Muletrain to Maggody (21 page)

“I had a plan, but it got all screwed up.”

It was beginning to fall into place. “Did it involve Diesel?”

Darla Jean tried to sputter, but her heart just wasn’t in it. “Nobody’d be foolish enough to mess with him. He’d be more likely to bite my head off than give me the time of day. There’s no way I’d go anywhere near his cave, even if I knew where it is. Which, in case you’re planning to write up some report, I don’t!”

“But Petrol might.”

“I don’t know anything about Petrol. Go ask him if you’ve a mind to.”

“I can’t do that, Darla Jean,” I said, “since he’s gone to stay with his niece over in Hazzard. This niece called the old folks’ home on Sunday and apologized for not letting them know he’d be staying with her for a few days. Such a considerate girl she must be.”

“So what?” said Darla Jean in a last attempt at bravado, since both of us knew damn well that she had reached the limit of that particular credit card. “You saying I had something to do with this?”

I let her stew for a moment, then said, “Where is he?”

“Like I know. I spent all weekend trying to find him. Most of the time I sat on his porch, hoping he’d turn up. I drove him home on Saturday, but he said he wasn’t going anywhere until he had a barbecue sandwich from this place over in Emmet. When I got back, he was gone. It’s not like I kidnapped him, Arly. Petrol swore he’d take me to Diesel, and if I’d bring along a sack of food and some CDs, Diesel would tell me where to find the Confederate gold. I should have known better than to trust Petrol. My skin was crawling all the time I was around him. He’s like some kind of fungus.”

“CDs?” I said despite myself.

“And a blender.”

“So you haven’t seen him since Saturday, when he slithered away.”

Darla Jean grabbed my arm. “It wasn’t my fault. He promised to wait until I got back from Emmet, but then he was gone. I kept thinking he’d come back sooner or later.”

I detached her hand. “But you called the old folks’ home and lied to them.”

“I could hardly tell them the truth, could I?” She stood up and brushed off the seat of her jeans. “Maybe I should have told you before now, but it’s not like you can do anything about it, either. Petrol’s probably hunkered down in Diesel’s cave, counting gold coins while Diesel fixes a tasty pot of skunkweed soup. The next time we see Petrol, he’ll be driving a silver Viper.”

On that rather bizarre note, she went inside and switched off the porch light. I remained where I was, trying to sort through what she’d said. Jeb Stewart had been on Cotter’s Ridge at the same time Wendell was searching for Hospiss Buchanon’s family plot. Jeb had been less than friendly, but there was no reason to assume he’d been homicidal. Wendell had been on a mission, notebook and map in hand. I’d searched the area around his body and found neither on his person nor on the rocks that had resulted in his untimely demise.

Harriet Hathaway had been adamant that Wendell would never have wandered too near the edge of a bluff.

I was beginning to wonder, myself.

I
wasn’t pleased to find Jim Bob’s pickup truck parked in front of the PD. I resisted the urge to turn left at the third star and flap my arms until I arrived in Never-Never Land, where all I’d have to deal with were pesky pirates and crocodiles with ticking bombs in their gullets.

“What?” I said as I went inside.

He was seated behind my desk, entertaining himself by rooting through the drawers. “I was wondering if you’d bothered yourself with this investigation. We don’t want Maggody to get a bad reputation, ’cause if it does, pretty soon there won’t be any way to pay your salary.”

“And I won’t be able to keep up my payments on the Jaguar? Gee, Jim Bob, I’ve been thinking about booking a suite on the
QE 2
next fall.”

“That’s enough of your smart remarks,” he said. “What have you found out about this Streek man’s death?”

I sat down across from him and crossed my arms. “Why do you care?”

He leaned back in my chair—my chair, mind you—and regarded me with all the warmth of that tick-tock croc calculating my nutritional potential. “You were there when his body was fetched, weren’t you? It seems to me any cop with a lick of sense would have looked around and checked his pockets.”

“The deputies and I did so conscientiously. I don’t have the list of his personal items, but I seem to recall we foundlint, a wallet containing the usual cards and about fifty dollars, a ballpoint pen, fingernail clippers, an asthma inhaler, a packet of tissues, a few coins, and half a roll of breath mints. Peppermint or spearmint—I’m not sure which it was. I can call the sheriff’s office and ask if you’d like.”

Jim Bob bit back what might have been a most entertaining reply, and after a moment, said, “Did you find a notebook?”

“What notebook?”

“I’m the one asking the questions,” he said. “You’d best be the one answering them, unless you want to end up trying to collect unemployment.”

“And you’ll be the one trying to convince Ruby Bee to serve you a pitcher of beer on Friday afternoons. I can always find another job.” As much as I wanted to drag him out of my chair and stuff him in the wastebasket like a piece of junk mail, I sat where I was. “Why don’t you tell me everything Wendell said this morning so that I can figure out whether I’m tidying up an accident or looking into a homicide?”

