by Joan Hess
“Where did Sweetpea and Simon go?” I asked, noting the yard was populated only by robins. “And Kenneth, for that matter? I need to talk to him before I go.”
Corinne shrugged. “I have no idea where any of them are. I’d just as soon Kenneth stay gone until the children and I leave to go to lunch with Andrew. I don’t want to feel obligated to invite him to join us, but I suppose I will. Meals have become very tense lately. I think I’ll suggest to Mrs. Jim Bob that she hire additional household help.”
“An excellent idea,” I said. I decided Kenneth could wait until after lunch, whether he dined on crab crepes at Farberville’s version of a très chic bistro, or on baloney sandwiches and the dregs of the potato salad at the dinette.
I drove back to the PD, where I found Hammet playing with my radar gun. I’d actually been given a real gun when I’d taken the job, but I kept it locked in a metal cabinet since I rarely locked the front door.
“Nailed any speeders yet?” I asked him as I made fresh coffee.
“Not yet. Do you wanna go down by the bridge and waste ’em when they come roarin’ through town?”
He was looking mopey, so I gave him the chocolate bar I’d stashed away for a particularly tedious day. “Estelle and Ruby Bee didn’t drag you up on the ridge today, I gather.”
“Naw, they said some feller got hisself killed. They was plum crazy to think I knew where there was saddlebags of gold in some damnfool cave. I would have found ’em years ago.”
“And done what?”
“I dunno, but somethin’. Her could have used ’em to buy food and shoes for us, mebbe even fancy new clothes.” He gave me a guilty look. “Not that we needed shit like that. Her could always sell enough ’seng and hooch to buy cornmeal and rice, and we grew most ever’thing else. A couple of times a year we’d have fatback and black-eyed peas.”
“Your foster home must seem luxurious in comparison.”
Hammet grimaced. “It ain’t all the time bad, but I shore miss living out here. Do you reckon you’ll ever change your mind, Arly? I don’t hafta stay in your apartment. I can sleep in the back room here. That way, I can make coffee for you and take care of a vegetable garden so you can have ripe tomatoes and fresh corn whenever you wants. You can have pole beans and okra and—”
“I’m not going to change my mind, Hammet,” I said gently. “You’ll do better in a family environment, and I can’t provide it. Maybe you can stay with me for a week during your summer vacation.”
“Jest a week? I got three months off.”
I was searching for an argument when the phone rang. For once, I was glad to answer it.
“Chief Hanks, this is Miz Pimlico at the old folks’ home. We have a situation, and I just don’t know what to do. Vonetta is no help whatsoever, and the residents are becoming increasingly agitated. You’ll have to come immediately.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s far too complicated to explain. I’ll expect you in five minutes.”
I put down the receiver. “It looks as though you’re in charge, Hammet. Try not to shoot anyone, okay? Tourist season doesn’t start until the first of June. When you get hungry, go back to Ruby Bee’s and let her fix you something.”
“I kin come with you in case you need backup,” he said, giving me his best hangdog look.
“I’ll see you later.”
I drove to the old folks’ home and went inside. Miz Pimlico was pacing in the front hallway, her face not technically as white as a sheet, but headed that way. “So what’s going on?” I demanded, prepared to lose my temper if it had to do with stolen pudding cups or hanky-panky in the crafts room.
“This morning Mr. Whitbreedly was monitoring the pasture for signs of a Yankee invasion. He’d stand at the window all day if we didn’t insist he come to the dining room for meals. Ten minutes ago, he came flapping into my office, sputtering that he’d actually seen one down by the creek. I did my best to calm him down, but he was beside himself. I finally agreed to return to his room with him so he could show me this purported Yankee. Not that I expected to see anything more than a garbage bag caught in a tree, mind you, but it seemed like the best way to snap him out of his little fantasy.” She looked over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. “I was astounded to see a man in a Yankee uniform, wandering near the tree line. While Mr. Whitbreedly was busy chortling and congratulating himself, I saw a Confederate soldier approach the Yankee. They began shoving each other back and forth, and appeared to be shouting. They moved out of view—and then we heard a gunshot. This sent Mr. Whitbreedly running down the halls, screeching that we were about to be attacked. Vonetta locked herself in the pantry, and I called you.”
