Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 04 (16 page)

-- ==+== --

Having negotiated a settlement with Estelle, Ruby Bee knocked on the door of #4 and waited impatiently. This was the room assigned to Fuzzy and Frederick, whom she'd swapped for Anderson St. James down at the other end, in #6. Estelle had been real misty about it, but Ruby Bee hadn't done it to be generous; she'd figured she had a better shot overhearing something from the peculiar one and/or the smartmouthed one.

"Whattya want?" shouted the latter.

"I brought a tray of sandwiches. The deputy says you all can't leave your rooms just yet, and I thought you might like something to tide you over until I can fix a proper supper."

The door opened, and she went on in without waiting for an invitation, in that she doubted she'd get one. The beds were unmade, and there were beer cans and dirty glasses everywhere. "I'll set this on the dresser," she said, trying not to let on how disgruntled she was by the mess. "Is your friend in the bathroom?"

Frederick studied her for a minute, and when he spoke, his drawl sounded familiar in an eerie way. "No, he wandered off earlier, and although it's possible he's in some other bathroom, you kin rest assured that he's not in this one. But thank you kindly for the tray, ma'am. My innards was beginnin' to grumble something fierce."

Ordering herself to overlook his insolent manner, Ruby Bee managed to find a place for the tray. "Would you like me to tidy up just a bit?"

"Suit yourself. I thought it was kinda homey, myself." He took a sandwich and lay down on the bed, watching her as she began to fill a wastebasket with beer cans and other assorted debris. "Any sign of the media invasion yet?"

"No, the police are doing their best to keep it real quiet."

"Is it true the head cop is your daughter?"

"Her name's Ariel Hanks, and she's been the chief of police ever since she moved back here from a real fancy apartment in Manhattan, which is downtown in Noow Yark city."

"No kidding," he murmured. "She any good at solving murders?"

Ruby Bee stopped dumping ashtrays and frowned at him. "She's solved a whole passel of murders since she got home. Why, only last year a woman was poisoned by one of those cream-filled sponge cakes, and Arly -- " She stopped as the telephone rang.

"Hold that thought," Frederick said as he picked up the receiver. "Marland here." After a moment, he covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said, "Just leave the mess and run along. One of these days we'll do a drink and you can finish this fascinating story."

Ruby Bee took the wastebasket and headed for the door. As she stepped outside the room and pulled the door closed, she heard Frederick say, "Listen, darling, I'm not going to blab about last night, so stop sniveling."

She was thinking about it as Hal Desmond crossed the parking lot and went into his room. Estelle had won him, although she didn't notice how readily Ruby Bee had passed when his name arose. Now he was back in his room, and would have plenty of time to peel off his clothes before Estelle showed up with a tray. The imagined scene put a tiny grin on Ruby Bee's face, and she had to scold herself to stop gawking and get on back to the barroom.

She was glad she did. Dahlia was in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by a variety of locals, all of whom were looking either pleased as Punch or sorely perplexed.

"Ruby Bee!" Dahlia thundered. "Guess what I just heard!

"Don't split a gusset," Ruby Bee said over the gabble of voices and the jukebox. She nudged her way through the crowd. "What did you hear?"

"They're gonna keep making the movie, and I'm still in it! You don't mind if I hunt up Kevin to tell him, do you."

"You go right ahead. Did you hear any more about your part?"

"The assistant lady's gonna tell me what to say when we get up there and start filming. She said it'd be right easy for me to remember. In the meantime, I'm supposed to practice looking excited." Dahlia screwed up her face, but the unspoken consensus was that she looked more constipated than anything else.

Ruby Bee went on into the kitchen, where Estelle was poking black-eyed susans in juice glasses.

"I thought it might cheer them up," she said. "Make 'em more talkative."

"I'm sure it will," was all Ruby Bee said. She might have mentioned Hal Desmond's fondness for being bucknaked, or her suspicion about the plot of Wild Cherry Wine, or even the disappearance of Fuzzy, but there were a lot of other things she could have mentioned, too, and she let it go.

-- ==+== --

I wasted a great deal of the local taxpayers' money, along with the proceeds of speeding tickets and fines for the endless and often diverting string of misdemeanors committed on Saturday nights. I did this courtesy of Ma Bell and the insidious technological advancement called "hold," as in "I'll put you on ... and see if Detective Cannelli is back from the meeting," and five minutes later, "his partner says he's here somewhere, lemme put you back on ... and run down to the locker room."

