Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 09 (6 page)

After getting a beer, Bur went into the bedroom and checked the pockets of all her clothes on the off chance she’d forgotten to throw away a damning note from her boyfriend. He felt a flicker of excitement when he found a matchbook from a motel in Pine Bluff, but then he remembered the girls had played in a tournament there the year before.

He replaced the matchbook and stomped into the living room, his blood simmering as he envisioned her on sweaty sheets with some faceless man, her tongue hanging out like a slobbery dog’s. He was certain there was someone. He could tell by the dreamy look that sometimes crossed her face when she didn’t know he was watching her. A couple of weeks ago, he’d called her late one night at her office in the gym to tell her to bring home some ice cream, and she hadn’t answered. He’d let her know about it the minute she stepped into the house, but she’d had some glib story about having to hunt up the janitor to fix a backed-up toilet.

For a long while, he’d suspected Amos Dooley. Amos wasn’t much to look at, and he was far from being a rocket scientist, but he was a bachelor. Norma Kay had passed along a couple of jokes Amos had told her and even suggested they have him over for supper sometime, but Bur had made it clear he wasn’t gonna sit at the same table with a man who was probably a faggot.

Cory Jenks was an obvious suspect these days. The problem was there was no hard evidence, and Bur wasn’t about to confront her until he was sure he could nail her. Otherwise, she’d deny it and go to further extremes to keep the affair secret.

And he wasn’t ready to rule out Lewis Ferncliff, who owned a body shop on the road to Farberville, or John Robert Scurfpea, who was as crooked as a dog’s hind leg when he played dominoes at the pool hall. Or Jim Bob Buchanon, who made a point of speaking to Norma Kay whenever she came into the SuperSaver. Or Fergie Bidens, who drove by every now and then, peeking at the house out of the corner of his eye. Fergie was married and had a whole passel of brats, but everybody knew he spent some afternoons at the Pot ‘O Gold mobile-home park when he was supposed to be at work. Eddie Joe Whitbread wasn’t above that sort of thing, either.

Bur covered his face with his hands as the names rolled through his mind like movie credits. It was Norma Kay’s fault he was tormented like this day in and day out, he thought as he collapsed onto the recliner. He shouldn’t have married her to begin with. Sure, he’d felt sorry for her after what she’d been through with the pompous pricks on the school board, the angry parents, the pious lawyers, the reporters—everyone had been quick to turn on her. He was the only one who’d tried to defend her, and when that didn’t do much good, he’d offered her a fresh start in a different state. Perhaps he needed to remind her of that more often, Bur decided as he picked up the clicker and aimed it at the television set. Instead of whoring around, she ought to be home remembering how grateful she’d been back then.

A talk show host came onto the screen and pointed at a row of people sitting on stools. “Today we’re going to meet transvestite mud wrestlers who had near-death experiences, and the men who brought them back.”

Bur opened a beer.

—==(O)==—

Thomas Fratelleon sat at a table in the RV, studying a surveyor’s map of Stump County. He’d loosened his tie, but he was wearing a coat and neatly pressed trousers. He glanced up as Seraphina came out of the bedroom.

“This appears to be the only reasonable site near a highway,” he said, gesturing at a rough square outlined in red ink. Blue lines divided it into three unequal sections. “If we want to suck in the tourists from Branson and Eureka Springs, we have to be within an hour’s drive.”

Seraphina sat down across from him and turned the map around. “So what’s the problem, Thomas? Malachi wants to kick off the revival with a presentation of the project and a real emotional plea for donations to build phase one of the City of Hope. There won’t be a dry eye in the tent. By the final night, we should have close to a hundred and fifty grand to option the property and launch a major fund-raiser.” She propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, her face aglow with exhilaration. “It’s gonna be something, isn’t it?”

“It’s going to be a gold mine,” Malachi said as he entered the room and took a bottle of apple juice from the refrigerator. He wore a discreetly expensive jogging suit and outrageously expensive athletic shoes. His hair, now dry and styled, hung to his collar in gentle brown curls. His high forehead was unwrinkled and his cornflower-blue eyes were as guileless as a baby’s. “I can pack the Cathedral of Hope with five thousand Christians, all of them eager to assure themselves of prosperity in the here and now and eternal bliss when the time comes. We’ll net over fifty thousand dollars at every service, and once we get back on the air …” He took a drink of apple juice and let it trickle down his throat like the costliest champagne. “Even when the show was broadcast on only a dozen stations, we were receiving upward of a thousand letters a week, each with a check. By this time next year, we’ll be on half the cable outlets in the country. The good Lord will provide.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the kitchen.

