Madness In Maggody

10

Ruby Bee's was sparsely populated, which was fine with me. I waved to a couple of people in the front booth, then stopped in the middle of the dance floor as I caught sight of the occupant in the last booth, way back in the corner where it was almost too dark to read the menu. Jim Bob was slumped down so far, his head was barely even with the back of the booth, and he appeared to be having a dispirited conversation with three beer pitchers and a bowl of pretzels.

As far as I could tell, he was doing all the talking, but you never know.

Ruby Bee hissed at me to get myself over to the bar. I sat on a stool beside Estelle, who was hunched over a glass of sherry and snorting under her breath.

"Where have you been?" Ruby Bee snapped.

"I'm surprised you don't know every single place I've set foot in today," I said. "What's the matter-grapevine let you down? What a shame."

"Don't get prissy with me, Miss Mute Mouth. You sailed out of here a good seven hours ago…and you didn't have the decency to warn me you wouldn't be back until late. Then you had the audacity to order me to go watch those youngsters beat each other up. Then you hung up on me just like I was trying to sell you vinyl siding."

"All true." I nudged Estelle. "Have fun at baseball practice?"

She took a deep drink of sherry, and in a voice more suited to a heavy smoker on a respirator, said, "I think you're right about them not being ready to play on Thursday." She pulled back her cuff to show me a red, crescent-shaped indentation. "You see that? Teeth marks. All I was doing was trying to pull them apart, and now I most likely need a tetanus shot. My legs took like I was stomping purple grapes to make wine."

I was about to show her the bruises on my shins when something struck me. I'll readily admit I don't have a great memory and the cliché about out of sight and so on has some personal applications. While living in Manhattan (the cat-burglar capital of the world), I'd dialed 911 once when I'd heard someone trying to get into my apartment, but at the last second remembered I was married and what's his face not only lived there but also had a key. During my senior year in high school, I dropped Ruby Bee off for a doctor's appointment in Farberville, bought a fashion magazine at the drugstore, and was home reading on the sofa when I realized something was amiss(-ing). I never attempt to introduce anyone to anyone. I check myself in the mirror when leaving, not out of vanity but out of concern I might have forgotten to button my shirt or put on my badge.

"I drove by the field," I said carefully, "to make sure you two were there. I told you to expect seven players, but I saw only six. Where was Hammet?"

Ruby Bee fluttered her hand. "He…he had other things to do, I guess. Maybe he got busy."

"What other things?"

Estelle snorted. "Other things. He had other things to do, that's all."

"He left under his own steam," Ruby Bee added. "He was right upset about you abandoning him, if you must know."

"Is he at my apartment?" I asked.

"Why don't you call and find out for yourself." She flounced away to a safe distance, muttering something about someone's inability to keep track of her own houseguests.

I went over to the pay telephone and called, but there was no answer. My palms were wet as I replaced the receiver, and my legs weren't at their best as I went back to the bar. "Listen, you two, I want to know where Hammet is. We've got a maniac running around town; for all I know, Hammet got hold of a bad sponge cake and is retching his guts out in a ditch somewhere, or even worse. Someone's playing hardball, and I'm not talking about kids in a cow pasture."

Ruby Bee's defiant expression slipped. "Is it true what I heard about Buzz Milvin's mother-in-law?"

"Heard what from whom?" I said.

She fiddled with her apron for a minute, shooting desperate little glances at Estelle, who managed not to notice. "Well, I just happened happened to call over to the sheriff's office, hoping I might find out where you were, and LaBelle may have said something about the ambulance and all. When I happened to call back later in case she'd heard from you, she told me Buzz and Martin were at the hospital and poor Mrs. Smew was headed for the morgue."

I poked Estelle's arm. "Okay, let's get all the gossip out in the open. What did you say Perkins's eldest said Mrs. Jim Bob said-or something like that, anyway? Go ahead, spit it out. I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

"Mrs. Jim Bob took a message for Jim Bob from some bank in Little Rock or Hot Springs; Perkins's eldest wasn't real sure which. I don't know why she'd get the two mixed up. They don't sound the least bit alike, you know. If it was Springdale or Springfield, I could see why-"

"It doesn't matter," I cut in. "Mrs. Jim Bob took a message from a bank. Did he bounce a check?"

"No, but after she hung up, Mrs. Jim Bob said a four-letter word, slammed down the pencil, and went upstairs, sizzling like a slice of bacon on the grill. Perkins's eldest couldn't help but be curious, so when the coast was clear, she took a peek at the pad of paper by the telephone."