After a hundred dollars or so, the detective came on the line. I explained the present situation, which elicited a whistle, and asked about the status of the St. James case. I was told it was open but covered with blue-green mold and stored at the very back of the filing cabinet.

"There was never any question about the husband?" I asked, scrunching up my forehead in the precise way that Ruby Bee keeps saying will leave permanent wrinkles on my forehead and no chance of a ring on my finger.

"Oddly enough, I remember this one," Cannelli said. "Murder's the crime du jour these days, but the more popular M.O.'s an assault weapon from a moving car. Which isn't to say we don't get knifings -- very popular in alleys behind bars."

"The St. James case?"

"Sorry, honey. We looked at the husband, of course, along with the wackos in cardboard boxes and the recent graduates of the psycho wards. The word was that Mr. and Mrs. St. James were on the verge of a divorce, and not a friendly one, due to both property and accusations of infidelity. He admitted he'd moved out of the house, but said he went by to suggest a civilized discussion over champagne. Seems like he was making a movie in another state or something. In any case, he had an alibi for the time we considered significant."

"Thanks," I said. "I know you're busy, but is there a chance you can dig up some background on all these people? I'm out of my league. I'm not even in the minors."

He didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, but he did say he'd make a few calls and get back to me when he could. I read the list and then thanked him at length, thus adding to the longdistance bill but ensuring cooperation, and hung up just as Plover came into the PD.

He dropped a folder on my desk and went into the back room, mumbling something about coffee. The folder was dog-eared and stained, its contents sparse. Billy Dick MacNamara had made marginal grades in Farberville, had been considered uncooperative by most of his teachers since kindergarten, but had never had a major problem with the principal, nor had he had a brush with the juvenile authorities.

"I wonder if he ever reported a fire in Farberville," I said loudly enough to be heard by Roy Stivers, should he have been rocking outside the antiques store.

"He could have done so anonymously."

"I realize that. If someone does say his name, do they put it in the report?"

"You'll have to ask your chum in Emmet."

"You're a pain in the butt," I said, but not so Roy could hear it, or even Plover. I decided to ignore his pettiness (and get my revenge later, when I had time to polish it). "I called L.A. and talked to Detective Cannelli."

"He a bachelor?"

I gripped the pencil so tightly that my knuckles looked as if they were dusted with frost, but I kept my voice level. "I didn't ask, but I hope so. I'm shacking up with him in Vegas for a long, passionate weekend as soon as this is cleared up. Once he stopped making kissy noises, he said that they investigated St. James's alibi and cleared him."

Plover came to the door, a mug in his hand. "What about the other members of the company?"

"They had finished the film that day, partied, and were sharing rooms in some little town in Nevada. I presume they all had the same alibis -- roommates. It's not our case, so I suggest we occupy ourselves with the present problem."

"This coffee must be a week old," Plover said as he sat on the corner of my desk. "I checked on the prints at the scene. They matched the ones on the personal effects of the victim and her husband, except for a few ancient ones that are apt to be Ruby Bee's. The murderer must have worn gloves."

"I'm not amazed." I glanced at my watch. "Desmond was supposed to send Fuzzy Indigo here. He should have arrived half an hour ago. I guess I'll call his room." I reached for the telephone, but as I did, it jangled. "Arly Hanks," I said into the receiver, which smelled faintly of onions.

"I know that," Ruby Bee said. "Don't you think your own mother ought to recognize your voice?"

I switched the receiver to the other ear so I'd be sandwiched between the two most irritating people I knew. "I'm in the middle of an investigation, Ruby Bee. What is it?"

"Well, excuse me. I didn't realize you were as busy as an ant at a Sunday school picnic. I happened to have some information to pass along, but I'll just wait until you have time to listen to me."

"I'm listening."

"I thought you might be interested to know that that Fuzzy fellow disappeared a while back."

I gulped. "What?"

"I took a tray out to number four in case they were getting hungry. Mr. Famous Frederick said Fuzzy had gone off earlier and hadn't come back."

From the way Plover was frowning at me, I must have looked more than a little perturbed. I let out a breath and said, "Let me get this straight, Ruby Bee. You took a tray to one of the motel rooms? What about the state trooper who's stationed there to prevent anyone from disturbing the movie people?"

"Oh, he's just fine. It's mighty hot out there, so I took him a piece of pie and a glass of iced tea. He was real grateful." Her tone indicated who wasn't.

"And Frederick Marland told you that Fuzzy wasn't in the room?"

"In a manner of speaking, he did. I got to run now. I'd tell you to come down for supper, but it's more crowded than last year's ice cream social at the Methodist church."