“What happened to you last night?” demanded Ruby Bee as I chose a stool. “Didn’t you get the message I left on that infernal answering machine at your office? I didn’t get a wink of sleep on account of imagining you in some awful car wreck out on the highway, lying in a ditch all covered with blood. And how was I to know if you’d decided to catch a bus to Washington, D.C., without having the decency to tell me?”

“Any biscuits and sausage gravy left?” I asked.

Ruby Bee folded her arms and stared at me. “I don’t believe you answered my question, young lady. Once you see fit to do that, I’ll answer yours.”

My options were limited and my stomach was growling in expectation. “If you must know, I went to Farberville to talk to people, then went to the drive-in and watched a couple of particularly gruesome movies. The first was about this guy with hideous scars all over his face and hands from a chemical accident. He crawled into this teenaged girl’s bedroom window, doped her, took out a ten-inch carving knife, and—”

“I’ll see what’s left,” Ruby Bee said as she strode into the kitchen, “but you’re pressing your luck. One of these days …”

The doors swished closed on whatever was going to happen to me one of these days. I was in more of a carpe diem mood, so I poured a mug of coffee and snitched a doughnut from under a glass dome. I was licking the grains of sugar off my fingers as the front door opened and footsteps thudded across the dance floor. The sound reminded me of the second feature at the drive-in, which had starred an extinct reptile with an attitude (so my taste in movies is no better than my taste in ex-husbands).

“Hey, Arly,” said Dahlia as she hoisted herself onto a stool. She plucked a napkin out of a metal dispenser to blot the sweat off her forehead. “Hot enough for you?”

“No, it’s not. I was sitting here thinking that I ought to move to the Sahara desert and get a job chasing camel thieves.”

She blinked at me. “You were?”

Ruby Bee came out of the kitchen and slammed a plate down in front of me. “This should hold you,” she said coldly, then managed a smile for Dahlia. “How about a glass of iced tea?”

Dahlia was staring at the plate in front of me, her eyes as rounded as full moons and her breathing ragged. “I don’t guess you have any more biscuits, do you?”

“Now, Dahlia,” Ruby Bee said as she scooted the napkin dispenser alongside my plate, “the doctor told you how important this diet is. You don’t want to do anything that might hurt the baby, do you? It’s not all that long until your due date.” She gave me a pointed look. “Aren’t you impressed with how Dahlia has stuck to her diet for two whole weeks now?”

In that my mouth was full of biscuits and gravy, all I could do was nod. I put my elbow on the bar to further deter Dahlia from a slavering attack on my breakfast—an idea that was written all over her face in big capital letters. “I truly am impressed,” I said when I could. “How much weight have you lost?”

“I don’t rightly recollect,” she said distractedly.

Ruby Bee added another napkin dispenser and a plastic pretzel basket to the barrier. “The reason I called you last night was to tell you about Malachi Hope. I thought you might be interested.” Her voice rose and her pace quickened as Dahlia’s tongue slid out between her lips. “After all, everybody in town has heard of him, but nobody except Estelle and me has actually seen him. Some older man bought groceries at the SuperSaver, and Eula Lemoy saw that blond woman drive by in a white Mercedes, but Malachi Hope is a real mystery man. Estelle and I are the only ones who’ve met him in person.”

I’d been shoveling down the food as fast as I could, but this caught me by surprise. “Where’d you meet him?” I said, my fork poised in midair.

This turned out to be a mistake. Ruby Bee snatched up the plate and slipped it into a sink of soapy water. “Up at the Grapper place,” she said as if nothing had happened. “Estelle and I took it upon ourselves to drop off a casserole and welcome him to Maggody.”

I put down my fork. “So tell me about him.”