He managed to repeat the conversation that had taken place in his kitchen that morning, although I doubted the language had been quite that colorful. “He swore he found some clue about the location of the gold,” he added in a surly voice, as if I might go dashing out of the PD with a shovel. “He didn’t say much, except he wanted to do more research. When I went upstairs to take a shower, I happened across a copy of the journal in one of the bedrooms and took it with me to my office. Far as I can tell, the only thing this private knew about was runny bowels and lice. It didn’t sound like he ever killed a single Yankee.”

“But Wendell told everyone present that he’d run across a reference that would lead to the gold?”

Jim Bob stood up. “Dumb sumbitch was a helluva lot more excited about family plots. So did you find the goddamn notebook or not?”

“No,” I said, “but I have a witness who saw him with it before his death.”

“Who?”

I could almost see him pounding on Darla Jean’s bedroom door while Millicent shrieked and Jeremiah hunted through the coat closet for his shotgun. “I’m in the middle of an investigation, Mr. Mayor. You’ll have to direct your questions to Sheriff Dorfer, but not until after the baseball game is over. The Cubs and the Cardinals, I think he said. I don’t think it sounds like a fair match, what with bears going against little red birds, but what do I know? He mentioned that he’d be stretching in the seventh inning. That might be a good time to call him.”

After he stomped out, I took possession of my chair and realigned my pens and pads on the desktop, wishing I could realign my thoughts as meticulously. It seemed as though I was going to have to make sure none of Mrs. Jim Bob’s house guests—or Jim Bob, himself—had been on Cotter’s Ridge, perhaps hoping Wendell would lead him or her to the Confederate gold. It was hard to envision, but then again, their very presence in Maggody was due to a staged production, complete with roles, scripts, costumes, posturing—and violence.

It occurred to me, albeit a bit late in the game, that I hadn’t demanded a posse and bloodhounds to search for Dahlia’s granny. Which wouldn’t help. Cotter’s Ridge stretched for ten miles. It had been logged for more than seventy-five years, and was crisscrossed with roads, trails, dried creek beds, ravines, crevices, and, of course, caves. Census takers never even considered it. County social workers knew about a few of the remote homesteads, but rarely could find them.

I decided to focus on Wendell’s meanderings that morning. Based on Jim Bob’s hazy recounting of the conversation around the dinette, it sounded as though Wendell had encountered Hospiss Buchanon on a stroll before breakfast. It might be interesting to ascertain if he’d actually found her home, or even inadvertently left his notebook beside the family Bible.

Having never encountered Hospiss during my formative years, I called the keeper of the Encyclopedia Maggodica and politely asked for suggestions.

“Why on earth do you want to talk to her?” demanded Ruby Bee. “She’s got the brains of a June bug. You don’t think she has anything to do with this murder, do you?”

“As of now, there is no murder,” I said. “I’m writing up a report about this accidental death. There’s some indication that Wendell spoke to her early today.”

“He must have run into her at the Methodist cemetery. She steals the plastic flowers from the plots and tries to sell them to tourists driving through town. She usually waits till right after Memorial Day, though.”

“And you never mentioned this to me?”

“So you could arrest a senile old woman trying to make enough money to buy groceries?”

“I wouldn’t have arrested her, for pity’s sake,” I said, “although I suppose I might have tried to discourage her.”

“Nobody minds, and what’s more, I know a few folks who set out canned food along with their sprays of flowers from Wal-Mart. Just last fall Estelle and me took her some sweaters and a few blankets we bought at a flea market. It ain’t like any of the high-minded members of the Missionary Society would see fit to help her out. They save their energy to pray for heathens before they sit down to coffee and cinnamon rolls.”

I waited until she stopped sputtering, then said, “Do you know how to find Hospiss’s house?”

“No, but I know how to find her trailer. It’s at the back of the Pot O’ Gold, right by the drainage ditch that runs along the fence. Now if you don’t mind, I got to go deal with this smart-mouthed Yankee from St. Louis afore I have a brawl in the middle of the dance floor. Some of the ol’ boys that come here for happy hour don’t cotton to being ragged about the Confederates gettin’ their asses whipped. I ain’t so fond of it myself.”

I drove over to the Pot O’ Gold and parked by one of the more squalid trailers. A few plastic roses were set around the cracked concrete patio. The sole aluminum chair was bent and in need of new webbing. Hospiss did not appear when I tapped politely on the door, or even after I gave it a few thumps with my fist. The windows were too high for me to peer into unless I risked my life by balancing on the chair.

“She’s in there,” said a thin voice behind me.

I turned around and regarded a scruffy girl perhaps six or seven years old. “Are you sure?”

“No, I ain’t sure for sure, but she never hardly goes anywhere. Are you a cop?”

“Maggody’s finest,” I said as I reassessed my chances of teetering on the chair frame in order to look inside. “Then you know her fairly well?”

