Madness In Maggody

5

The officially tentative lineup of the Ruby Bee's Flamingos-because, as we've all been told since birth, you can't tell the players without a scorecard:

Pitcher: Raimundo "Ray" Mandozes, the only team member who can throw the ball in the general direction he intends. Ray does not speak any English whatsoever (we're talking nada) but did recognize the word spic and promptly convinced Georgie McMay of his folly in saying it aloud.

Catcher: Saralee Chewink, the only team member to have caught the ball thus far. Saralee is on the chunky side, with tight yellow braids, glasses, and glittering braces. She spent a good deal of time casting thoughtful looks at Hammet. She persuaded Georgie to avoid sexist slurs in the future.

First Base: Hammet Buchanon, who can neither throw nor catch but has enthusiasm. He actively discouraged Georgie from discussing the delicate issue of illegitimacy in Stump County. Hammet spent most of the first practice blushing whenever he caught Saralee looking at him. There may be romance brewing in the infield, folks.

Second Base: Earl Boy Nookim, who is mute and surly, and simply went to the base (a burlap bag) and stood on it. Why not?

Third Base: Enoch McMay, a runty whiner with a runny nose and a fierce preference for watching television at his granny's house. This preference was aired every thirty seconds or so for two solid hours.

Shortstop: Martin Milvin, who at least put his glove on the correct hand and assumed a professional posture. He is soft-spoken and very sober, and we can't have anyone playing the vital position on a bellyful of root beer.

Left Field: Georgie McMay, for his own protection. Were it not for the black eye, swollen lip, and twenty excess pounds of adipose tissue, he would not be an unattractive child. Maybe.

Center Field: Lissie Milvin, in hopes nothing will be hit that far. Lissie made a lovely chain of dandelions, and it looked quite striking in contrast with her auburn hair and dark, timid eyes. She caught a tiny purple butterfly, whispered to it, and gently released it. Later she discovered a mysterious hole, but even after twenty minutes of poking with a stick, she could not persuade its occupant to show itself. There is much to occupy Lissie in center field.

Right Field: Jackie Sattering, as above. He has all of his father's clumsiness and none of his mother's common sense. On the other hand, he was as gentle as Lissie with the butterflies and went to extremes not to step on the honeybees in the clover.

Head Coach: Take a wild guess.

Assistant Coach #1: Take another one.

Assistant Coach #2: Ditto.

"Say what?" Jim Bob said, gaping at Lamont as if he were a zoo animal screwing right there in the cage. "That ain't what you said earlier, Lamont. Jesus H. Christ!"

Lamont filled Jim Bob's glass half full of the cheaper whiskey he'd had the foresight to bring, then went over to the mirror and inspected his hair. The motel room seemed a sight more cramped now that the air was thick with Jim Bob's sweat. "I feel real bad, but the boys at the bank dumped it on me this morning, and they call the shots," he murmured as he licked his finger and smoothed down a stray hair. "I'm going to have to do some scrambling of my own, but we're both obligated to come up with whatever cash is required to close the loan next week."

"If I can't?"

"It's explained in great detail in the various documents that comprise the partnership agreement. You did read it all before you signed it, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I couldn't make heads or tails of a lot of it. All that shit about parties of the first part and second part and the devil knows what other parts. I thought the money was arranged down to the last penny. Now you're saying we have to pay four points on Thursday. We're talking nigh on to a million dollars. Four points is…forty thousand dollars." Jim Bob sank down on the bed and drained the glass.

"But you'll only have to come up with half. Surely that's not a problem?"

"No fuckin' problem at all, Lamont. I got my checkbook in my pocket. I'll just write a check for my share. I always keep twenty or thirty thousand bucks in the account in case I want to make a down payment on fuckin' Buckingham Palace."

"And don't forget we have to cover twenty percent of the initial inventory. The wholesalers usually want cash on delivery, but they're giving us a break because of my existing accounts. Your share of that'll be around twenty thousand, too."