"And?"

"And Mrs. Jim Bob had written the number twenty thousand and there was a dollar sign in front of it." Estelle pulled me closer, and with a narrow look at the back booth, she whispered, "The other thing she wrote was the word Thursday, and it was underlined underlined three times! Do you want to know what I think?"

I shook my head and went to the back booth, where Jim Bob was still mumbling away to his inanimate and therefore captive audience. "I have a question," I said as I sat down across from him.

"Get yourself an encyclopedia. Get a whole damn set of 'em."

His breath smelled so bad that I was surprised I couldn't see it. I exhaled vigorously and said, "The answer won't be in an encyclopedia. Are you and Petrel supposed to close some kind of loan Thursday-something to do with the financing for the supermarket, for instance?"

"Goddamn permanent financing, but none of your goddamn business." He hiccuped loudly and gave me what he probably thought was a sneer, although gravity was doing strange things to one of his eyelids and his lower lip.

"And you are supposed to come up with twenty thousand dollars?"

"That ain't the half of it." He hiccuped again. "Mebbe it is. Yeah, the half of it."

"More than twenty thousand? Forty thousand, for instance?"

"Thought you had questions, Chief. Sounds like you got answers, so why don't you remove your butt from the seat and mosey back to the bar?"

"But I do have a question: Is the closing at noon?"

"How the fuck do I know," he said petulantly. After a couple of near-misses, he got hold of a pitcher and filled his glass with what was apt to be flat, tepid beer. "Go ask Petrel; he's the bigshot businessman businessman-except when the shit's in the fan and we can't stay open long enough to play a tune on the cash register, much less make any money." His eyes turned watery and he slid into good old-fashioned maudlin drunkenness. "Petrel really screwed me. He screwed me to the wall and kept on goin'."

I wasn't accustomed to hearing Jim Bob's confidences, but I was game. "How'd he do that?"

"He tol' me we was set just right on the loan, that we'd waltz right in, scribble our names, and be done with it. Then, as sure as I'm sitting here getting stewed to the gills, he ups and says we got to pay points."

"Hmmm," I said, shaking my head at the treachery. "I can't believe he'd do that to you. Imagine him saying you had to pay points."

"Points and payments and payroll. Piss on it. Goddamn toad sucker ought to be shot."

"Hmmm," I said again, determined to remain sympathetic until I figured out what we were talking about. "What happens if you can't pay the points, Jim Bob?"

He gave me an exasperated look. "Well, whatta ya think happens, fer chrissake? I win an all-expenses-paid trip to fuckin' China. All the rice I can eat. A little squinty gal to tiptoe on my back every night."

I refilled his glass and tried to sort out his remarks from the hyperbole. "If you can't come up with your share of the points, can Petrel force you out of the partnership?"

"Why doncha ask him-if you can find him?" He snickered for a moment, then went blank and gradually slithered out of view, as if he was being sucked into a pit of quicksand.

I went back to the bar, wishing I could ask Lamont Petrel a whole lot of things. I hadn't done a blessed thing about a decent meal, but I had some more pressing problems to deal with, such as mass poisonings and a possible murder. A lost houseguest. A lengthy list of witnesses to be interviewed. An ulcer if I didn't watch it.

Ruby Bee came out of the kitchen with a small bag. "I made you a cheeseburger," she said. "And Joyce Lambertino called a minute ago and said Hammet was in the backyard with Saralee and Lissie Milvin. She'll send him home directly, she said."

"Thanks," I said as I took the bag. "You don't happen to have a bottle of syrup of ipecac handy, do you? Considering the day, I'm liable to get a bout of heartburn tonight."

"I don't have whatever you said, but I got plenty of milk of magnesia and that's always been good enough for me."

I looked at Estelle. "You have any ipecac at home?"

"Never heard of it," she said without missing a beat. "I favor those powders you mix that taste like fruit drinks. I'll be glad to run home and get you a grape or cherry flavor if you want."

No, it wasn't nice. It was sneaky. But I was convinced neither of them knew what syrup of ipecac was and therefore hadn't sabotaged the tamale sauce or the sponge cakes. On that bright note, I said good night, detoured past the back booth to listen to Jim Bob's snuffly snore, and walked up the highway to the PD.

My travel book was in the top drawer, and I managed to eat my cheeseburger in a quaint café on the Left Bank, gazing at Notre Dame, sipping inky espresso, and allowing myself to be a pedestrian in the human race, if only for a few minutes.

