Muletrain to Maggody (6 page)

“One of these days I’m gonna fire your ass—and you’d better hope I don’t have a twelve-gauge when I do it!” He banged open the screen door. “Now get inside and hear what Miz Pimlico has to say. She’s beside herself with worry.”

I followed him into the foyer and then into an office, where Miz Pimlico appeared to be restraining herself from an overt display of distress and was, in fact, eating a bowl of red Jell-O and frowning over a crossword puzzle.

“This here’s the chief of police,” Jim Bob said. “Tell her what happened before she has you locked up for negligence.”

Miz Pimlico, a woman of some years with a girth that rivaled Dahlia’s, looked up with a confused expression. “Are you still here?” she said to Jim Bob. “I thought we’d already settled this. Petrol does this kind of thing at least once a month.”

“Does what?” I asked her.

“Takes off. He’ll be back in time for supper. I was a little surprised that he chose this afternoon, since he’d expressed interest in our four o’clock decoupage class. He’s created impressive projects in previous sessions. One of his cookie tins showed quite a talent.”

Jim Bob shoved me forward. “Just tell Arly here what happened—okay?”

Miz Pimlico reluctantly put down her spoon. “Petrol was present at lunch. He seemed to enjoy his meal, as did all of our residents. Tomato soup, pimento cheese sandwiches, and dill pickle slices are always popular, as well as nutritious, and Jell-O makes them quite giddy. We had a nice rest period afterward so that the poor old things could digest properly. When this person”—she glared at Jim Bob—“came demanding to visit, Vonetta went to Petrol’s room and discovered that he wasn’t there. This is not a prison or a psychiatric facility. We are required by state law to leave exits unlocked in case of fire.”

“And Petrol’s taken off before?” I said.

“Yes, indeed. Sometimes he goes back to his old house. He claims he’s checking for vandalism, but I suspect he buried jars of moonshine over the years. He stinks to high heaven when he finally staggers back in time for supper.”

Jim Bob growled. “What’s his roommate got to say?”

“I have no idea.” Miz Pimlico moved aside her crossword puzzle and opened a file. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to review this week’s invoices. I believe in pinching every penny so that our residents can savor their remaining years in a clean, stimulating environment. And that, as we know too well, takes money.”

Jim Bob dragged me out to the hallway. “Maybe Petrol said something to this roommate of his. Go find him and ask.”

“Just why are you so interested in Petrol?”

“He’s kin, that’s why. Buchanons have powerful ties. What’s more, we can’t let doddery old fools like Petrol get snockered and go stumbling around in the woods. He could be lying facedown in Boone Creek right this minute, with the crawdads and minnows nibbling his eyeballs. You’re the chief of police, and it’s your job to find him and haul him back.”

“Okay,” I said, “I’ll see if I can track him down—but only if you go back to the SuperSaver. As you said, it’s
my
job. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“You damn well better,” he muttered, then slammed out the front door.

I waited until I heard his pickup truck drive away, then poked around until I found an aide in a lilac polyester uniform. She was around my age, but if I’d gone to school with her, I hadn’t had any memorable encounters. “Are you Vonetta?” I asked.

Her eyes widened. “Why, yes,” she whispered. “Are you here to arrest somebody?”

“Nothing like that. I just thought I’d try to find Petrol and get him back in time for the decoupage class.”

“It ain’t worth your time. He goes off like this ever now and then. Short of tying him down, there’s not much we can do. His room’s down at the end of the hallway, and he can slip out the exit door faster’n a snake going through a hollow log. Personally, I always hope the crazy old coot won’t come back. He pinches my fanny so hard I get bruises. Today at lunch he snatched up Miz Claplander’s Jell-O cup, tumping her iced tea in the process. You never heard so much cater-wauling in your life.”

“Vonetta,” Miz Pimlico said from the doorway of her office, “we do not stand around and gossip about our residents. Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the decoupage class?”

Vonetta sold me down the river in a Maggody minute. “But Miz Pimlico, she was asking all these questions, and what with her being the chief of police, I didn’t reckon I had any choice but to answer them.”

