Read Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 11 Online
Authors: Misery Loves Maggody
"We're not quite to that point in the investigation," I said. I took a small notebook out of my pocket and wrote down the telephone numbers of the PD and my apartment. "If you see any suspicious activity inside the church, call me. I can be here in less than twenty minutes."
She took the piece of paper, glanced incuriously at it, and folded it into a tiny rectangle. "Why don't you come to one of our services, Chief Hanks? You might find it interesting."
"If I get a chance," I said, then got back into my car before she could press me for a commitment. Martha was still standing next to her car, her hands in her pockets and her face tilted toward the sky, as I drove down the driveway to the county road. I supposed I might have been as impassive as she if I'd spent my life under the dour scrutiny of the Reverend Edwin W. Hitebred.
But I doubted it.
Brother Verber sat on the couch in the rectory, which, in spite of the fancy nomenclature, consisted of a mobile home parked in the yard of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. He was marveling at the depth of depravity right there on the TV screen. Why in heaven's name a woman would go in front of a camera and tell the whole country how she'd had a lesbian affair with her husband's sister was beyond comprehension, he thought as he refilled his glass with sacramental wine and leaned forward to catch every last disgusting detail. Nothing like this had been covered in his correspondence course with the seminary in Las Vegas, and he figured sooner or later he'd be called upon to confront this particularly mystifying perversity. Surely he owed it to the Lord to be forewarned before he went into battle with of Satan hisself.
What was downright disturbing, he reflected as he idly scratched the tip of his nose, was that this woman looked so normal. Why, if he'd seen her at the SuperSaver, thumping melons or flipping through a tabloid at the checkout counter, he never would have suspected she was one of "Them." He'd heard tell of a book where a woman had been obliged to wear a scarlet A, so everybody'd know right off the bat that she was an adulteress. Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. There were three or four high school girls who might think twice about lying buck naked with a boy on a blanket next to Boone Creek if they knew they might end up with a scarlet W nestled between their ripe, sassy breasts.
The idea was so intriguing that he found a pencil and piece of paper and started a list. "W is for whore," he murmured. "L is for liar, P is for pervert, S is for sinner, M is for Methodist ... "
He was so engrossed in his work that he came close to spewing out a mouthful of wine when someone rapped on his front door. "Coming," he called, then slipped the paper under a cushion and made a quick pass through the kitchenette to stash the wine bottle and glass in a cabinet.
He was darn glad he had when he opened the door and saw Sister Barbara (aka Mrs. Jim Bob) on the stoop. "What a charming surprise," he said, hoping she wouldn't notice that he was still in his bathrobe and slippers nigh onto noon. He'd had to explain to her more than once how staying up half the night to pray for various members of the congregation left him tuckered out the next morning, but she never looked real convinced.
"I need you to go unlock the door to the basement of the Assembly Hall," she said. "I've been out since eight this morning collecting items for the rummage sale, and my trunk's full."
Clasping his hands together, he beamed down at her. "You're an inspiration to us all. 'The path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.' That's from Proverbs, chapter four, verse eighteen."
"You wouldn't think the day's so all-fired perfect if you'd been out in it. I stepped in a puddle in front of Millicent McIlhaney's house, and my feet are soaked. When I got out of my car at Fergie Biden's house, a brutish dog came charging from under the porch like it was bent on tearing out my throat. I barely escaped with my life. Furthermore, I had to pump gas, even though I must have told Jim Bob a half dozen times to fill the tank before he left town. I have a run in my stocking and I've lost a glove. There is a most unpleasant tickle in the back of my throat, and I won't be surprised if I have pneumonia by this evening. How long do I have to stand here in the cold before you put on your coat and go unlock the door for me?"
Brother Verber's eyes stung with unshed tears. "Why don't you come into the rectory and dry your feet, Sister Barbara? I'll make you some nice hot tea and you can rest up from all this trouble you've been going to on behalf of the heathen orphans in Africa. I'm surprised you ain't sporting a halo after what you've been through."
