Muletrain to Maggody (29 page)

“Have you?”

“That’s hardly your concern, is it? Now you know where I was yesterday morning, and with prodding, Andrew will tell you the same. May I rely on your discretion?”

I gave her a cool look. “Yes, you may rely on my discretion. Every family needs its secrets, right? No matter how fine the pedigree, there’s always a mongrel in the mix. Ruby Bee swears that my great-grandmother on my father’s side of the family was a full-blooded Cherokee.”

“Then I’m sure you must appreciate your heritage all the more, knowing you have some tiny indigenous claim to the mountains and the prairies, as well as the casinos with tax-exempt status. Are we finished?”

“I believe we are.” I went over to the door and opened it for her. “I won’t bother any of you tonight. Please let Simon know that we’ll be having a rehearsal of sorts tomorrow after the rest of the reenactors arrive. I’d like to make sure everyone understands what to do when we start the actual filming on Friday and Saturday.”

“I’ll tell him,” she said, hesitating in the doorway. “You’re going to talk to Andrew, aren’t you? He may squirm around a bit, but keep after him and he’ll tell you the truth. He’s very nervous about the possibility of Simon punching him in the nose or some such display of machismo. Don’t worry about a duel at dawn in the motel parking lot, though. Neither of them has the balls, musket or otherwise, to put himself in danger. Blustery little boys, both of them.”

I couldn’t imagine Simon scheduling anything before the middle of the morning. I waited until she’d walked out of sight, then went down the road to see if Jack might be in the mood for a swim.

And other things.

Hammet was sitting on the gravel in the parking lot, lob-bing bits at the bugs scuffling through the patches of weeds. “You’d have thought,” he said as I approached, “that they’d at least give me my drum. I ain’t gonna learn to play it by whacking a pillow with a couple of pencils, which is what Estelle keeps saying I’m s’posed to do. She sez when the time comes, it’ll all come together. I shore as hell ain’t gonna come marching down the road with no pillow strapped to my belly.”

I sat down next to him. “You keeping an eye on the felon?”

Hammet nodded. “He keeps peeking out the window. It’s likely he’s aiming to make his break afore too long. He ain’t got a car, so I reckon I can follow him till he holes up, then come fetch you to shoot him.”

“I’ll try to stay available. What else is going on in this hotbed of crime and intrigue?”

“Jack’s in there with him now. I shore hope they ain’t partners. You’d be more tore up than an armadillo what got caught under a combine. I saw one last year when our class went on a field trip to some stupid farm where we was supposed to get all excited about petting lambs and goggling at chickens. I offered to show ever’body how to wring a chicken’s neck, but my teacher hung on to me after that so I dint get a chance. She wouldn’t even let me collect the armadillo and bring it back to school.”

“I’m sure your classmates were all disappointed, but you can always hope you’ll go on another field trip next year. So Jack’s in Terry’s room? What about the other guy, the one with silver hair?”

I fully expected my runty detective to demand payment before he passed along his vital information, but he merely shrugged. “He had breakfast at Ruby Bee’s, then drove off for most of the morning. He came back, changed into a fancy jacket, and then left again. He’s back now. If you look at his window, you can see the flickers on the wall from the TV. I thought he might be a master criminal, but he said he was a car dealer and gave me a dollar for fetching him a limeade from the Dairee Dee-Lishus. He called it a mixer, which dint make a whole helluva lot of sense. If you ask me, anyway. Nobody ever does, not even you.”

“But here I am, permanently dimpling my butt by sitting next to you. I’ll bet you a dollar you’ve already forgotten what all happened here yesterday morning.”

“I already got a dollar.”

I tried to stop myself, but my mouth just wouldn’t listen to my brain. “You want to go swimming this afternoon? The water’ll be cold, but the sun’s shining.”

“Jest you and me?”

“I was thinking I might invite Jack. We’ll talk him into buying some sodas and cookies. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah,” he said without enthusiasm. “Anyways, yesterday morning I was waiting for Estelle to show up and take me on what she called a picnic, but she was later than she’d said she’d be. When she finally got here, she had dirt and grease all over her hands from changing a flat tire, and was near to blubbering like a baby on account of breaking a fingernail. Her always said the only thing fingernails was good for was chewing on.”

