Land of a Hundred Wonders (23 page)

“Buster Malloy.”

“No!”

“Yup,” he says, swiveling back in his chair, elbows akimbo. “There he was . . . the next governor of the fine state of Kentucky . . . lyin' in the rubble, his body burned blacker than Moses Washington at midnight.” (Mr. Washington is the deacon at First

Ebenezer and is colored in a way that there is no mistaking which side of town he belongs on no matter what time of day.)

“Ya got any idea who murdered him?” I ask, fawning.

“Sure do. Cooter Smith done it. We already got him locked up.” The deputy takes the keys out of his pocket, jangles them in my face, and shoves them back in.

This is NOT going so well. I told Clever we shoulda given him
four
pills, instead of
three
. Jimmy Lee doesn't seem tranquil at all. In fact, he seems darn right perky.

“Got any more of them cherries?” he asks.

“Sorry, I'm clean out.” I got to stall until I can come up with another plan. “My, oh my, a thirst has snuck up on me something bad. Might I trouble you for a cup of that cool water?” I ask, pointing to the cooler over in the corner in a damsel-in-distress kind of way.

“Comin' right up.” The deputy takes some time to pry himself outta the chair. “If'n this deputyin' don't work out, maybe I could get me a job at Top O' the Mornin.'
Hardy . . . har . . . har.
” Squatting down in front of the cooler, he says, “Shoot. Looks like we outta cups. Gotta get some from the supply room. Be right back.” And off he goes, maybe . . . wobbling? Yes! He is definitely looking rubber-legged, but I don't know how long that'll last. I gotta hurry. I know where the key is now . . . but . . .

According to
The Importance of Perception in Meticulous Investigation: Searching the Premises:
In the midst of a case, an operator must take
every
opportunity to uncover any and everything that might help solve the case. You never know when something useful might turn up.

Sitting down behind the desk that's got a SHERIFF LEROY JOHNSON plaque on it, I pull open the top drawer. All it's got is some worn-down pictures of women in skimpy nighties, a couple of gnawed pencils, and a ballpoint from Chessy's Feed and Grain.

“Can't find the cups,” Jimmy Lee yells from down there somewhere. “Thtill sirsty?”

“Parched,” I shout back.

Desk drawer two is stuffed with envelopes and a .22. I relocate the gun to the small of my back. Just in case. My grampa taught me how to shoot. I do okay. (I'm showing off my humble here. Remember when I just told you that Jimmy Lee almost
always
wins the target-shooting contest at Cray Ridge Days? Guess who wins the
other
times. Yup. I can shoot the eye out of a squirrel from fifty yards off. Used to be able to anyway.)

“Gotch 'em,” Jimmy Lee slurs out.

“Bless your heart,” I call back, moving down to the last drawer of the sheriff's desk. Lo and behold! Lying right on top, it's my pictures of Mr. Buster Malloy! On Browntown Beach. Dead. How the hell did LeRoy get ahold of 'em?

“Gotta, just gotta get, this larder moved to here and . . . ,” Jimmy Lee shouts, dragging something.

Oh, mother of pearl! I know who gave the sheriff my shots of dead Buster Malloy. Had to be Mr. Bob of Bob's Drug Emporium. I heard tell from Mr. Cubby, the taxidermist, that if you take in pictures to get developed, and if they're of things that Mr. Bob Johnson, the Christianist of Christians, doesn't think are the moral thing to be taking pictures of—for instance, a stuffed alligator and a stuffed bear positioned so it looks like they're having hot sex—well, when you come to pick up your pictures, he'll waggle his finger at ya in the name of the Lord, and turn them over to his baby brother, LeRoy. I shoulda remembered that. Next time I'll take my film over to Appleville to get developed.

Just as I'm shoving my pictures of dead Mr. Buster next to the .22, the awfulest
screech
echoes down the hall, chased by a crashing
thud
.

“Ya all right?” I yell, hurrying. “Jimmy Lee?” Peeking my head into the supply room, there he is, splayed out on the concrete floor, a box of Dixies his pillow.

Well . . . well . . . well. Didn't that work out nice. REAL NICE. Just the way the Kid planned it. I'm ashamed I doubted her. (As we all know, the girl is criminalistic by nature.)