I then bid adieu and took out a notebook. Deputy Vernon had given me a list of all the people who'd come by the SuperSaver when it had reopened the previous day. We'd agreed the list was likely to be incomplete, but business had been desultory and the checkers had not been checking their little brains out as they'd done at the one-hour grand opening. All the reports of tampered products had arisen from items purchased Tuesday morning, but those who'd been there Monday evening needed to be questioned.

I drew lines through all the names of subsequent victims, although I didn't erase them. I crossed off Kevin and Dahlia, Buzz and Lillith Smew, Mrs. Jim Bob, Raz Buchanon (because I couldn't produce a motive, no matter how farfetched), Darla Jean McIlhaney (same problem), and all employees.

This left a more manageable list. Ivy Sattering had sniffed around the produce section and left without buying anything. Ruby Bee Hanks had bought a box of Ant B-Gone, accompanied by the always-opinionated Estelle Oppers, who'd taken the opportunity to comment that the picnic pavilion stank worse than a buzzard's roost. Mandozes had demanded to know when the deli would reopen and had become agitated when no one seemed to know. There were a couple of unfamiliar names, and several vague descriptions along the lines of "man in Pro Bass cap," "woman wanting fancy toothpicks," and "pregnant lady with screaming baby."

I was staring at the list as the door opened and Hammet came into the PD.

"Howdy," he mumbled as he sat down across from my desk.

"I heard you missed baseball practice. What've you been up to?"

"Nuthin' much. Can I play with the radar gun?"

I looked more closely at him. "Your knees are caked with mud, Hammet. What have you been up to?"

"Nuthin', I said. Saralee and Lissie and me played tag, and Saralee knocked me down and sat on me and wouldn't lemme up till I said she was prettier'n a pink flower on a store-bought cake. She's got to be the dumbest girl that ever was born. Fractious, too. Somebody oughta sit on her head, and in a hog waller."

"She's not a delicate little debutante," I said mildly. "Did Lissie tell you what happened at her house and why she's staying at the Lambertinos'?"

He gave me a funny look, then got up and wandered into the back room. "Yeah, she told me and Saralee some stuff, but we had to swear we wouldn't tell anybody."

"I was there," I said to the empty doorway. "It won't be a secret for long, not with the tongues waggling all evening."

"I swore I wouldn't go spouting off about what all she told us cause of it being a secret. We had to spit in her hand and everything everything. Does this stupid-lookin' thing work?"

I had no idea what he was looking at, but I went for the percentage answer. "Probably not. Tell you what, Hammet, let's pick up Lissie and drive to the hospital in Farberville. Martin's out of intensive care, and I need to talk to him. You two can say hi and then go to the cafeteria for a soda."

"Naw, I think I'll go read or sumpun." He still had the funny look on his face as he came back into the front room, but it had such overtones of stubbornness that I decided not to press my invitation.

I called Joyce, who had a quick talk with Lissie and reported back that she seemed tuckered out something awful and needed to get to bed early. It wasn't sporting, but I asked if Larry Joe had said anything about baseball practice.

"He's pleased with the team," Joyce said. "Half the boys can knock the ball over the back fence, and one of 'em has a curveball good enough for the minors. Larry Joe says you can't even see the kid's fastball; it goes by like greased lightning."

"That's great," I said with a wince, and hung up before I heard about the scouts coming to town to recruit the whiz kid. I dropped Hammet off at the bottom of the stairs to my apartment, told him I'd be back within an hour or so, and headed for Farberville.

At the front desk at the hospital, I asked about Buzz's condition and was told he was stable. I went to the pediatric wing and was told that Martin was asleep and could not be disturbed unless I had a court order and a battalion to back it up. Having neither, I meekly inquired about official visiting hours, went back to my car, and drove out of the parking lot.

As I headed out of Farberville, I realized I could save myself a trip the next day. Jim Bob's potential checker lived across from the airport, and I was in the landing pattern, so to speak.

The parking area was a weedy expanse of gravel, with a few dented cars and a pickup truck set on concrete blocks. A large metal dumpster was filled to overflowing; the smell of rotting garbage and stale whiskey competed with the fumes from heavy traffic on the highway. The two-story building was in need of paint, new railings, screens, and trash disposal-or perhaps demolition. There were half a dozen units on each story, some with battered mailboxes beside the door and others without. Most of the tenants who'd settled for the Airport Arms Apartments had little hope of mail, not even the sort addressed to Occupant.

I went up the creaking stairs and down the balcony to the last unit. If the doorbell worked, I couldn't hear it, so I knocked on the door.