Amid wheezy sighs from Dahlia, who’d shifted her attention to the pyramid of doughnuts, Ruby Bee described what might have been a meeting of no more than thirty seconds’ duration. “He looked different on television,” she continued. “Wearing nothing but a towel, he looked like a regular person who mows his lawn every week and puts out the garbage. I expected him to be …”

I waited, but she finally shrugged and busied herself washing dishes in the sink. Dahlia gave up on the doughnuts and announced she was going to continue her walk, which she seemed to equate with the Long March in China. She was trudging away in the opposite direction as I headed back to the PD. Woe to those who crossed her path.

The telephone rang while I was making coffee in the back room, and after a short debate, I took the adult approach and answered it.

“Heard you was back in town!” boomed Sheriff Harve Dorfer from his office in Farberville. He’s a real country boy at heart, as well as a slick politician and a fairly astute law enforcement agent. His primary passion seems to be cheap, foul-smelling cigars; I’m always careful to stay upwind from him when he takes one out of his shirt pocket. “One of the boys saw you at the drive-in last night. I wouldn’t have thought it was so boring out your way that you’d actually pay money to sit through four hours of that kind of crap.”

As soon as he finished guffawing at his wit, I said, “Why wouldn’t you think it’s boring out this way? There are days when I cruise around town, longing to catch some scoundrel tossing a beer can out of a car window so I can shoot him on the spot. Yesterday morning I went so far as to consider trying to find Raz Buchanon’s moonshine operation up on Cotter’s Ridge. I was halfway to the car when I remembered he and Marjorie went to visit kinfolk at the state prison. I think they have a family reunion down there every year about this time.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” drawled Harve. “So what’s this about the preacher and some theme park? What’s he gonna call it—‘Six Flags Over Jesus’?”

I propped my feet on the corner of my desk and leaned back in the squeaky old chair. “I did some checking on Malachi Hope and his corporation. He’s pretty tame compared to some of the better-known figures with the gift of electronic tongues. About five years ago he got into a dispute with the IRS over what constitutes a charitable organization and was slapped with a bill for more than a million dollars. The corporation filed for bankruptcy, reorganized the debts, and stayed quiet for a spell. Then a year ago, he resurfaced and began staging revivals, mostly in Texas and Oklahoma.”

“So what’s he really doing in Maggody?”

I searched the ceiling for a water stain comparable to the image on the Shroud of Turin, but no manifestation was obvious. “I wish I knew, Harve. The idea of building a theme park out here sounds ludicrous to me.”

“You met him yet?”

“No, and in all honesty, I have no desire to do so. The business manager assured me that Malachi Hope was not a typical evangelist, but I won’t be surprised if he shows up with a pompadour, a sequined suit, and cowboy boots made from an endangered species species. He drives a gold Cadillac, for pity’s sake.”

“Now, Arly, you shouldn’t judge a man by his choice of vehicles. It ain’t professional. Maybe you ought to go out there and ask him real politely what the goddamn hell he thinks he’s doing here in Stump County.”

“I don’t want to,” I said with all the charm of a sulky toddler. “Besides, I haven’t made much progress with all the busywork that accumulated while I was gone. I have to set an appointment to confer with the county prosecutor about the charges against Pegasus Buchanon, who failed to explain what he was doing in the cemetery behind the Baptist church—with a shovel and a gunnysack. I have to call the travel agent about flights to Cairo. I have to do laundry at the—”

“Seems to me you’re gonna need some help with traffic next week,” Harve interrupted smoothly. “If you want, I can scrounge up a couple of deputies to help you out. There are flyers posted all over the county about the revival, and the new fall lineup hasn’t started. Folks may be getting bored with reruns and pilots that didn’t cut the mustard. They might come out your way in droves to find salvation and listen to gospel music on a hot summer night. Course, you need to confer with this preacher and make sure he’s figured out where everybody’s gonna park.”

I told Harve he was a bastard, then hung up and resumed my morose contemplation of the stains on the ceiling. An interview with Malachi Hope was less appealing than a cozy conversation with Raz’s pedigreed sow. It was less appealing than a confrontation confrontation with the town council about my budget (“Please, sirs, could I have a new pencil?”). It was less appealing than a burrito from the SuperSaver.

I kept a running count in my head, and when I’d thought of exactly one hundred things that were less appealing than doing my duty, I stood up. I may have been dragging my feet as I headed for the door, but I was moving in the right (and righteous) direction, when said door banged opened and Mrs. Jim Bob flew in like a Harpy from the bowels of hell.