"Oh, swell. You do realize I haven't had any income since we started construction six months ago, don't you? I had to get a second on the house just to get along all this time, and Mrs. Jim Bob decided out of the blue to redecorate the entire downstairs. How am I supposed to come up with that kind of money?"

"I'm sure you can think of some outside resources, Jim Bob. After all, we're partners in this venture. You've put as much time and energy in it as I have, and I would be terribly distressed if you were unable to meet your commitments as spelled out in the binding legal documents you signed."

Jim Bob stared at him from under a much-lowered brow. "Just what happens if I can't meet my spelled-out commitments?"

"I'm afraid your interest reverts to me."

"Wait just a goddamn minute! You're telling me I'm fixing to lose my half of the SuperSaver? What about the Kwik-Stoppe-Shoppe that was demolished? What about my rights there?"

Lamont took a sip of the cheap whiskey, which tasted more like dog piss than bourbon. "I wish you'd gone over all this with your lawyer, Jim Bob. I really do. You owned that property and I owned the adjoining vacant acreage. The titles were merged in order to satisfy the loan people. Your original holding is now an indivisible part of our joint holding."

Jim Bob took a gulp of the whiskey, which he thought was an improvement over that dog piss Lamont usually had in the motel room. "So unless I come up with forty grand, I've lost the Kwik-Stoppe-Shoppe and stand to lose the SuperSaver?"

"This upsets me as much as it does you. We've been in this together since I picked up that piece of property, and I'd like to think we're friends as well as partners." Lamont sighed as he refilled Jim Bob's glass. "If I had enough cash to cover your share, I would, but I'm not in a whole lot better shape than you are. There is one other option that we might consider. I've heard tell of an outfit in Texas with several supermarket chains, and I could try to get hold of them. They might be interested in taking this one off our hands, although I doubt we can get any more out of it than our investment. But breaking even's better than nothing, isn't it?"

"Sell Jim Bob's SuperSaver before it opens?" Jim Bob said, appalled. "But we're going to cut our prices until we run all the competition out of business, and then hike 'em up and have ourselves a little gold mine here in Maggody. I don't want to sell it to a bunch of Texas cowboys. My name's up there on the sign."

"It's up to you," Lamont said diplomatically. "If you can come up with your share of the money by Thursday, then we'll be in fine shape. However, only a minute ago you were saying how strapped you are for cash."

Jim Bob tugged on his chin while he racked his brain. "I think I can get the money. I know a couple of guys down in Little Rock that'll come through for me. Them, and a little I've got tucked away in a safe-deposit box, and maybe I can borrow some from Mrs. Jim Bob's cousin what moved to Peoria. It'll be tight, Lamont, and it would have been a damn sight easier if you'd told me before now. But I can come through and we can keep the SuperSaver."

Lamont drank the last of the whiskey and held out his hand. "Then we're partners, Jim Bob, and that's the best damn news I've heard all day. The grand opening's in a couple of hours. I want you to cut the ribbon, and I want you to be grinning when you do it. You go get yourself all slicked up. I got a few calls to make just now."

Adele Wockermann smiled as best she could, considering that Millicent McIlhaney had dragged her rocking chair so close that she was almost spittin' in Adele's face. "What's that you're sayin'?" she said as she wiped her chin with a tissue.

"Turn up your hearing aid," Millicent commanded. She was beginning to question why she came all the way out to the county nursing home every Saturday morning to sit on the porch with a senile old widow woman who didn't even attempt to show any appreciation. Millicent was keenly aware of her Christian duty, but some weeks it was like pulling ticks off a hound to get through. "Now this is in the strictest confidence, Adele, so don't go repeating it to every Tom, Dick, and Harry."

"Harry who? I don't know nobody named Harry. Are you talking about Horace Wockermann, my grandnephew? He don't visit since he married that cheap tramp from Starley City. She's too good to visit the likes of me. She probably thinks old age is contagious."

