Maggody And The Moonbeams

11

Jacko held up a spoon. "Want some? The carrots are mushy and the beef's chewy, so it balances out: mush, chew, chew; mush, chew, chew. Sounds like a ballroom dance, doesn't it?"

"I don't think so," I said, staying where I was. "Not much of a fisherman, are you?"

"It's not much of a lake."

"Then why are you here?"

He grinned. "Just taking a break. I can listen to my music, dress up like the coverboy for Field and Stream, and fall asleep listening to the crickets and owls. No cellphone, laptop, or late-night television. This trip I've been rereading Henry James. You like him?"

"A break from what?" I asked. "Prison?"

"You overestimate me." He put down the can of stew but remained seated, which was for the best, since I didn't want to be obliged to whack him with the stick I had my eye on. "Merely an office job riddled with tedium and tacit despair. Several times a year I make a point of getting away."

"And where would this office be?"

"In a galaxy far, far away, at least for this week."

"I can run your license plate," I said, "and I will if you don't answer my questions. What are you really doing here?"

"Ah, yes, I heard you're a cop. You don't exactly dress like one, do you?"

"Heard from whom-the crickets and the owls?"

"And how well-educated you are, considering your profession. You recognized Vivaldi and had the sense to turn up your nose when I mentioned Henry James. Do you write poetry when you're not running a speed trap?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't rhyme. Why are you here?"

"Why are you worried about me?"

"Well, you're no fisherman, obviously. Even those clowns out on the lake are pulling up crappies. The best you seem to have caught is Dinty Moore."

"And that's a crime?"

"As I said, I'll run your plate. There was a homicide yesterday afternoon. It seems to have happened about the time you were taking a stroll, unaware of the thunderstorm. If I'd been you, I might have stayed by my tent."

He appraised me for a moment. "What if I said I'd hiked into Dunkicker for a hot meal at the café and been caught on the way back?"

"I'd say you were lying."

"Okay, so I'm not here to fish. That doesn't mean I killed anyone."

"Why are you here?" I repeated. "Is there something about the swarms of gnats and mosquitoes that appeals to you? Cold stew, poison ivy, the occasional cottonmouth dangling in the branches above your head? Aren't you too old to be working on a merit badge?"

"I'm, well-I guess you could say I'm along the lines of a private investigator."

I'd suspected as much, but I still wasn't sure how to respond. "So you're keeping tabs on the Beamers?"

"I was hired to look into things."

"By whom?"

"You know I won't tell you," he said with a wink meant to distract me, which it did, but only momentarily. "Privileged and all that shit. I'm just making sure the children are healthy for the time being. My employers will make the next call."

"No, I will. A woman was murdered yesterday, and you just happened to be walking down the road in a downpour. You must have seen the clouds gathering. Why on earth did you opt to walk to Dunkicker?"

"Exercise?"

"No, Jacko, or whatever your name is," I said. "We're grateful that you were there to bring Darla Jean to the lodge. No one's arguing with that. But if that's all you have to say, I'll have no choice but to have you taken into custody until you can produce a better explanation than a sudden urge to appreciate nature at its worst. The food in the Dunkicker jail is likely to be better than canned stew. The view, on the other hand, is not so picturesque."

"You've talked to these women, right? They brought their children and started preparing themselves for what they call the Rapture. The family that hired me is worried. They suspect their daughter might…"

"Harm the children?"

"Yeah," he said. "Can you blame them? Jonestown wasn't that long ago; it may have been an anomaly, or it could happen again."

"Which woman have you come to find?"

Jacko shook his head. "I have no information concerning the homicide yesterday. I walked to the gate, then realized the storm was moving in and headed back. I found the girl under a scrub oak and carried her to the lodge. That's pretty much all I have to say. Run my plate if it entertains you; you'll discover that I live in Springfield, Missouri, and have no outstanding warrants for felonies, misdemeanors, jaywalking, or overdue library books. I may be a lousy fisherman, but I am an upstanding citizen. I'd show you my plaque from the Jaycees if I hadn't left it at home."

"You are very annoying," I said.

"Any chance you'd like to crawl into my tent and let me really annoy you?"

"No, I would not," I said forcefully, if mendaciously. "Don't leave the area without telling me or Corporal Robarts."

"I'll be here for a few more days." He picked up the can of stew. "Sure I can't offer you lunch?"

I went back to the road and found his car. The license plate had been removed. The doors and trunk were locked, naturally. I contemplated letting the air out of his tires just to prove which of us could be more annoying, then virtuously headed for the lodge.