She hung up before I could respond, which was just as well. I sat back and looked at Plover, who was trying not to grin. "That was a news bulletin from the Pinkerton Agency. Detective Petunia reported that Fuzzy left his room and hasn't returned. The trooper on duty is enjoying the snack said detective was gracious enough to take out to him."

"Shall we mosey down there and have a word with him?"

"Yes, I think a mosey might be in order." I stood up and headed for the door.

-- ==+== --

22 INT. -- LUCINDA'S TRAILER-NIGHT

Billy Joe comes into the trailer, his cap in his hands. CAMERA WIDENS to include Lucinda in a rocking chair.

LUCINDA

Is you okay, Billy Joe?

BILLY JOE

Sure am. Why wouldn't I be?

LUCINDA

Ain't you heard? Cooter says he's gonna kill you iff'n he so much as lays eyes on you. He's carryin' a shotgun. You better not set foot in town.

BILLY JOE

But what about Loretta? We got to make plans to escape.

He sinks to the floor in front of her and puts his head in her lap. She begins to ruffle his hair.

LUCINDA

I'd take a message to her, but Cooter knows I'm your first cousin and he'd be mighty suspicious.

(beat)

What if I was to take a message to Preacher Pipkin? Then when Loretta goes to the church, he kin slip it to her.

BILLY JOE

Kin we trust him?

LUCINDA

I don't reckon you got a choice, Billy Joe ... unless you aim to let Cooter have his way with Loretta.

BILLY JOE

(brokenly)

I jest don't know what to do, Cousin. I feel so cold and lonely.

LUCINDA

You poor baby. You come with me to my bed and I'll make you nice and warm like we used to do in the hayloft all the time.

CAMERA FOLLOWS them as they head for the bedroom bedroom. Billy Joe remains tortured by his thoughts, but Lucinda has an excited look on her face as she unbuttons her blouse.

CUT TO:

-- ==+== --

Brother Verber was on his knees, not in the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, where he might be interrupted, but in the privacy of his living room. He was in the midst of an almost testy conversation with His Superior about the lack of divine protection during a stressful time when he (lower case) had been investigating Satan's handiwork and He (upper) hadn't so much as lifted a Finger. It wasn't at all like those Hollywood people had said. Brother Verber had never peeped in a window in his life, except when he was doing so for the good of his flock.

"It was most humiliating," he said, his eyes uplifted and, despite the potential for retribution, his voice tinged with accusation. He considered a few other remarks, then realized he might better spend his time trying to think what to do.

To heap injury on top of insult -- and there was a heap of insult -- some woman claiming to be the director's assistant had called a while back and told him that he was going to be in the movie or else. Else, she'd explained, was telling folks in town exactly who'd been immortalized in a window with his eyes popping and his tongue hanging out of his mouth like a hound in heat. She'd gone on to mention how easily they could allow everyone to screen it for himself or herself. Herself included dearly beloved Sister Barbara. After the unpleasantness the previous year, he'd been obliged to listen humbly for hours about his lapse from grace, and had been reduced to whimpering on his knees in front of her and swearing he would never again entertain the slightest lust in his heart or so much as glance at what he himself considered illuminating study material to aid him in his relentless war against Satan.

He flopped back on the sofa and fanned himself with a catalog. "What kind of a name is Preacher Pipkin!" he muttered to himself, having given up pleading with the Lord. "I should have told her I was a man of the cloth and entitled to a name befitting my -- "

The telephone rang. Gaping at it as if it were a rattlesnake, he finally reached out his hand and picked up the receiver. "Praise the Lord," he said in a shaky voice.

"I would like an explanation," Mrs. Jim Bob said briskly.

Even though the blood was draining from his face, Brother Verber fumbled frantically in his mind and came up with an approach. "Yes, praise the Lord, Sister Barbara. Let us lift up thine eyes and offer a prayer of thanksgiving -- "

"Have you been in the sacramental wine again?"

He avoided looking at the glass on the coffee table. "No, I have such wonderful news that it qualifies as a miracle."

"So was water being changed to wine. I am calling about where you were earlier in the day. I happen to know -- "

"Praise the Lord!" he persisted, fanning himself to keep from passing out. "Now those little orphans can have warm food and new shoes. It's all I can do not to break into a hymn right here so you can share the miracle with me."

"Lottie and Eula are coming by to discuss certain factions in the Missionary Society who are disruptive. I need to put on the kettle and set out some cookies. Stop dithering about orphans and explain this miracle business so I can see to my duties as a hostess."