I shot her an annoyed look, then said, “As soon as I have a word with Petrol’s roommate, I’ll be on my way. His room is by an exit?”

Miz Pimlico pointed at a hallway. “Last room on the left. I’d like to think you won’t go upsetting Mr. Whitbreedly. His daughter told him about this upcoming Civil War battle, and he’s convinced Yankees are hiding at the far edge of the field.”

“I’m just going to ask him about Petrol,” I said.

“Well, don’t be surprised if he assumes you’re a Yankee spy and refuses to speak to you. He thinks Vonetta here is one of those camp followers of ill repute. She had her hands full giving him a sponge bath this morning.”

Unable to respond, I went down the indicated hallway and eased open the door. “Mr. Whitbreedly?”

“Who’re you?” came a muffled voice from under a thin cotton blanket.

“Chief of Police Arly Hanks. I’m looking for Petrol.”

“Then use your eyes, gal.” He cackled. “Don’t see him, do you?”

“Did he say anything before he left?”

The blanket lowered a few inches, giving me a view of tufts of white hair and fierce blue eyes. “I don’t recollect he did. Who’d you say you are?”

“Not someone who’s planning to pass your invaluable information to the enemy. Go back to sleep, Mr. Whitbreedly.”

“Damn Yankees.”

I left him swearing under his breath and went out the exit. All looked peaceful along the tree line at the far side of the field, but I supposed it was remotely possible that an errant band of Yankee reenactors were making their way toward Cotter’s Ridge to retrieve the Confederate gold their ancestors had overlooked a hundred and forty years ago. What was more important was that I could see no indication that Petrol had forced his way through the weeds in the direction of Boone Creek.

I decided to swing by Petrol’s house and make sure he wasn’t hiding behind the woodshed with a quart of Raz’s vintage ’shine. I was not about to roll up my jeans and wade down Boone Creek from the bridge north of town to the low-water bridge on County 102. I might have to do so if Petrol was still missing in the morning, but I figured I could declare an emergency and persuade Harve to send out a couple of deputies to help. And Hizzoner, of course, since he’d expressed such fervent kinship with Petrol. Which was odd, I admit, but I didn’t much care about his ulterior motive (I never doubted for a second that he had one).

Petrol’s place, and then the PD to analyze my reaction to learning that Jack Wallace would be back in town in a matter of days.

Mrs. Jim Bob rapped with the fury of a ravenous woodpecker on the door of the rectory. “Brother Verber? I need to speak to you this very minute! I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but I’d better not find a hussy inside there!”

After he’d stuck the wine bottle and tumbler in a cabinet, crammed a magazine under a cushion, and smoothed back what hair he had, Brother Verber opened the door and gestured for her to come inside. “Sister Barbara, I don’t know how you could even entertain such a sinful idea. I was resting on the sofa while making some notes for my sermon tomorrow. I was thinking about a war theme, maybe comparing the Civil War to the eternal battle between good and evil. ’Course therein lies the problem, since—”

“I’m sure we’ll all find it very enlightening,” she said, perching on one end of the sofa. “You did not come to the meeting last night. I almost felt like I should apologize to all the righteous members of the congregation for your absence. You are the spiritual leader of our little community, Brother Verber, and you have an obligation to set an example.”

He was sure that the truth, which involved movies at a back alley theater in Starley City, would not sit well, even though he’d forced himself to sit through all four of them only in order to broaden his awareness of the depths of depravity awaiting his lambs should they stray. Instead, he hung his head. “I should have been at the meeting, Sister Barbara, but the Lord had a mission for me.”

“Which was?”

Which was, in fact, a very good question. Brother Verber tugged on his nose while he thought. “Why, a tent revival on the other side of Hasty, sponsored by the Pentecostal church. I don’t agree with some of their positions, but I’ve always thought they had dandy revivals. I was thinking to make some notes in case we ever decided to have one right here in Maggody. I can just hear us shouting ‘Hallelujah!’ as the stars begin to flicker and the moon rises above Cotter’s Ridge. Can’t you feel the rapture, Sister Barbara? Can’t you feel it?”

