Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 11 (30 page)

"That's divine," drawled a young man who was draped across a chair. "Todd, you must allow us to sing it at your wedding. I can't think when I last heard someone use the word 'queer.' It's so quaint. Your mother will love it."

"Inspired by the Almighty Lord," said Brother Verber. "It all came to me yesterday morning like a bolt of lightning from above. I was so overcome that I bowed my head and offered heartfelt thanks for the blessing."

The tawny-haired woman took the paper out of his hand. "Okay, everybody, listen once more to the lyrics and then we'll take our best shot. If Todd's mother won't let us sing it during the ceremony, we'll do it at the reception at the club."

Brother Verber wanted to give her a hug to express his gratitude, but instead drained the glass and gave her a broad grin. Who said young folks had lost their appreciation for that old-fashioned religion?

Saddam was snoring like a rock-crusher. Joy had staggered into the bedroom half an hour earlier and was currently stretched out across the bed, her feet twitching every now and then like she was a dog dreaming about a coon hunt.

Jim Bob eyed the crumpled bills on the floor next to Saddam's feet. A few of them might solve his problem with paying for a taxi back to the hotel, but might also lead to an unpleasant incident with a chainsaw if Saddam woke up and discovered his loss.

And how the hell did he think he was going to find a taxi, anyway? If there was one in this pissant town, the driver surely had been alerted to watch for the escaped prisoner last seen holding up a convenience store in the company of two of the most disturbing people Jim Bob had ever met.

It was hard to know exactly where he was. He'd seen flat fields on all sides when Joy had careened up the road and slammed on the brakes in front of the sorry excuse for a house. Headlights had flashed on a distant line of trees. He had an idea which direction the highway was, but if he headed that way, Saddam would know where to look for him.

Holding his breath, Jim Bob turned the knob and eased open the door. There was no sudden bellow from behind him. He stepped down on the cement block that served as a porch, pulled the door closed with only the faintest grate, then sprinted around the corner of the house and ducked behind a tool shed.

He made himself stay down until he'd counted to a hundred. What moonlight there was was filtered though clouds, but he could make out trees not more than a hundred yards away. Even if Saddam woke up, he might figure Jim Bob had stepped outside to piss. In a couple of minutes, though, he would realize what was happening.

Jim Bob wasted a second considering the wisdom of his actions, then began to zigzag across the field, grazing his knuckles on the jagged stalks and praying he didn't make a decent target. Chainsaws demanded proximity; guns didn't.

The field was a mess of mud and icy puddles, and it wasn't nearly as level as it had looked. Jim Bob lurched across endless rows, tripping and sprawling every third step or so, trying his best not to imagine a gun aimed at the middle of his back. If he'd ever wondered where his hackles were, he was damn sure he knew now.

When he reached the line of trees, he was gasping so raggedly that he could see blotches of light inside his head. He threw himself down and rolled under what proved to be a patch of briers. The stench of decay was nearly overwhelming, but he burrowed deeper until he was sure no flashlight could penetrate the branches.

He wasn't technically a fugitive from a chain gang, he thought with a sigh, but there were some noticeable similarities.

Martha Hitebred studied her reflection in the mirror. Changing clothes in the church was not only difficult in the dark, but a bone-chilling ordeal as well. Now, with her father down there, most likely hunkered on his desk like a turkey vulture, she could take her sweet time adjusting her skirt and combing out her hair. She didn't quite have the nerve to smoke a cigarette in the house, but she put one between her lips and pretended she was a slinky torch singer in a nightclub thousands of miles away.

"Anton," she murmured to an invisible suitor, frowning ever so slightly, "how presumptuous to think I'll share a bottle of champagne with you this evening. I am leaving for Paris at midnight. Go away."

Anton obediently faded. Martha pinched her cheeks until they pinkened, turned out the lights (her father seemed to equate the electric bill with the national debt), and went out to her car. She couldn't trust the old fart to stay at the church all night, but she figured she was safe for several hours. Even if he came home, he'd assume she was at the homeless shelter, as she claimed to be several nights a week, spreading the gospel.

