Madness In Maggody (7 page)

"Do you like our shirts, Miss Arly?" a timid voice asked.

I smiled down at Lissie Milvin. "They're really pink, aren't they?"

"Miss Ruby Bee has one for you, too, but she said she didn't think you'd want to wear it—" She stopped as her father, brother, and grandmother approached.

"Heard you had a wild practice," Buzz said, grinning at me.

"Some might think so," I said. "Imagine a conversation in which you try to explain that a strike is when you don't strike the ball and the ball's a ball when it's too high or too low, except when it's merely the ball. Is this Lissie and Martin's grandmother?"

"Lillith, this is Arly Hanks, the chief of police and coach of the kids' baseball team. Arly, this is Lillith Smew, who's kindly agreed to keep house for me since my wife passed away."

I took the woman's damp, limp hand, trying not to wrinkle my nose as the sour odor of an old-fashioned pharmacy engulfed me. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Smew."

"I can only pray my health is good enough to run the house," she said. "I've had three minor heart attacks in the last year, and I have a recurring problem with shingles. It can be so very painful, you know; I can hardly sleep at night. At my age, I don't need as much sleep as you younger folks, but I have to be careful. The last doctor I saw in Little Rock said I was—"

A bellow from the crowd stopped her. We all swung around in time to see Millicent McIlhaney toss her cookies on Raz's foot. She was bent over, her arms across her stomach, and her face contorted. Raz opened his mouth to protest, but he proceeded to do exactly what she'd done—but on his other foot. Heather Riley, one of the few high-school girls not in uniform, stumbled out of the crowd and followed suit in a series of gutwrenching spasms.

And before I could stop blinking, faster than a toad in a hail-storm a good half of the fifty or sixty people in the picnic pavilion were retching, groaning, grabbing at each other, staggering into each other, and upchucking all over the shiny linoleum floor of Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.

For some reason, I doubted this was a scheduled activity of the grand opening.

"So what
the hell happened?" Harve asked as he fiddled with a stained, splintery cigar butt. His desk was littered with chunks of ash, along with stained manila folders, months of paperwork, manuals, letters, a chewed-up Styrofoam cup, and an ashtray that bore a revolting resemblance to Mount St. Helens. "I had messages every which way when I got back from the lake this morning. I've got the reports from my boys, but none of them can write worth a damn. Their descriptions are on the terse side and limited to one-syllable words...like barf."

I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair across from him. The rancid stench of his cigar was doing nothing to ease my uneasy stomach. I gave him a brief rundown on the grand-opening ceremony, and then in elaborate detail described the gruesome scene.

"Lord almighty," he said, looking a little uneasy himself "I'm damn glad I was out of pocket all day."

"We called every ambulance service in the county, and ended up packing off twenty-three people for suspected food poisoning. Everybody was released within a couple of hours, pea green around the gills but basically okay. I called several of them either last night or this morning. No one suggested we do lunch in the pavilion, but no one reported further symptoms. I talked to a pathologist last night, too. He was amazed at the rapid onset of symptoms, and ruled out botulism, salmonella, and a long list of seriously toxic agents. Other than that, he wasn't much help."

"So we're going to have to rely on tests, huh?"

"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "I've packed off samples to the state crime lab, and the hospital labs are running tests. I've never seen such a vast expanse of vomit, and we're talking slippery, foul, nauseating nastiness. For a while there, it looked like beginners' night at the ice-skating rink. The guy who owns the pool hall twisted his ankle when he fell. He howled about a lawsuit all the way to the ambulance."

"Sounds charmin', Arly. It must have been a real hoot trying to secure the scene."

"Almost as much of a hoot as collecting samples—off the floor, tabletops, and my uniform, which I'm going to burn when I get around to it. I don't know what I'd have done if Deputy Vernon hadn't stayed to have a look around. He managed to get a couple more deputies to help, one of whom had to physically restrain Jim Bob when I ordered all the unaffected customers out of the store and the front door locked. Hizzoner didn't understand why the shoppers couldn't keep on shopping, and the checkers checking and the cash registers ringing merrily. He even suggested the ambulances go to the loading dock in back. He's real big on discretion."

"Within the city limits of Maggody," Harve said, working the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. "Or within Mrs. Jim Bob's earshot, maybe."

I wasn't interested in gossip. "Once we got the victims sorted out from those who contributed out of squeamishness, I went to the kitchen. The three cooks had managed to get every last pot and pan washed, so we're going to be forced to rely on our unsavory samples to determine what set everybody off like that." I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. "This is going to be a really ripe investigation, Harve."

