Muletrain to Maggody

by Joan Hess

  “Did you see anyone in the woods?”

  “A little boy heading downhill, and a bit later, a ferocious man in a Confederate uniform. He had the aura of a rapist or a serial killer. I ducked behind some rocks and waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps, then hurried on my way.”

  I thought for a moment about where she might have been in relation to the bluff where Wendell’s body had been found. A mile, I estimated, or a shade less. “You didn’t see anybody else, like Wendell, for example?”

  Corinne sat back. “And tracked him down to demand he take me to the treasure? Is that what you’re implying? I can’t tell you about the others, but I didn’t believe for a moment that he’d found a credible clue as to the location of the cave. After Simon received a copy of the journal, I read it carefully, thinking I might be able to weave an epistolary element into my next novel. Excerpts from the journal, letters, articles from newspapers, that sort of thing. And of course the novel would generate significant publicity if its author had actually found the lost gold. Ultimately, I decided not to do it, but as I said, I read the journal carefully.”

  “Then you didn’t see anybody?”

  “Repetition is a symptom of murky thought processes, Arly. So many mystery novels these days rely on the detective cornering each suspect and asking the same dreary questions over and over again. I should think a short questionnaire with boxes to mark true or false could save the reader an interminable stupor. Instead, we’re subjected to an endless array of obtrusive badgering, replete with the necessity of introducing red herrings and obscure motives. I wish I could contribute, but I saw no one else. Eventually, I returned to this house, ate a few bites of potato salad and marinated green beans, and then retired to my bedroom to take another look at Henry Largesse’s journal.”

  I had encountered a few authors during my stint in Manhattan, and without exception found them to be tedious and pretentious. I, for one, had never been afraid of Virginia Woolf. “Was anyone here when you got back?”

  “The gal vacuuming the hall. She was wearing headphones and singing in an abysmally atonal voice. I’m not sure that she noticed me. I remained in my room until I heard people stirring downstairs. I freshened up, then joined everyone for wine on the patio. Mrs. Jim Bob seemed displeased, but said nothing.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Corinne clutched my hand. “And thank you so very much for implying I’m a suspect in a case of murder. I can hardly wait to get back to Charleston and relate all this to my friends. Corinne Dawk, cold-blooded killer, stalking her victim like some latter-day Natty Bumppo in a petticoat. I only wish my theoretical victim had been someone more noteworthy, like Kenneth Grimley—and that he’d been wearing black lace panties underneath his crisp blue trousers.” Before I could say much of anything (as if I knew what it would be), she said, “Oh, good, here are Simon and Sweetpea. Do give them the third degree as quickly as you can. Andrew Pulaski has invited us to lunch at a restaurant in Farberville. I simply cannot face another ham sandwich and cole slaw. I’m quite sure cole slaw was introduced by British loyalists to punish the colonists for the unpleasantness that began in 1776. I shall be waiting for you children on the patio. Do cooperate, won’t you?”

  Simon and Sweetpea sat down on the sofa. They were holding hands, but I felt as if it were more for my benefit than theirs. Neither exuded a desire to cooperate.

  “Thank you,” I began. “We’ll get this over in a few minutes so you can go to lunch.”

  “With Andrew,” Simon muttered.

  Sweetpea withdrew her hand. “I already told you that we can stay here and eat leftovers, or go to that peculiar place for greasy hamburgers and even greasier fries. It doesn’t matter to me one teensy bit. I just thought it might be fun. Starting tomorrow, you’re going to be a lowly private in a really tacky uniform. I can hardly wait to see you sittin’ astride a mule named Clementine or Gus. I brought my camera and half a dozen rolls of film.”

  I cleared my throat. “All I need to know is what each of you did after breakfast yesterday. Simon, I understand you went to Springfield to do the audio narration for the documentary. What time did you leave?”

  “As soon as my mother hitched up her pantyhose and powdered her nose. I dropped her off at the high school and drove to Springfield, but I couldn’t find the damn studio. I grabbed something to eat and got back here early in the afternoon.”

  “You didn’t ask for directions or call the studio?” I asked.