"Yeah, what?" a female voice called.

"I'm a police officer, and I'd like to have a word with you," I answered in polite professional lingo.

"Bugger off. I'm washing my hair."

"In the living room? Look, I'll have to ask you a few questions sooner or later, and it will save us both time if we do it now. If I have to come back, I'll have time to think of a lot more questions, ma'am." Not true, of course. Jim Bob's whereabouts after he'd left the SuperSaver the previous evening were of no importance (except to Mrs. Jim Bob-but not necessarily), and I really wasn't sure why I was standing in front of a blistered apartment door when I could be drinking espresso and gazing at Notre Dame. "Let's just get this over with," I added.

The door opened to a slit, and a heavily lined eye regarded me. "Yeah, go ahead."

"Are you Cherri Lucinda Crate?"

"I ain't Mrs. Santa Claus. She lives up north somewheres."

"Could I step inside, Ms. Crate? I don't want to disturb your neighbors."

"They ain't the kind to be easily disturbed. What do you want to know?"

I felt rather silly conversing with a disembodied eyeball, but I was certain I wasn't going to be invited in for tea and cookies. "Could you please describe what you did last night from approximately eleven o'clock on?"

"You're kidding, ain't you?" she said, laughing. "You planning to write a porn novel or something?"

"That's not what I meant," I said coolly, although I was grateful for the darkness hiding my face. I rephrased the question. "Did you have a visitor last night? If so, what was his name and how long did he remain here?"

"I didn't see a living soul last night. I watched a movie and did my nails. See?" The door opened wide enough for a hand to slink out. The bright red talons would have shamed an eagle.

"A witness in a murder investigation told me he came here last night. Are you denying his story?"

"Whose story?"

"Listen, Ms. Crate, as much as I'd like to stand here half the night and exchange witticisms with you, I've got other things to do. Either answer my questions or be prepared to file your nails in a nasty little cell."

The eye blinked several times. Finally, the door opened and the woman came outside, closing the door behind her. She wore a flimsy white peignoir that was stained around the collar and had seen better nights. On the other hand, her body was voluptuous enough to distract all but the keenest observers. Her heavy-handed makeup extended to red lipstick, pink blusher, and penciled eyebrows that gave her a faintly startled look. Her hair was hidden by a terry-cloth turban that reminded me of some of Estelle's more fanciful styles.

"Can we get on with it?" she demanded.

"I'd love to get on with it. Tell me about last night and I'll let you get back to washing your hair."

She patted the turban and shrugged, sending ripples all the way down to the bottom hem. "Well, I was just getting ready to wash it when you interrupted me. I like had the shower on and was getting the shampoo out of the cabinet. Whatta ya want to know, honey?"

"Did you have a visitor last night?"

"No. As sure as a goose goes barefoot, I was here by my lonesome all night." She looked down at her bare feet and giggled. "As sure as we all go barefoot, I guess."

"Jim Bob Buchanon didn't come here sometime before midnight?" I asked, wishing the light were better so I could observe her reactions more accurately.

"Jim Bob? I haven't seen him in a coon's age. How's he doing, by the way? Still strutting around like a banty rooster?"

"Not at the moment," I said. "But you're willing to swear under oath that he wasn't here, right?"

She held up two fingers in a mock scout salute. "Jim Bob didn't show his little bulldog face last night. I watched a movie, did my nails, and went to bed like a good girl. By that, I mean all by myself I read the Bible, said my prayers, and went to sleep dreaming about a gold Le Baron convertible."

Her voice was a sugary drawl, and she was doing her best to be an ingenuous ingenue doing her damnedest to help the police. I nodded and waited until the deafening roar of an airplane taking off abated. "But what about your remark earlier about me doing research for a porn novel? Your version of last night's hardly hot copy, Ms. Crate. It won't even sell at Times Square."

"Just a little joke, honey. I always like to kid with the cops." She wiggled her fingers at me and went inside. The lock clicked into place.

I went down to my car, but as I glanced up, I saw a curtain in her window fall back and a shadow move away. I drove back to Maggody on automatic pilot, trying to decide which of the two had lied. Jim Bob had crawled way out on the limb-and had encountered a polecat. He must have figured I'd check with Cherri Lucinda, if only to have it to dangle over him during town council budget sessions. It was a damn odd lie, if indeed it was a lie. But why would she lie about it?