Raz gazed sorrowfully at Marjorie. "I reckon you would have preferred a mule, but it was a real nice goat. Not pedigreed like you, a'course, but with fine flanks and big brown eyes. You and her could have got along jest fine, even been friends."

Marjorie looked away.

"Uncle Tilbert raised goats till his lactose intolerance got the best of him. He always said they wasn't the smartest animals, but they could find their way home come suppertime, which was more than his young'uns could do. I can't hardly keep from cacklin' when I recollect how his eldest boy upped and married that bearded lady named-"

Marjorie sniffled.

Raz realized he wasn't makin' no progress with goats. "Thing is, I can't just up and go over to Perkins's place, unless I want a load of buckshot in my backside. Even if I was to temporarily borrow Perkins's mule, it'd have to stay in the barn till things quieted down. What kind of companionship are you gonna git with a mule down in the barn? It ain't even air-conditioned."

It was clear from Marjorie's expression that she hadn't considered that.

"If you was to spend your time in the barn," he persisted, "you'd miss your favorite shows on the satellite channels. I'd say offhand that it's a matter of time afore Gilligan drags Ginger behind a coconut tree. What's more, any fool can see that Ozzie and Harriet are headin' for divorce court, with judge Judy presiding." He paused, then went in for the kill. "But if you're down in the barn, as opposed to watching reruns and pay-for-view, then so be it. Don't think I'm going to bring down bags of microwave popcorn, 'cause I ain't. I'll be sittin' right here watchin' Xena's boobs bobble."

Marjorie's eyes watered and her snout began to drip on the new tangerine area rug.

Raz figgered he needed to reconsider his options. Arly was out of town, which was good. Perkins, on the other hand, had been mouthin' off at the barber shop about what all he might do iff'n anybody set foot on his place. It occurred to Raz that a quart of 'shine might help.

All was idyllic at the lodge. The kids were sitting on the lawn, the girls still involved with magazines, the boys with poking each other and making what I was sure were crude remarks. They were doing so quietly, however, since Mrs. Jim Bob was on the porch in a wicker throne, staring at them as though she would, if a profanity was spoken aloud, order Larry Joe to pull out the tools and start constructing a guillotine. She professed to being a devout Christian, but I'd always felt she preferred the Old Testament approach when faced with transgressions of both major and minor magnitude.

"Where's Larry Joe?" I asked.

"Calling his wife," said Amy Dee. "That is like so sweet. If I ever get married, I'd want my husband to call me every day."

Big Mac snickered. "I hear they have rules about how often you can make phone calls from the state pen."

Heather arched her eyebrows. "And you should know, considering how many of your kinfolk are there. I hear tell they have a whole wing set aside for Buchanons."

"Excuse me," came a voice from the porch.

"Not your side of the clan," Heather said hastily. "All I meant, you know, was like how maybe-"

"That will do," said Mrs. Jim Bob. "In case all of you have forgotten, this is the Sabbath. Put away your trashy magazines and gather on the porch steps. We will have a reading from the First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians, in which he expounds on the evils of sectarianism. There is enlightenment to be gleaned."

"Good work, Heather," Jarvis muttered as he rose.

I grabbed him. "I'll bring him back in a few minutes," I said to Mrs. Jim Bob, then dragged him behind the bus, ignoring the alarmed stares of the other kids.

Once we were out of sight, I said, "I need to ask you a few questions."

"About what? Cookies missing from the pantry?"

"Why? Did you steal some?"

Jarvis gave me a sly look. "Wanna frisk me?"

In that he was wearing a threadbare T-shirt and tight shorts, I was fairly certain he had not concealed much more than a cloverleaf on his person.

"Larry Joe said you went back to the softball field yesterday afternoon," I said.

"Yeah, I did. My ma gave me a wallet for my birthday last month. I thought I'd left it up there, but I was wrong. I must have left it at home."

"But you were up there for half an hour."

"Look, I didn't want to come here in the first place," he said. "It was my ma's idea. She ain't doing all that well these days, so I said I'd do it just to keep her happy. By the afternoon, I was getting real tired of all the whining and complaining. These girls carry on like they're in middle school. Big Mac, Parwell, and Billy Dick don't stop bragging about… well, you know. It's not my thing. I went to the softball field, sat in the dugout for a few minutes, and then went back to the cabin."

"You didn't hear anything?"

"Like what?"

"A loud conversation?" I suggested. "A scream?"

"Or someone getting whacked with a softball bat?"

I debated whether or not to tell him that it was possible that Norella Buchanon had been the victim of the brutality. Later, I decided, when we had some sort of confirmation.

"Okay," I said, "we can let this go for the moment. I'm not satisfied with your story, but I'm willing to concede that it makes sense. Don't go off by yourself anymore."