“I have a pretty good idea who the Yankee is. One of the reenactors showed up Monday. He was camping at the other end of town, but I sent him down here. Not here, exactly. He was supposed to stay by the low-water bridge until his unit arrives tomorrow, but apparently he’s not too keen on following directions.”
Miz Pimlico was not charmed by my admission. “And the Confederate soldier? Did you also send him here?”
“No, I had nothing to do with that,” I said hastily. “Did you hear only the one gunshot?”
“Considering the ruckus Mr. Whitbreedly instigated, I might not have heard a volley of cannon fire. What are you planning to do about this, Chief Hanks? We cannot allow anyone to fire weapons at the far side of the pasture. Bullets can travel as far as a mile, which is why we shutter some of the windows during deer season. At this moment, those gentlemen who are ambulatory are organizing a unit armed with canes and bedpans. Miz Claplander and the other women are ripping apart their nightgowns to roll bandages. Dumdiddy Buchanon got tangled up with his walker in all the excitement and sprained his ankle. This does seem to be entirely your fault, as well as your responsibility. May I assume you’ll deal with it before anyone else is injured?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, sighing. “Calm everyone down and assure them that I have the situation under control.”
Miz Pimlico might have intended to express her doubts (which were well-founded), but an outbreak of howls sent her down a hallway. I let myself out the exit nearest the pasture and plowed through the weeds in the direction of Boone Creek. If Jeb had disobeyed my order to stay put by the bridge, he might find himself spending the weekend in the county jail. If he’d shot Waylon, he’d be spending many weekends at the state prison, along with weekdays. Or maybe Waylon had shot Jeb, or maybe they’d simultaneously shot each other. I winced as I thought about what McBeen would have to say if he was obliged to return.
When I arrived at the tree line, I found no bodies, no blood, no tent, no bedroll, no signs of a campfire. The weeds had been trampled, and there were footprints in the sparser patches. Mr. Whitbreedly’s testimony might not have been convincing, but I would never dare doubt Miz Pimlico’s.
I tried to figure out how best to trump up charges against the two miscreants so they’d have to spend at least one night at the jail, where they’d be served a hot meal of sorts, given the opportunity to shower, and allowed to watch TV and play cards until they were returned to cells to sleep on mattresses. Lumpy mattresses, granted, but better than thin blankets on rocky ground. Coffee and oatmeal in the morning. Complimentary copies of USA Today outside the cell doors, for all I knew.
Regrettably, Stump County’s finances did not extend to the operation of a gulag or two. I resolved to bring it up with Harve at a later time.
Which reminded me that I hadn’t called him. When I got back to the PD, I made sure Hammet wasn’t crouched under a table, then sat back in my chair and prepared to badger LaBelle until I got through to Harve.
“Why, Arly,” she began in a suspiciously affable voice, “how’s your mama doing? I saw her and Estelle last month at Wal-Mart and we had the nicest chat. You really should settle down and give her some grandbabies.”
“Is Harve there?”
“I do believe he is. I hear there’s gonna be some folks
making a movie out your way this weekend. Who’s starring in it? Anybody I’ve heard of?”
“Simon Dawk. I’m sure you remember him from The One-eyed Psycho Who Disemboweled Dispatchers. I need to speak to Harve, LaBelle.”
“I don’t rightly recollect a movie with that title. Who else was in it?”
“Andrew Pulaski, Kenneth Grimley, and a cast of dozens. Put me through to Harve, please.”
LaBelle smacked her gum. “Those names just don’t ring a bell. Were any of them in something else I might have seen?” When I remained silent, she added, “So how about I let you talk to Sheriff Dorfer, and then you can tell me more about these actors. Have any of them been on soaps?”
