Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 07 (19 page)

He was on the porch. He ostentatiously consulted his watch, slapped Matt on the back, and said, “Sorry, folks, but Matt’s great-aunt is inside waiting to see him after all these years. He sure does love letting y’all take his picture, but he doesn’t want to keep that sweet old lady waiting any longer.”

Matt grinned apologetically and went inside, and after a moment, Katie Hawk rose from the porch swing, waved at the fans, and followed him. I was burning with curiosity to find out how the committee had handled the Adele Predicament, but I did as dictated in memo number seven thousand or so and spent the next ten minutes shooing fans off the lawn and arguing with the press. Photographers from two magazines had been selected to immortalize the cozy family reunion, which did not sit well with their competitors. I was nearly hoarse when I finally got everybody on the road and went into the Boyhood Home, noting for the first time a brass plaque beside the door that proclaimed as much.

Ruby Bee and Estelle were in the hallway, their hands clasped as if they were praying (and I could think of reasons why they should be). The children had been hushed, and stood in formation at the edge of the living room. Ripley noticed me and touched a fingertip to his lips. The photographers were not visible from my perspective, but I could hear shutters clicking and film advancing in a soft bombilation. I tiptoed to the doorway and peered over the local cherubim’s heads.

Matt Montana knelt beside the rocking chair, his hat in his hand and face tilted toward the white-haired woman in a shawl. “And do you recollect when I picked all those huckleberries and you made me a pie?” he asked with a dimply grin.

” ‘Course I do, Matt. But when you were down by the creek, you got into a -patch of them little seed ticks. Lord a-mercy, I must have used a whole bar of lye soap tryin’ to scrub ‘em off your hide.”

“How about when Uncle Jesse took out that old banjo that his pa had given him, and by suppertime I could play all the way through ‘Wabash Cannonball’? He got his fiddle, and we sat on the porch and played up a storm till you made us go to bed. Remember that, Auntie Adele?”

“How could I forget? The whole time I sat in this room, in this very same chair if I recollect rightly, tapping my foot and thinking about when Mr. Wockermann came a-courtin’ with that same banjo.”

Matt smiled at her, but he adjusted his profile for the benefit of the photographers. “I brought that old banjo with me, and I may just see if I can wheedle it into tune at the concert tomorrow night and play ‘Wabash Cannonball’ specially for you, Auntie Adele.”

“Why, Matt, I cain’t think of a single thing that’d make me happier.”

Vaguely nauseous, I headed for the front door, mutely snagging Ruby Bee by the arm on my way. Once we were on the porch, I whispered, “Who the hell is that?”

“Why, Miss Detective, I’d think you might recognize Matt Montana. He’s wearing his signature white—”

“In the rocking chair.”

She had the grace to look just a bit uncomfortable, although I doubted anything I said would do away completely with her air of complacency. “Matt’s great-aunt. Isn’t it touching how they’re able to share all those—”

“In the rocking chair!” This time I admit I snarled the words at my own mother. “Who is it?”

“Since you were unable to find one feeble old lady, we had to ask another resident at the county home to fill in for a day or two. We were all opposed to the deception, but Mrs. Jim Bob kept saying that we’d given our solemn promise that Adele would be here and we had no right to disappoint folks and ruin their visit to Maggody.” In response to my glare, she sat down on the edge of the porch swing. “It’s Dahlia’s granny, if you must know. I’m a little surprised that you didn’t recognize her, since—”

“There you are,” said Estelle as she came out the door and sat down next to Ruby Bee. After they’d hissed at each other, Estelle rose and deigned to notice me. “You should have put on a fresh shirt this morning, Arly. That one’s all stained with sweat and I do believe it’s missing a button. I’m too busy to fix it now, but you bring it by next week and I’ll see if I have a spare button in my sewing box.” She hurried down the steps before I could concoct a scathing comeback.

Ruby Bee stood up and attempted to sidle around me. “I got to get back inside now. Ripley said he might want me to be a cousin when it comes time to trim the tree.”

I cut her off in front of the door. “Why’d Estelle rush off like that?”

“She has to get some snow,” Ruby Bee said over her shoulder as she went inside.