Jarvis returned to the lawn. It was possible that I was not endearing myself to the teenagers, but I wasn't sure that I'd ever had a snowball's chance of winning their confidence. I was, after all, not only a member of the adversarial generation, but also a cop. In this case, two strikes and I was out.

I waved at Mrs. Jim Bob, then drove away before she could dethrone herself. As I reached the highway, I saw what I supposed was Crank Nickle's farm at the intersection. The fences were in disrepair and the barn appeared to be standing by only spit and a prayer. The house was a tribute to tattered tar paper. Mangy hounds sprawled on the porch barely opened their eyes as I drove by.

I hoped they had enjoyed the previous night's activity, although I suspected it would have taken a presidential motorcade and a slew of Secret Service agents to rouse them.

Ruth, when she'd been forced to get out of bed, had worked with Sarah at the church. I decided to stop there, then go by the café and speak to Rachael before I tackled Judith again.

The Baptist church was situated between a body shop and a seedy building with a portable sign that advertised a flea market every other weekend. A few members of the congregation were still conversing out front, but no one openly gawked as I pulled around to the back.

Several pickup trucks with oversize tires were parked near a door. I parked well away from them and went inside, where I found myself in a kitchen. Three hulking boys, neckless and most likely witless, were loading Styrofoam containers onto cookie sheets under the instructions of a Beamer with a noticeably sharp tongue. Same shaved head, lack of eyebrows, and ghoulish lipstick, of course, but in this case dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt beneath an apron. She was shorter than Judith and broader than Rachael, but those were the only differences I could detect.

"I've had it with you, Byron," she was saying. "You miss one more stop and Chief Panknine's gonna have you picking up litter alongside the highway until Christmas-if you're lucky. Any questions about your deliveries?"

"No, ma'am," he mumbled.

She turned to the other two. "I'll make a point of visiting with all of our patrons later today. If so much as one of them is missing a green bean or a sliver of cake, you'll find yourselves in orange jumpsuits, hoeing turnip fields at the state prison. You should be back in an hour, with all the names checked off your lists. Got that?"

After more mumbling, the hulks left with their loads. I waited by the door for a moment, then advanced. "I'm Arty Hanks," I said. "The sheriff asked me to investigate the murder that took place yesterday afternoon."

"You mind if I start cleaning up while we talk? Once the boys get back, I'd like to leave. I've been here for five hours, preparing forty meals for shut-ins. My back's killing me."

Sarah may have assumed that I'd pitch in, but I sat down on a stool.

"I'm here to ask you about Ruth," I said.

"She was useless, when she even showed up. She'd peel one carrot, then start gabbing about some soap opera. Do I look like someone who watched soap operas? I worked in a factory, second or third shift most days. I was a lot more concerned about the deductions on my paycheck than I was about a bunch of actors and actresses with capped teeth, perfect hair, and the morals of alley cats."

"Ruth hadn't been here long, right?"

Sarah began to fill the sink with steamy water. "I don't know why she was allowed to come here in the first place. We were all told what was expected, but she carried on like she'd thought she was coming to a fancy spa. Well, my knuckles are scabbed and my ankles are so puffy they look like bread dough. The masseuse ain't called to make an appointment."

"So Deborah warned you?" I asked.

"I knew what I was getting into. Nobody pressured me." She submerged a roasting pan and began to scour it. "I've got another three weeks here, then I'll start working at the motel. I pity the next Moonbeam that has to deal with those boys and a bunch of snivelers who want peas instead of beans, molded lime salad instead of cole slaw, biscuits instead of cornbread. It wouldn't hurt them to show a little gratitude every now and then, but all they do is bitch."

Somehow, we had moved away from the topic into volatile territory. I waited a moment, then said, "Did Ruth say anything about her background?"

"She didn't have one, any more than I do. It's part of the deal."

"You gave up your past because of your religious convictions?"

"Yeah, that's right. My children are being taught the fundamentals and learning the value of physical labor. They have chores in the garden, not time to waste on television and video games. My daughter is making a scrapbook of pressed wildflowers. My son likes sketching down by the creek. They complained at first, but they've adjusted real well."

"How about Ruth's children?"

Sarah looked over her shoulder at me. "I should know? I get up at dawn, take a cold sponge bath, and walk here to start preparing the meal. I'm usually ready to go back in the middle of the afternoon. If Anthony sees me, he'll give me a ride to the top of the road, but that doesn't happen very often. When I get there, I barely have the energy to deal with my own kids, much less worry about any of the others."

"So why are you doing this?" I asked, having noted a distinct lack of spirituality in her recitation. "You said you knew what you were getting into."