  Sweetpea giggled. “Come on, Arly, he’s a guy. You think he’s going to stop and ask for directions? If General Meade and General Lee hadn’t had maps and aides to get them to Gettysburg, they’d still be leading their armies in circles and we’d be wringing our hankies and awaiting the word from the battlefield. Don’t you think there’s a reason why NASA includes women in the space shuttle crews?”

  “I didn’t have a telephone number,” Simon said, una-mused. “I bought a couple of bottles of booze, ate something, and came back here. No one was around, so I put some ice in a glass and took a bottle of scotch upstairs.” He glowered at me, although I’d not said a word. “And, yeah, I reread that damn journal. Henry Largesse was probably a faggot. He wrote about how he and his friends would huddle together during the night, clinging to each other like leeches. Considering that none of them bothered to bathe, it must have been quite an experience.”

  “Poor Henry,” Sweetpea murmured. “It’s a shame he couldn’t enjoy the amenities at your athletic club. I hear all the boys are squeaky clean.”

  Simon lifted his hand, then lowered it and stormed out of the room. He and Mrs. Jim Bob exchanged inaudible remarks in the kitchen. Seconds later, the back door reverberated with a resonance not unlike cannon fire.

  Sweetpea shook her head. “Goodness gracious, I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. He almost always minds his manners. He can be a handful, though. My mother seems to think I can make him settle down and behave, but I’m not sure. My daddy swears he’s about to have a heart attack every time I mention postponing the wedding, or even calling it off. Then again, I’ve already ordered my wedding dress from a London designer. The flowers for my bouquet and the altar pieces are being flown in from South Africa.”

  “It sounds lovely,” I said, refusing to allow myself to think about a certain New Jersey backyard, a bouquet of limp daisies, and barbecued ribs. “What did you do after Simon left yesterday morning?”

  “I went upstairs and washed my hair, then sat on the front porch for a long while, letting my hair dry while I looked out at the stretch of road where the skirmish most likely took place. I could almost see the Yankees crouched in the pasture, fidgeting while they waited to ambush the rebels, not daring to speak or poke their heads up. They’d ridden most of the night and tethered their horses down by the creek. They wouldn’t have dared make a campfire so they could have coffee. No, all they could do was wait and pray they’d survive this confrontation before they went on to the next one. And down the road were the rebels, tossing their gear into a wagon, saddling the mules, most likely ribbing each other but knowing damn well they were heading for a major battle. All of them, both sides, kept scraps of paper in their pockets so that if they were killed, their bodies might be identified and their families informed. This weekend’s just a staged spectacle for the benefit of a camera and a few tourists with picnic baskets and camcorders. After all, it’s only going to be fake bullets, fake blood, and fake death.”

  “Then why did you want Simon to participate?” I asked. “Corinne told me it was your idea to come here.”

  She thought for a moment. “I thought I could handle it, to come to some sort of closure. My great-great-granduncle is buried in an unmarked grave. He didn’t die in a battle that merited a page, or even a paragraph, in a history book. He probably had shiny buttons and gold braid on his uniform, but that wasn’t enough to stop a minié ball. If that’s what it was. He could have died from
any of the diseases that were responsible for the majority of the deaths during that horrible time. His parents, who’d encouraged him to enlist and sent him off with the same enthusiasm that parents in Charleston send their sons and daughters off to boarding schools, died of grief within a year after the signing of the surrender at Appomattox.”

  Her sincerity was touching, but I wasn’t sure where I should be going with it. “And you thought you’d find closure at the Skirmish at Cotter’s Ridge? Wouldn’t a pilgrimage to a battlefield have offered a better sense of”—I opted to use her phrase despite my aversion to pop psychology—“closure?”

  “Maybe so,” Sweetpea said, dabbing the corners of her eye with a tissue, “but my cousin Yancy told me about this and it just about made me cry. Thousands and thousands of men and boys died in the important battles, but here just a handful died for no reason. There was nothing at stake. The Yankees didn’t know about the gold, if there really was any. The Confederate boys were just following orders.”