He swallowed nervously. "I have been asked if I would be willing to participate in this movie that's being made here in Maggody. I believe its title is Wild Cherry Wine." Her snort warned him that he needed to get on with it. "I won't be paid much, but I can consider this a windfall for those little orphans, because every last penny will go right to them."

"Why do they want you to be in the movie?" she asked, not sounding as impressed by his generosity as he'd hoped.

"So I can donate all the money to the orphans. I am on my knees this minute, Sister Barbara, and my heart is overflowing with the bountiful joy that comes of being able to help orphans, even the ones of a different-colored persuasion."

Mrs. Jim Bob worked on it for a minute, but concluded it wasn't worth the effort. A minor white lie seemed in order; that kind didn't count, especially when done in order to salvage the Missionary Society election and get the kettle on. "I think I hear Lottie and Eula on the porch, so I must run."

"Praise the Lord," Brother Verber intoned. Once he'd hung up, he repeated the phrase two or three more times, with increasing sincerity. He went so far as to lift his glass in salute before gulping down its contents and heading for the kitchenette to refill it.

Chapter 11

After I'd berated the trooper, who had flakes of crust on his chin and a decidedly penitent expression on his face, Plover and I went to #4. I managed to knock without putting my knuckles through the door. Frederick Marland opened it, a sandwich in his hand, and said, "My turn for the rubber hoses and cattle prod?"

"It will be shortly," I said. "I've heard a report that Fuzzy Indigo left this room earlier this afternoon and hasn't returned. Is this true?"

He held up his hands. "Whoa there, Chief Ariel. Don't rearrange my boyish features; they make me lots of lovely money. Why don't you and your friend step inside to avail yourselves of the amenities of the Flamingo Motel? Would you like a drink? How about an egg salad sandwich? Mighty good, lemme tell you."

Plover plowed into the room, almost running me down. "Mr. Marland," he said coldly, "a violent crime was committed in the next room, and a woman was killed. If she was not a close friend, at the least she was an associate with whom you've worked for a year. We're taking this very seriously. I suggest you do so, too."

"Sorry, I'm like really sorry about that. I admired Kitty and Meredith. They were old enough to be my parents, so we didn't see much of each other when we weren't on location. But I didn't mean to sound so flip; it's a defense, I suppose. A way of coping." He pulled up the bedspread to cover the rumpled sheets and gestured at it. "I'm afraid the seating's limited."

Plover sat down on the chair, but I leaned against the wall by the door, my arms crossed, and said, "When did Fuzzy leave?"

"I'm not sure about the exact time. We came and talked for a few minutes about -- what we'd heard."

"And what were your opinions?" I asked.

He sat down on the corner of the bed and rubbed his temples. "I was upset, and to be real blunt, scared shitless. I thought we ought to pack up and get out of Dodge while we could. Fuzzy ranted incoherently about pigs and perverts, and managed to trip over the bed twice. The second time he got the sheet wrapped around him and started screeching that he was being attacked by a loaf of bread. I don't know how he manages to stay drunk all the time. He must have some sort of I.V. hooked up to a bottomless bottle in his pocket."

"I noticed his condition in the barroom," I admitted. "Then what happened?"

"I was still in makeup, so I took a shower and changed clothes. When I came out of the bathroom, he was gone."

"And you have no idea why he left or where he might be? He didn't say anything at all?"

"No, but I'd suspect it has something to do with his fondness for alcohol. While we were playing poker yesterday, he finished off the last drop in the room. If his bottomless bottle finally went dry, he might have gone stumbling along the highway in search of a liquor store."

Plover stood up and came to the door. "I'll send someone to the pool hall. Is there anyplace else?"

I thought for a minute, then shook my head. "Not until the edge of Farberville. He wasn't with the group last night, either." I frowned at Frederick. "Do you know where he went last night and when he returned?"

"He didn't say anything to me, and I didn't ask. He's a live wire, good ol' Fuzzy. He reminds me of those Vietnam vets who go crazy and climb a tower to snipe at anything and anybody that moves. He hardly ever says a word, but he's very aware of what's going on -- when he's sober. When he's not, he wouldn't notice being flattened by a cement track."

"Is he capable of the sort of violence that took place in the next room?"

"I wouldn't think so, but I don't know him that well. I see him during production. I don't even know where he lives. I think his wife finally gave up and left him not too long ago."

"I'll be back," Plover said, then left to rally a second search party.

"And you have no idea about last night?" I said, trying to think of a place Fuzzy could have gone on foot. I gave Frederick a sharp look. "What time did you say he returned?"

