Muletrain to Maggody (4 page)

“What all did this young private say about the gold?” asked Elsie. “That woman from the historical society only read a few tidbits from the journal. Maybe she skipped over something because everybody was getting restless.”

“Or,” said Eula, beginning to bounce on the sofa, “maybe the private remembered something later and wrote himself a note in the margin. If he was delirious on account of the gangrene or blood poisoning settin’ in, nobody would have paid it much mind. He might have tried to draw a little map that turned out to look like he’d squashed a spider.”

“Very good.” Lottie made a few notes. “I do believe you’re on to something most promising. All we need to do is get hold of the journal and study it for clues. Then once we’ve pinpointed the cave, we’ll have to find someone trustworthy to fetch the saddlebags.”

“Like ol’ Whatsit Buchanon,” said Elsie. “He’s so thick-headed it would never occur to him to claim the gold for himself. We’ll have to pay him, though, and make him swear ahead of time not to breathe a word until the gold is safely locked up in a bank vault.”

Eula was still a mite bouncy. “Do you think we’ll be on the news, or even one of those daytime talk shows like
Oprah
?”

“What I think,” Lottie said as she closed the notebook and tucked the pencil behind her ear, “is that we ought to start by getting hold of the journal. Why don’t we plan to go to Farberville tomorrow after church and drop by the Headquarters House for a friendly chat with Miss Hathaway?”

The matter having been settled, they moved on to the rumor that Mrs. Jim Bob had been seen staggering out of Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill the previous night.

“Folks sure were acting funny down at the supermarket this morning,” Jim Bob said as he cut a thick slab of meatloaf to make a sandwich. “The checkout girls were buzzing like flies every time I came up to the front, and Joyce and Millicent were snickering when I chanced on them in the produce section. Where’s the bread?”

Mrs. Jim Bob sat at the dinette table, papers fanned around her like she’d just claimed the pot in a poker game. “The bread is in the breadbox, and before you bother to ask, the mayonnaise is in the refrigerator, the plates are in the cabinet, and the napkins are in the drawer behind you. Do you think I sneak down here at night and move it all around just to befuddle you?”

“I reckon not,” he said, still peeved that she hadn’t bothered to fix his lunch. If she kept this up, he thought as he opened the refrigerator and started hunting for the jar of mayonnaise, he’d take to getting a sandwich at the deli and eating lunch in his office, where he could have a beer and gaze at naked women on the Internet. “What’s all that mess you’re making on the table?”

“I am seeing to the preparations for the arrival of our guests for the documentary. It is a responsibility that I have taken upon myself, despite the headaches and frustration. If it was left up to you, we’d end up looking like a collection of ignorant bumpkins. It’s not that I don’t have other things to do, but if it’s to be done right, I’ll have to do it myself.” She looked up at him. “Do you believe the mayonnaise is going to put itself back in the refrigerator? Last time I looked, it didn’t have wings.”

Jim Bob leaned against the edge of the counter and took a bite of his sandwich. “So what’s this about people staying here? I don’t want a houseful of folks tromping all over the place when I get home from a hard day at the supermarket.”

“You may find yourself sleeping there if your attitude doesn’t improve. We are having five guests, not a battalion. Miss Hathaway and Wendell Streek, as you heard last night. We’ll also have the impressionists, since they can hardly be expected to stay at the Flamingo Motel. Kenneth Grimley is a history professor from some college in Ohio and plays the role of a dashing brigadier general. Mrs. Corinne Dawk of Charleston, South Carolina, who plays the role of a widow woman left to run a plantation, writes historical novels set during the Civil War. Two of them have been made into miniseries shown on cable television. She will be accompanied by her son’s fiancée. None of them will be tromping around the house or leaving crumbs on the counter like some folks I won’t name.”

Jim Bob stuck the mayonnaise jar back in the refrigerator and brushed the crumbs in the general direction of the sink. “Where’s that cobbler we had for supper last night?”

“If you’re referring to the cobbler we had for
dinner
last night, you finished it while you were watching that ridiculous baseball game.” She studied the list of guests. “I suppose I can put Mrs. Dawk and the girl in my bedroom, and Mr. Grimley and Mr. Streek in the little bedroom next to the bathroom, but that still leaves Miss Hathaway. I’ll just have to put her in your bedroom.”