"Just don't repeat this. It seems that Jim Bob Buchanon liked to have molested the Riley girl in his office last week. She was in there for the longest time, then came running out, howling and sobbing, with the buttons ripped right off her shirt. It's amazing she didn't get hit by a truck, she was so upset. Elsie McMay said Lottie Estes got madder'n a coon in a poke when she was telling the story over tea and pound cake the other morning. Isn't it the most awful thing you've ever heard in all your born days?"

"I've ever heard or I've never heard?" Adele began to rock more vigorously as she picked up a titillating broadcast from her wee friends on the back side of the moon.

Millicent ground her dentures and reminded herself of her Christian duty, although she thought the amount of tribulation might entitle her to cut back to every other week. "You recall when Hiram Buchanon's barn burned a ways back and that little cheerleader came running out with smoking panties in her hand?"

"I reckon I do," Adele said serenely. She did, too.

"Well, this is a sight worse, if you ask me. Now nobody knows much of anything about this Lamont Petrel fellow what's come to town, and that means nobody knows if he's been bothering the girls hisself. With a name like Lamont Petrel, anything's possible, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised to hear that he was the one that did it. But Jim Bob Buchanon's the mayor, so he ought to act respectable. I shiver to think what Mrs. Jim Bob'll say if she ever catches wind of this."

"She passes more wind than she catches. She used to come out here and read Bible verses at me like I didn't attend the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall twice on Sundays and every Wednesday night for prayer meeting right up to the day Mr. Wockermann passed away, may he rest in peace. I finally told her that her face reminded me of tadpoles on a mud fence, and after that she stopped a-comin'."

Millicent figured she'd evinced enough Christian duty for the week. "I'm going to run along now, Adele, she said real nicely. "I got to fix my hair and decide what to wear to the grand opening of the supermarket. Maybe I can get a good look at that Lamont Petrel from Farberville. I'll tell you all about him next week, and I'll bring you a box of my chocolate-chip cookies."

"No pecans. You know I can't pass pecans anymore."

Millicent patted Adele's shoulder, then nodded at the nurse's aide who was hovering near the doorway and sailed away, content in the knowledge that she'd kept poor Adele Wockermann apprised of local goings-on. It was real important for the old soul to have outside interests.

Ruby Bee had called a secret meeting of the Flamingos, which gave me a breather. Hammet wanted to do nothing else except discuss the first practice, held the previous afternoon in the redolent cow pasture out behind the motel. I wanted to forget it. I wanted to go back to the hotel patio and search for the bedimpled count, but I hadn't had fifteen seconds of peace since my houseguest had been thrust upon me.

I sent him down the road with an admonishment to avoid debating Georgie McMay's prejudices, then went across the street to the PD and shuffled through the mail for an errant one-way ticket to the South of France.

Before I could toss the envelopes in the wastebasket, the telephone rang. I conducted a mental debate, lost, and picked up the receiver.

It was Harvey Dorfer, the county sheriff, who's a pretty nice guy in his rednecked fashion and a true gentleman in election years. Luckily, he is smarter than he looks.

"How ya doing, Arly?" he began affably.

"Fine, Harve."

"I called to see if you wanted a deputy to help you this afternoon. We're real short, but I can scrounge up somebody for an hour. Or two."

"To do what-answer the telephone?"

Harve exhaled what I knew was a foul stream of cigar smoke. "Traffic control."

"Our regular Saturday-night drunks won't start crashing their trucks until dark, Harve. Till then I think I can handle the traffic by myself."

"Probably so, but I had a request from a county judge to send a deputy over to help you out. It seems he plays golf with that Petrel fellow, and it's what ya might call a small political favor. It's too damn hot to have a county judge breathing down my collar or peerin' too hard at the budget."