I stood there and battled against the omnipresent forces of terminal insanity. The corpse in the chicken house had come to life and driven home. Dahlia’s granny was Adele Wockermann. Estelle Oppers had gone to get snow. Was she getting it out of her freezer, or did she have to drive to the handiest outlet of Flakes ‘R Us?

I remembered that Dahlia was waiting for me to call the VacuPro office. The nearest available telephone was at The Official Matt Montana Souvenir Shoppe, and I needed to go there in any case to deal with the alleged break-in. It was challenging to imagine someone so desperate for a Matt Map that he would commit a felony, but I was clearly in the early stages of non compos mentis.

Dahlia was in the middle of the road, being interviewed by the press. She appeared to be enjoying the attention, and I had no way to intervene short of dragging her behind the house to lock her in a shed. Wondering how Eilene and Earl would react when they heard about their son’s infidelity on the evening news, I turned my car around in the side yard, nudged gawkers out of the way, and drove up to the main road.

Free parking was at a premium these days, but I figured I probably wouldn’t give myself a ticket for blocking the lot behind what had been a run-of-the-mill New Age hardware store back in the good ol’ days. The lock on the back door was broken, and the wood around it splintered from repeated assaults with a crowbar or similar tool. I went through a storeroom piled high with unopened cartons of Matt memorabilia, pushed aside the curtain that had replaced strands of beads, and came into the main room. It no longer smelled of incense and exotic herbal concoctions; now the primary redolence was of cold, hard cash, and based on the size of the browsing crowd and the shoving at the cash register, plenty of it.

Mrs. Jim Bob rang up a sale, stuffed Tshirts and a receipt in a bag, and expressed her gratitude with a tight smile. “There you are,” she said as she noticed me. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d find time to investigate a crime committed under your very nose.”

“Not my nose,” I said more loudly than necessary to be heard over the taped Montana music. “My nose was asleep last night. It’s exhausted from sniffing at the trail left by Adele Wockermann when she disappeared three weeks ago.”

She told Darla Jean to take over the cash register, then hustled me into the back room as if I’d asked the price—or the flavors—of official Matt Montana condoms. “If you’d conducted a proper investigation and found her, we wouldn’t be in this pickle,” she whispered. “You’re hardly the one to get all high and mighty about a simple substitution. I should have brought in the state police in the first place, instead of listening to the likes of Ruby Bee and Estelle. Right from the start I told Jim Bob you couldn’t find a flea on a dog, and—”

“Did you pay her or what?”

Mrs. Jim Bob’s tirade had been perfunctory, and she let it drop. “A certain sum was mentioned. Then that nosy Twayblade woman started carping about how it interfered with the schedule and how she might have to complain to the health department, so we ended up obliged to pay her off, too. It smells of blackmail, if you ask me.”

“I’ll be happy to file charges. Let me consult the county prosecutor and get back to you as soon as possible. Elections are coming up in a year, and he’d love the chance for all the publicity. I’ll bet he can arrange for television cameras right there in the courtroom, and you and all the other Homecoming Committee members who will have to testify can—”

“Never mind,” she said. “I am a good Christian and I see no need to cause the woman to lose her job. Now, what are you gonna do about this disgraceful break-in?”

“You’ve already disposed of any footprints, but I can take fingerprints on the doorknob, presuming no one has touched it.”

“How was I supposed to open the door without touching the doorknob? I am not a magician, missy.” She realized I was not impressed with her reasoning and waggled a finger at me. “And don’t be giving me that supercilious look because Darla Jean mopped the floor. Today’s likely to be our busiest to date, what with Matt in town and the concert tomorrow.”

I muttered something about tracking down possible witnesses, then asked to use the telephone. We had an argument, in that I needed to make a long-distance call, but I made it clear I was going to persist until she relented. The lure of the cash register was too much for her, and after a starchy comment to keep it short, she went through the curtain.

I called information for the number of the Vacu-Pro office, then dialed the number. When a female voice answered, I asked to speak to Mr. Dentha.

She hesitated, then said, “Who is this?”

“Someone who’d like to speak to Mr. Dentha. Is he there?”

“It’s against company policy to put through callers who refuse to identify themselves.”

