Mischief In Maggody

3

The next morning, after a bowl of stale cornflakes and three cups of instant coffee (with instant cream), I drove over to Estelle's house, which was a quarter of a mile north of the Emporium on a county road that the county had disinherited along about WWI. The psychic and her brother lived a little ways farther up the road, just before a dilapidated chicken house and a rusted Nash set on concrete blocks that was the closest thing to a historical marker we had in Maggody. After that there were stunted pine trees and scrub, a low-water bridge across Boone Creek that provided excitement in the spring months, and ten teeth-rattling miles to Hasty. Hasty makes Maggody look like the Loop in Chicago. Estelle's house was an old but tidy clapboard thing, and she'd done some landscaping with plastic flowers, concrete statues of gnomes and toads, and a genuine imitation marble birdbath. Wishing I had some plastic dandelions to poke into the flower bed, I went up onto the porch and lifted my hand to knock.

The door flew open and Estelle came outside, her purse clutched under her arm. "I swear, Arly, sometimes you're slower than sorghum at Christmas. I told Madam Celeste we'd be there at ten o'clock sharp, and she has a very busy schedule. Not to mention other folks, who have a business to run and Elsie McMay at ten-fifteen for a haircut, shampoo, and set. As you well know, Elsie practically has a stroke if she's kept waiting."

"I'm terribly sorry. Shall we walk or drive?" I asked humbly.

"Goodness' sakes, Arly, it's not more than a hundred feet up the road." Estelle took off at full mast, the hem of her lavender uniform flapping in the breeze. The red, dangling curls had been vanquished to hair heaven in favor of a beehive of admirable height-and not one hair trembled despite her pace. Which was leaving other folks breathless, I might add.

I caught up with her on the porch of Madam Celeste's house. In contrast to Estelle's house, the place was a sorry mess. Paint peeled off the sides in curling gray tongues or bubbled like alligator skin. The yard was a collage of crabgrass, wild onions, bleached patches of dust, and beer bottles. The only thing that saved it from essence of squalor was a satellite dish sitting in the side yard, although the weeds were getting a mite high around the base. Maybe they used it to beam down The Grapes of Wrath and Tobacco Road.

Before I could mention the possibility (or hightail it back down the road to my car), Estelle rang the doorbell. "You are going to love Madam Celeste," she confided as she straightened the belt of her uniform. "She is astounding, just plumb astounding-as long as you don't turn up your nose and act all snooty. The only thing you have to do is to believe in her powers, Arly."

"Is that all?" I said in a distracted voice. I was busy envisioning a heavy-set, elderly, swarthy Gypsy, complete with scarves, beads, gold hoop earrings, and a long, embroidered dress that hung down not quite far enough to hide swollen ankles. A mustache and bright-red lipstick. A hoarse Hungarian accent, if one was attuned to such things. A mole on her chin. Lugging a crystal ball, a Ouija board, and a floor lamp with a fringed shade.

A short woman with bleached-blond hair opened the door. "You are late," she snapped, one hand on her hip. "I have other appointments today, and there may not be enough time to do a complete reading. I really don't like to start and then have to quit just when I've begun to feel the cosmic force. It gives me a headache. But come in, come in."

"I'm so sorry," Estelle said, dragging me through the doorway. "This is Ruby Bee's daughter, Arly Hanks."

Two icy green eyes turned on me. "And this reading is for you-is that correct? Do you want cards, sand, an astrological reading, or a numerological analysis?"

Estelle leaned over and cupped her hand around my ear. "Take the sand, Arly; it's the most revealing," she advised in a hiss. "You might as well get your mother's money's worth."

"The sand, by all means," I said to Madam Celeste.

Estelle patted me on the back, then announced she simply had to dash off because of Elsie McMay. She preceded to abandon me to the clutches of the psychic. Madam Celeste appeared to be under forty, although there were some lines around her eyes-perhaps from all that peering into the future. She was shorter than Ruby Bee, but her waist was trim and her hips were contained in tight designer jeans. She wore a faded T-shirt and rubber thongs. No mustache, no mole, no scarves, no beads, no hoop earrings. The accent was odd; I couldn't place it, but it didn't sound like Budapest. She would have been attractive if her features had been less linear and harsh; as it was, she reminded me of a sharp-chinned cat, if that makes any sense to you.