  “And that’s why Simon’s going to put on his really tacky uniform, although in this case, on your orders? How can you think a documentary with a budget of something like five thousand dollars will launch a career in Hollywood? Do you think some hotshot producer is going to wander into the Headquarters House in Farberville, Arkansas, see this little film, and sign Simon up for a leading role in the next Civil War epic?”

  “You never know.”

  “I guess not,” I said. “After you sat on the front porch, what did you do?”

  She grimaced. “Not much, since I didn’t have a car. The only person in the house was a woman who made it clear that my presence was interfering with her cleaning chores. No matter where I went, she was looming with the vacuum cleaner, or a mop, or a broom, or dustrag. I finally gave up trying to escape her and walked down to the end of the road to get away from her. And, yes, I took my copy of Henry’s journal with me, just to see if I could spot whatever Wendell claimed was a clue. I sat on a gravel bar by the creek for several hours before I found enough courage to come back here.”

  “So you were alone?”

  “As God is my witness. Now, if you’ll kindly excuse me, I’d like to change for lunch. And by the way, you might want to ask Kenneth about the argument he and Wendell had right after breakfast. It sounded real nasty, like when Jenna and Madison showed up at a dance at the club wearing the same dress. I swear, I thought we were going to see bloodshed in the ladies’ room.”

  I sank back into Mrs. Jim Bob’s most recent upholstery.

  13

  I’d talked to a lot of people, and it wasn’t yet noon. Mrs. Jim Bob was not likely to offer me a sandwich and a cup of soup, but I went into the kitchen with some optimism that she wouldn’t attack me with a butcher knife. She was seated at the dinette, gazing despondently at slips of paper.

  “I talked to Eula,” she said in a flat voice.

  “Sheriff Dorfer’s doing everything he can to find Lottie. If it’s okay with you, I’ll use your phone to call him and see if he’s learned anything.”

  “What about Brother Verber? No one’s seen him since after church on Sunday.”

  I almost felt sorry for her, but our shared history precluded it. “He drove away in his own car, which means he wasn’t kidnapped by terrorists or beamed up by aliens. Maybe his calling sent him to Little Rock or Hot Springs to rescue wayward souls. Technically, he’s not missing, so I can’t ask the state police to start looking for his car.”

  She finally lifted her head. “And Hospiss’s death has to be linked to Wendell’s, doesn’t it? He sat in that chair right there yesterday morning and told everybody how she claimed the Confederate lieutenant buried up on Cotter’s Ridge had married her great-great-grandmother. It could have been true.”

  I poured myself a glass of iced tea, despite the risk of a lecture on drinking while on duty. “Would it matter all that much if it was?”

  “Not to me, and not to the Stump County chapter of the DAC, from all accounts. I heard she’d been demanding membership for the last twenty years. They kept telling her that the family Bible wasn’t adequate proof. I’m surprised she didn’t dig up the skeleton and haul it into a meeting, the rotted remains of the uniform still clinging to the bones.”

  “Have you ever applied for membership?”

  “The Buchanons back then didn’t care one way or the other about the Civil War. I disremember hearing that even one of them enlisted. Besides, I have more important things to do than sit around and gossip about my ancestors. The Missionary Society has raised several hundred dollars over the years to bring salvation to the heathens. The Christmas pageant at the Voice of the Almighty Lord took months of my time, what with the casting, costumes, and rehearsals every night. It was a tremendous success, except for the little angel who picked her nose the entire time. Her parents haven’t dared show their faces on Sunday morning since then, thank goodness.”

  My mind had wandered off, but I managed a nod. “I was told you went to Farberville after breakfast. What time did you get home?”

  “The middle of the afternoon, and if you’re aiming to ask me about those—those people, there’s nothing I can tell you. Perkin’s eldest said they’d been popping in and out all day, always leaving a mess in the kitchen. She was so stirred up that I had to give her an extra five dollars. I hope she’s not expecting the same when she leaves today.”

  “Surely not,” I said. “I’ve spoken to everyone but Kenneth, and as soon as I’m done with him, Perkin’s eldest can tackle the living room. Is he still on the patio?”

