Maggody In Manhattan

Chapter Thirteen

Staring at the ceiling produced nothing more illuminating than an awareness that it needed new sheetrock. Oh, I'd posed some fascinating questions to myself, but unlike "Jeopardy!" contestants, I was shy on answers. I decided to forego this beginning business and focus on the corpse.

Jerome had been killed in the kitchen. In theory, the kitchen was locked and Kyle Simmons had the only key. It had been in his possession from the moment the four cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut arrived until, I assumed, the police took it away from him in order to secure the scene.

I forced myself to replay the hour or so we'd spent preparing for the contest. The key had been in the lock when I entered the kitchen, and when we left…it had been left as well. Kyle had returned several hours later, at which time Geri had berated him for not having left the key at the hotel. But he had-and in a rather obvious place for it.

Clutching my pillow, I muddled for a while and came up with a tenuous idea. Someone had chanced upon the key in the lock, removed it for a period of time, and then replaced it before Kyle arrived with the bags of utensils. And unless Kyle had unlocked the door for Jerome in the middle of the night, there was now another key floating around in someone's pocket.

Who had borrowed the key long enough to have a duplicate made? Ruby Bee, Estelle, Durmond, and I had been busy making total asses of ourselves in various locales along Fifth Avenue. Catherine and Frannie had departed for a beauty salon; later in the afternoon, however, Frannie had returned laden with shopping bags and mentioned that Catherine was napping. Implying she'd been in her room, Brenda had come looking for Jerome-implying he hadn't.

He was a candidate, although no stronger a one than a boyish Democrat confronting a rich Republican incumbent. Geri had been in the hotel, but she needn't have bothered to go through convolutions to get a duplicate key; all she had to do was keep the original. Excluding the workmen, the only other people within spittin' distance were Rick and the enigmatic doorman, Mr. Cambria.

I was approaching a full-scale migraine, but I squeezed my eyes closed and continued my mental meanderings. Rick had been seriously perturbed when Geri demanded the key. In fact, he'd been on the verge of combat when twinkly ol' Mr. Cambria had suggested that he cooperate. And what had provoked this sudden interest in the not especially interesting kitchen? The arrival of four cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut.

No one had admitted a fondness for soybean flakes, tinted or otherwise, and it was more than challenging to come up with a reason why anyone but a full-fledged wacko would kill for them. Yet an awful lot of people were behaving oddly over something Ruby Bee'd sworn was unfit for a sow (okay, a pedigreed sow, but still…). Interspace Investments, Inc. had bought the company and were enthusiastic enough to move up the date of the contest and host it in their own hotel. They'd rounded up replacements when the three original contestants had dropped out…with a broken leg, a severed finger, and a sudden desire to explore the Alaskan coastline for several months.

Gawd, I hated coincidences almost as much as I hated the island on which I was currently prone. I dealt with the latter by standing up, gazing sullenly at my reflection, and heading out the door to find Lieutenant Henbit and impress him with my insightful logic.

This proved to be a veritable piece of cake as the elevator doors slithered open and he and Durmond came out. "Ah, Ms. Hanks," he said, politely ignoring my gasp, "I was on my way to your mother's room to have a word with her. Several words, to be more accurate. Mr. Pilverman has convinced me that her discovery of the body in the kitchen was…well, not fortuitous, but perhaps serendipitous. However, neither of you has an explanation for her untimely presence. Let's hope she does." Durmond looked in need of a dry cleaner's establishment, and not just for his clothes. He was watching me with such gloominess that I had to restrain myself from tweaking his cheek and assuring him everything was just dandy. "I'm going to lie down for a few minutes," he said to both of us, and then to me, "but you're welcome to join me for a drink later."

"I don't know," I murmured, not at all pleased with the emotional turmoil he'd managed to stir up with his morose eyes and smile. "I'll have to see how I feel, but now I'd like to have a word with Lieutenant Henbit." I waited until Durmond went into his room, grabbed Henbit's arm, and dragged him down the hall toward the higher numbered rooms.