Close enough.

17

I brooded long enough to hatch an illusionary egg or two, then went back into the hotel and down the hall to the private offices in the netherworld behind the registration area. Mackenzie was seated at his desk, scribbling what was apt to be a vaguely worded press release to explain away a teeny disturbance on the eighth floor.

"I have a question about security," I said as I sat down and propped my feet on the corner of his desk. The posture wasn't as comfortable as in my personal domain in Maggody, but it was not time to be picky.

"Shoot," he said, then winced. "Poor choice of words. What's your question?"

"Let's say I arrive at the hotel in search of my great-aunt, who's eloped with her hairdresser. I don't want her to know I'm on her trail. If I slip the desk clerk twenty bucks, will he tell me her room number?"

"Absolutely not. It's grounds for immediate dismissal. The only jobs in this region are in the hotels and casinos, and all of us crosscheck references very thoroughly. Nobody with enough wits to determine the room number would dare give it out."

"That's what I figured," I said, frowning. "I wonder how he knew which room Stormy was in."

Mackenzie sighed. "Is this an obscure reference to this enigmatic bald man? Give it up, Miss Hanks. The police have the killer in custody. Twelve witnesses have sworn that no one else could have been in the hotel room."

"I ran into the ladies earlier, and I have to agree that they seemed reasonably sharp."

"Well, then, if you don't mind, I need to continue working on my report of the incident." He picked up a pen and began to shuffle his notes.

Politely overlooking his hint that I make myself scarce, I said, "Actually, there were thirteen witnesses. The ladies from Tuscaloosa and the guy from room service. Did you talk to him about it?"

Mackenzie slapped down the pen. "No, I did not. I have no idea if Chief Sanderson or Deputy Jones bothered with him. I hope not. The food service employees are an edgy group; the presence of a uniformed officer in the kitchen area would have caused a major stir."

"I want to talk to him."

"Out of the question. This is a very busy time for them. Besides, his appearance at dawn suggests he's working the midnight shift. If you're going to be stubborn -- and I can see you are -- then perhaps I can arrange for you to meet with him early tomorrow morning."

"I really don't want to spend the night in this chair, Mackenzie. Can you get me a rollaway bed?"

Glowering, he snatched up the receiver and jabbed a button. I felt a twinge of sympathy for whoever had the ill fortune to answer at the other end. "Cutting here," he snarled. "I want to know who delivered a tray to the east wing on the eighth floor this morning around six. I don't know the room number. Once you have the name, find out if he's currently on duty. Call me back as soon as possible."

He hung up and gave me a chilly look. "Satisfied, Miss Hanks?"

"Want to play a couple of hands of gin while we wait?"

Estelle searched through Cherri Lucinda's bag, not sure what she thought she'd find that might explain who the bald man was. She found nothing more damning than some dingy bras and a lace nightie with some mighty peculiar holes. All the plastic bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and moisturizer in the bathroom seemed innocent, although she was afraid to dump out the contents to make sure there were no precious jewels at the bottom.

She was about to open the closet and rummage through coat pockets when she heard a key slide into the lock. Her heart pounding, she scurried over to a chair and was reaching for the clicker when Cherri Lucinda and Rex came into the room.

"Estelle?" said Cherri Lucinda. "What are you doing in here? I found a note saying Arly was going to sleep in the other bed. Has there been a change in plans?"

"I decided to sit in here in case the hospital calls. Why's he here?"

Rex smiled so broadly that Estelle couldn't help but think of crazy old Merle Hardcock in his Evel Knievel period. "Cherri Lucinda offered to loan me a bit of money for a few hours," he said.

"But you have to pay it back," Cherri Lucinda said primly. "Jim Bob won't like it one bit if he gets out of jail and finds out you took his winnings from last night."

"No problem," he said. "I have analyzed and identified the flaw in my method. Once corrected, the contents of the casino coffers will be mine, and you will have your cut. I'll even add a chip to Jim Bob's stash. We'll all have champagne for breakfast."