It made about as much sense as Ruby Bee's ravings. I rubbed my face, twisted my mouth around for a minute, and finally said, "What's this about, Harve? What do a county judge and someone named Petrel have to do with me busting speeders on a hot Saturday afternoon? Traffic's usually up on the weekends, but mostly it's tourists gawking at cows, and people like Raz Buchanon doing twenty miles an hour toward Starley City to buy chicken feed and the latest tabloid."

"Go take a look out the window."

"It's your nickel." I put down the receiver and did as ordered. When I came back, I was almost afraid to pick it up again. "Good Lord, Harve, there's a damn parade of cars and pickups out there, and people walking along the side of the road. Is there an execution scheduled?"

"Where the hell you been all week, Arly?"

I wanted to say France, but settled for a meaningless mumble involving Ruby Bee, houseguests, and baseball practice. "So when did you boys put up the guillotine? Who's the lucky guy?"

"It's the grand opening of that supermarket Jim Bob built hisself with Petrel. According to them, there's going to be all kinds of activities and ceremonies and everybody within thirty miles is coming. Marching bands, ribbon cutting, all that shit. I'll send Les over before the highway gets so constipated that the traffic backs up to my office. I plan to go fishing later, and I don't want to be delayed."

"Send him along," I said with a sigh. "I'll head on down there and see what all Jim Bob's doing to disrupt my afternoon. I was planning to go to the Riviera, myself."

"That the new tavern over in Hasty?"

"Yeah, Harve." I wished him luck with the bass and the wrasse, hung up, buffed my badge, and tucked in my shirt. I didn't figure I'd need my bullets to handle the mob, but I strapped on my.38 anyway, just in case the bargains addled some brains and we had violence in the dairy section of the illustrious Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.

Edna Louise Skimmer put down the bedpan and stared at the nurse's aide. "I can't believe it," she said.

Marsha Harrier nodded as slowly as she did everything else, which meant she wasn't setting any world records. Her words came out one at a time, like molasses dripping off the edge of the table. "I heard every word of it. I was standing by the door for a breath of fresh air, minding my own business and thinking about this cute little black and yellow bathing suit that's on sale over at the K-Mart in Starley City."

"What did Miz Wockermann say?" Marsha tried to remember if the loony old woman had said anything worth repeating. About the time Edna Louise looked like she was going to explode, Marsha said, "She was too stunned and sickened by the story to say much. So was I. To think of that fellow taking advantage of all those local girls…If something like that happened to me, I would have died on the spot."

Edna Louise sat down next to the bedpan and decided to give Marsha the benefit of her four years of experience as an aide. "You're liable to lose your job if you go blabbing all over town. However, we have a responsibility to our patients to know the reason if they get all upset. Why don't you begin at the beginning and try to finish before the shift is over?"

Traffic was snarly and getting worse. A large area in front of the door was roped off, and those who attempted to step over it were berated by militant high school boys in starchy white uniforms. Ruby Bee's parking lot was filled, as was the motel lot behind it. I could imagine how pleased she was.

I barked at a particularly dim soul who tried to abandon his truck in the middle of the road, and started pointing and waving and making everybody get in gear, so to speak. Those obliged to park a long way down the road weren't real pleased with me, but as we say on the Riviera, c'est la guerre.

Forty hellacious minutes later, Deputy Les Vernon burped his siren to force a path to the edge of the SuperSaver lot and came over to join me. He didn't loom over me, but he had a pit-bull aura about him that promised to be more effective than my winsome demeanor. I left him to it and wandered through the crowd to the front of the store.

Hizzoner and Mizzoner were dressed in their Sunday best. He was slapping backs and acting real genial, but there was something about his production that seemed forced. Every now and then, he shot narrow looks at a silver-haired man in a white suit and string bow tie. I cleverly deduced the recipient of this muted hostility was Petrel.

Mrs. Jim Bob was graciously accepting compliments and kind words with small nods. She could have been in the foyer of the White House, welcoming a select group of politicians' wives for a bridge party.