"Ms. Hanks," he said as he removed my hand, "I really have more important things to do than to play secret agent with you. I'm aware that you're the chief of police of your little town in Arkansas. I have no doubt you're skilled in the art of running speed traps and tracking down foxes in the chicken coops. This, however, is not Arkansas, and I must insist you-"

"Wait just a goddamn minute, Lieutenant Henbit! I'm getting sick and tired of being dismissed as a two-bit cop from a one-bit town. I'm coming to you with valuable information, possibly what you need to determine who killed Jerome Appleton and why." I held up my palms and moved backward. "But if you're too busy to listen, I'll run along and have myself a high ol' time with a bug zapper and a six-pack of beer. Golly, I may jest go git myself another tattoo." His jaw was out and trembling just a tad, but he took a breath and said, "What information do you have?"

"I think it's likely that the cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut contain contraband of some sort. Based on several oblique references to Florida and the Caribbean, I'd suggest you test the contents for drugs."

He gave me an indulgent smile. "We have. The lab tests aren't completed yet, but the preliminary word is that the four cases contain nothing more than foultasting, rubbery soybean flakes with artificial flavor and artificial color, all packaged in unsullied plastic bags. It ought to be illegal, but it's not."

"Are you sure?"

"I just told you this was preliminary, so in that sense we're not sure. Why don't you go take a nice nap like Mr. Pilverman, or even with him, if that appeals? I need to ask your mother some questions, and then go back to my office to see what kind of progress we're making on the current whereabouts of Mrs. Jerome Appleton." With a nod, he went down the hall toward Ruby Bee's room, leaving me to stand there gawking like a damnfool tourist in the mean streets of the city.

And to think I'd skipped lunch to concoct my brilliant theory that had explained a helluva lot of things-perhaps not every itsy-bitsy bugaboo, but some of them, anyway. I was leaning against the wall, watching Henbit knock on Ruby Bee's door, when I heard voices and footsteps in the stairwell. I eased open the door in time to hear a male voice assessing the chances (not good) the Mets would win the pennant. A second male voice concurred.

They continued down and presumably out into the lobby. I went to the landing and confirmed as much, then twisted my neck and looked up at the seemingly endless stairs leading into the darkness. With all the confidence of someone walking into a subway tunnel, I went to the third floor, where the remodeling supposedly continued.

The door was not locked. I opened it far enough to stick my head out and ascertain the existence of a table saw, a pile of mismatched lumber, a rusted air conditioner surely on its way to its burial, and other debris appropriate to a remodeling job. It was pretty much what I expected, and I was about to duck back into the stairwell (and go find some lunch) when I heard the unexpected from around a corner.

"Then you think lead pipes are the answer?" said Rubella Belinda Hanks of Maggody, Arkansas. "I always thought copper was the way to go."

"Well, the rust factor's what you got to worry over," said a genial man, identity and hometown unknown.

"Ain't rust just a royal pain in the butt!" chirped Estelle Oppers of Maggody, Arkansas.

They were heading in my direction. I let the door click shut, hesitated long enough to scratch my chin and frown, then scurried up to the next landing and waited.

I was gratified when the door below me opened and the two adventuresses began to descend. "All I can say is that it's a good thing he works for that magazine at night!" Ruby Bee said with a sniff. "Imagine not knowing your copper pipes from your lead pipes."

Estelle sounded equally disdainful as she said, "I doubt he knows his spigots from a hole in the ground! I'm glad we don't have to count on him when pipes start bursting in the winter."

"I should say so. Do you remember back in 'eighty-six when we had that hard freeze right before Christmas and-"

"It was 'eighty-seven, the same year my cousin Carmel was electrocuted in the bathtub. His wife said he always played the radio, but she was seen at a bar less than a week later and dressed in jeans so tight-"

The door banged closed on yet another diverting incident in the Chadwick Hotel.