"Yeah, I did."

I waited for a moment, but she seemed more interested in scrubbing cake pans than elaborating. "Where were you recruited?"

"I'm not allowed to talk about that. My children are safe for the time being, and so am I. I ain't gonna say anything else about it."

"No, of course not," I murmured. "How did you and your children get to Dunkicker?"

"In a rusty white Honda Accord with a faulty transmission and a cracked windshield. Now I think you'd better leave. If Deborah finds out I've been talking to you-well, I need the Daughters of the Moon for my children's sake, and mine, too."

"How would Deborah know we'd been talking?"

"Just go on, please. I've got pots and pans to wash, and the oven needs cleaning. After that, I'll have to wipe down the counters, mop the floor, and put everything away so I can be ready to leave when the delivery boys get back."

I got off the stool, but paused by the door. "I have to ask this, Sarah. What about the father of your children?"

"We're divorced. He never paid child support, but always expected me to produce the children every other Friday evening so he could spend the weekend poisoning their minds. The last time he had them, my daughter came home and asked me if I was really a whore like Daddy said. Helluva guy, huh?"

"So you took your children and left?"

"I already told you that I don't want to talk to you anymore. Either grab the mop or let me work in peace."

I drove to the PD. The door was unlocked, but the adage about barn doors and horses applied. We certainly didn't want to prevent Duluth from returning, should he find the urge to spend more quality time on a urine-stained mattress no thicker than a paperback novel.

It would have been a waste of time to try to call the state medical examiner's office. At best, I would have spent thirty minutes working my way through various option menus before I was left on hold while the kudzu vines slithered over the windowsills and choked the last breath out of me. Harve was on his johnboat, swilling beer, eating his wife's chocolate cake, and defying the fish to disturb him.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, then rooted through Captain Panknine's desk until I found a candy bar. I also found some evidence that he was less than loyal to Mrs. Panknine, who was driving to Little Rock every day to sit by his bedside and relate the latest local gossip.

That, however, was none of my business. Chief Panknine's chair was not as comfortably worn as mine, but I rocked back and propped my shoes on the corner of the desk, my preferred posture for thinking.

Sarah was hardly a devout Daughter of the Moon, and I doubted Norella had been, either (if, of course, she had been there, and I still wasn't sure). Both of them had gone through hostile divorces and squabbles over visitation. Duluth had claimed to have paid child support on a regular basis, but I had only his version. Sarah had offered me an abbreviated story; it could have been tainted with the animosity that usually accompanies divorce. My own had been bitter, but in that children had not been an issue, I'd been able to walk away with my dignity and the gawdawful crystal pickle dish Estelle had given me as a wedding present.

These days it serves as a depository for change and a few keys whose purpose eludes me.

The Welcome Ya'll Café was likely to be busy in the middle of the day, so Rachael would not be available for a private conversation. If she were inclined, which she most likely would not be. Sarah had not been frightened when Deborah's name came up in our conversation, but she had been uneasy. Judith had been less than forthcoming. Deputy Robarts had barely stopped short of fidgeting.

The only person I could think of who might be able to offer information was Willetta Robarts, august matriarch of Dunkicker and its environs, which might stretch as far as Greasy Valley. I decided to try to talk to her before I returned to the Beamers' campsite. How to find her was a problem, however. I found a slim telephone directory in Chief Panknine's bottom drawer, but an address on Robarts Road was of little help, since Dunkicker, like Maggody, had yet to find funding for street signs.

I was about to dial the number when I heard scratching from the back of the building.

There are moments when you just want to cast your fate to the wind. This was not one of them.

I was unarmed. I'd been trained in one-on-one combat at the academy. Supposedly, I could take on a Ninja warrior or a psychotic twirling without a baton. If Chief Panknine had a weapon, he'd had enough sense to keep it well out of Deputy Robarts's reach. I wondered how much damage I could do with a bad attitude and half a Snickers bar.

Not much.

I cautiously opened the door that led to the cell. The scratching sound intensified, but I couldn't identify the source. If I'd been back in Maggody, I most certainly would have found my gun and put one of my last three bullets in it. As it was, I was armed with a rolled-up copy of a magazine devoted to lake trout.

"Someone there?" I called.

"I reckon you be wantin' this feller."

I realized there was a door at the end of the short hall. "What feller?"

"The one what ran away this mornin'. You want him, come and take him. I got better things to do."

I opened the door with a certain amount of trepidation. Duluth Buchanon was being held upright by a citizen who looked and smelled worse than Raz Buchanon. His beard dribbled over his gut in strings so drenched in tobacco juice that they might have turned to amber. His pale eyes were entirely too intense.

