by Jeff Abbott
He was a real smooth talker, who could make you feel like Jesus was just around the corner, so you better run the dustrag over the furniture to get it spiffy for Him. I got out of the car and approached Tamma Hufnagel. She watched me as I walked toward her. For some reason I felt uneasy. Tamma’s pretty in a plain way: reddish brown hair, green eyes, with a slim, almost boyish figure. Her nose is snub-shaped and looks as though it belongs on another face. Her hair, which would have looked better let down, was pulled tightly back into a bun. She wore a plain white polo-style shirt and a denim skirt, long and modest. I guessed she was about my age but was trying to look twenty years older, maybe to catch up with her husband. The only softening of her face was the scattering of girlish freckles across her nose and cheeks. Those freckles were like a memory of summer. I remembered hearing she wasn’t a local girl; I’d been told she came from Giddings or one of the other predominantly German and Wendish communities in east-central Texas. “Hello, Mrs. Hufnagel.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, as a schoolgirl might. “Hello.”
“I guess you’ve heard about Miz Harcher.” She nodded and bit her thin lip for a moment. “Chief Moncrief phoned us. She was a prominent member here, you know. He wanted to know if we knew her next of kin.
We gave him her niece’s name.” I wasn’t expecting such a detailed explanation. “I’m sure you must be very upset.” Her answer was a gesture toward the sermon board. It read MAKING PEA. I was sure more letters were needed. “You know that I found her in the library?” I wondered just how much Junebug was telling folks and I decided to start with the basics. She nodded. “He said someone had”-here she swallowed deeply, her thin throat moving like a snake under water-“bashed her head with a baseball bat.” “That’s true. You know, Mrs. Hufnagel, I didn’t agree with Beta as far as books went, but I’m sorry she’s dead. I didn’t wish that on her.” “Of course you wouldn’t!” “Who do you think might’ve killed her?” I asked, and Tamma Hufnagel stood abruptly, the box of plastic letters tumbling from her lap and spilling across the grass. I glanced down wondering if anything interesting was now spelled out on the lawn. “I don’t know!” she gasped. “Why are you asking me?” “Mrs. Hufnagel, please. I’m asking because you knew her and you knew the people that knew her. She was killed in the library, or at least her body was left there. There must be a reason. It was a terrible shock to me and I just want to know what happened. If she was killed there, it means she was there after hours with someone.” I put my hands on Tamma Hufnagel’s arm and she froze. I stared into her face. “Listen to me, Mrs. Hufnagel. Beta had a key. Either she met someone there or someone lured her there.
She hated that library and I’d already warned her to stay away. But somehow she got a key.” I paused. Tamma Hufnagel stared at the grass, shaking her head. She knelt by the letter box, carefully pulling her skirt around her legs so I didn’t even see a flash of calf. “I’ve made a mess,” she said, and began gathering the letters. I knelt next to her and helped her pick the little plastic vowels and consonants out of the lawn. I offered a palmful to her; she took the letters from my hand, touching the plastic extrusions on the letters and not me. I thought I’d made her uncomfortable when I touched her. She sorted the letters into the box. “I don’t know who would have wanted to kill her.” She shrugged. “Yes, she was difficult sometimes. I think she believed she had been specially touched by the Lord.” She looked skyward, but no answer was forthcoming on the accuracy of her statement. “I really didn’t know her well. What was your relationship like with her?” I tried to sound conversational rather than interrogative. She glanced at me, ran a thin tongue over thin lips, then went back to putting letters into the board, MAKING PEACE w. “We got along okay. She was a woman of… strong convictions. She had very definite opinions about the church. About God.” She searched for a letter in her palm. “And about morality.” “Did you ever disagree with her?” “Well, of course we did. It is Adam’s church, after all.” She shrugged. “She liked to be in charge of everything: the rummage sale, the bake sale, the tent revival in the summer-” “The book burnings,” I added in a miffed tone. Tamma paused. “You know that Adam and I didn’t agree with her about her attitude toward the library. Well, not entirely. We don’t approve of every book you keep, but that’s neither here nor there. We certainly didn’t want to see the place shut down.