“So you had to wait most of the morning for her,” I said. “Must have been boring.”

“Yeah, I was gonna just watch TV, but Ruby Bee came bustling in to vacuum and leave some clean towels. She was all fidgety ’cause she had to do the other rooms afore she could start fixin’ lunch. I offered to help her, but she said the best thing I could was to stay out of her hair. I went down to the end of the building and sat in the dirt, watchin’ grasshoppers and waitin’.”

“You didn’t see anyone coming up from the woods?”

He shook his head. “I dint see nobody. I did later, though, after I got tired of traipsing around the ridge, with Estelle breathing down my neck and poking me in the back. A lady with dirty yellow hair was cutting through the pasture. She went into one of the motel’s rooms afore I could catch up with her. I reckoned she was part of the gang. All of the killers in the movies have girlfriends, ’cept most of ’em get shot before the end.”

“They do, indeed. How long was this before you found me?”

“Not long. I was watching when you went into that feller’s room, and as soon as you came out, I figgered I’d better warn you.”

“You got a pair of shorts to swim in?” I asked. “Go grab them and a towel, then we’ll collect Jack and take the rest of the day off.”

“He’s gotta come, too?”

“We can’t play gin rummy without three people.”

Although it only takes two to tango.

M
aggody was abruptly yanked out of its rustic stupor early Thursday afternoon. Horse trailers were being parked in Earl Buchanon’s pasture, some with horses and others with loud, disgruntled mules. A cannon lashed down on a flatbed truck rumbled by the PD and continued toward the bridge. The reenactors began arriving in pickups with dogs hanging out the window, their tongues flapping, and in station wagons jammed with children, their tongues flapping, too. A convertible packed with half-naked fraternity boys with rebel flags painted on their chests rolled by, entertaining spectators with a raucous rendition of “Dixie.”

Harriet Hathaway had taken her post on the edge of the road in front of Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill. She waved each vehicle to a halt, ascertained the identity of the pertinent player, and then directed each either in the direction of the bridge or the hillside below Mrs. Jim Bob’s house, depending on political affiliation. Camp followers and tourists were advised they’d be pitching their tents and setting up their grills on the lawn surrounding the Assembly Hall. Jim Bob had assigned Kevin and Idalupino to a long table in front of the SuperSaver, with an array of bottled water and sodas, sandwiches wrapped in plastic, candy bars, cookies, and fresh fruit. And a gizmo to take credit cards, just in case any of the reenactors or their families assumed the Chamber of Commerce was welcoming them with complimentary goodies. Cheerleaders pranced around in front of the table, shaking blue and gray pom-poms. I had little doubt that most of them had stitched rebel flags on their underpants for more festive cartwheels.

Hammet, Jack, and I watched from the PD parking lot. We were, I think, all feeling better after playing hooky the previous afternoon. Jack and I’d played other games after returning Hammet to Ruby Bee’s grudging custody. She’d held her tongue, a first for her, but as Jack and I left, I could hear her meddling mind whirring away.

As well it should have.

“Look at that dude!” Hammet said, hopping from foot to foot as an enormous Harley-Davidson purred past us. “I reckon he can kill all the Yankees, big hairy guy like him.”

“Nobody’s going to get killed,” I said. “This is a reenactment. They all know the rules, and one of them is that ammunition is forbidden. They can’t even use paper wadding in their muskets because of the risk of fire. Smoke and mirrors, Hammet. That’s all it’s going to be.”

“He could too kill ’em,” my bloodthirsty protégé muttered as he took off down the road to catch up with the motorcyclist and try to wheedle a ride in the sidecar.

A pickup truck laden with a crate stopped in front of us. Its toothless, greasy driver leaned over and unrolled the window. “Got the pig,” he said. “Who’s paying fer it? Iff’n you want me to butcher Beauregard, it’s gonna be an extra hunnert dollars.”

I couldn’t quite find a response. Jack came to my rescue and directed the man to Harriet, who was undoubtedly prepared to dispense funds, if not the tools necessary to facilitate the transformation of placid porcine to barbecued ribs.