"Are you ready to begin?" she said impatiently. "I don't have time to stand in the foyer all day while you goggle at me as if I, Madam Celeste, were a sideshow freak. Come along to the solarium." She wheeled around and stalked through a doorway, muttering under her breath.

I stalked after her, muttering under my breath. Odds are we weren't muttering the same things.

Forty minutes later, I came out of the solarium (which bore an uncanny resemblance to a breakfast room, owing in part to the tea-kettle wallpaper and the dinette set), armed with the knowledge that in the past I'd been treated unfairly but had shown courage. In the future I would see great changes in my life, make a meaningful career move, encounter two strangers who would have a profound influence on my life, travel, survive a test of character, and find great happiness down the line. Every time I'd asked for specifics, Madam Celeste had rubbed her temples and told me that it just wasn't coming through because of negative vibrations in the atmosphere. For those agog with curiosity, Mesopotamian sand is blue and looks like the stuff in the bottoms of aquariums. It was in a Tupperware salad bowl. She'd had me make a handprint in it, then done a lot of staring at it.

Madam Celeste opened the front door for me. "I hope you were satisfied with the reading, but I do not offer any guarantees. Sometimes I can see things as clearly as I see your face; other times I must battle negative vibrations, although I cannot say from where they emanated."

I wasn't going to tell her; after all, she was the psychic. "I have days like that myself," I said in my most sympathetic voice. "Ruby Bee said you came here from Las Vegas. That was quite a change, wasn't it?"

"Yes, of course it was." She gave me a wary look, no doubt thinking her newest client didn't have all her carob chips in the cookie dough, so to speak.

"But it must seem awfully tame here. Why did you trade Las Vegas for Maggody?"

"I had great trouble with the police there, if you must know. A woman came to me, very distraught, crying and twisting her hands, begging for me to help her. Her child, a dear little boy of seven, had disappeared over a month before. The police searched for him, but finally gave up and told her the case was as good as closed. To say such a thing to a mother-can you imagine such heartlessness!"

"Why did she come to you?"

Madam Celeste drew herself up (to about five foot two). "Because I am a world-renowned psychic. I have studied with the greatest clairvoyants of the European continent. At that time I was working at one of the largest casinos, and creating much excitement and comment. This poor woman heard about me from one of her friends, and literally threw herself at my feet. After some discussion, I agreed to help the police find the child. The police, stupid scum that they are, laughed at me and sent me away-but in the end I was able to give the mother some guidance as to the location of the poor little boy's body several miles out in the desert. He'd wandered away and fallen into a ravine, where he could not be seen from above. The police were embarrassed, of course, and made wild accusations about me to cover up their stupidity."

"So you decided to come to Maggody, Arkansas?" I persisted. "Had you been here before? Do you have friends here?"

"I was drawn here by some unknown force, as if my destiny were to be unfolded and made known to me here in this peaceful little village," she said briskly, making me suspect she'd recited it many a time. She glanced at her watch. "Now I am very busy. You must leave so that I may prepare for my next appointment. It will be a most difficult session for me, and I must have time to arrive at the proper frame of receptiveness. I use your mother's credit card number, yes?"

I had a whole truckload of questions left, but I suggested she bill Ruby Bee time and a half for the additional few minutes, then went down the porch steps and along the road to my car. I hid out at the PD all afternoon and, with sly anticipation, went home for a can of chicken noodle soup just before Kevin's arrival. Conscientious enforcer of law and order that I was, I clipped my beeper on my belt as I scooted out the door.

Later that evening, I went over to David Allen's house and told him about the reading, which had been as perceptive and personal as a syndicated horoscope column in a newspaper. We agreed that the whole thing was apt to blow over, and on that optimistic note shared a six-pack and played Trivial Pursuit until midnight. It beat sitting at the front window of my apartment, counting the Mercedeses that went through town in one evening. If you're wondering, the world record to date was three.

"How'd she act?" Ruby Bee demanded as she wiped the surface of the bar. "Did she stop by afterward to say what happened?"