Remember at the library board meetings, Adam tried for compromise regarding your views and Beta’s views.” “I appreciate that, Mrs.
Hufnagel.” It took every fiber of my being not to disclose what I thought about censorship and her holier-than-thou attitude. I wondered again what sin she’d committed in Beta’s eyes. I was tempted to mention the list, but I decided not to. Let Junebug do that. “I wonder, did you ever see my mother with Miz Harcher?” “Your mother?”
The question surprised her. She gave me a long, cautious look. “No, not that I remember. Your family’s not Baptist, are y’all?” There was disapproval in her voice, but I ignored it. She decided to be forgiving, since my mother was losing her mind. “You know, we have a healing service on Tuesday nights. You could bring your mother and see if Adam could help. And we’ll add her to our prayer list.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or say thank you. Mama had always taught us that saying thank you was as automatic a response as breathing, even when faced with the impossible. If Adam Hufnagel could drive the neurological demons from my mother’s mind, I’d drag her down here, let Brother Adam lay hands on her, and dance with a snake in my mouth. I decided on politeness. Medicine hadn’t done much yet for Mama; and including her on the prayer list was kind of Tamma. “Thanks. Maybe we will come.” “Prayer heals, Jordy.” We were now on first names. “Acts of God do happen here.” “Really?” I asked. “And have they happened to you? Have they made you free of sin?” Tamma Hufnagel stared at me.
There is a look of defiance people who are terrified can muster. And she did. I thought she wasn’t used to being challenged. Probably most of Brother Adam’s flock wouldn’t say boo to her; being the preacher’s wife made her untouchable. Her mouth set into a thin frown. “Of course not. We’re sinners from birth. Only Jesus offers us a chance at redemption.” “Miz Harcher doesn’t seem to have believed much in the redemption side of the equation,” I observed dryly. “All I ever heard from her was the judgment, the fire, the eternal damnation. I never heard once about the rewards to follow for good behavior.” I paused and realized I needed to keep my tongue in check. Tamma Hufnagel looked at me like I was a pagan dancer for Dionysus, come to town to set up a temple and do a little drunken shimmy. I paused and thought.
If she decided I was getting uppity, she might respond the way most fundamentalists do; with a torrent of words to tell you why you’re wrong and why they’re right. When she spoke, her voice cut with an unexpected edge. “You nonbelievers think you know everything. Well, you don’t.” “I’m not a nonbeliever. I’m a good Episcopalian. And I can’t know anything when people don’t answer questions,” I retorted.
“I guess you’ve got something to hide, Mrs. Hufnagel. I asked you a minute ago if you knew anything about that key Beta Harcher had and you’ve managed to dance around an answer.” Since Baptists don’t approve of dancing period, I thought the very suggestion of her performing any sort of mental terpsichorean activities would annoy her. I didn’t like being rude, but I needed to know what she knew.
She’d made Beta’s list because of some sin she’d committed, and manners weren’t going to prevent my finding out more. It worked; she looked at me like I was a Vacation Bible School student who’d challenged the existence of God. “For your information, Mr. Smarty Pants, Chief Moncrief called my husband and asked him about his key to the library. When Adam checked, it was gone. He kept it on the same ring that he keeps the church keys on, which are here during the day.
It would have been simple for Beta to take Adam’s key. So there’s that mystery solved.” She wore her conviction like a starchy, ill-fitting blouse.
