Madness In Maggody (8 page)

*****

Brother Verber flipped
to the next page and let out a low whistle of disbelief. Was this the sort of depravity he could expect to hear about in the counseling session? Why, it was enough to make a grown man cry. He studied the slightly blurred photograph for a long while, then reluctantly decided there weren't no way three people and a German shepherd could all fit on a porch swing. Besides, he figured Eilene Buchanon would have been real suspicious if Kevin had gone out to the porch wearing nothing except a leather mask and handcuffs, no matter how he tried to explain it. Furthermore, if he remembered rightly, that particular Buchanon family didn't even have a dog.

But it was important to be familiar with this variety of perversion. There wasn't any doubt in his mind that the O'Neill girl was a slut, and only the Good Lord knew what all she and Kevin might have done.

They were going to have to confess to every last lustful encounter so he could judge the level of depravity and determine how best to make them repent, Brother Verber thought as he blotted the saliva on his chin with a handkerchief. Every last lustful encounter, from the first timid kiss to the very last sweaty, fiery, wild-eyed, groanin' and moanin', steamin', mindless act of passion. On their knees and in detail.

He turned to the next page, just in case.

*****

Emotions were still
in high gear on Monday morning. Mrs. Jim Bob twitched her foot angrily as she stared at her husband across the breakfast table on the sun porch. "I don't know when I've ever been so embarrassed in all my days," she said, not for the first time. "Do you realize Eula Lemoy is in my Sunday-school class? How am I supposed to face her next week after what happened?"

Jim Bob was pretty sure a gremlin was residing in his head and setting off firecrackers every few seconds. His hand shook as he tried to gulp down the last of the coffee in his cup. It was colder than a well digger's ass by now, and tasted like raw sewage. He choked it down anyway and opened his mouth to offer a rebuttal.

"I have never been subjected to this kind of public humiliation before," she continued. "All of my friends were there, as were the many, many people in the community who look up to me for moral and spiritual guidance. And what happened? You have to go and poison them. You might as well have driven a stake through my heart. How can I face Eula, or Lottie, or Millicent, or any of my dearest friends ever again as long as I live?" She snatched up her napkin and dabbed her eyes.

"I didn't poison anybody."

Mrs. Jim Bob flung down the napkin. "Oh no? Then how are you planning to explain that ghastly scene in the pavilion, when everybody turned green and started throwing up? If that wasn't because of poison, then I'm not president of the missionary society for the third year in a row!"

"Nobody knows what happened." He hesitated for a second, a little surprised he'd gotten a few more words in. When she merely glowered like a jack-o'-lantern, he added, "I'm meeting with the health department first thing this afternoon so's they can take another look at the equipment. All the girls in the kitchen have their certificates of clean health. There ain't no way anyone's going to blame this on us."

"Us? All I see is you, Jim Bob. I don't happen to see Mr. Lamont Petrel sitting in a chair beside you, willing to take his fair share of the blame. You look mighty alone right this minute."

"I told you already that I don't know where Lamont went. When everybody started whooping and shrieking in the pavilion, I left Lamont in the office and went back to have a look-see. By the time I got back to tell him what all was going on, he was gone. I haven't heard a squeak from him since Saturday afternoon. It's been close to forty-eight hours by now. I called over to his house, and his wife said she'd give him a message when he showed up."

"I think it's perfectly clear what happened," Mrs. Jim Bob said briskly and with an air of complacency that sent a shiver down Jim Bob's spine. "Mr. Lamont Petrel is responsible for the poisoning. A guilty man always flees the scene of the crime. The fact that he was scared to stay around proves it. Do you want to call the sheriff or shall I?"

Jim Bob waited while the shiver ran its course all the way down and out his tailbone. "Now, we don't have any account to call the sheriff, Mrs. Jim Bob. We don't know for a fact that Lamont dumped something into the free samples. He sure didn't have any reason to do it. The SuperSaver's lost two days of business already, and today's half-shot. The last thing either of us wants is a passel of bad publicity...but we sure as hell got it."

"There will be no profanity in this house," Mrs. Jim Bob said promptly but without heat, preoccupied with how best to pass along the information that Lamont Petrel—rather than her husband—had done his cold-blooded level best to poison every last soul in town. Eula was home and she could be trusted to spend the afternoon on the telephone. Lottie Estes had mentioned having a few teachers from the high school over to admire her chrysanthemums, and they'd linger to chat over coffee.