I help myself to the keys in his pocket and jog the rest of the way down the hall. Using both hands on the heavy jail door, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. Behind the bars to my right, there's a body lying long, but it's shadowy, so I can't tell for sure if it's Cooter. Outta the other cell to my left, Aqua Net and whiskey are drifting my way, bringing to mind all the other times I been in this jail with Clever to retrieve her mama after one of her benders. So that's why Top O' the Mornin' was so haunted looking. Miss Florida can't run the place all by herself. And instead of helping her, taking care of the diner like she said she would, selfish, selfish Janice Lever got herself pie-eyed last night and here she is, sleeping it off. So tempted am I to shout at her through the bars, “When
exactly
are ya gonna start deliverin' on your promises? Especially the one to Clever to make up for all your bad motherin'?” but battling with Janice is not why I'm here.

“Cooter?” I call into the other cell. “It's me. I've come for ya.”

“Gibber, that you?” comes off the bunk.

Remembering that LeRoy Johnson and his .38 Special are speeding their way back here on a full stomach is getting me cranky. “Well, I just said it was, didn't I?” I slip one of the keys I got outta the deputy's pocket into the cell lock, but it doesn't budge.

“It's that one,” Cooter says, getting up close to the bars and pointing to a key that's larger than the others. He looks only slightly worse than I thought he would. His right eye is swoll shut and his top lip has a jaggedy cut that looks fresh. On his forehead, a lump the size of a doorknob is sprinkled with blood.

This is NOT going smooth like it does in the movies. Cooter doesn't rush out when he hears the lock clank open, sayin', “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I owe ya my life.” He stands steady and says, “This some sorta trick?”

A gurgling groan comes from the supply room.

“No time to explain now,” I say. “Sounds like Jimmy Lee is comin' to and the sheriff's gonna pull up any second.”

Cooter glares at me with the eye that isn't closed up tight like a string purse and finally gives the cell door a push. He's gimping. "LeRoy piped my bad knee.”

“Ya need help?” I ask, offering my arm to steady him.

On our way past the supply room, Cooter hops in and slides the deputy's gun free from his holster, saying, “Been my experience, the Lord helps those who help themselves.”

“Amen to that, brother,” I tell him, patting the .22 and my dead Mr. Buster pictures. “Now how's about we get the hell outta here.”

Vengeance Is Mine

Cooter doesn't want me to stop at the hospital. Since he's almost always in trouble with the law, he knows that when you're on the lamb, it's best to skedaddle. But what he
doesn't
know about is Grampa's heart attack. After I fill him in best I can, he backs off, saying, “A course ya got to tend to him.” He's still fond of Grampa. I can tell by the way his forehead is crinkling up like crepe paper.

After I get done parking us way back in St. Mary's lot, I instruct, “Visitin' hours are just about over. Stay low in the seat. When I come back, we'll go get Billy and he'll fix that leg up for ya.”

Cooter is, I think, a year older than me, but looks a
lot
older than he should for a man his age. Goodness, I guess just like Billy, Cooter grew up when I wasn't looking. He's the most fantastic cake brown with eyes the color of toasted walnuts. I completely understand why Clever finds him so tasty.

“Why you doin' this, Gibber? Takin' a chance like this. It ain't like we're friends no more,” he says, sleepy. The sheriff musta kept him up the whole night givin' him the third degree.

“Miss Lydia says sometimes old friends will loiter on the edge of your life, hopin' for a chance to get close again,” I say, but I can tell right off that Cooter, being naturally on the tart side like his gramma Florida, ain't buying that sweet talk.

“What about me stealin' that map from y'all last night in the woods? Ya tellin' me ya ain't mad about that?”

“Maybe you're sufferin' from some sort of confusion from that hit on your head. Like me.” I point to his noggin . . . then mine. “I have no idea what map you're talkin' about.” I run my eyes down his body, looking for more serious injuries. “Ya know, when the sheriff comes huntin' for us, he'll spot that red shirt ya got on from a mile off.” I rummage behind the driver's seat and take the plaid rodeo one outta Grampa's box. But instead of putting it on the way I meant him to, Cooter balls it and rests his head down. “All right. That's fine. Ya must be beat.”