"We don't have anything to warrant a major investigation, or at least not yet. Sure, twenty-odd people barfed all over the floor and a couple of folks fell, but that doesn't mean we've got ourselves a bigtime felony. Could be the deli got hold of some spoiled meat or bad cheese. Offhand, I'd say it was nothing more than an unfortunate incident."

I opened one eye and squinted at him. "Had a call from the county judge, huh?"

He got real busy shuffling folders. "Might have. That doesn't mean we're not going to carry out a proper investigation and find out exactly what happened. But our hands are tied until we get some answers from the state lab, so there's not much point in sitting on the gate to keep the cows out."

I opened the other eye for a double-barreled squint. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means there ain't no call to keep the supermarket closed. It means you might as well let it open for business."

"Another little political favor? Gad, that stinks worse than the floor of the damn pavilion, Harve, and you know it. We don't have any idea why twenty-three people became violently and copiously ill after sampling the food. We've got to wait for the lab results before we let Jim Bob start peddling food from the deli. I've already talked to the state health department, and strangely enough, they expressed the desire to do a thorough reinspection of all the facilities." I stood up, put my hands on the edge of his desk, and leaned over as far as I could bear, in that the ashtray was smoldering. "Yes, it may have been one package of spoiled meat. It also may have been a serious problem with refrigeration or operating procedures. For that matter, it may have been intentional."

"Bullshit, Arly. Are you implying one of the gals in the deli dumped poison in a pot? Why'd anyone risk doing that?"

"We don't know," I growled, frustrated. "And it doesn't have to be one of the cooks in the deli. For one thing, Dahlia was one of the victims, and the other two are from another of Petrel's supermarkets and only there temporarily. They were both terrified they'd be fired. For another, the platters were prepared in the kitchen, then taken out and left on a table; the cheerleaders picked them up and carried them around. Maybe somebody sprinkled something on a platter while it was on the table."

"Like who, for instance?"

I sat back down and thought for a minute. "Well, Jim Bob's always had enough enemies to comprise a Third World army. There are a lot of locals not pleased about the SuperSaver because they're afraid it will put them out of business."

"Anybody who appears on a regular basis in the Hanks's family photo album?" Harve asked blandly.

I was beginning to regret the conversation. "Ruby Bee was worried that her customers might defect, but so were the Satterings, who operate a small farm with a produce stand, and the Mexican who bought the Dairee Dee-Lishus a few months back. Jim Bob issued himself a permit to sell beer, which may have upset the guy at the pool hall, who does a brisk bootleg beer business despite my continual admonishments. The hippies who own the Emporium may have been concerned that the SuperSaver would carry a lot of hardware odds and ends. It could have been anybody in town, Harve. They were all there."

"Any of those folks you mentioned by name end up in an ambulance?"

"It was an absolute madhouse. Les and I were trying to scribble down names and addresses, and the medics were dragging off the victims before we could do it. Ruby Bee was okay. I think I noticed Mandozes watching the scene with a supercilious look. I didn't see the Satterings, but Les may have logged either or both of them. I'll check with him."

"Good idea." Harve tugged at his lower lip and watched a fly inching toward the ashtray. "Tell ya what...the health department boys'll need to inspect the entire store. Even if the deli section gets okayed, it stays closed until we hear from the state lab. But if I don't order you to let the store open within a day or two, I might as well take a one-way hike to the fishing hole and commence my retirement. The county judge is a mean sumbitch with a memory a damn sight longer than a possum's tail."

I wasn't thrilled, but there wasn't much I could do about it. I went to hunt up Les and get his list. None of the names I'd mentioned appeared, but that didn't prove much of anything, because we didn't know if there was anything to prove. After an idle chat with Les about his wife's reaction to his vomit-splattered uniform, I drove back to Maggody for Sunday-afternoon baseball practice.

*****

Kevin had been
permitted into Dahlia's bedroom by her granny, who usually was awful strict but was wearied of playing nursemaid by now. His beloved was under a tan blanket; he couldn't help but think of an undulating sand dune in the Sahary Desert as he tiptoed across the room.

"Dahlia?" he whispered.

The dune quivered. "Whatta you want, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon?"

"I came by to see if you was feeling better. You looked mighty pale yesterday."

"So would you if'n you'd retched your gut out all afternoon."