A big red ribbon barred the entrance. Kevin Buchanon was standing guard beside it, a pair of pruning shears in his hand. His Adam's apple bobbled as always; it was obvious he was taking pride in his assignment to defend the castle. The crowd was swelling as more trucks parked along the highway, and the blistering heat pouring down from above and bouncing up from the asphalt lot was not conducive to a general ambience of goodwill. Men were loosening neckties by the second, and women in panty hose were beginning to sag.

Raz Buchanon, a tobacco-chawin' pain in the rear, was muttering all kinds of rebellious things to anyone fool enough to listen, and Elsie McMay was fanning herself with a creased church bulletin and shrilly demanding to know when they were to be allowed to see the place for themselves. Even Lottie Estes looked mutinous. A bored cameraman leaned against the side of his station's van, and in the front seat a blotchy-faced woman in a sensible suit checked her watch every ten seconds.

Pretty soon, we heard an eerie noise from behind the building, and a dozen or so high-school students in band uniforms came into view, each red-faced and attacking an instrument. I waited to see if Mizzoner would start screeching about unnatural acts, but she produced a pained smile and loyally took her husband's arm. Jim Bob winced. Petrel curled his lip. Kevin snapped to attention and saluted with the shears.

When the band mercifully stopped, Petrel stepped up to a microphone, intoned a few sentences about how pleased he was to serve the community and hoped its citizens could be considered his personal friends, and so on. He then introduced Jim Bob, who reiterated the neighborly sentiments and then introduced Mrs. Jim Bob, who did the same and then introduced Brother Verber, who blessed the building at such length that I started eyeing the crowd, which was milling about and mumbling about hot air and hotshots and that sort of unneighborly sentiment.

Jim Bob wrestled the microphone away from Brother Verber and said, "Amen! There's just one more introduction I want to make afore we cut the ribbon and let you good folks into Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less, where you'll find bargains on every shelf and free refreshments in the international picnic pavilion. I want you all to give a big round of applause for the upstanding young boys of Maggody's championship baseball team. And here they come!"

The band began to play something. A couple of cheerleaders did their best to come cartwheeling across the area in front of the microphone, flashing starlit panties to the spectators' delight. The team, in full uniform from red caps to red-striped socks, marched into view, each looking straight ahead with no-nonsense expressions.

"No, they ain't," howled a voice in the back of the crowd.

"No, they ain't…what?" Jim Bob said, shielding his eyes to see better. He must have seen something, because his jaw dropped so far that the sun glinted on a filling. Before he could say anything further, a particularly enthusiastic cheerleader careened into Raz, who fell against Alex Sattering, who flailed his arms before he staggered into a third man, who whammed into Geraldo Mandozes, who snarled in Spanish and shoved him into a blond woman with sunglasses, who smashed into the van and went down like a load of bricks-all to the amusement of the cameraman, who was busily capturing it for the evening news.

Jim Bob sucked in a deep breath. "What ain't they?" he repeated loudly over the riot beginning to foment in front of him.

Ruby Bee (of course; did you even doubt?) pushed through the crowd, her jaw leading the way. Following on her heels were the nine members of the Ruby Bee's Flamingos, each wearing a white baseball cap and a blindingly pink T-shirt with the team name on the front and a number on the back. They all looked terrified, and I didn't blame them.

The sight shut everybody up. Ruby Bee went to the microphone and elbowed Jim Bob aside. I want you all to meet the Ruby Bee's Flamingos. Ain't they something?" When the applause died, she gave Jim Bob a cool look and said, "And it's going on record now that this SuperSaver team ain't the town champions until they win the title, and we aim to challenge 'em to a game to determine who goes to the tournament."

Jim Bob was way too stunned to say anything. Mrs. Jim Bob darted to Brother Verber's side to hiss in his ear. Petrel was observing the scene with a bemused look. The rabble-rousers on all sides of me, however, thought the challenge was at least as exciting as the night Hiram Buchanon's barn burned down, and they expressed their boisterous enthusiasm by shouting and pushing each other for a better look.