“This is”—I cast around for a name that captured the surreality of the morning—“Ms. Hieronymous Bosch, and I own a house on Beaver Lake with over seven thousand square feet of wall-to-wall carpet. I was told to deal directly with Dentha if I decide to purchase the deluxe Vacu-Pro system, but if you’re not—”

“He’s out of town, Ms. Bosch,” she cut in smoothly, “but he will be delighted to demonstrate the system and all its attachments in person when he returns. If I could have your telephone number …?”

Ms. Bosch was not in the mood to dillydally. “Where did he go and when will he be back?”

“He went to Little Rock yesterday for a sales meeting. He wasn’t sure when he’ll be back in Farberville, but I fully expect him in the office bright and early Monday morning. Now, if I could just have your home address and telephone number, Ms. Bosch?”

“Do you have a number for him in Little Rock?”

“I cannot give out that information, but I can pass along a message when he checks in with me.”

I was making very little progress, but it didn’t seem tactful to inquire if Mr. Dentha’s sales conference included a short service at a cemetery. “Has he called in for messages since he left?”

“Let me think,” she said, breathing more heavily than one normally associated with cerebration. “Yes, he did, about an hour ago. He said he had seminars the rest of the day and the awards banquet tonight, so I don’t expect to hear from him again until tomorrow morning.”

“How did he sound?” I asked, despite the sheer inanity of the question. Did I expect her to say he sounded quite chipper for a corpse?

“Mr. Dentha sounded as though he and the other district managers enjoyed themselves at the bar until quite late last night. Could you explain your concern for his wellbeing?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll call Monday and talk to him in person.” I hung up and was examining the broken lock when loud voices erupted from the front room.

“He stinks!” squealed an unfamiliar child. “He stinks like a poopy diaper and I ain’t gonna stand by him.”

“Hell, lady, he kin pose next to me for a dollar,” said a more familiar one. Hammet Buchanon, to be precise.

I pushed aside the curtain. Hammet, dressed in a dazzlingly white cowboy outfit, was leaning ever so casually against a table piled high with coffee mugs and plastic figurines. His hat was tilted rakishly, and he was doing his best to imitate Matt Montana’s laid-back grin. He was doing such a disturbingly good job of it that a woman with a camera appeared to be considering his offer. Her child, a pudgy creature who been stuffed into a pale green cowboy suit, was holding his nose and pointing at the mannequin.

Mrs. Jim Bob stepped in front of Hammet, shot the child a withering look, then smiled at his mother. “Our regular price for posing with Matt is five dollars, but I’ll make an exception this one time and charge you half-price. We don’t want any of Matt’s little fans to be unhappy, and I can see he wants to hurry down to the Boyhood Home and see Matt in person.”

Hammet stood on his toes and peeked over Mrs. Jim Bob’s shoulder. “Only one dollar,” he reminded the mother, “and I’ll throw in my autograph for nuthin’. I’m going to be on the stage at the concert tomorrow night, so I reckon I should be charging two dollars, mebbe three.”

“He stinks, too!” said the brat. “I can smell him across the room.”

Hammet’s affable grin faded. “And I’ll kick his baby green ass for free, all the way to the edge of town and back. How’d you like that, you lil’ peckerwood?”

Mrs. Jim Bob raised her hand, saw me, and lowered it real quick. “I will not tolerate that kind of language, Hammet Buchanon. Brother Verber may have told you to meet him here, but you can just go outside and wait there for him to pick you up. While you do that, ponder the sins of profanity and disrespect to your elders.”

“Tell that lil’ peckerwood to ponder his prick afore I feed it to the turkey buzzards,” Hammet countered crossly.

The woman with the camera was stuffing it in her purse with one hand and clutching her son’s shoulder with the other. “I am not accustomed to this kind of language, and I’m of a mind to tell my husband about this and let him teach that—that foulmouthed creature a thing or two.”

It seemed like time to intervene, alas. I zigzagged through the tables and racks, caught the foulmouthed creature in the middle of a lunge, and squeezed his arm until I had his attention. “Hammet, I think you need to go out back and sit in my car. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“He don’t stink as bad as the dummy,” the brat said, now suffused with charity toward his would-be assailant. ” ‘Sides, if you take my picture with him, there’s enough money for another ice cream sundae.”

“Shit,” Hammet said, proving himself equally magnanimous, “you kin do it for free iff’n you buy me a sundae.” He wrinkled his nose. “Phew-whee! That dummy shore does stink like an outhouse in August.”