He sat on the edge of the bed and patted what he guessed was her shoulder or head or something. "I felt real bad for you, my darling. It must have been about the worst thing what ever happened to you. I brought you a little present."

The blanket edged down until two dark eyes were regarding him in a most unnerving way. "What?"

"A package of vanilla sandwich cookies. I know how much you like 'em, and I was just hoping they might speed you along on your road to recovery." Kevin held his breath until a hand snaked out from under the blanket and snatched the package from his lap. "I guess I'd better let you get some rest now. When do you reckon you'll be better?"

"About the time the preacher finishes the sermon and they lower my casket into the hole. Then everybody throws ashes to ashes and dust to dust down on me and goes away to watch television or have supper, while I just lay there waiting for the worms."

Kevin's stomach began to flop like a crappie in the bottom of a johnboat. "But, sweetness, your granny said you was already feeling better and would be able to get up today. This stomach flu was a terrible thing, what with all those folks retching and upchucking all over the place, but I ain't heard that anybody in town is going to up and die from it."

Cellophane crackled. "That ain't what I'm talking about," came the muffled voice from under the blanket. "I am referring to this humiliating session we got to go to with Brother Verber, that fat ol' pious pig. It's your fault, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon, and you know it. On account of how you jumped all over me on the porch swing and tore a hole in my best blue blouse, I got to listen to the preacher go on and on about lust and sin and the fast track to eternal damnation. And so do you."

By now his stomach was flopping so hard, he started to wonder if he had a touch of the same stomach flu that had gripped hold of everybody the day before. "I do?" he croaked.

"Brother Verber and Mrs. Jim Bob came up to me while I was in the kitchen waiting for the pan of tamales to heat up in the oven, and the two of them started lecturing about how I was a lustful slut and you was some kind of sex maniac. All I could do was stare. Before I could even think what to say, she was telling me how the whole town knows you and I was fornicating on the porch swing, and he was all the while sermonizing about going to hell in a hand basket. Then she got all priggy and said we got to have some damn fool premarried counseling session or we're going to be the stars of next week's sermon."

"Oh my gawd..."

The blanket flew back and Dahlia grunted and struggled around until she was sitting up. Her eyes were almost invisible under her lowered brow, and her mouth was screwed up something fierce. Her words came out like bullets that pierced his heart. "This is all your fault. What do you aim to do about it?"

"Maybe I can talk some sense in them," he said, scooting back so far that he almost toppled off the edge of the bed. "They ain't got no call to tell us we have to go to this counseling session. I'll tell them that to their faces."

"What are you going to tell your ma and pa next Sunday morning when Brother Verber starts naming names from the pulpit of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall? What am I supposed to tell my granny? She's scrawny as a free-range chicken, but she packs a mean wallop when she gets het up."

Kevin breathed in and out for a while, his Adam's apple rippling and his palms getting so sweaty that he had to wipe them on the sheet. He couldn't think of a single thing to say, which was probably just as well.

*****

"Now to
which base do we throw the ball?" I asked patiently. I was on the pitcher's mound (a clump of weeds), with those players who hadn't found something more interesting to do. "There's a runner on first and the ball is hit to Martin. He stops it and then...?"

Hammet waved his arm. "Home plate. We don't want those dumbshit sumbitches to get a score. Long as we got the ball at home, ain't no way they can sneak in."

I pretended to consider his reply. "That's true, Hammet; the opposing side cannot score if our catcher has the ball at home plate. But we also need to make outs. Everybody think. Where can we most easily make an out?"

"Home plate," Saralee said promptly.

"Why?"

"'Cause none of them can catch the ball except me. Ain't no point in throwing it at them if'n they're gonna miss it. You could walk over and hand it to Enoch, but he'd drop it like it was a hot potato. Earl Boy'd throw it back at your face."

She took off her glasses and cleaned them on her shirt, then settled them back in place and studied Hammet, who promptly turned petunia pink and began to shuffle his feet in the weeds. "I don't know about him," she added pensively. "He's kind of mysterious, ain't he?"

"About as mysterious as a skunk squashed on the highway," said Georgie, snickering. "You can smell it a good mile away, and you just about puke when you get too close."

Saralee and I were hanging on to Hammet for dear life—Georgie's, anyway—when Buzz Milvin picked his way through the cow patties. "Howdy, Arly," he said. "Everything going well?"

I hissed a warning into Hammet's ear, and when he relaxed, I left him in Saralee's custody and went over to Buzz. "Everything's just dandy. Have you decided you want to coach? I've got a ton of work at the PD and I'd truly appreciate some relief. The bats and balls are in that bag and—"

"Sorry," he said, grinning at me. "I have to run over to the factory in Starley City to pick up my final paycheck and I just stopped by for a minute. How are my two doing?"