“Later,” I said, then waited until Harve bestirred himself to pick up the phone. I dutifully related the gist of all the unsatisfactory interviews I’d had. “So there were more people up on Cotter’s Ridge yesterday morning than there are at the Dew Drop Inn on a Saturday night. Well, there weren’t any bikers or bar chicks, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on it. The Cirque de Soleil could be rehearsing up there somewhere.”
Harve ruminated for a moment. “And don’t forget all the residents of the Pot O’ Gold trailer park. It seems not more than two or three of them were home, and they were sleeping off hangovers. Hold on.” He muffled the receiver with his hand and bellowed for LaBelle to fetch him coffee and a doughnut, and to tell Swilly to get off his lazy butt and go on to Bugscuffle to look into a report of stolen goats. “So where are we on this?” he went on blithely. “McBeen said that Streek died as a result of the fall and the Buchanon woman on account of her skull being smashed in. We found what looks to be the weapon in her case, by the way. There was a brass urn under the trailer, with some traces of blood. One of my boys said he’d noticed dust and ashes around the body, but couldn’t see any point in vacuuming ’em up as evidence. It may turn out that one of her ancestors was responsible for her death.”
“No fingerprints, I presume.”
“No, and we ain’t gonna order DNA tests on the cre-mains. Mrs. Dorfer has three urns down in the basement. She forgot to label ’em, so now she doesn’t know who’s who. I keep telling her to dump all three in the reservoir and let them sort it out, but she’s been putting it off for years.”
“I don’t think the previous occupant of the urn is going to tell us anything. Have you tracked down the next of kin so arrangements can be made?”
“The deputies couldn’t find any personal papers or old letters—or a family Bible—but I don’t figure it’s gonna be real hard to find her kinfolk. You suppose Mrs. Jim Bob would like to do the honors?”
“By all means, call her, and don’t forget to mention that Hospiss most likely would have wanted to be buried in the Methodist cemetery.” I stared at the water stain on the ceiling, but no inspiration was forthcoming. “We’re going nowhere on this, Harve. Pretty much everybody involved was on the ridge, but there’s nothing to link any one of them to the murders. I’ll go find Hospiss’s old place after lunch and look for an indication that Wendell was there. Unless he wrote a message in the dust, though, I don’t see that it matters if he was or wasn’t.”
Harve wheezed, no doubt thinking about the negative publicity he’d have to deal with if the crimes remained unsolved long about election day. “The rest of the reenactors are showing up tomorrow, right?”
“And the mules, and the corn casseroles, and the folderol if the TV station in Farberville decides this will make a colorful feature to tuck between the latest arson incident and the always popular ongoing investigation of drugs in our area high schools. Updates at ten.”
“I don’t see what you can do except keep poking around,” Harve said. “Stay in touch, you hear?”
I would have pointed out that he’d assured me that his department was going to take over the case once I’d done the preliminary work, but I would have been talking to a dial tone. I leaned back and tried to construct a mental map of the ridge, adding pinpricks for those who’d given me some idea where they were, and squiggly lines for those who’d been vague. Not necessarily intentionally vague, since there were very few distinctive landmarks. Big oaks, little oaks, scrub pines, brambles, logs, stumps, creek beds, overgrown trails. Oh, and of course squirrels, none of whom could be counted on to testify in court. If only the Confederates had brought loaves and fishes to feed the army, rather than gold to pay it, Jack and I could be spending the afternoon at Boone Creek, where I had a favorite spot for skinny-dipping. Far enough from the road so we couldn’t hear any traffic, remote enough so we wouldn’t be interrupted, dappled sunlight, a shady clearing…
The door opened. I sat upright and forced myself to remember where I was and what, in theory, I was supposed to be doing.
“Did I catch you at an inopportune moment?” asked Kenneth Grimley, who proceeded to sit down without waiting for my reply. “I’m terribly sorry I wandered off this morning, but I truly forgot you wanted to ask me questions. To save us both some time, I heard what Wendell said at breakfast and was intrigued by his less-than-subtle hint about the location of the gold. I went so far as to go to his room to try to make him understand that the gold belongs to the United States government, since it was stolen from a federal depository. Stolen, that is, in the sense this illegal coalition known as the CSA had no lawful right to act as a foreign entity. He did not grasp the fundamental truths regarding preeminent dominion based on the Articles of Confederation and the Constitution, which clearly delineates states’ rights and those allotted to the federal government.”
