Merry Wives of Maggody (18 page)

“You mean us, too?” squeaked one of the high school girls. “All I did was make baloney and cheese sandwiches.”

“I put out the cookies,” said another. “It’s not like that man choked to death on a raisin.”

Mrs. Jim Bob edged me aside. “We are not interested in what you did or did not do, Ella Louisa. It’s ten o’clock, so I officially declare the beginning of the final round of the Maggody Charity Golf Tournament. Presentation of the awards will be held here at two o’clock sharp. If you are not present, you will be disqualified. Will the first foursome please take their positions at the tee?”

“What if it starts raining?” Bopeep asked timidly.

“The Almighty Lord makes those decisions, and we must adjust accordingly. If any of you miss your tee time, you will be disqualified. It is now two minutes past ten.”

The players headed for the poster, jostling each other. High school boys with red bandanas on their arms took off for their assigned holes; the girls giggled and shot me quick glances. Yawning, Amanda Gilbert opened a fashion magazine. Natalie continued to listen to Kevin’s whimpers. Kathleen Wasson hovered over her son until he finally went to read the poster. Janna muscled Rip Riley aside to search for Natalie’s name. Cora, Bopeep, and Audley approached the tee, each holding a purse, an umbrella, and a few golf clubs. after a minute, a college boy joined them. He did not look pleased.

I went to the buffet table. “All right, girls, let’s get your statements out of the way. Heather, Ella Louisa, and Dana Dawn, follow me.” We sat down at the end of a vacated table. I ascertained that none of them had seen or heard anything of interest. Yes, they knew Proodle had given beer to some of the caddies, and Tommy had, too. Mrs. Jim Bob had banished the boys for the duration of the tournament, and they’d left cheerfully to go swimming (and drink their own beer). The girls finished serving dinner, cleaned up, and left by seven. They’d heard about the hole-in-one but were more concerned about hooking up with their boyfriends for the evening.

Darla Jean was the only one who aired any grievances. “I worked like a dog all day yesterday,” she said. “I kept having to go through the registration cards and pull the names of people who didn’t show up, or quit as soon as they learned someone had made a hole-in-one. Most of ’em were too rude to stop by the table and tell me. Mrs. Jim Bob tried to argue with ’em, pointing out they could still win a trophy. Like they cared. There wasn’t but a dozen or so out-of-town players at the supper. I figured they thought that they deserved a free meal.” She gave me the registration forms and a neatly written list of names. “They’re alphabetized.”

“Was anyone particularly angry at Tommy?” I asked.

“Was anyone
not
is a better question. Yeah, there were smiles and congratulations and toasts, but I was glad we didn’t use real knives and forks. There was a lot of drinking going on. Mrs. Jim Bob was fit to be tied, if you know what I mean. There was almost a brawl. Billy Dick’s pa and Jim Bob started shoving each other, and then some of the other guys butted in. Mr. Lambertino called Mr. Cranshaw a nasty name and they took to rolling around on the ground. Mr. McIlhaney chased Mr. Whitby down the fairway. Their wives were screeching at them like crows. Heather and I ducked under the table, and there was Kevin hunkered up and trembling. It was a hoot.”

“Sounds like great fun,” I said. “Who was in charge of the bar?”

“Bony, for the most part. He didn’t seem to mind being stuck in the corner with a bunch of bottles of whiskey. Brother Verber showed up to say the blessing, but he went into such a long spiel about salvation and armies and medals that Mrs. Jim Bob had to tell him to stop. I think he might have been… uh, hanging around the bar too long.”

She didn’t have anything to add, so I sent her back to her post.

The college boys were grazing at the doughnut table and flirting with the girls. I herded them to a table. They happily told me that they were there because the whole thing sounded like a badass joke, and their frat brothers had dared them. Yeah, they’d stuck around for the barbecue because it was included in the registration fee. However, they’d headed for Farberville as soon as they were finished eating.

I wrinkled my nose as I smelled beer, and noted that their cups were not filled with coffee. “Did you bring a cooler today?”

One of them said, “Didn’t need to. That Proodle guy has four big ones jammed in his backseat. Yesterday he wandered around the course with an insulated bag, passing out free beers to any guy who wanted one. Sort of like roving room ser vice, I guess.”