"I told you to make sure you had the maps," Dahlia said, her tone as deflated as her chins. "Right before we got in the car at that horrible motel, I asked point-blank if you had the maps, and you said you did, even though the maps were in the room and your head was up your behind. I was gonna make sure, but then you had to go and drop my suitcase so everyone in the parking lot could see my underwear just a-flutterin' in the breeze. Right then and there I should have told you to take me home so I could call a lawyer and git myself a divorce."

Kevin tried not to whimper from under the chair where he'd gotten himself wedged more 'n an hour ago. Sweat was gathering in his eyes and leaking into his ears something awful, but there wasn't anything he could do on account of being tied up. "I guess I deserve it," he said, trying to be brave like a frontiersman surrounded by hostile Indians and down to his last bullet. "It's all my fault, my darling. I dun everything wrong from the minute we hit the highway leading out of Maggody."

"You're darn right it's all your fault," Dahlia said. "If someone like Ira was here, he'd know what to do about it. I keep asking myself why I had to be kidnapped with you instead of a real man who ain't afraid to protect his woman from danger."

Marvel, who was once again in the kitchen making sure the cops weren't getting ready to do something stupid, eased away from the window, and took the last piece of bread from the wrapper. Shit, he thought, they were running out of food. Big Mama wasn't much fun, but there'd be hell to pay if she found out they might have to make do on water and crackers. He could order another pizza, he supposed, but just remembering her reaction to the anchovies was enough to make his stomach go sour.

"Beloved," Kevin whined from the front room, "if I was a policeman or an FBI agent, I'd just gnaw my way out of these ropes and shoot that fellow until there weren't nothing left of him."

She responded to that, but Marvel wasn't listening. He was thinking, and after a minute, he hurried to the front room and picked up the telephone on the counter. He punched for the operator and said, "I want to talk to someone at the police station in whatever this hellhole is called. If you don't put me through, I'll kill one of the hostages and kick the body out the back door."

"Kevin," said Dahlia, although in a tone that suggested he engage in volunteerism rather than heroics, "do something."

Marvel pointed the gun at her until she subsided. "Okay, listen up real good," he said into the receiver.

"I'm fed up with this and ready to negotiate. Thing is, I don't trust you honky rednecks. I want you to get a dude from the FBI and send him in here to work out the details. What's more, my man, I don't want some local asshole putting on a three-piece suit and claiming to be a fed. The only man I'll deal with is gonna be a brother." He listened for a moment. "Yeah, a black man, and I don't care how you're going to get one. All I can say is that if he doesn't come up on the porch at precisely nine o'clock, his arms in the air and his credentials between his teeth so I can read 'em, I'll shove my gun up one of the hostages' noses and splatter brains and blood on the wall.

"Kevvie…" Dahlia wailed, covering her face (and nose) with her hands and slumping across the table. He couldn't see any of this, wedged as he was, but he could hear the distress in his beloved's voice and it was worse than being poked in the eye with a sharp stick.

"And while we wait," Marvel said, "why don't you send over a big bucket of fried chicken and some biscuits and gravy?"

To Kevin's relief Dahlia's wails dribbled off with a hiccup or two.

As I came out of the stairwell, the door of 215 opened and Frannie, after a hushed word over her shoulder, came into the hallway. "Catherine's resting," she said. "I thought I'd find out what we're supposed to do about food, since the kitchen's off-limits and we're not allowed to leave the hotel. I really don't know what to think about this whole thing. Brenda seemed like such a pleasant woman. Jerome was beastly, but I can't imagine her actually going so far as to…"

For some reason I couldn't define, I shot a quick frown at her door before I said, "He was brutal during the press reception, wasn't he?"

"But Geri certainly upstaged everyone," she said with a dry smile.

"She's worse than some of the teenaged girls back home. She doesn't have half the poise your daughter's shown these last few days, although Catherine did seem…excited last night. Whatever did she mean about the little piggies?"