It simply needed a touch of orchestration, and by prayer meeting on Wednesday, Mrs. Jim Bob told herself smugly there wouldn't be more than a scant handful of folks who would not have heard the truth, presuming Eula, Lottie, and a few others could be availed upon to do their Christian duty.

Despite the fact the gremlin had advanced to bottle rockets, Jim Bob could see what was going on in his wife's mind. He considered restating his argument that Lamont had no motive, then decided he didn't give a damn if Lamont's name was dragged through the swamp in a gunnysack and tossed to the hounds afterward. Lamont wanted to take the SuperSaver away from Jim Bob; let him take the blame along with it. If he had the sense God gave a goose, he sure as hell wouldn't show up to defend himself anytime soon.

"I got to make a call to the bank, " he said, and hurried into the house. When he spoke to the loan officer, the gremlin had moved on to dynamite, but Jim Bob managed an oily tone of concern as he explained the closing of the loan would have to wait until his partner was available. And, no, he couldn't say when that would be. He didn't say he hoped to hell it wouldn't be anytime soon, but he thought it.

*****

Hammet was madder
than a bobcat in a trap, but I felt no remorse. Joyce Lambertino had called early in the morning and asked if he could spend the day at her house playing with Saralee, and I'd readily accepted on his behalf. I'd ignored all his protests, even the explicitly colorful ones, insisted he put on clean overalls and wash behind his ears, and then pretty much booted him out the door. He'd cussed up a storm all the way to the corner, bless his little heart. I felt like a proud mom on prom night.

But zut alors, it was time to go to the PD and then à Paris, to drift along the Seine in a gaily decorated boat, a glass of champagne in hand and glittery lights of the Left Bank reflecting in my eyes. My tiny hotel was nestled amongst the lights, with its French Provincial furniture and cozy sitting room. A continental breakfast was included in the rate. Lunches would consist of fresh bread, a slice of pâté, and a bottle of vin ordinaire. I was sans souci, or at least I was right up until the front door of the PD opened.

It was my amiable state trooper, Sergeant John Plover, who had a slightly crooked nose, a decidedly crooked smile, freckles, and blond hair that on occasion demanded to be ruffled. He and I had gotten off to a rocky beginning, but once he conceded I was a functional professional rather than a silly girl playing police officer, we settled into a casual relationship that waxed and waned with the moon. "Bonjour," I murmured.

"Whatever." He took off his sunglasses, perched on the corner of my desk, and said, "What's this I hear about half the town being poisoned."

I raised my eyebrows. "What exactly is the bon mot at the barracks, Sergeant?"

"The word at the barracks, Chief, is a four-letter word, perhaps too uncouth for your sensitive ears."

"I'm touched by your gentlemanly concern. I feel quite sure no four-letter word has been uttered aloud within the city limits of my domain, unless, of course, it was the night Hiram Buchanon's barn burned. From all reports, things got way out of hand."

"The word is B-A-R-F, all caps and in a boggling quantity. From what I heard, half the town was doubled up on the floor of that new supermarket, begging for death. Luckily for them, everybody survived. I presume you didn't—"

"Sample the canapés? No way, José. We won't know what happened until we get some test results from the state lab. Harve's determined to write it off as an accident, but I'm not so sure. How'd you hear so quickly?"

"Corporal Anderson was off duty Saturday afternoon, and it seems his cousin's boy is on some baseball team that was included in the opening ceremonies. Anderson's presence was deemed a familial obligation, since he's got a camera."

"Did you drive all the way out here to discuss barf?"

Plover removed himself from my desk and sat down in the ratty chair I keep to discourage visitors. "No, I just thought it was interesting—a typical Maggodian sort of madness. Let me know what the lab reports indicate, will you?"

"You'll hear it more quickly on the barracks grapevine," I said lightly. It was, after all, my jurisdiction and therefore my case. If I wanted the cavalry, I would send for it. "If you didn't come to tease me about that, then what is it that has propelled you to the boonies?"

"Well," he began, then stopped. He studied the floor, the ceiling, the wall above my head, and the mess on my desk. The air conditioner sputtered as always, but not loudly enough to fill the sudden vacuum of silence. "Have you had lunch?"

Fantasies about French bread and pâté were inadequate to sustain me for any length of time. "No," I admitted, "but I was thinking about it. You buying?"

"I might."