"Oh, all right," Mrs. Jim Bob said, "but only for a minute. There's more to do, and we both know the Devil finds work for idle hands." She cocked her head like a cute little of chickadee and gave him a piercing look. "Are you in your pajamas because you're working on your sermon?"
"I was scribbling so fast I must have lost track of the time," he said as he grabbed the remote control and turned off the TV. "You sit here on the couch and I'll fetch a towel. I'd consider it a blessing if you'd allow me to kneel in front of you and dry your feet."
She sat down, pulled off her shoes, and carefully inspected her toes for a hint of frostbite. Once she was satisfied that none of them required amputation, she looked up at Brother Verber, who was hovering in much the same fashion as a blimp over a football stadium. "So what's the topic of this Sunday's sermon?"
"I'll go get that towel." He scurried down the hallway to the bathroom, opened the linen cabinet, and spent several minutes trying to decide which color of towel she'd prefer. He finally grabbed an armful and went back out into the living room. "Where's Jim Bob off to?"
"He said he was going to the Municipal League meeting down in Hot Springs, but I'm not so sure that's where he is. He's been acting queer these last few weeks."
Brother Verber gasped. "He has?"
"For one thing, he made it home for lunch and dinner regular as clockwork, and he spent most every evening in front of the television. He only went back to the supermarket after dinner one time, and when I called, he answered the phone himself. I don't know what to make of it, Brother Verber."
He tossed the towels on a chair and sat down next to her. "It means he's finally seen the wickedness of his ways and decided to put himself back on the glorious path to salvation. Hallelujah? Why don't we both get down on our knees and offer a prayer of thanksgiving that his soul has been saved?"
Mrs. Jim Bob stayed where she was. "When he's carrying on with some hussy, he comes home at all hours of the night reeking of perfume and whiskey. He tells the employees all kinds of ridiculous stories about how he has to go to Farberville or Starley City in the middle of the afternoon to see wholesalers. That's the kind of behavior I'm used to. The way he's been behaving lately is just plain peculiar, and I know in my heart that he's up to no good, Brother Verber."
"Probably not," he said, squeezing her knee to let her know that he, in his role as her spiritual adviser, shared her apprehension. "The Lord must be testing your faith by giving you such an affliction. All Job had to deal with were painful boils from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. You've got a womanizing, whiskey-drinking, deceitful husband. It don't seem fair, but as pious Christians, we know the Lord moves in mysterious ways."
She removed his hand, which had mysteriously found its way to her thigh. Standing up, she said, "I've changed my mind about unloading the trunk just now. I'll come by later this afternoon."
Brother Verber blinked moistly at her. "It breaks my heart to see you like this, Sister Barbara. You're trying to be brave, but I can hear the anguish in your voice. I hate to think of you sitting all by yourself in your living room, the shades drawn and the lights out, battling to hold back tears of shame and humiliation."
She muttered a word of farewell and went back to the pink Cadillac Jim Bob had bought her after she found out about the redheaded Jezebel in the Pot O' Gold mobile home park. The car had more than twenty thousand miles on it, and there was an unsightly stain on the passenger's seat from the time she'd taken tomato aspic to the potluck. It just might be time to replace it with a newer model, she thought as she drove toward the SuperSaver to search through Jim Bob's desk drawers for clues.
Estelle kept an eye out for the bald man while she and Ruby Bee gawked at Elvis's private airplanes, cars, go-carts, and motorcycles in the museum, and then had lunch at the Rockabilly's Diner. The only shiny head she'd seen belonged to a paunchy coot using a walker and slobbering worse than Petrol Buchanon (who was renowned for his saliva excesses, as well as for pinching fannies at the county old folks' home).
They were contemplating the wares in the souvenir shop when Cherri Lucinda joined them. "What on earth happened earlier?" she asked.
"Nothing," Estelle said in a chilly voice.
"I nearly swallowed my gum when y'all took off running like Elvis's pa had crawled out from behind a desk. The tour guide was so pissified that I thought she was going to chase after you and tackle you right there on the lawn."