“More like he wanted to get everybody drunk,” contributed another of them. “Makes you wonder if he’s so all-fired eager to give away his boat.”

The last musketeer said, “He didn’t reckon on Tommy Ridner’s capacity for booze, all day and all night. The princess turned up her nose, naturally. I sliced a ball into the next county when she pranced by me in that prim little skirt. Proodle should have hired her as his secret weapon.”

“Why did you come back today?” I asked.

They laughed. “Cold beer and hot chicks,” one said. “And whichever of us gets the lowest overall score wins the pool at the frat house—a hundred and twenty-seven bucks.”

“And now, maybe the bass boat,” said another. “What the hell.”

I checked them off my list. I looked around the tent and realized I wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone else before I had a decent breakfast. I decided to stop at Ruby Bee’s, then go to my office and wait for Harve to bluster through the door and blame the whole thing on me. I knew damn well I’d get stuck with the case, but I wasn’t about to give in until I had my daily dose of carbs and cholesterol.

Tentative raindrops splattered on my windshield as I drove away, and thunder reverberated menacingly. With the exception of a lone figure slumped in the back booth, Ruby Bee and Estelle were the only people in the barroom. Ruby Bee had just gone into the kitchen when I sat down next to Estelle.

“Who’s that?” I asked as I gestured at the figure.

“We don’t know. He came in shortly after Ruby Bee opened, had a cup of coffee, and dozed off. She said she isn’t going to run him off as long as he doesn’t bother anybody. How’d Mrs. Jim Bob take the news about poor Tommy?”

“She was more concerned about freeloaders eating all the doughnuts. The tournament’s proceeding as scheduled for those who bothered to show up. As for the rest of them, not even the chance to win the boat was enough to get them to risk their lives on the golf course. I’m surprised I haven’t had to put together a search party to find some hapless fool who wandered into the woods to search for a ball. Bony Buchanon’s leading the field, in case you’re interested.”

“Not so’s you can tell.”

Ruby Bee reappeared. “I suppose you want me to fix you some breakfast? I’ve already got my hands full getting ready for lunch. Roast chicken and cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes, corn casserole, greens, pole beans, and apple pie.” She blotted her forehead with a pot holder. “But I reckon I can hustle up something. You have to eat regular in your condition. Otherwise, you’ll get constipated.”

“Do you recollect when Eula got so bloated she looked like she’d swallowed a throw pillow?” Estelle said. “Then all those laxatives caught up with her during the Sunday sermon at the Voice of the Almighty. When Joyce told me about it, she laughed so hard she had yellow tears running down her legs. I thought I was gonna have to tie her down so I could finish trimming her hair. I mean Joyce, not Eula.”

“A charming story,” I said. “I was hoping for breakfast, Ruby Bee, but I’ll settle for a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk.”

She gave me a look. “I ain’t about to let my grandchild come out looking like a toothpick.” She went into the kitchen.

“Not that you look like a toothpick,” Estelle said, lifting her eyebrows. “Your britches look tighter every time I see you. You might ought to be shopping for maternity clothes.”

“Let’s talk about last night, okay? What happened?”

Estelle rubbed her temples, careful not to smear her glittery green eye shadow. “It was crowded, and so loud I could barely hear myself think. I don’t know how Ruby Bee could even hear what folks ordered, much less keep it straight. I helped out behind the bar, but she was back and forth from the booths to the kitchen fixing burgers, fries, and onion rings. My feet ached just watching her. She was so bone-tired at midnight that she looked like she was about to fall on her face. after last call at eleven forty-five, it took us thirty minutes to finally get everybody out the door. She said she was going straight to bed. Cars and trucks were leaving when I got in my car, and the parking lot was mostly empty.”

The Florence Nightingale of the barroom battlefield came out of the kitchen with a plate of fried eggs, bacon, grits, and toast.

“If you want biscuits, show up at a decent hour. You figured out who murdered Tommy yet?”

I picked up a fork. “I never solve crimes until after breakfast. It’s bad for the digestion.” I held up my free hand before Estelle could produce another tale of gastric disaster. “All I know is that you closed up shortly after midnight and went to bed. Did you hear anything from the other units?”

“I wouldn’t have woken up if a grizzly bear was fighting a bulldozer,” Ruby Bee said. “You heard from Jack?”

“You asked me that yesterday.” I spread apple butter on a piece of toast. “The answer’s the same.”