An RV somewhat larger than a tract house pulled up. The passenger, a woman with sequin-adorned sunglasses and a crude Confederate flag painted on her cheek, leaned out the window and shouted, “Hallelujah, sister! The South shall rise again! Until then, where do we park so we can get a hookup?”

I sent her back toward the Assembly Hall. I wasn’t sure with what she intended to hook up, but I hoped it wasn’t Mrs. Jim Bob or Brother Verber after they’d assessed the damage to the lawn. Some questions didn’t warrant further investigation.

LaBelle and three of her women friends, all hefty and crammed in the subcompact, pulled over. “This is so exciting, Arly,” she gurgled. “We just came today to see the movie stars. I still haven’t figured out who this fellow named Simon Dawk is, but I just know we’ll recognize him when we see him. How should we go about finding him? I promised my niece I’d ask for his autograph.”

“Down by the bridge at the other end of town,” I said, although I doubted Simon would poke his head out of Mrs. Jim Bob’s house anytime soon. Then again, Kenneth Grimley and Corinne Dawk had spent the morning at the schools, alarming the children with their parallel tales of death and destruction, and might deign to sign autographs, one with blue ink, the other gray.

The strains of “Dixie” competed with “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as cars continued to inch past us. I was about to suggest to Jack that we retire to the bar for pie and coffee when Andrew Pulaski joined us.

“I thought you might come knocking on my door yesterday,” he said to me. “I was prepared to offer you a martini while I made my confession.”

“Sweetpea called you, then.”

“The poor girl is distraught. She’s young and liberated, but she can’t put aside her previous persona as a debutante in a white gown, clinging to her daddy’s arm as she’s introduced into society. However, she did come to my motel room Tuesday morning so we could discuss the economic penalties imposed during Reconstruction on families such as hers that had managed to hang on to their plantations. It was very enlightening to hear her perspective. We also, um, experimented with other perspectives. She arrived shortly after I’d finished breakfast and stayed several hours.”

“So she was there from around nine until one or so?”

“Close enough. I wasn’t wearing a watch.”

“I’ll tell her you did a fine job sticking to the script,” I said coolly.

Andrew frowned. “We’re supposed to stick to the script, aren’t we? A reenactment’s not the place for ad libs and prat-falls. My lines are rather repetitive, and I have no doubt most of them will be muffled by musket fire. I saw no mention that the cannon will be utilized.”

“No,” Jack said, “they couldn’t use the cannon because none of them had been trained. From what I gathered in the script, about all you do is ride back and forth behind your troops, shouting at them to steady their aim and that sort of thing. Eventually you send them running up to the road, but only after the Confederates have fled on the mules. I believe your only line of significance is, ‘Let the bastards keep their damn cannon. General Alessio is waiting for us to get back before he moves on Farberville. Head out, men.’ ”

“And a fine line it is,” Andrew said, glancing uneasily at me. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at the pig roast.”

“Before then,” I said. “Once we start the actual filming tomorrow, it’s going to disrupt traffic. I realize this isn’t an interstate, but a lot of tourists come through here headed for Branson, and farmers in the area use the road to get to Farberville to shop with wild abandon at the co-op and Wal-Mart. Today at four o’clock everyone is going to assemble in the SuperSaver parking lot, and then block out the movements. Costumes are not required.”

“I have a uniform, not a costume,” Andrew said haughtily. “I am not an actor.”

“Oh, I think you are,” I said.

He turned around and left. Jack was agreeable to pie, and I was fairly sure I’d set everything into motion, with some flexibility in case of unanticipated reactions. Now all that remained was to wait until four o’clock.

Jim Bob was more than startled when he came around to the patio and saw his wife sitting alone at the wrought-iron table, her skirt hitched above her knees and her feet spread so far apart he couldn’t help but get a glimpse of her thighs. To add to his bewilderment, there was a half-empty wine bottle on the table and a glass set in front of her.

“You okay?” he said.

She refilled the glass. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just that, well, it’s just that…” he said helplessly.

“You think you’re the only one in this marriage allowed to indulge in sin? Is that what you’re trying to spit out, Jim Bob? Oh, excuse me. I meant to say Mr. Mayor. You run all over the county like a tomcat in heat, sniffing up every female. You’ll be glad to know that I don’t do
that,
Mr. Mayor. I stay right here so I can iron your shirts and make your dinner and bury your whiskey bottles in the trash.”