“Which puts us where?”

“On the sofa bed in the living room.” Mrs. Jim Bob jotted down the sleeping arrangements, then added a reminder to buy several sets of towels just in case her guests were the sort who expected fresh ones every morning. The Yankee professor wasn’t likely to, but genteel ladies from Charleston would. She could only hope they wouldn’t expect a maid to unpack their bags, press their frocks, and strap them into their corsets. Perkin’s eldest had her limitations.

Jim Bob gulped. “On the sofa bed?”

“You are more than welcome to sleep on a cot in the utility room if that’s what you prefer. Married people have been known to share a bed, you know. The Lord approves of conjugal relationships. Adultery, on the other hand, is one of the stepping-stones to eternal damnation.”

“I was just thinking how lumpy it is,” he muttered.

“Life is lumpy, Jim Bob. I learned that not long after we said our vows.” She picked up another piece of paper. “The Missionary Society will see to the picnic on the first night. I can have Ruby Bee provide vegetables, rolls, and desserts for the pig roast the following evening, presuming the Chamber of Commerce can find a few dollars to cover her expenses.”

“Chamber of Commerce?”

“I’ve already explained that to you, but it seems you weren’t listening. Maggody has a Chamber of Commerce, with you as president. Roy’s the secretary and Larry Joe’s the treasurer.”

Jim Bob wished he’d taken a couple of swigs from the pint of bourbon he kept under the seat of his pickup. “We have a treasury? How much money do we have?”

“Not enough for you to take that bleached-blond harlot to Las Vegas,” Mrs. Jim Bob said, shuffling through her notes to try to figure out how many folks would attend the pig roast. A corn casserole would be nice, she thought, unless the reenactors wanted to roast ears of corn on the grill in some sort of primitive display of authenticity. Baked apples went nicely with pork, as did marinated green beans. Perhaps brownies or carrot cake.

“There’s a treasury somewhere up on Cotter’s Ridge,” said Jim Bob. “Could be millions of dollars just waiting to be found.”

She glanced up at him. “And how do you intend to go about doing that?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” he said, then winced as she glowered at him. “I mean, somebody’s liable to find it.”

“If it’s there.”

“That Miss Hathaway said it might be. Buchanons have lived in these parts since before the Civil War. If two saddlebags of gold had been pulled out of a cave, the family would have known. I think the gold’s still there.”

“You may think whatever you like, but I have more important things to do what with five house guests. I’ll have to provide them with breakfast and lunch every day, as well as tea in the afternoon. Perkin’s eldest will hardly have time to do much cooking after making beds, cleaning the bathrooms, mopping the floors, and dusting and vacuuming downstairs as well as upstairs. Some days she reminds me of a box turtle creeping down the hall. It’s impossible to find adequate help these days. Although I am appalled by the concept of slavery, I find it hard not to see some advantages.”

Jim Bob had been wandering. “You know who probably has a real good idea where the gold is? Diesel, that’s who. He’s been living up on Cotter’s Ridge for a long while, and ought to know every cave by now. If he’d stumbled across the treasure, he most likely dumped out the gold and took the saddlebags to make moccasins. I mean, it ain’t like he can buy anything up there, so gold wouldn’t be any use to him.”

Mrs. Jim Bob looked up. “And you’re going to go up to his cave and ask him to kindly show you the gold? He’ll use your skin for his moccasins and stew the rest of you for his supper.”

“You might be right about that. I’ll have to come up with something.”

“Go ahead,” she said, “but don’t expect me to cry and wring my hands when they haul what’s left of you off the ridge in a plastic garbage bag. Maybe I’ll use you to fertilize the azaleas. They’re looking peaked this year.”

Jim Bob went out to his truck. Rather than driving away, he found the bottle of bourbon and took a few swallows as he gazed at Cotter’s Ridge. Damn that Diesel for being so ornery, he thought. After all, they were kin in some tangled way, and kin were supposed to help each other. Hell, they were
obliged
to help each other. Didn’t everybody say that blood was thicker than water? The problem was that his blood was likely to prove it if he cornered Diesel without warning. What he needed was someone to soften up the crazy old coot and remind him of his ties to the Buchanon clan.