"I didn't say. I told you we didn't discuss it."

I sat down in the chair Plover had vacated and whipped out my notebook and a pencil that looked as if it had been attacked by tiny beavers. "What's your real name, Mr. Marland?"

He stalled in much the same way Wanda Sue Thackett had, but eventually we determined that his birth certificate was graced with Freddie Marland, originally from San Diego, age twenty-five, currently residing in an apartment in Burbank. He'd enjoyed a brief stint on a soap opera, followed by a less stimulating stint in a pizza parlor before he'd been (he sketched quotation marks with his fingers) "discovered" by Hal.

As I read what I'd scribbled, a fragment of conversation came back to me. "Did you suggest this area for the location of the film?"

"Cannes, I would have suggested. Paris, Rome, Acapulco, all sorts of places. But Maggody, Arkansas?"

"Carlotta said someone in the group had suggested it," I said. I made a note to ask her, then crossed my legs and gazed at him. "Okay, where were you last night?"

"I ate at the barroom, then came back here and worked on my lines. We are making a film, you know."

"Then why don't you know what time Fuzzy returned?"

"Because I don't keep track of him." He took a bite of the sandwich and chewed it slowly, all the while covertly watching me to see if I was buying. I made it clear I wasn't. He swallowed, then put the remainder of the sandwich down and said, "I was with one of the local girls, and I don't want to get her in trouble, okay? She drove me into some town so I could buy some decent suntan lotion. We grabbed a bite, and then she brought me back here."

"Who're we talking about?"

"I promised her that I wouldn't tell anyone about our jaunt. She doesn't want her parents to know about it, or her boyfriend, for that matter."

"May I use the telephone?" I asked for form's sake. He nodded, and I dialed the number of Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill. When the proprietress answered, I said, "Which local girl took Frederick Marland for a drive last night, where'd they go, and what time did they return?"

"Is this some kind of spy service?" he said angrily as I listened to the response and hung up.

"This is a very small town," I said. "Darla Jean McIlhaney picked you up at seven-thirty in her mother's car, drove you to Farberville, and the two of you had not returned by one in the morning. The only weakness in the grapevine is after midnight, since folks tend to go to bed early in order to rise with the chickens and get started on the biscuits."

His mouth opened and closed several times. "All that just by one telephone call?" he said at last.

"I have excellent sources. You do realize I'll have to talk to Darla Jean, don't you? If you tell me what happened, I can try to avoid embarrassing her more than necessary."

He laughed. "You're one mean cop. I heard how you solved the cream-filled sponge cake murder, so I guess grilling a highschool girl won't be much of a challenge." He realized I was not sharing his amusement. "Okay, she picked me up and drove me into town. After I'd bought the lotion, we went to a bar and had a few drinks. Talked about this and that, drank some more, and somehow it was really late. She drove back here as fast she dared, dropped me off, and made me swear not to tell anyone."

"Which bar?" I asked innocently, very aware that bars in Farberville were careful to avoid serving minors. Because of the college there, showing one's driver's license was ritualistic. Darla Jean looked her age.

"How would I know? It was a bar, that's all. Little tables, loud music, watered-down drinks, dark as the inside of a cow." He stood up and began to pace, although the room was small and he couldn't do more than a few steps without risking an encounter with a wall. One, two, three -- oops; one, two, three-oops.

"No problem. I can ask Darla Jean. She must know the name of the bar where the two of you stopped."

"All right, maybe we went somewhere for some privacy. Ever since the soap, I get propositioned in the supermarket at home. Girls send me X-rated videos of themselves. They knock on my door and try to invite themselves in for a little romp. This Darla Jean's no different. She made it clear she was ... interested. She's a pretty little thing, and I was bored. No big deal."

I tried not to grimace as I gazed at him. "And where did you find this privacy?"

"A dark road, downwind from a chicken house." He was trying to sound nonchalant, but his hand trembled as he picked up the sandwich, studied it, and dropped it on the bedspread. "This doesn't have to be put on the grapevine, does it? The girl and I had a little fun, that's all. No one was harmed, and there's no reason why she should catch hell from her parents and her boyfriend."

There probably were several very good reasons why she should, but I wasn't in the mood to cause Darla Jean any grief. "I'll have a quiet word with her," I said, "just to confirm the story. I suggest you keep away from the local girls in the future, Mr. Marland. They may be impressed with your stature as a movie star, but I'm not. If this gets out, you may find vigilantes knocking on the door, and that would seriously interrupt the shooting schedule, wouldn't it?"