"Why, that's the Mexican's young'un!"

"There's two gals on the team!"

"Do you see who that one is? That's Robin Buchanon's bastard. I was real sure he'd gone to an orphanage."

"What in tarnation happened to Elsie's fat little grandson? He looks like he done been attacked with a shovel!"

"Imagine picking your nose in front of everybody! That's disgusting!"

There was a lot of the above in the air, and the unrelenting heat was now getting competition from at least a hundred bodies, some of them obviously unwashed. I was getting queasy myself and trying to decide what to do when Kevin scratched his head, took a deep breath, snipped the ribbon, and yelled, "Y'all can come inside now!" It was the first intelligent thing he'd done-ever.

Jim Bob came to his senses and growled at the band to play something. The cheerleaders began to shriek out entreaties to make that goal and rickety rack, stop 'em in their track and go, go, go. Once everybody realized there would be no overt violence, they went, went, went.

I hung back until I had some breathing room, then went over to Ruby Bee and said, "Cute. Real cute."

She opted to misinterpret my remark. "Yes, they're the cutest things I've ever laid eyes on. You don't think the shirts are too bright, do you? I had to take what I could get at the sporting-goods store in Farberville and practically get down on my knees and beg to get them to put on the letters right then and there."

"Whaddya think?" Hammet called to me. "Ain't we sumpun?"

"Oh, yes indeed." I turned back and with admirable restraint said, "Do you feel this confrontation is in the best interests of community goodwill?"

Estelle clattered up in a pink shirt, a skirt, and high heels and looked down her nose at me. "I don't see why Ruby Bee has to account to you, missy. You may be the chief of police, but that doesn't mean you're entitled to get too big for your britches."

"Goodness gracious," Ruby Bee said as she fanned her face with her hand, "it must be approaching a hundred degrees out here and I'm feeling dizzy. Let's go see whatall Jim Bob thinks he can give away at this fool picnic pavilion of his." She slipped her arm through Estelle's, gave me a vaguely triumphant look, and beckoned to the flock of Flamingos. "Come along, boys and girls. Maybe there's free soda pop and cookies."

Two seconds later, I had the parking lot to myself I took a deep breath and counted to ten (in French, no less), called to the deputy that he could leave (no Les?), and followed the crowd into Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.

The air conditioner was going full blast. The linoleum floor was shiny, the fluorescent lights bright, and the aisles wide enough to accommodate those wandering up and down with awed expressions. The three registers were manned by grim, pockmarked checkers. A ten-foot-square area beyond the last register was enclosed by plywood panels; the door had a suspiciously opaque mirror that hinted of covert observation. It was, I presumed, the office.

Jim Bob, Petrel, Mrs. Jim Bob, and Brother Verber had vanished, which was fine with me. I decided to explore the store. I took a hard right and found the produce aisle-and two members of opposing baseball teams on the verge of mayhem. I grabbed Saralee with one hand and a brutish Buchanon mutant with the other. "What's going on?" I demanded in my best cop voice.

Saralee jerked free. "This dumbshit says I can't play ball."

"She's a girl. Everybody knows girls cain't play ball," the SuperSaver muttered. He also jerked free and began to rub his arm. "She oughta stay home and sew doll clothes."

"Take it back, manure mouth," Saralee responded graciously.

"Listen here, you little fat bitch," the SuperSaver began, holding up a fist the size of an early-summer cantaloupe, "you better learn to-"

I blocked his path and glared at him. "Shut up-now." It occurred to me I was glaring up at him. "How old are you, anyway?"

"None of your beeswax, fuzz lady."

"In order to qualify to play in the intermediate league, you're supposed to be entering fifth or sixth grade this fall. Just how old are you?"

He tried to slouch down to eye level. "I be going into sixth grade this fall. If'n you don't believe me, you can call the school and ask."