“Because it’s what you agreed to do when we took our vows. I’m the one what provides, and you’re the one what honors and obeys. That’s what Brother Verber said, anyway. Shouldn’t you be thinking about dinner tonight, or getting ready for the pig roast tomorrow?”

“I should be, but I’m not. Have you seen what’s happening on the main road? I might as well have told Earl to plow up his pasture so they can put up circus tents and parade the elephants through town. This was supposed to be a dignified affair, a tribute to Maggody’s contribution to the annals of history. But, no, we’ve got people being killed, truckloads of hooligans braying louder than the mules, half a dozen wine bottles in the garage, and unmarried people fornicating in one of my tastefully decorated guest rooms.”

Jim Bob glanced at the windows on the second floor. “Fornicating? You mean that young couple?”

“As if I couldn’t hear them through the door, plain as day. There was no question about what they were doing.” She gulped down the wine and refilled her glass. “I ordered new draperies for the living room. You have a problem with that?”

“No,” he said, “I’m sure they’ll be right nice. Are you planning to sit here and drink the rest of that bottle?”

“I might, and there’s another one in the refrigerator. They keep showing up like mold on bread, or maggots on spoiled meat. Maggoty Maggody, such a quaint little place to live and die. I’m not real sure which I’ve been doing all these years. Maybe dying’s a gradual process and I just never noticed till now.”

Jim Bob was so lost as to how to respond that all he could do was awkwardly thump her shoulder. “I don’t think you’re dying as of yet, Barbara Ann.”

“You haven’t called me that in ten years.”

Jim Bob was going to refute that, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember when he’d last addressed her by her given name. Mostly, he didn’t call her anything, but if she was the only one in the room, she shouldn’t have had any problem following him.

“You heard that Arly wants to have a rehearsal for this reenactment later today?” he said.

“That’s nice.”

“Maybe you should go watch.”

“Maybe you should take that rake over there by the garage and shove it up your ass.”

On that note, Jim Bob exited.

Millicent licked her lips as she tried to think how to respond to what Darla Jean had just told her. Spiriting Petrol out of the old folks’ home, losing track of him, and then sneaking out of her bedroom to look for him. Millicent could imagine what her sister would say about how this was bound to happen, what with Darla Jean being spoiled since the day she was born and allowed to have a phone in her bedroom since middle school. Millicent’s sister hadn’t allowed her own daughters to talk on the phone till they were eighteen. Now one of them was a lap dancer in Las Vegas and the other had joined a cult, shaved her head, and supported herself by panhandling in airports. Neither of them called home except at Christmas.

“You aren’t gonna tell Pa, are you?” Darla Jean said, sniveling.

“I don’t know, but I suppose I should. What you did was wicked and deceitful, Darla Jean. You put me in the uncomfortable position of having to tell the secretary at school on Tuesday that you’d gone tearing off to your grandma’s nursing home because they thought she was dying of pneumonia. I hope you’ve prayed for forgiveness.”

“That’s about all I’ve been doing since Saturday, except for going all over Cotter’s Ridge shouting Petrol’s name.”

“What did Arly say when you confessed to her?”

Darla Jean wiped her nose. “She didn’t say much, but I think she’s more worried about that fellow that got killed, along with Hospiss out at the trailer park. She acted like she thought Petrol could take care of himself.”

Millicent sat back and thought for a long while. “He might have gone back to his house. When’s the last time you went there?”

“Monday. If you recall, you grounded me when I got home Tuesday, and the only place I’ve been allowed to go since then is school. Are you gonna let me go watch when they make this documentary on Saturday?”

“Your pa and I will discuss it this evening. I’m inclined to be in favor of it, since it’s educational. Is everybody at school all excited?”

“Sort of,” said Darla Jean, not sounding all that excited herself. “We had an assembly today, where this man and woman dressed in costumes pretended they’d been alive back then. There was so much whoopin’ and booin’ when the Yankee strutted in that the vice principal had to start threatening to pass out detention slips.”