“Any chance you pushed him off the bluff and I can turn you over to the sheriff?”
“I’m afraid not. I went to my room and made sure my uniform was not in need of ironing, then went downstairs. Everyone was gone, with the exception of the cleaning woman. Although it was tempting to spend the morning on the patio, sipping Bloody Marys and reading a biography of Thomas Jefferson, I decided to go for a walk. It’s an ongoing struggle to make sure General Wallingford Ames can fit into his trousers. I went to the main road and then continued up an unpaved road toward Cotter’s Ridge. I roamed around for a while, careful to keep my bearings, and eventually returned to the house for a shower and a nap.”
“Did you see anyone?” I asked without enthusiasm. “The Confederate ghost, for instance?”
“They all should have been put to rest on April 12, 1865, when Lee and Grant met in Wilmer McLean’s farmhouse in Appomattox and the articles of surrender were agreed upon. The South shall not rise again, despite what the rednecks display on the bumpers of their pickup trucks and motorcycles. There may be pockets of delusional militants who have nurtured a hope for rebellion for more than a hundred and forty years. Don’t think the FBI is unaware of them. I myself act as a covert agent, carefully recording names and license plates during the reenactments and sending in my reports. In return, the FBI avoids making direct contact with me in order to protect my status as an anonymous informant.”
“Do they?” I murmured. “I’ve always thought they were a considerate bunch of guys. Let me repeat my question. Did you see anyone?”
“Sweetpea, but surely she’s already told you she was there. She wasn’t skipping along, pausing to pick wildflowers, but instead making her way quite purposefully.”
“Do you think she was following Wendell?”
“I have no idea,” Kenneth said, “since I didn’t see him. I did wonder if…well, I have no business speculating. I am hardly a blue-haired Southern busybody passing judgment over a bridge table. It’s just that one of Simon’s remarks during breakfast caught my attention. He warned her not to consort with the enemy.”
“As in a Yankee,” I said. “You’re a Yankee.”
He smirked. “But hardly a ladies’ man, as my ex-wives will cheerfully attest to. The first was a student who believed in the mystique of academia. She soon discovered the frailties that not even a Ph.D. can disguise and moved to New York to pursue a career on the stage. My second wife was merely des
perate for financial security. I can’t recall if we ever got around to consummating our marriage. No, Sweetpea would never lower herself to consort, as we’re calling it, with someone like me.”
“But someone like Andrew Pulaski?”
“I’ve heard rumors they found occasions for intimacy while Simon sweltered on the battlefield during the filming of the miniseries. Not that I should repeat such insubstantial stories without personal knowledge, but I wasn’t there. I prefer to expend my free time educating children about the realities of war and the threat of a future insurrection. I understand that in the South, the children sing a ditty along the lines of, ‘Save your Confederate money, the South shall rise again.’ It’s not their fault; I’m sure they’ve been indoctrinated since birth.”
“Not all of them,” I said, trying to decide if he was laughable or a little bit scary. “Thanks for coming by, Kenneth. I’m quite sure I’ll see you again.”
He stood up and made a swooping motion with his arm. “Not as a participant in the reenactment, but General Wallingford Ames will be there to encourage the troops to hold fast their position and take a deadly toll on the rebels.”
I waited until he left before I buried my face in my hands. I was still just sitting there when Jack came into the PD.
“I saw your car out front,” he said. “I was going to ask you how it was going, but I can see it’s not going very well.”
“When I first heard about this last Friday, I should have thrown some clothes in the backseat of my car and kept going until I ran out of gas.”
“There’s an upside,” he said as he came around behind me and began to massage my shoulders. “Nobody’s been murdered today.”
“Yeah, but it’s early. Kenneth was in here a few minutes ago, insinuating that Sweetpea and Andrew Pulaski were consorting yesterday morning. Did you see either of them in the motel parking lot before you left?”