"Martin's giving it his best, although he hasn't quite yet figured out what to do with the ball if it lands in his glove. He is not alone." I looked over Buzz's shoulder at Lissie, who was sitting under a scraggly oak tree at the far edge of the pasture. She glanced up at us, then quickly looked back down at the daisies in her lap. "Lissie's not especially motivated," I added, shrugging, "but she's not alone, either."

Buzz located her and let out a piercing whistle. "Lissie, get over here! No, you leave those fool flowers alone and get over here right this minute!"

"She's not a problem, Buzz," I protested. "Enoch and Georgie are a lot more interested in picking their noses than catching fly balls, and Jackie Sattering won't even stand up unless I go out there and pull him to his feet. Our pitcher speaks no English, and our second baseman has yet to speak at all. Our catcher and first baseman are both contenders in the local Golden Glove competition."

"Lissie can try," he said as she came slowly toward us, her head drooping like the one daisy in her hand. She stopped several yards away and continued to stare at the ground. Buzz snorted and said, "What's this I hear about you not playing baseball, young lady? Didn't I tell you I expected you to try your best? Didn't we go outside after supper most every night last week and practice throwing and catching?"

"Yes, Pa," she whispered.

"Do you recollect that talk we had about team spirit?" Buzz continued relentlessly. "Do you?"

"Yes, Pa," she repeated, still not looking up. "Can I go now?"

"I'm not through with you. You're supposed to be minding Miss Arly. If I hear about her getting any sass from you, you can expect to be real sorry. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Pa." She gave me a dark look, as though I was responsible for her father's tirade, then she trudged back toward the outfield.

"I'll play catch with her tonight," Buzz said to me.

I managed a tight smile. "Well, I've got to get back to practice. We're going to see if anyone can hit the ball."

"I appreciate what you're trying to do, Arly. You must have the patience of a plow mule to put up with this bunch of misfits."

"They're trying," I said, still annoyed. "It's supposed to be fun, you know, not some obligatory experience in the back pasture of hell."

He held up his hands. "You're right, and I apologize. It disturbs me when Lissie acts like a baby, but I suppose she's entitled to act however she wants. It's been real hard on all of us since Annie died. She was in the hospital nearly three months, and that wiped out my savings account. I've been working as much overtime as I can get, and the kids had to grow up way too fast."

"But things are better with Lillith around to take care of the house," I said.

"A hundred percent. There wouldn't have been any way for me to spend half an hour after supper playing catch if Lillith wasn't here. I would have been washing dishes and fretting about bills. With her Social Security check added into the budget, I don't have to worry about putting new shoes on the kids a couple of times a year or having to sign them up for free lunches at school. Milvins don't take kindly to charity."

"How's the new job at the SuperSaver?"

Buzz licked his lips and looked away for a minute. "It'll work out okay," he said at last. "It won't be the hardest thing in the world to show Kevin Buchanon where to mop, or tally the register receipts and have the cash ready for Jim Bob to take to the night depository. At least I don't have to drive over to Starley City every morning at sunup and drag home eight hours later."

"Did Jim Bob say anything about when the SuperSaver would be open?" I asked delicately.

He gave me an amused look as he lit a cigarette. "Yeah, he did. This ain't a direct quote, but it had something to do with when a certain chief of police stopped behaving like a pedigreed bitch in heat and saw fit to take down the goddamn police tape that was put up Saturday. Lordy, that was something, wasn't it?"

"Yes, indeed," I said, struggling not to visualize it.

"Any idea what caused everybody to start...?"

"No, we'll have to wait for the lab results. The sheriff seems inclined to dismiss it as an accident, and he's apt to be right. I surely don't want it to turn out to be someone's idea of a prank."

"You mean like when a couple of years back someone poisoned bottles of aspirin and two or three folks died?" he said, bewildered. "I saw something about it on the news."

"Let's keep our fingers crossed that it can be explained by sloppiness in the kitchen or sour milk." I did not need rumors flying around the town like ravenous mosquitoes. I didn't need a baseball team, either, but it seemed I had one. I reminded Buzz of my immediate concern and waited until he waved at his children and left.

Then, with a bright smile and an omniscient sense of utter futility, I told everyone to gather at home plate—a burlap bag—to learn how to hold a baseball bat.