"I don't much care for champagne," said Estelle, feeling contrary for no good reason. "Rex, would you step out to the balcony for a minute? There's something I want to ask Cherri Lucinda here."

"Girl talk, I suppose," he said, chuckling as he opened the sliding door and went onto the balcony. "Don't be all night, please. I'd like to get back down to the casino and start raking in their money. Unlike the three of us, the night is young."

"What's his problem?" Estelle demanded as she pulled Cherri Lucinda into the bathroom. "Is he drunk?"

"I don't think so. He was kinda mopey when he found me downstairs, but once I said he could borrow Jim Bob's chips, he cheered up. Do you know anything about Jim Bob? Do they have strict visiting hours at the jail? Should I take him a toothbrush?"

"Now that Mrs. Jim Bob's here, you'd better pretend you never met him." Estelle peeked out the bathroom door to make sure Rex was still on the balcony, then said, "Who was that bald man you were talking to in the bar earlier?"

Cherri Lucinda studied her reflection in the mirror. "Him? He came into the club the other night and bought me a drink between shows. I don't recollect him telling me his name, but most of the customers don't. The ones that do are all named John or Joe. Strange, isn't it?"

"Real strange. Did he ask you about Stormy?"

"No. We mostly talked about how the weather was better than it was up north. I told him about the Elvis Pilgrimage, but I might as well have been talking about my favorite brand of shampoo. He couldn't have been less interested."

"And this evening?"

"He said he was real surprised to see me, that his company had sent him over to Memphis for the weekend and he'd just happened to come down to The Luck of the Draw to relax for a couple of hours. Considering how many casinos there are, it's pretty funny, isn't it?" She shoved a handful of curls across one eye. "Unless it's destiny, of course. My horoscope said I might encounter someone from my past. I guess the middle of last week counts as the past."

Estelle managed a nod. "Fate can't be ignored. What else did he have to say?"

"He was real curious about what we'd done in Tupelo and if we might have stopped somewhere other than the museum and birthplace. When I told him how Baggins had allowed us all of half an hour before heading the van toward this place, he told me that if I ever got back to Memphis, he'd take me over there so I could poke around to my heart's content. I thought that was a mighty kind gesture on his part. He ain't the handsomest man I've ever seen, but he has nice manners."

"That's all you know about him? He came to the place where you work, and then popped up here today?"

Cherri Lucinda leaned toward the mirror. "You got it. Now maybe I don't have what you'd call prominent cheekbones, but my chin doesn't pooch and these little lines around my eyes are on account of exhaustion. I mean, I haven't had a decent night's sleep since before I can remember. I may be puffy, but I don't see how you can say my face is plump. I feel like I've been accused of looking like a piece of fruit."

Estelle tried not to let her eyeballs roll back. "Your face is not plump. All I said was -- "

"I distinctly recall the word 'plump.'"

"Pleasingly plump," said Estelle, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub and trying to think.

"Okay," I said to Mackenzie, who was hardly the most scintillating company I'd kept lately, "look at it this way. The men whom we shall call Brown and Bald determined that Stormy ended up with a kilo of cocaine and a lot of money. She couldn't go back to her apartment or so much as set foot in the bus station or airport. She decided to join the tour and jump ship in Memphis. You with me thus far?"

Mackenzie continued to scratch on a piece of paper. He was making a very faint sound that might have involved the grinding of teeth, but I opted to ignore it, since he was clearly under duress.

As were we all.

I recrossed my legs, leaned back in the chair, and let my head fall back. "So Stormy got on the C'mon Tour van with every expectation of slipping away into the night in Memphis. However, Brown and Bald showed up at the Starbright Motel and made it clear they were watching her, and the neighborhood was so dangerous that she could hardly duck down alleys. She had Estelle restyle her hair, but B&B were at Graceland the next morning, still after her. Once the schedule changed, she must have thought she'd be safe here for the night -- especially since she'd stashed her bag in a safe place."