  Her lips pursed. “Do you think I keep track of their comings and goings? I have plenty of more important things to do than that. I’ve canceled the picnic this evening, which means I’ll have to find a way to feed these people yet again. If Perkin’s eldest doesn’t have time to iron the tablecloth and napkins, I’ll have to do it myself. Not one of them has offered to set the table, much less peel a potato. And tomorrow about thirty more of these reenactors will arrive, expecting a pig roast out by the bridge.” She shoved back her chair and stood up. “If you want to make a phone call, do it from your office, which the town council provides at no cost to you so you can conduct your business. I need to call Ruby Bee about her corn casserole. Lottie’d agreed to fix baked beans, but I guess that’s out of the question now.”

  I escaped to the patio before I was coerced into making a side dish that served fifty people (unless tamales would suffice). Corinne was alone at the wrought-iron table, applying polish to her nails.

  “Have you solved the mystery,” she asked as I approached, “or should we all plan to gather in the parlor this evening for dramatic revelations?”

  “The sherry has not yet been decanted, but you never know.” I sat down across from her and let the sunshine soak into my skin. My shoulders ached, as if I’d been juggling all these statements of who was where and when and why. None of them carried much weight, however. Wendell had been on Cotter’s Ridge; that much I knew. Darla Jean, Corinne, Harriet, Jeb, Kevin, Raz, Ruby Bee, Estelle, Hammet, and Andrew Pulaski had been there. It was highly probably that Petrol and Dahlia’s granny were, too. Waylon might have been, and I’d yet to question Kenneth Grimley. It was amazing that they hadn’t been tripping all over each other like hyperactive children at an elementary school Halloween carnival.

  But only those who’d been in the kitchen the previous morning knew about Hospiss’s tenuous involvement. “Did you hear about Hospiss Buchanon’s death?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Jim Bob mentioned it at breakfast this morning. This tiny town of yours is beginning to feel quite dangerous, Arly. Had Kenneth not offered me a morning libation, I might have locked myself in my room and called the airlines to change our reservations.”

  I was sorry the airlines had not canceled her flight out of Charleston two days ago. “Did Wendell say anything that implied Hospiss knew the location of the Confederate gold?”

  “Not that I recall. It was really just about her ludicro
us claim to be descended from an honorable officer of the CSA, who was also the scion of a wealthy family. It’s possible that the uncivilized woman removed him from the road and did what she could to nurse him back to health. I can assure you that if he’d survived, he would not have spent the remainder of his years in a ramshackle hovel. That sort of thing simply wasn’t done, not even a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “Would it matter if she was his great-great-granddaughter? If she had proof, would she inherit the family’s fortune?”

  Corinne finished applying polish, replaced the cap, and looked up. “I have no idea what she might have believed, but of course she could not have made a legal claim on the estate. At the end of the War, Lieutenant Parham would have been declared missing in action, presumed dead, and the estate would have gone to the next closest relative. The laws of inheritance are quite clear.”

  “Even if he survived, married, and had children?” I asked. “Wendell said the lieutenant was an only child, so only his offspring would be direct descendants.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Once he was declared dead, he was six feet under in the eyes of the court. No lawyer would bother to try to make a case. Well, no lawyer with any ethics. Several years ago a tourist from Sarasota sued me because he’d sprained his ankle while stepping off the curb in front of my house. When it was pointed out that he wasn’t on my property, he claimed it was still my responsibility because he’d been backing up to take a photo of my azaleas. I will admit the azaleas were spectacular that year, but the suit was still frivolous. As an act of goodwill, I offered to pay for his visit to the emergency room, but he wanted half a million dollars. ‘Fiddlesticks,’ I said to my lawyer. The gentleman ended up being obliged to pay my legal fees.”

  I wasn’t sure Hospiss had known her claim was without merit, and she certainly could have found a lawyer in Farberville who had squeaked through the ethics portion of the bar exam—if there was one. I supposed I could wait three or four years and ask Sweetpea, but it was conceivable that we wouldn’t remain in touch.