Frannie eased me away from the door. "She's not accustomed to alcohol, and she was unable to handle it. This is our first visit to Manhattan, and what with the pressure of the contest and meeting the media, she was simply not herself. She told me afterward that she was trying to lighten everyone's mood with a silly joke."

"Oh," I said wisely. "Have you and she given statements to the police yet?"

"That lieutenant came to the room earlier. Catherine was sleeping, but I went to the lobby and talked with him for a few minutes. There was very little I could tell him about poor Brenda and Jerome, and Catherine's had almost no contact with them at all, beyond the few times Geri gathered all the contestants to discuss the schedule."

She headed for the elevator, forcing me to follow her. I still couldn't figure out what was bugging me about her room, which was apt to be as dingy and cramped as everyone else's. Not even in my wildest flights of whimsy could I hypothesize a majestic suite behind the peeling door.

"Catherine seems to spend a lot of time in the room," I said as Frannie pushed the elevator button.

"It's her allergies. There's something in the air that's giving her dreadful headaches, and she's hardly been able to sleep at night because of the noise outside the hotel. The horns never stop, do they? It doesn't do one bit of good, but they seem to enjoy leaning on their horns and shouting obscenities at each other."

"You're from Kansas, right?" I said, wily professional interrogator that I was. She nodded and, when the elevator door slid open, stepped inside. At the last second, I joined her with a witless chuckle, and continued. "I assume Catherine's in school. What do you do, Frannie?"

She gave me a narrow look, as if I'd asked her for the name of the madam who ran the whorehouse. "I work part-time in a little store. I think it's important that I be there when Catherine comes home from school. I drive her to all her lessons, and sometimes we go out to the mall to shop and have supper in the food pavilion. She's in the honors program, so she's always loaded with homework in the evenings. I sew or occasionally read a magazine. I've tried to watch television, but Catherine cannot concentrate unless the house is very quiet."

"I guess you have to be careful when you turn the pages," I said. It didn't exactly enhance the atmosphere between us, but I was getting tired of hearing about mama's little monster. Definitely a sour pickle, and sour enough to turn one's mouth inside out.

We arrived at the first floor without further discussion of delicate Catherine's needs and desires. Frannie headed in the direction of the office, no doubt willing to vent her maternal instincts despite Geri's propensity for hysterics. I opted for a sofa in the lobby rather than a ringside seat and was getting settled in when Lieutenant Henbit stomped out of the dining room.

"Where're your mother and this other woman who's with her?" he barked at me.

"I am not my mother's-" I stopped as I remembered the last time I'd tossed out the phrase.

"Your mother's what?"

"Keeper. However, if I were you, I'd try her room."

"She wasn't there," he said, still all red in the face and tacitly accusing me of some nefarious scheme to deprive him of his opportunity to speak to her.

"She's probably there now. She and Estelle felt some imperative to discuss their pipes with a plumber on the third floor. By now they're back in their room, arguing the wisdom of lead over copper and analyzing the mysterious death of Cousin Carmel back in 'eighty-six. Or was it 'eighty-seven?"

" 'Eighty-seven," Rick said from behind the counter. "It was a very good year for mysterious deaths and chablis with an impudent personality."

Lieutenant Henbit did not look amused as he continued across the lobby and took the stairs. Once the door banged closed, I looked at Rick and said, "What's the matter? Can't take the heat in the office?"

"That Gebhearn dame is driving me friggin' crazy. If she's not jabbering on the telephone, she's sobbing like someone ran over her poodle. She was not doing well on account of her boss calling, but then the queen mother barged in and started carrying on, too. Jesus! Was there ever a time when this hotel was calm and everybody was just going about his business?"

"I wouldn't know," I said truthfully. "I came only after my mother was arrested for attempted homicide, if you recall. I've been thinking about the so-called mugging in the stairwell, and I can't figure out why Durmond was placed in 217-or who called the police."