Mrs. Jim Bob wasn’t sure he was telling the truth, but let the matter drop since his presence at the meeting hadn’t been all that important, anyway. “I need you to help me put together the details for next week. We can’t have people darting every which way like headless chickens.” She pulled a thick sheaf of papers from her handbag. “Now here’s what I have in mind for the opening event Thursday evening right here on the lawn of the Assembly Hall. You’ll begin with an invocation asking the Lord to watch out for us in case one of the reenactors accidentally shoots someone. Then—”

“I didn’t think they was allowed to load their weapons.”

“Well, no, they’re not, but there have been some incidents. After that—”

“There’ve been incidents?” he said as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. “Folks gettin’ shot?”

“Rarely. Let’s move on to more practical matters, Brother Verber. After our regular potluck supper on Wednesday evening, have the teenagers fold the tables and prop them against the side of the church so they can set them up the next afternoon. I think it will be easier to use butcher paper rather than tablecloths. Do you agree?”

“Those big ol’ musket balls could do some damage to a body’s insides.”

Mrs. Jim Bob rattled the papers in irritation. “The hundreds of thousands of boys and men killed during the war would agree if they could do so. Did you check the supply of paper plates and plastic forks like I asked you to? From what Miss Hathaway said, we can expect about forty or fifty people.”

Brother Verber felt a searing pain. “Rip right through you, they would. Your guts would go spewing like spaghetti in tomato sauce.”

“Is there any hope you can stop this blathering and offer me some guidance? I should not have to take this entire burden on my own shoulders. I need you to pay attention while I tell you what I’ve decided, and then assure me that it’s all under control. The meek may inherit the earth one of these days, but in the meantime we need to get organized.”

He wished he could slip into the kitchenette for a swallow or two of sacramental wine, but he could see that he’d be pushing his luck right up to the edge. He squeezed Sister Barbara’s knee and said in the solemn, rumbly voice he used at funerals, “I already know in my heart that you’ve done a right fine job. Just looking at all those lists instills me with admiration for your undeniable talent in matters of organization. That rummage sale we had last summer wouldn’t have netted us fifty cents without you overseeing every detail. The Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall would be lost without you, our guiding angel.”

“Well, yes,” she said, somewhat appeased. “Here’s the menu I’m proposing.”

He squinted at her spidery notes. “That looks mighty fine, Sister Barbara.”

Mrs. Jim Bob removed his hand before she developed circulation problems and ended up in the hospital like Dingaling Buchanon, who’d had an embolism shoot right up to his brain. It’d taken several days before the staff had realized he’d slipped into a coma, and then it was too late. “Of course it’s fine,” she said. “On Friday afternoon I’ll have a luncheon for our special guests. I’m thinking about a garden party, with round tables set up outside the sun porch. Chicken salad with apples and walnuts, asparagus, and Perkin’s eldest’s fluffy biscuits with my own grape jelly. I can’t decide about the dessert. We could have some sort of chocolate cake, but I don’t want anything too heavy. What do you think?”

Brother Verber’s mind had been straying, as it often did. When he realized she was staring at him, he sidled in and put his hand on her thigh. “Where would we be without your inspiration, Sister Barbara? It’s so easy to wander off the path and give way to Satan’s temptations, allowing ourselves to succumb to lust and degradation, but you are always leading us, swinging your lantern to guide us back into the ways of eternal bliss.”

“I asked you about dessert, Brother Verber. Should I serve something lighter, like angel food cake?”

“I do believe you should,” he said. “Shall we fall to our knees right here and now and ask the Good Lord to bless this menu?”

She stood up. “Another time might be better. I need to catch Joyce Lambertino and see if she’ll bring potato salad on Thursday.”

When Dahlia arrived at the old folks’ home, the decoupage class was in full swing. Snippets of paper cluttered the floor, and several of the residents were decorating not only pie plates but also themselves. She stood in the doorway for a long while, then grabbed Vonetta’s arm.