“Now will you let me be?” “Adam’s key? I’m sure Junebug found that interesting. And I’m sure he asked you where you and Reverend Hufnagel were last night around ten or so.” She kept the awkward smugness a tad longer. “Of course he did. He wanted to know when Beta could have taken that key. Adam saw her at the church yesterday afternoon around four. He now thinks she might have taken the library key from his office-he said he was talking to Lenny Mauder out in the assembly hall about expanding the parking lot and Beta could’ve gotten into his office then. I met Adam at the church around six for a meeting, we stayed until seven, then we went home, had dinner, and watched John Wayne on cable. Rio Bravo. We were in bed and asleep by ten.” She ignored the implicit suggestion that she or her husband could be a suspect. “That meeting at seven was for the Vacation Bible School group to start planning this summer’s sessions. It was odd that she didn’t show up for the meeting; she’d been adamant about guiding the church’s children along a path of rightousness.” Whata horrible concept. Beta shaping young minds. The keen edge still adhered to Tamma’s voice and I wondered if she hadn’t cared much for Beta herself. “Who else was there?” I asked. “You sound like Chief Moncrief. Why all the questions?” “Why not answer?” I countered. “I’m sure you don’t have any secrets.” “Of course not.” Flustered, she fumbled in the box for a letter. “It’s not a secret at all. I’m just surprised you’re curious. The planning committee was me, Beta, and Janice Schneider. This year Janice and I are doing most of the teaching. Beta took on recruitment.” And pity the parent who didn’t sign up Junior. “I know what a pain she was on the library board. Did she run you ragged on the Vacation Bible School stuff? Want the kids to light fires under their Curious Georges?” “Of course not,” Tamma said quickly for the second time in a minute. “That’s mean of you, Jordy.” I shrugged. “So what else can you tell me about her?” “Nothing new.” Her voice sounded tired and I could tell she wanted to be rid of me. “She could be awfully judgmental at times, but that was her burden. She had a very strong sense of morals. She liked to remind people that there was a definite right and a definite wrong. She’d let them know when they’d failed and what they had to do to make amends.
But people don’t always”-she paused, looking for words-“cotton to advice.” “May I ask when you last saw Miz Harcher?” I asked, trying to get onto less philosophically slippery rocks. “Yesterday afternoon, I guess around two. I knew she’d be upset after your little altercation in the library.” She glanced over at me. “So I stopped by her house, to see if she was feeling better. She was. She’d found strength in the Bible and was studying it.” Studying it or writing down verses to go alongside names? I wondered. “We talked for a while and then I left,” she continued. “You didn’t see anyone else there, did you? Did she have any other visitors?” Tamma Hufnagel finished her task and stood, balancing the box of letters so she wouldn’t drop it again. She looked me dead in the eye and there was nothing shy, afraid, or mousy about her now. The mask was set like old makeup. “Why, yes, she did. Bob Don Goertz stopped by as I was leaving and seemed rather upset. I gather there was some problem between them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to fix Adam some lunch. Goodbye, Jordy.” She turned and walked into the ugly church. I glanced down at the completed board, MAKING PEACE WITH DEATH. What a lovely invitation. The air now felt moist and hot, as the noontime sun began its drumbeat on the town. I sat in my Blazer for a few minutes, running the air conditioner at arctic blast and watching the leafy oak branches sway in the wind. I didn’t regard Beta Harcher and Tamma Hufnagel as such bosom buddies; they might have been allies, members of the same church, followers of the same version of God, but maybe they just weren’t friends. People who pride themselves on their powers of judging others don’t bond well. There’s always that withholding of true affection, waiting for a sign of human weakness from one that the other can deliberate on. Clearly Beta Harcher rejoiced in finding people deficient in some way, so she could proclaim what awful sinners they were and how bad they needed God-and her guidance. How do you stay friends with a miserable so-and-so like that? I pulled away from the First Baptist Church of Mirabeau. Making peace with death. Tamma Hufnagel seemed to have already done that, and right quick.
4
Icouldn’t stand Bob Don Goertz. Fortunately I only knew him from a distance. Bob Don owned the two biggest car dealerships in Bonaparte County. If you looked up charlatan in the dictionary you might find a bejeweled and polyestered Bob Don leering back at you, ready to shake your hand and arrange financing for your new or quality pre-owned car.