He sneered, albeit faintly. "The police seem more concerned about murder these days. They might be willing to assign a special task force to alleviate your curiosity, however. You should ask the lieutenant when he comes down."

"He does seem preoccupied with this other business, doesn't he?" I said, refusing to allow him to irritate me.

"But I think there's a parallel between the two crimes that he's ignoring."

"Do you now?" Rick twisted his ring, but his eyes were on me. For the record, they weren't the friendliest I'd seen and didn't begin to compete with Mr. Cambria's twinkle.

"In both cases, the bodies were relocated before they were discovered. Durmond was taken to 217, and Jerome to the dumpster in the alley. This means that someone went to a lot of trouble when it would have been so much easier and safer to depart the scene with all due haste."

"How do you know Jerome was taken to the dumpster? Maybe he went outside to play with the rats or something and was shot out there by some punk. The cops are not making an effort to keep me informed of their investigation, but I would not be surprised to learn Appleton's wallet and watch are missing."

"As is his luggage," I said with a frown.

Rick stooped under the counter and came to the sofa. "But why is it that you say he was killed someplace else and moved to the alley?" he persisted.

"Because my mother went to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk and saw the body," I said. "She didn't mention seeing his luggage, though. What happened to it?"

I'd been talking to myself for the most part, barely aware of Rick's presence, and therefore was startled half out of my skin when Mr. Cambria said, "What else did Ruby Bee see while on this quest for warm milk?"

I held back a giggle that would have been on the manic side. "Nothing else that I know of, but the lieutenant may be able to worm something more out of her-if he's as clever as he thinks he is. I wouldn't bet on it."

Rick looked at Cambria. "I swear this is the first I've heard of this. The cops didn't say a word about the guy being shot in the kitchen, or about his luggage disappearing. From what I've picked up, they were perfectly happy with him going out to the alley on his own two feet and then either his wife or some punk shooting him there. Only now am I hearing how that screwy broad was in the kitchen while the body was still warm."

"I was there, too," I said, "but after the body had been moved and before the four cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut had been returned."

Rick was twisting his ring hard enough to rip off his finger, and his face was turning paler by the second. "It sounds like there's a history of sleepwalking in this family. First the mother and now this chick go roaming around in the middle of the night, and both spouting off nonsense about what they saw and what they didn't see. I think maybe their brains are packed less carefully than Appleton's suitcases."

I was on the verge of verbalizing my displeasure when a truck squealed to a stop in front of the hotel. All three of us watched a man grab half a dozen flat white boxes and come charging across the sidewalk. "I told you to make some calls," Cambria said softly.

"I did, just like you said," Rick said, gulping. "I got hold of everybody I could think of. The word's out. I dunno what this guy is doing…"

The door opened. "Pizza man!" said the newcomer.

Brother Verber was puffing as he scrambled over a patch of loose rocks in what would be a bubbly, gushy creek in the springtime. He was having a hard time keeping his balance, in that he could barely see over the boxes he was carrying. Every now and then the white ribbon tickled his nose enough to provoke hearty sneezes that sprinkled the slick silver paper like tiny drops of dew.

"I presume we're almost there," said Mrs. Jim Bob. She wasn't as worn out as he was, but the humidity was getting worse by the minute. Heavy gray clouds had massed over the ridge, with occasional flickers of lightning and rumbles that threatened a downpour at any minute. "We haven't got all day," she continued, her beady eyes boring into his back, "and we can't have much of a fire in the rain. What's more, it's getting chilly."

He almost apologized for the weather, but decided he'd better save his breath and concentrate on picking up any stray cosmic suggestions as to the location of Raz's still. It had to be around there somewhere, he told himself as he stumbled and fumbled through the brush.

"How much farther is it?" demanded Mrs. Jim Bob. "Why, not all that much farther," he said with what confidence he could muster. "The problem is with the directions Raz gave to me after he finished repenting. I'm almost certain he said to take the second logging road and keep to the right all the way, but he was such a pathetic wretch that he might have been addled at the time and meant to have said to keep to the left."

