’t know, but something like that. I’m just so angry with Kenneth that I can’t think straight. I can plot a seven-hundred-page novel, but as soon as my emotions get the better of me, why, I can hardly remember my own name, much less my pseudonyms.”

  “The cousin’s name doesn’t matter. Sweetpea heard about the documentary and…?”

  “She thought it’d be a splendid opportunity for Simon to inveigle his way into Hollywood stardom. I did my best to point out that this little documentary was hardly an epic, but she put her foot down and insisted that I offer my services for free if Simon was given the leading role. She’s a smart girl, but she can be as stubborn as any of those mules arriving tomorrow. Simon’s going to have his hands full with her.”

  I suspected that once Simon had married the money, he’d waste no time finding a more compliant female whose dainty feet didn’t reach the ground. “Maybe The Skirmish at Cotter’s Ridge will be a big hit at the Sundance Film Festival. Where did you go after you left the high school?”

  Corinne rubbed her temples. “It seems so long ago, but it was only yesterday, wasn’t it? I went across the street to a funny little take-out place and purchased a soft drink, then went for a walk to admire the wildflowers. Spring is such an inspirational season. As I walked, I considered setting my next novel in this very locale. I’ve done more than thirty centered on the War and the Reconstruction era. Although it might not be historically accurate, it’s not inconceivable that—”