We drove to Ruby Bee's in his real, live official vehicle. I tried not to be too envious of such things as a working radio and a working air conditioner and all kinds of mysterious buttons and knobs that no doubt worked also. He parked between two semis and we settled in a booth.

The proprietress came over with menus, looking a lot more cheerful than I'd seen her for several weeks. "We haven't had the pleasure of your company for a while," she said to Plover. "How've you been keeping youself?"

"Fine," he said, smiling back at her. "Me, too," I said, although nobody had asked. My smile may have lacked warmth. "I missed you and Estelle at the practice yesterday afternoon. I called here and at your unit several times, but all I got was a busy signal. It's hard to get much accomplished when my major concern is keeping everybody off each other's throats."

Ruby Bee's expression was that of a puppy that'd been kicked across the room. "Why, land sakes, Arly, you know I'd have given my right arm to get out there yesterday to help you, but business has been real brisk these last two days and it's all I can do to sit down and rest my feet for a minute."

She had a point. The bar stools were all occupied by neckless hulks, and most of the booths by more of the same. The whiny country music from the jukebox was almost drowned out by the babble of the troglodytes and the clatter of utensils.

We were given menus and told to holler when we made up our minds. Once she was out of earshot, I leaned forward and said, "Okay, why are you here?"

The infamous kid with his hand in the cookie jar couldn't have looked more uncomfortable. Plover again found many things to study, none of them remotely in the direction of yours truly. When I kicked him under the table, he cleared his throat and said, "How's the meat loaf? I don't think I've ever tried it."

"The meat loaf is heavenly. You're here on official business, aren't you?"

"What was that bit about baseball practice?"

"You're not going to like it when I stand on the table and scream at you. Just tell me why you're here, okay? Then I'll tell you about baseball practice and we'll both be fully informed."

"I'm getting to it," he said, suddenly obliged to start rereading the menu. "Let's wait until we order."

"Let's not." By this point, my voice was beginning to compete with the general racket surrounding us, and more than one asphalt cowboy was glancing at us and most likely hoping for an old-fashioned public brawl between the sexes. The CBs would sizzle all the way to the Missouri line and on into Illinois and Indiana.

He winced. "Okay, okay. It...ah, it seems we've once again lost someone in Maggody."

"What?"

"We had a call from Muriel Petrel. She said her husband came here Friday evening to prepare for the grand opening on Saturday. She thought he'd be home that night or at least the following day, but she hasn't seen him or heard from him for the last forty-eight hours."

"That's Jim Bob's partner," I said, frowning at him.

"I came out to find out when he was last seen and to ascertain if he could still be in town. His car's parked out back in front of his motel room, and his suitcase is in the room."

I was fighting to control both my eyelids and my jaw, but I wasn't having a helluva lot of success. "Did you talk to Jim Bob?"

"He said he didn't see Petrel after the minor problem arose in the pavilion. Said he left Petrel in the office, looking at the initial inventory invoices. When he returned thirty minutes later, the invoices were in a neat pile and the office was empty."

I finally got hold of myself and glared across the table. "So you're supposed to breeze into town and question everyone who might have knowledge of Petrel's whereabouts. Did it occur to your lieutenant to consult the local police department?"

"I'm consulting it right now. The issue of jurisdiction's tricky. Petrel lives in Farberville, and the missing-persons report was filed initially with the local police department there. They told Mrs. Petrel to call us."

"But you've already begun talking to witnesses," I said coolly. If my air conditioner had worked better, I could have worked myself up to coldly, but it had been one long, hot summer. "Who else has been contacted?"

"Mrs. Jim Bob said Petrel had poisoned everybody for his own dark purposes and fled the county, if not the country."

"Does she have any evidence?" I asked.

"What do you think?" Plover put his hand over mine and tried to smile guilelessly. "Petrel probably forgot to mention a business trip, that's all."

"And walked to the airport?"

"Hell, I don't know. It hasn't even been seventy-two hours yet, so I'm just poking around. Maybe he has some phobia about barf and went stumbling into the woods. Maybe he hitched a ride to an unknown destination because...because Mrs. Jim Bob's correct and he poisoned everybody for his own dark purposes. "

"In your dreams," I said glumly, shaking my head. "Harve's probably right about there having been some weird accident during the food preparation, but I'm staying on it until I'm satisfied. After all, it cost me a perfectly good uniform. Even my badge stinks, which could lead to all kinds of complex philosophical questions about the role of enforcer in an evolving society, were we so inclined. However, I'm more inclined to meat loaf."