Estelle pulled a postcard out of the rack and pretended to give it serious consideration. "It's a good thing she didn't try it." She realized Ruby Bee was looking thoughtful, which was a bad sign. "I reckon it's time to head back for the van. Baggins is mean enough to drive off and leave us in the middle of the parking lot. Where's Stormy?"
"Off having a cigarette," said Cherri Lucinda, "and I couldn't care less if she makes it back to the van in time. She shouldn't have come on this pilgrimage in the first place. About the only thing she's done since we left Farberville is gripe. I didn't think the motel was so awful, but you'd have thought from the way she carried on that we were staying in a dungeon with spiders and bats. First she got it into her head that she was gonna leave and catch a bus back to Farberville. One minute later, she came back and said she was afraid she'd get mugged on the way to the bus station. After that, she was up all night long, smoking and watching out the window. I don't know if I can stand three more nights of sharing a motel room with her. I get these horrible dark circles under my eyes if I don't get my beauty sleep."
Estelle replaced the postcard and picked up a box of coasters. "Why did she come on the tour?"
"I don't know. She wasn't the tiniest bit interested when I told her about it a couple of weeks ago. Then the night before we left, she showed up on my doorstep with a suitcase and said she'd changed her mind and was coming after all."
Ruby Bee glanced up from a plate with a picture of Graceland decorated with Christmas lights. "Did you ask her what caused her to change her mind?"
"She wouldn't say exactly, but I sort of think she'd had a fight with her boyfriend and figured he'd be worried about her if she disappeared for a few days."
Estelle dropped the box of coasters. "You wouldn't happen to know what he looks like, would you?"
"Never met him," Cherri Lucinda murmured, distracted by a set of porcelain figurines of Elvis in his distinctive costumes. "Isn't this from the 'Aloha' special in nineteen seventy-three?"
"I believe it is. Ruby Bee, decide what you want and go pay for it. We need to stop by the ladies room and then get on out to the van. Neither of us can afford to take a taxi back to Farberville. You'd better hurry up, too, Cherri Lucinda, unless your duffel bag's full of money."
"Yeah, right," she said with a snort.
She was still frowning at the figurine in her hand as Estelle and Ruby Bee paid for their souvenirs. Estelle made sure the bald man was nowhere to been seen as they went through the main reception room, made a detour to powder their noses, and headed along the path back to the parking lot.
"Are you gonna explain or not?" Ruby Bee said, stopping abruptly.
"Explain what?"
"I may be feeling a mite crumpy, but not so much that I wasn't mindful of being hauled out of Graceland like a sack of turnips. I did not appreciate that, Estelle Oppers."
Estelle looked uneasily at the trees and bushes along the path. "You never know who might be listening. I'll tell you later when we get to the motel in Tupelo."
"Don't go to the bother," Ruby Bee said in her snootiest voice, which never failed to irritate Estelle. "You and Cherri Lucinda can have yourselves a fine time discussing Elvis's present whereabouts. Last week I saw a motorcyclist in a black helmet turn up the road that goes by Raz Buchanon's shack. Maybe Elvis's twin brother didn't really die at birth. Maybe he changed his name and grew whiskers so nobody'd notice any family resemblance. Maybe Elvis came down from Minneapolis for a visit."
"I'll say you're a mite crumpy," said Estelle with matching snootiness, which never failed to irritate Ruby Bee just as much, if not more so. "In fact, you're being as big a pain in the butt as Stormy. Why don't the two of you catch a bus home so the rest of us can enjoy ourselves?"
"You're a fine one to talk! I wouldn't be standing here if you hadn't bullied me into coming. God knows I had better things to do with one hundred and seventy-nine dollars than ride in a bumpy van and sleep in a filthy motel room. Diesel's cave is probably cleaner than that place."
Estelle squared her shoulders and gave Ruby Bee a disdainful look. "I may have been the one that found out about the tour, but I don't recollect twisting your arm till you agreed. Besides that, you're getting as set in your ways as an old grannywoman. The most exciting thing you ever do is change channels in the middle of a show. You may want to wither away, Rubella Belinda Hanks, but I ain't ready to join the antiques in Roy Stiver's shop."