I'd made no progress as I parked behind the antique store and went upstairs. As I reached for the door, I heard a muted gasp and a scuffling noise, but when I got inside, Hammet was sitting contentedly in front of the television. The fact that the screen was blank was a bit suspicious.

"I'm back," I said lamely.

"Did you visit with Lissie's brother?"

"No, he was asleep and the nurse wasn't about to allow me to wake him. Have you had supper?"

"Miz Lambertino gave us some stuff. Tuna fish all yucked up with peas and goop." He yawned, reached for the button on the television, and realized his mistake. "Guess I dun already turned it off. I'm so worn out, I must've been sitting here like I was deaf and dumb and too slow to whistle."

I'd had my fill of lies for the day. "No, you were doing something else when you heard me outside. What, Hammet?"

"Jest sittin' on my hindquarters. I weren't doin' nuthin', nuthin' at all. How come you're all the time trying to make me say things and saying I tell you lies, 'cause I don't tell no one lies-except for the schoolmarm, but she's fat as a sow and a hunnert times stupider."

"Calm down," I said, bewildered. "I didn't say anything about lies. Let's go to bed, shall we?"

He slunk into the bathroom and slammed the door. I had no idea what was wrong with him, but he hadn't been off the mountain all that long. His mother had been the orneriest mountain woman to ever make moonshine and turn tricks in the Ozarks. For the first ten years of his life, Hammet had never seen a book, watched television, or uttered a sentence that could be repeated in church. His hair had been cut with a pocketknife. His clothing had come from cardboard boxes left at the edge of the yard by timid dogooders from charitable organizations. He'd shared a straw pallet with his siblings and fought with them over food. Wolf cubs probably had easier lives.

"You've come a long way, baby," I said to the closed door.

Brother Verber was crawling around under the mobile home when he saw feet. In that the feet were shod in sensible heels and walked with a missionary's determination, he was pretty sure he knew what all there was ankle upward. Rather than emerge to greet his caller, he scuttled into the shadows.

Mrs. Jim Bob rapped on the front door. "Brother Verber, it's Sister Barbara. Are you in there? I got something to discuss with you."

He shrunk farther into the shadows, where it was damper but darker and therefore muddier but safer. He felt as if the shower'd turned icy cold and he was buck naked in the spray. There wasn't any way she could know, he told himself. There wasn't any way anybody could know, not even Kevin and Dahlia, who'd looked a little confused when he'd ordered them to go pray for their forgiveness-somewhere else.

Her knuckles hit the door with such insistence, he could feel the mobile home vibrating. "Brother Verber?" she repeated stridently. "Brother Verber…?"

He put his knees right up to his chin and closed his eyes. He didn't bother to ask for divine guidance.

The next morning, I drove to Dahlia's house. She was sitting on the porch, a glass of tea and a box of cookies nearby, but her hands were folded in her lap and her eyes were vacant.

"I need to ask you a few questions," I said as I opened the gate and went up the sidewalk.

"Okay," she murmured without looking up.

I sat on the edge of the porch and took out a notebook and pencil. "Let's start with the preparations for the grand opening on Saturday. When did you"-I consulted my list-"Erma Jean, and Feebie start fixing the food that was later passed out as free samples?"

"The night before. We went in at five and cooked till ten or so. There was some stuff that had to be fixed the next morning, like the ham rolls and cheese squares. That Petrel fellow was real strict about when we was to do what."

"What about the tamales?"

"I didn't do the tamales," she said dully. She took a cookie from the box, studied it for a moment, then put it in her mouth and chewed pensively. "I fried chicken wings until I was ready to scream. That's what I did. Everyone said they was real tasty. Did you try one?"

"I'm afraid I missed those. Who did the tamales? Erma Jean or Feebie?"

"I think it was Erma Jean. She opened the cans, cut them into pieces, and put them out nice and neat in a roasting pan. The sauce was simmering on the stove. The first thing next morning, she dumped it on the tamales and put the pan in the oven to heat up."

"So the tamale sauce was in the refrigerator all night?"

"She didn't take it home with her, if that's what you're asking."

"Did anyone come into the kitchen the next morning?"

"Nobody." This time Dahlia managed to transport three cookies to her mouth. Once she'd dealt with them, she said, "Can I ask you something, Arly?"

"Sure," I said, hoping it was relevant to the case but not optimistic.

"Is it blackmail when you tell someone they have to do something or you'll make them regret they was ever born?"

I perked up. "It could be, Dahlia. You'll have to tell me more details before I can be sure."

She sighed morosely and dipped back in the box. "I don't reckon I can. It's mighty personal, if you know what I mean."