“I’m not allowed to on account of she’s crazy, but sometimes she lets me come inside and eat crackers with her. She sez I’m her best friend, the only one that believes her. She sez that when she has a big, fancy house, I can come live with her. There’s gonna be feather beds and gardens with real flowers and even a swimming pool. We’re gonna stay up all night watching TV and eating all the chocolate we want. In the mornings, somebody’ll serve us eggs and biscuits on china plates.”

“And you believe her,” I murmured.

The girl shrugged. “Might as well.”

“Will you tell me your name?”

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” She gave me a puckish smile, then darted away into the chaos of trailers, bass boats, campers, pickups, sickly trees, dingy laundry flapping in the breeze, and men in undershirts drinking beer and hollering at each other.

I knocked once again on the front door, and then, leery in that I was operating on the utterance of a first-grader, took the tire iron from my trunk and went around to the back door of the trailer.

When I received no response, I pried it open. If the town council wouldn’t pay for the damage, I figured Ruby Bee could have a bake sale and Estelle could run a special on pedicures. Ten toes for the price of five.

Hospiss was indeed inside, but she would never again pilfer plastic flowers. Her body was sprawled across the worn carpet, her arms splayed, her thin housecoat tangled around her knees, her bare feet shriveled like dried apples. Blood from the wound on the back of her head had left an irregular brown blotch on her faded gray hair.

The putrid odor and presence of flies suggested as much, but I kneeled down beside her and made sure she was dead. I quickly checked the other rooms in the trailer on the obscure chance someone had lingered, and then drove to the PD to call Harve.

“Did I mention it’s the Cubs and the Cardinals?” he said as soon as I identified myself. “Mrs. Dorfer did the dishes and went over to visit her sister, leaving me in the most splendid solitude to sit back in my recliner, pop open a cold beer, and appreciate the poetry of the game. I realize some folks think it’s on the slow side—”

I cut him off and told him about the body in the Pot O’ Gold Mobile Home Park. I did not spare him the details. “And before you even bother to try to justify sitting there on your butt with all that poetry flickering on the screen, it was not an accident. There’s no piece of furniture she could have fallen and hit her head against. I didn’t see a weapon, but I was more concerned about making this call than doing a thorough search.”

“You want me to come racing out there with flashing lights and sirens, along with half a dozen more official vehicles and an ambulance? How about a helicopter? Maybe I can get some black ones so’s to send half the Buchanons in the county scurrying into their bunkers to hunker down and prepare for a UN invasion. Most of ’em wouldn’t pop up till Groundhog Day next year.”

“You, McBeen, and a couple of deputies to search the pasture for the weapon will do just fine,” I said sweetly.

“Score’s tied and one of those home run sluggers is coming up in the next inning. How long’s she been dead?”

“Some number of hours, but not days. Harve, I’m real sorry about this. I suppose I can sit here in the PD until the end of the baseball game, but I might just pass the time by alerting the media to the crime spree right here in little ol’ Maggody. I’ll do my best with the reporters, cameras, lights, and microphones. I’ll just tell them you’re delayed.”

He harrumphed. “I’ll be on my way soon as I make a couple of calls. Give me directions to the trailer and we’ll meet you there.”

It was beyond credibility to categorize Hospiss’s murder as a coincidence, I thought as I drove back to the Pot O’ Gold. Wendell had spoken to her earlier, and both he and she were dead within a matter of hours. Harriet Hathaway had been adamant that Wendell’s fear of heights would have kept him at a prudent distance from the edge of the bluff. His notebook, containing not only genealogical notes and a map, but also hints as to the location of the Confederate gold, had disappeared. It did not seem likely that he’d left it at Hospiss’s abandoned homestead or failed to notice if it had dropped out of his pocket. And surely he wouldn’t have mentioned his encounter with her if he’d followed her back to her trailer and dispatched her. The Methodist cemetery had few visitors at an early hour, or even a much later one. Wendell had seemed harmless, to put it politely. His ancestors would not have ridden with Quantrill’s Raiders.

I had a few minutes before Harve and his platoon would arrive, so I stopped at Eula Lemoy’s trailer on the off chance she’d noticed anything that morning. I knocked on her door, and was rather surprised when she threw it open, grabbed my arm, and yanked me inside.

“Is this about Lottie?” she demanded. “Is she all right? I haven’t been able to eat a thing for two days, not so much as a bowl of soup. I know Elsie and I were cowards to drive off like we did, but we were planning to go back and fetch her if the police didn’t show up. There wasn’t any reason for all three of us to get ourselves arrested, was there?”

“I don’t know,” I said, backing away. “Was there a reason why all three of you
should
have gotten yourselves arrested?”

“Of course not. What Lottie did most likely wasn’t against the law. Elsie and I was nothing but innocent bystanders, like those folks you see standing behind the yellow tape.” Eula sat down and wiped her eyes. “So what have they done with Lottie?”

“Who?”

“Didn’t your mother teach you to pay attention when folks are talking to you? Where did the police take Lottie after she was arrested?”