"Then we may be on the wrong side of the ridge? Is that what you're saying?"

"Of course not! We're here to do our Christian duty, and the Almighty wouldn't let us stray down the wrong path, much less the wrong side of the ridge. Any time now we'll come around a clump of trees and feast our eyes on that soul-pollutin' moonshine still."

Mrs. Jim Bob glanced up, but there was no Divine Finger pointing the way to go. "We'd better find it right soon and get this nasty business over with before we find ourselves soaked to the skin." She wrapped her sweater more tightly around her shoulders, wishing she'd thought to bring a coat, not to mention an umbrella. Then again, maybe a shower from heaven would cleanse her soul of the gritty residue of guilt lingering from the night she'd lain in her bed and allowed herself to think about things that violated everything she'd learned from rigorous Bible study and services three times a week.

Brother Verber was shivering, too, although the dipping temperature was not the sole cause. What a tangled web he'd woven, he thought with a wheezy sigh, all because he allowed Satan to hand him a glass and force the wicked whiskey down his throat and into his belly, where it'd festered and boiled and done its best to seep into his loins and turn him into nuthin' more than a sinner driven by mindless lust. Luckily, he'd seen fit to fight for his immortal soul and had won fair and square, and now was again pure of heart and free of lust.

He looked benignly over his shoulder. "Sister Barbara, you are such an inspiration to me and to all the members of the congregation." He was planning to add more, but his foot came down on a loose rock. The boxes went flying every which way as he fell to the ground heavily enough to compete with the thunder and startle the birds into silence.

"Are you all right?" said the inspiration.

He kept his eyes closed while he pondered her question. His head was spinning, to be sure, and his backside was screaming so loudly he was a little amazed she couldn't hear it. He continued his assessment. His back didn't feel broken, which isn't to say it felt good or even so-so, but he made sure he could wiggle his toes just the same. He was getting ready to announce his findings when the Almighty, who'd been real quiet up till now, finally decided to put forth a proposal.

Sister Barbara was slapping his cheeks and making agitated noises, but Brother Verber waited for a moment before letting his eyelids flutter open and his mouth curl into a grimace.

"It's my ankle," he said, making it obvious that the only thing stopping him from whimpering was his resolution to be brave. "It feels like it's on fire." Mrs. Jim Bob pulled up his trouser leg. "This one? It looks fine to me. If it were broken, wouldn't the bones be sticking out?"

"It's the other one, and I don't think it's exactly broken. It's more like sprained real badly and afore too long will commence to swell up and turn purple." He sat up and squinted at it. "Yes, I can see some bruises right below the surface of the skin. I'm afraid this puts a damper on our plans, Sister Barbara, and I'm as disappointed as you are that we can't continue forth to do our Christian duty. I just hope I can hobble all the way back to the car."

Mrs. Jim Bob wasn't overly impressed with his speech, but she wasn't ready to accuse him of lying, not just yet. Instead, she left him to rub his head while she gathered up the boxes, which weren't nearly as festive after having been flung hither and yon. She couldn't leave them on the ridge, she told herself as she made a neat stack. Some fool hunter might come across them, and with her luck, there'd be a receipt in one of them with her name written in big, bold letters that might as well spell S-E-X.

Taking them back to Maggody meant driving down the road while folks out and out smirked at her. Brother Verber's barbecue grill was not an option.

"What we'll do," she said, ignoring his moans and facial contortions, "is sit for a spell and see how much your ankle swells up. If it's not too bad, we can continue on our mission and be back at the car before it starts raining. You do want to destroy the still and these perfidious packages, don't you?"

The fact that she was standing over him with her hands on her hips and a real tight look on her face prompted him to say, "Of course I do, Sister Barbara." He realized he was staring at her trim ankles only inches away. "Of course I do," he repeated numbly.