I’m only a bigot toward car dealers; I’ve yet to meet one I like. He replaced Beta on the town’s library board when she got booted. The Hufnagels liked him, which was no recommendation in my book. As soon as Beta got sacked for her reactionary hysterics, Bob Don stated that what America was all about was freedom of the press and he’d sure be delighted to donate his time to the library board The board elected him without a second (or possibly first) thought. Since then he’d been as sweet and as fake as cotton candy to me. I guess he knew I was a force to be reckoned with. Or he wanted to sell me a car. Apparently for Bob Don, running a car dealership was a lot like running for public office. He could smell the winds of change and spit the other way quicker than you could blink his saliva out of your eye. I pulled my Blazer into the quiet dealership, hoping that Bob Don hadn’t dashed off to a cholesterol-filled lunch with the good ol’ boys. I parked, stepped out of the car, and made it about three feet before a fat, balding salesman arrowed toward me. Telling him as we hustled along that I wasn’t buying, but was just there to see Bob Don, I swerved and made it roughly twenty feet before a younger fellow with huge sideburns and bad teeth attempted a verbal tackle, offering to let me test-drive a Bronco. Nimbly avoiding him and his sales pitch, I made it to the air-conditioned showroom. With a plea to use the bathroom, I pushed past another sweaty salesman and got into Bob Don’s inner sanctum. A gum-chewing, beehived receptionist examined me critically before picking up her phone and announcing me to the King of the Road.
Bob Don came to his office door quickly, which surprised me. He surprised me further by looking happy to see me. His broad, tanned face broke into an ear-to-ear white grin. “Well, hey there, Jordy, it’s good to see you!” He pumped my hand like I was a water well.
“Hello, Bob Don. I wonder if you have a minute to talk privately.”
“Why, sure I do.” Apparently talking to me would be the highlight of his day. I found that a little difficult to believe, what with all the unsold cars on his lot. We went into his office, decorated in small-town prosperity. Pictures of local Little League teams that were sponsored by the Goertz dealership covered the walls, going back at least two decades. Trophies for the teams that fared well stood on a shelf. He’d backed several winners and probably sold their parents a car while the glow of victory was fresh. There were pictures of him and his wife over several years, the fashions changing somewhat but not straying far from rural Texas couture. His wife was a numbed-looking woman with heavy-lidded, blank eyes and pneumatically big hair. I’d heard gossip that she drank heavily. There were awards for excellence from the various automakers he represented; but they were cheap-looking certificates that Bob Don had mounted in expensive frames. I thought they looked rather sad. Bob Don sat behind his desk in a thronelike leather chair and gestured for me to take a seat.
Clutter covered the desk, including a huge, ceramic monstrosity of an ashtray with a few butts mashed in it. I saw it and laughed; it reminded me of the horror ashtray I used in the library. Bob Don laughed with me in the automatic, reflexive way of salesmen. I told him why I laughed and his grin grew. “Oh, Lord, yes, Gretchen’s just got too much time on her hands.” He examined the ashtray as though it were an interesting part from a foreign car. “She said it represents somethin’, but damned if I know what it is. Rage, I think. Insisted she had to take some damned course over at the community college in Bavary. Not pottery, but cer-a-mic
s. Next week it’ll be photography or genealogy or some such thing.” He shook his head and started to offer me a cigarette. Suddenly he withdrew the pack. “Sorry. Just remembered you’re trying to quit.” “How did you know?” “You mentioned it last board meeting.” He shrugged and put the pack away. “Actually, I’d love to have a cigarette with you, Bob Don. I decided to hold off on quitting for the moment.” He looked pleased, muttered something about not living forever, and lit for us both. I inhaled deeply and looked at him through the smoky veil. Tall guy, over six feet, probably up over two hundred pounds now. His face held strength when he wasn’t trying to be a good ol’ boy, and I thought he must’ve been handsome when he was young. He looked better when he didn’t smile than when he did. His official Beta verse, according to my notebook, was Judges 5:30: Have they not divided the prey; to every man a damsel or two?
Two women. Had Beta discovered another woman in Bob Don’s life aside from the artistically challenged Gretchen? Or had some other prey been split? Or neither? Beta had a vivid imagination. At least I had that in common with her, I thought. I stayed silent for a moment, watching him smoke, and wondering if he was going to set his blond-gray hair on fire with his cigarette. His hair spray was probably creating an ozone hole directly over Mirabeau. He wore it swept into a Conway Twitty-style helmet, with long matching sideburns. Bob Don could have easily been a televangelist or a Sixties country-western singer as much as a rural car dealer. “What’s up, Jordy?” he finally said, breaking my reverie. “I wanted to talk to you about Beta Harcher.” His eyes frosted. “Oh, her. Don’t pay attention to her. She’s just a bit overzealous, and-” I didn’t let him continue. “Haven’t you heard?