"He could be telling the truth," Saralee contributed. "It must have taken him three or four years to get through first grade, what with him being such a dumbshit and all. I saw him driving down the highway the other day."

I hushed her and told the boy to drive down the highway right that minute if he didn't want to be charged with terroristic threatening. I could tell the phrase sailed over his head with several feet to spare, but after a dark look at Saralee, he slouched away.

I shrugged at her. "Even though it's illegal, some of the boys start driving at fourteen or even younger. But he must be six feet tall, for Pete's sake. If he's twelve years old, then so am I. And Ruby Bee's going on twenty-one."

She wasn't interested. "Where'd Hammet go? I was right behind him when we came inside, but then he took off like a hornet flew up his rear."

I suggested we search for him in the vicinity of the free food. The picnic pavilion wasn't difficult to locate; the bodies were packed in and the voices loud. As we approached, a cheerleader bounced up with a platter and invited us to sample a fried chicken wing. Saralee grabbed one. We were again halted by another cheerleader, this time with a platter of sliced meat. The third platter had cocktail wienies in barbecue sauce.

I scanned the crowd for Hammet, Ruby Bee, Estelle, or anyone else of interest. Dahlia O'Neill was of no interest whatsoever, but I watched as she came out from behind the deli case with a platter in each hand and, in the style of a naval icebreaker, forced a path to a picnic table covered with a red and white checked paper tablecloth. She banged down the platters, stopped to wipe her forehead, and trudged back through the crowd. Dahlia usually has a contented expression, verging on bovine, but at the moment she looked royally pissed. I caught myself wondering if she was in a snit because she wasn't in a red and white striped miniskirt, then told myself to stop before I conjured up that image.

Several folks moved over to examine this new offering, and I resumed my search for Hammet, although I wasn't sure I could hand him over to Saralee and still sleep at night. A harried cheerleader rammed me with a platter, gave me a sniffly smile, and offered what appeared to be caterpillar segments in orange oil. I declined, and even Saralee turned up her nose. Another came at us with more chicken wings and a no-nonsense (you'll eat this spinach and like it, young lady) expression. We hastily retreated to the relative safety of a paper-towel display, and the cheerleader veered off at the last second.

Geraldo Mandozes appeared at my side, with Ray trailing along unhappily. "Did you taste the tamales?" he said angrily. "I took one bite and spit it out. They taste like horse meat and sugary catsup."

"I looked at one," I said.

"But these idiots are stuffing them down like they were genuine Mexican tamales. These tamales, they are terrible. They are so very bad, they will make people sick. But then, when these people get well and want genuine Mexican tamales-genuine because they are made by me, Geraldo Mandozes-they will find a 'Closed' sign on the Dairee Dee-Lishus. I will have gone away to be a migrant worker because I must support my family."

"The samples today may save you," I said soothingly.

"At least they're not giving away free samples from the produce department," Ivy Sattering said from behind me. "Of course, the variety's enormous and the prices lower than any thing we can sell for and show any profit. Where do we sign up to be migrant workers, Mr. Mandozes?"

"Do not make fun of me," he growled. He grabbed Ray's shoulder and propelled him into the crowd.

Ivy gave me a wry smile. "Not much of a kidder, is he? Jackie had a great time at practice yesterday, Arly. It's awfully kind of you to let him play, and I hope you don't let Jim Bob make you quit. I heard how Mrs. Jim Bob threatened you."

"I'll do my best."

"I guess I'd better find Jackie and Alex," she said, frowning at the barricade of bodies. "We need to go on home and open the stand in case anyone's foolish enough to stop by for one hundred-percent organic produce." She followed Mandozes's route and vanished.

I caught a glimpse of Estelle's alpine red hair in the crowd, and a flash of Ruby Bee's tight blond curls, but there wasn't any way to extricate them, so I waited patiently. Saralee wandered away, her eyes glittering as brightly as her braces.

"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.