"Found him hunkered in my barn," he said. "I ain't got time for the likes of him. You don't want him, I'll cart him down to the pond and put a bullet up his nose. The catfish will dispose of him afore too long."

Duluth gave me a panicky look, but had enough sense to keep his mouth shut.

"Are you Crank Nickle?" I asked.

"I ain't the queen of England."

"No, I suppose not," I said. "I would very much like to take this trespasser off your hands. Chief Panknine will appreciate how you did your civic duty."

"Dumbshit scared my cow."

"Perhaps you might enjoy participating in a firing squad later this afternoon," I said as I yanked Duluth inside. "Say about four?"

"And miss the last round of the PGA finals? You jest tell Chief Panknine to keep his prisoners outta my barn." He stomped off before I could respond, assuming I could have.

I took Duluth to the front room, sat him down, and poured him a cup of coffee. He looked like hell, which was to be expected, considering the depth of his hangover. I gave him a moment, then said, "Well?"

"Well-what?" he growled.

"I'm hoping you have some innocuous reason for being in Dunkicker. Your great-aunt lives here, for instance, and needed you to plant pole beans and cucumbers. There's an orphanage somewhere down the road that has a leaky roof. You were ready to repaint Ruby Bee's kitchen, but you were torn between oyster shell and ivory. You tell me, Duluth."

"Norella."

"What about her?"

"Her mother finally got around to mentioning that she'd called a few days back. Said her and the boys was staying at an old church camp, and that she'd be moving on shortly. When folks in Maggody started buzzing about how the teenagers were going to a church camp, I figured it might be the one where Norella had taken the boys. Like I told you, she didn't have much cash, and her car leaks oil bad."

"So you followed the bus?"

"Right till it turned down the road. I decided I'd better wait till it was dark, so I parked my truck behind that old coot's barn. I'd brought a cooler with a couple or three sixpacks, and after I finished those, I remembered I had a bottle of whiskey under the seat."

"And finished that, too, I assume. What were you doing staggering alongside the highway-looking for a liquor store?"

Duluth gave me a watery look that came from either embarrassment or a doozy of a headache. "I was real nervous about seeing Norella. More likely than not, she'd start screaming at me and trying to claw my face. One time she bit me on the ear so hard you can see the scar to this day. Look right here." He pulled his ear forward and waited until I produced a properly horrified frown. "I was gonna press charges for assault, but then I realized if she was locked up, her family might not be willin' to take care of the boys while I was working."

"Probably not," I said. "Then you never went down the road to the campgrounds?"

"Hell, no, I dun told you what I did. You seen Norella and the boys hanging out down there?"

I shook my head. "How do you think she came to find out about Camp Pearly Gates? Did she go there as a kid?"

"I about had to hogtie her to get her to church on Sundays. She always said everybody was real snooty, looking down their noses at her like they thought she bought her dresses at yard sales. Soon as we got home, she'd send the boys to their room and cuss up a storm. I got to where I dreaded Sunday mornings, knowing what I was in for the rest of the day. I'd just keep turnin' up the volume on the football game, but she didn't care even when the Cowboys was playin' Tampa Bay."

"Must have been tough, Duluth," I said, wondering what his sons had thought during the weekly ordeals. "One more question: How'd you get out of the cell?"

He rubbed his temples so hard I was afraid his head might shatter. "It don't make any sense, but I'll tell you. After Brother Verber left, I took a piss, then crawled back on the bunk. I must have dozed off, 'cause the next thing I saw was this… uh, this…"

"Alien?"

"Yeah, this alien unlocking the cell door. I pulled the blanket over my head, and when I finally got up the guts to look, it was gone. Putting up with Brother Verber's one thing, but I wasn't about to find myself being the subject of unnatural medical examinations in a flying saucer. I beat it back to my truck, but the damn thing wouldn't start. I decided to stay in the barn till it got dark, then find a pay phone and call my cousin Leroy to come get me."

"But Crank Nickle found you first."

"Reckon so. Any chance I can call Leroy from here? I'll leave fifty bucks to pay the fine. I mean, all I did was get drunk. That ain't much of a crime these days."

"No, I guess it's not," I said, "but you'll have to remain in custody for the time being."

"On account of being drunk?"

"It's a little bit more complicated than that." I gave him what remained of the candy bar and locked him in the cell. He didn't much like it, naturally, but I assured him that the aliens were on their way back to Alpha Centauri and I'd find him something more substantial to eat.

One of the Beamers had unlocked the cell door, for some reason. Willetta Robarts would have to wait until I could try to talk to them.

Or so I thought.