“Ya could say that.”

“Didn't I?”

“No, I meant—”

“Cooter, I don't mean to be rude, but I don't have time for a visit right now. Go ahead and grab a little shut-eye, but whatever you do . . . stay outta sight,” I say, rushing outta the truck. I simply can't wait to see Grampa. For once in his life, he won't be able to walk off when I tell him how much I love him.

At the welcomin' desk, Darlene Abernathy is doing what they pay her for, greeting and keeping track of who comes in and out the hospital doors. Up until a few months ago, she worked at the high school. Until she got caught making out in the boiler room with the janitor. With her egg white hair and lips the color of strawberry jam, I gotta admit, the girl stands out in this lobby like Top O' the Mornin's #6 special.

“Darlene?” I say, approaching on guard. (She and me don't exactly make beautiful music together.)

“Sign in,” she says, not glancing up from her beauty magazine. (Like I figured, she's still harboring a grudge against me since I mighta mentioned that boiler room meeting of the mouths in
Gibby's Gazette
.)

Balancing Grampa's box of stuff on the ledge of the desk, I write my name into her reception book, barely able since that smell coming off her mouth is so sickeningly fruity. AND familiar-lookin'. Lordy. It's the same strawberry lip color I saw covering Sneaky Tim Ray's neck when he ambushed us in the woods! Darlene must be the “lady friend” Holloway was visiting the night he snatched up Keeper outside Grampa's room.

“Well, nice chattin' with you. Gotta get these things to him,” I say, hurrying down the hospital hallway, feeling repulsed.

“Hold up,” Darlene calls after me in that smoky voice of hers. She's got something in her stretched-out hand. Grampa's wedding ring, his gold watch. His rubbed-worn wallet. “You're too late,” she says, when I come back to the desk. “Ya can take these things home with the rest of the stuff.”

“Are visitin' hours over?” I ask, doubtful.

“They are, but even if they weren't . . . your grampa ain't gonna be needin' his things.”

“
Why
isn't he gonna be needin' 'em?”

Darlene looks down. Hems and haws. Looks back up. “He's gone.”

“They took him off just a little while 'fore you got here.” She pats my hand. “I'm sure sorry you didn't get to say good-bye. Didn't I overhear Miss Jessie tell ya on the phone to hurry?” she says, unnaturally sweet.

The overheads are haloing and the hallway tilting. “When?” I ask, barely able.

“Just a little while ago.”

Darlene stares at me with subzero eyes, then says, “The ambulance took him . . .”

“What?”

“. . . out to the airport. They's flyin' him all the way to a hospital in Texas on Mr. Big Bill Brown's private airplane. Ya knew 'bout that, right?”

Her words aren't coming out at the same time her mouth moves. “What did ya just say?”

“And then they're gonna open his chest up with a saw and operate on his heart.”

“Grampa's
not
dead?” I whimper.

“Now,” she says, “I don't recall tellin' you he was
dead
. That's something your messed-up brain came to all by its lonesome.” Darlene gives me a loathsome look that says—
That right there, missy? That's what you call tit for tat. For the smooching in the boiler room story you printed in your dumb newspaper that caused me to lose my secretary job up at the high school.
“What I
said
was, your grampa was
gone
.”

“Darlene Judy Abernathy, I'm . . . I'm on an important case at the present time, but I'd like you to know, I'm intendin' to come back.” Scooping up Grampa's valuables, I slip them into my back pocket, brushing up against the Mr. Buster pictures and the .22, one of which I am mightily tempted to avail myself of. “So might I suggest at your earliest convenience that you pay a visit to the Okins Funeral Salon to make arrangements?”

“Why'd I wanna do that?” she says so damn snippy.

“Because on my return visit you can count on me beatin' the ever-lovin' shit outta you with a rusty shovel. Twice.”

Her vengeful self is practically vibrating in victory when she hisses back, “Miz Tanner left this note for ya,” and spins an envelope across the desk at me that looks like it's already been opened and licked closed again by her been-all-around-town tongue.