“I thought he might have called, it being Sunday. Then again, it could be a different day in Brazil. Maybe it’s only Saturday there, and he’s confused.”

“It’s Sunday in Brazil,” I said, “and only a couple of hours time difference. He doesn’t have access to a phone. Even if he did, I’ve been running around town since dawn. I was at the PD for all of five minutes.”

“Maybe you should get your fanny over there now,” Estelle said.

I pushed aside my plate. “So I can wait for Jack to call me on his non ex is tent phone and we can have a non ex is tent conversation?”

“No,” said Ruby Bee, “so you can talk to Harve. He’s waiting for you.”

Eight

T
he PD reeked of smoke. Harve had made a pot of coffee and was reading my mail. His cigar stub looked like a smoldering pine cone. I wasn’t perturbed, since the coffee was stale and the mail consisted of catalogs for hunting and fishing gear. I was used to airing out my office, especially after visits from Raz.

“Where the hell you been?” he asked without looking up.

“Out by Boone Creek, reading the
New York Times
.”

He tossed the catalog in the wastebasket and gestured for me to sit down across from him. “What else you been doing in the last three hours?”

I gave him a rundown, then said, “It’ll take the rest of the day to get statements, but I’ll stay up all night typing them and deliver them to you in the morning.”

“You’re gonna need ’em more than I do.”

“No, I’m not,” I said firmly. “The sheriff’s department handles homicides. I’m just a backwoods cop without the experience and expertise to investigate a homicide.”

“Has it been a whole month since the last one? I have three escaped prisoners to track down, and I don’t even have a goddamn office.”

I tried to come up with an argument, but the steel jaws of the trap had already snapped down on my ankle. “I’ll poke around, get statements, that sort of thing, but you have to deal with the media and the county prosecutor. Furthermore, you need to loan me a deputy. I don’t have enough money in the bud get for the gasoline to drive back and forth all day.”

“I’ll handle the media, but as for a deputy…” He dropped the stub in the wastebasket and pushed back the desk chair. “I reckon I better get back to Farberville before Deputy Murtle comes up with a way to burn down the county court house as well.”

“Hold your horses, Harve. What happened at the crime scene after I left?”

He scratched his head, as though I’d posed a complex, multifaceted question about atomic subparticles. “Well, not all that much. McBeen didn’t have anything else to say, except for a whole helluva lot more whining about being rousted outta bed at a gawdawful hour in the morning. He’ll do a preliminary autopsy and run some blood tests, but all he’s gonna find out is that the victim was clobbered with a three wood. We’ll test it for prints. There are hundreds of prints all over the boat, and it’ll take a coon’s age to sort ’em out. The boat’s just now on its way to the lab so we can run all the blood to make sure it came from the victim.”

“What if somebody makes a hole-in-one today? Mrs. Jim Bob’ll go ballistic if Proodle can’t present the winner with the key.”

“Proodle can present the key to the city of New Orleans for all I care. The boat’s a crime scene, and it’s gonna stay impounded until the case is closed.” Harve put on his hat and looked around at the office. “This place is a real dump, Chief Hanks. You ought to redecorate one of these days.”

I grabbed a catalog and hurled it at him, but he was already out the door. “Bastard,” I said loudly as I sat down behind my desk and brushed off the cigar ash, then emptied the remains of his cup of coffee in the wastebasket. I’d been fairly certain that I’d end up with the case dumped in my lap, but I was still annoyed.

I threw another magazine at the door, and then another for good mea sure.

Frederick came into the PD and tactfully stepped over the clutter. “Am I interrupting?”

“Have a seat. I was sulking, that’s all. How’s it going at the tournament?”

“Mrs. Jim Bob’s beginning to crack. When she saw Jim Bob passing a flask, she attacked him with her clipboard and chased him into the woods. It was highly entertaining, at least from a disinterested spectator’s viewpoint. Upon her return, she realized that Bonaparte had put out the leftover liquor and was fixing drinks. Proodle’s coolers were on the table, too. Drinking on Sunday appears to be a sin comparable only to blasphemy and bestiality. There was a great deal of activity as those with drinks tried to conceal them and those without tried to get one before she closed down the bar.”

“So glad I missed it,” I said. “What about your boy, Bony? Will he be sober enough to play well?”