"But I don't know what you mean," I said, trying not to sound too eager. If someone had coerced her into dumping ipecac in the tamale sauce, I didn't want to alarm her into silence. "If you'll give me a hint, I'll try to help you. Blackmail is illegal. If you've been forced to do something out of fear, then it's not really your responsibility. You're a victim."

"I am?" Her lips formed a tight circle and began to pucker in and out as she thought. Both cheeks and several of her chins inflated until I was worried about an explosion. "You're saying I'm a victim, right? I don't have to pay any mind to their threats? You can put them in jail?"

"Who're we talking about?"

"I can't say just now," she said, relieved enough to take a handful of cookies.

"Does this have anything to do with the problems at the SuperSaver?" I persisted. "If it does, you've got to tell me, Dahlia. You heard about Lillith Smew, didn't you? What may have started as a prank has taken a serious turn, and whoever's behind it has to be stopped."

All this sincerity wafted right over her head. She shook her head (chins and all) and said, "I can't say no more."

I lacked the physical superiority to shake it out of her, and I'd lived in Maggody long enough to learn the futility of arguing with certain people. There are some horses you can't even lead to water. "Let's go on to Monday evening," I said. "You went by the store to talk to Kevin. Did you see anyone else?"

"I saw Buzz Milvin. He came to the back of the store and was right unfriendly. He told me to leave, so I did." She was trying to sound haughty, but it didn't ring quite true. Watching her closely, I said, "Right away?"

Dahlia picked up the box of cookies, squeezed it so hard that I could hear crumbling inside it, then put it down and let out another sigh. "I may have detoured to the break room for a few minutes. Kevin and I had things to discuss."

"Wedding plans?"

"Not hardly."

There was something wrong with the story, but I couldn't quite get hold of it. Dahlia's veiled remarks about blackmailers-"them"-should have made some sense, should have done something besides confuse me all the more. But if her mind moved, then it did so in deeply mysterious ways and she wasn't about to offer me a map. I thanked her for her invaluable assistance and drove back to the PD to make a few notes.

"Now this is just between you and me," Barbie Buteo said over the telephone to Joyce Lambertino, who was stirring eggs with one hand, buttering toast with the other, and keeping an eye on Larry junior, who was feeding the baby pieces of cereal.

Holding the receiver with her shoulder wasn't making life any easier for Joyce, but Barbie had called long distance and it wouldn't be polite not to listen. "What's between you and me?" she said, doing her best to sound intrigued.

"You got to promise not to tell another soul. This was told to me in the strictest confidence-and it could cost someone her job."

"Then don't tell me." Joyce tossed pieces of toast to Saralee and Traci, dumped milk on Lissie's cereal, and snatched up Larry junior's glass of orange juice just as the baby lunged. "Maybe I ought to call you back," she added.

"It's about that Petrel fellow. I just wanted to warn you to lock all your doors and windows, Joyce. I know Larry Joe's gone all day, and I hate to think you and the children would be at the mercy of a madman."

The glass slipped out of Joyce's hand and splattered the floor in a yellow-orange explosion that delighted the spectators. "Mommie did a boo-boo," Larry junior cackled. Saralee, Lissie, and Traci giggled, and the baby threw a handful of Cheerios in the air. Everyone thought it was festive, except for Joyce, who'd turned rigid and was gulping like crazy.

She snapped at Larry junior to clean up the mess, then took the telephone and moved around to the far side of the refrigerator. "What on earth are you talking about, Barbie?" she whispered. "Petrel is Jim Bob's partner, isn't he?"

"I wouldn't know about that," Barbie said. "I'm only telling you this for your own good, Joyce, cause we were best friends in high school and I'm worried about you. The police arrested him for raping a bunch of girls, but he escaped from their clutches and is hiding in Maggody somewhere, waiting for a chance to brutalize some innocent girl or housewife. That kind don't stop until someone puts a bullet through their hearts-if they have hearts, anyway. He's an animal, a crazed wild animal out there watching and waiting." Joyce looked out the kitchen window at the tire swing, the sandbox with its collection of plastic trucks, buckets, and shovels, Larry junior's deflated basketball, and the usual crap she saw every day through that same window. A robin hopped across the yard and a squirrel was hanging from the bird feeder. Their dog, a scrawny tan mutt with a fondness for plastic trucks, lay on his side in the sun. It looked pretty normal, and it was hard to think of a rapist squatting behind the forsythia bushes.

"He is?" she finally said about the time Barbie was starting to get alarmed.