By the time he started down the driveway, he had a plan.

Ruby Bee put the last of the pies in the oven, made sure the kitchen was nice and tidy, and went out into the bar. Unsurprisingly, Estelle was seated at the end of the bar, with a glass of sherry and a basket of pretzels within reach.

“Ain’t you got any appointments this afternoon?” Ruby Bee asked in a most unfriendly tone.

“Got your knickers in a knot? I was supposed to give Joyce a perm, but she had to cancel. It seems Larry Joe promised to babysit, but he found a sudden desire to go squirrel hunting.”

“Squirrel season doesn’t start up again for most of a month.”

Estelle gazed at herself in the mirror alongside the back of the bar to make sure the spitcurls surrounding her face were lined up, then said, “Joyce doesn’t think the squirrels are in much danger. All Larry Joe took with him was a spade and a sack of baloney sandwiches.”

“Lookin’ for gold, is he?”

“Him and half the town, from what Joyce said. It seems to me that experienced detectives like us ought to figure out a way to use our wits to find it first.”

Ruby Bee cleared her throat. “We haven’t had a string of successes, Estelle. Arly flat out told me that all we’ve ever done is make a muddle of things. She has a point.”

“Well, Miss Priss will change her mind when we show everybody up. The thing is, we need a plan. I tossed and turned all night long trying to think how we should go about this. Instead of counting sheep, I found myself counting caves up on Cotter’s Ridge.” She rubbed her eyes so Ruby Bee could appreciate her weakened condition, although she was mindful of her mascara and turquoise eyeshadow. “That’s not to say I know where they are. I was never one to poke my head in a hole that might be home to a bad-tempered bobcat.”

“Me, neither.” Ruby Bee went back into the kitchen to stir the chicken simmering on the stove, then returned. “What’s more, there are more caves up there than there are hairs sticking out of Alfresco Buchanon’s ears. How in tarnation would we find the right one? I doubt this rebel soldier painted a big ol’ X above the entrance to the cave.”

“I sure could find a way to use a million dollars,” Estelle said.

“I reckon we all could. I’ve been running this place for a long time, Estelle. The only time I’ve had a semblance of a vacation is when I was closed down by the health department on account of that grease fire in the kitchen. My knees are starting to bother me something awful when I scrub the floor. Just this morning my back felt so rusty I wasn’t sure I could get out of bed. I did, of course, because I had to make biscuits and start a pot roast for lunch.”

“Feeling your age, are you?”

“Not as much as you are. I know for a fact you’re three years older than me.”

Estelle bristled like a prickly pear. “And just how do you know that? Was there a time I’m unaware of when you worked at the county clerk’s office filing birth certificates?”

“Never mind, “said Ruby Bee. “But like you said, we could use a windfall. I just don’t see how we can find this particular cave any more than we could find a talking squirrel and sell it to a carnival.”

“And I can’t see us asking Raz for advice. I’m not fond of having tobacco juice spat in my face. He ought to be put down like a rabid skunk.” She popped a pretzel into her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. “But I can think of somebody else who knows Cotter’s Ridge better than most anybody, somebody who had the run of the ridge all his life, someone on speakin’ terms with all the copperheads and lizards…”

“You’d better not be thinking what I’m thinking you’re thinking,” said Ruby Bee, her tongue getting tangled along the way. “We’ve got all these fancy folks and make-believe soldiers coming to Maggody. I don’t have any idea how many tourists will come to gawk at them, but I reckon more than two or three. Mrs. Jim Bob’s liable to march in here any minute and tell me she expects cheese grits and cornbread for a hundred people. This movie fellow and his assistant will be staying out back, and they’ll probably expect room service and mints on their pillows at night. There is no way on God’s green earth that we’re going to bring in a hundred pounds of pure trouble. You just put that right out of your head, Estelle Oppers! I ain’t having anything to do with this birdbrained scheme of yours, not even for a share of a million dollars!”