Estelle popped a beer nut in her mouth and chewed it pensively. Once she'd washed it down with soda pop, she said, "Well, if you want my opinion, I'd say Arly was a tad nervous when I took her over, but she settled down nicely after I'd introduced her to Madam Celeste. Nearly an hour later, I saw her come back and get in her car, but just as I put down my styling comb to run outside and ask her what happened, Elsie started telling me about her last obscene telephone call. I told Elsie she had a filthy mouth, and that sort of led to a prickly discussion. By the time I looked out the window again, Arly'd left."

"What all did Elsie say the caller said this time?" Ruby Bee put down the dishrag and propped her arms on the bar. "Four-letter words or sexual remarks or what?"

Estelle repeated the conversation as best she could remember. She and Ruby Bee decided that Elsie sure enough had a filthy mind-if not a filthy mouth. Anyone who relished those calls…Course the caller was mentally deranged and sure hadn't laid eyes on Elsie…They were really getting into it good when the door opened and the newest barmaid trudged across the room. The light fixture above the dance floor quivered but held tight. The customers in the booth hunkered over and stuck their noses in their beers.

"Am I late?" Dahlia O'Neill said.

"Yes," Ruby Bee said, "but don't fret about it. As you can see for yourself, business is right slow. Put on an apron and go ask those folks in the corner if they want another pitcher."

Dahlia's mouth opened and closed slowly, like an immobile fish feeding on plankton. "I don't"-close, open, close, open-"recollect where the aprons is kept."

Ruby Bee studied the girl's monumental girth. "That's all right," she said kindly. "You don't need to wear an apron now. This evening when I get home, I'll run up a special one on my Singer Deluxe. If I have time, I'll embroider your name on the top of the pocket."

"That'd be real nice," Dahlia said. "Now what is it you want me to ask them folks over in the booth?"

Even though she figured it was too late, Ruby Bee couldn't stop herself from having Second Thoughts, not to mention a few Severe Misgivings.

Mason Dickerson got back to town about midnight. There wasn't a parade to welcome him; in fact, there were only two lights visible along the whole stretch of highway-and both of them were streetlights. Mason wasn't surprised. He took the opportunity to drive his BMW faster than the signs suggested, and whipped around the corner by the Emporium in a spew of gravel, dust, and chicken feathers.

He was in a fine mood. A little bleary from the wine, but his stomach was full and his sexual drive met for a while. For Mason, who was thirty-seven and healthy, bronzed to perfection, dressed with impeccable taste and proud of it, well groomed and always a gentleman, the lack of decent women in the podunk town was the most difficult thing to deal with. High school girls were too young and silly. Maggody didn't boast a sorority house with nubile occupants or a junior League with perky young matrons in sable jackets and designer suits. They'd be married, anyways, Mason thought as he pulled into the yard and cut the engine. The three single women he'd thus far met in town had good reasons for their marital status; he had no inclination to alter it. Not, of course, that he had exalted standards. He just couldn't imagine kissing a woman who was hairier than a summer groundhog, or older than the hills. Or tipping the scales at three hundred pounds plus. Mason wanted a nice girl-nothing spectacular, but nice.

The house looked dark, but as he came inside, he saw a light in the back sitting room. He wondered if he could slip upstairs without being caught, then glumly decided he couldn't and went on to the kitchen. "You want I should bring you a beer or a glass of sherry?" he called to his sister.

"No. Why are you out so late? Do you realize it is midnight? Do you care that I have stayed up to worry about you, even though tomorrow I will have hideous dark circles under my eyes? Do you-"

Mason rattled the refrigerator door, drowning out the final rhetorical demand. Sarah Lou Dickerson Grinolli Vizzard had been in the sherry, he told himself as he took out a beer and popped the top. The bottle in the garbage can confirmed his theory, although he hadn't had much doubt. He once again considered flight, but instead went to the sitting room and poked his head through the door. "I'm right sorry you waited up, Sis. I didn't mean to worry you," he said.

"But you did," she retorted, her eyes harder than emeralds.

"I realize that now, and I'm truly sorry. I stopped for a drink and got to chatting with some folks. One thing led to another, and pretty soon we ended up eating enchiladas at a little place on the edge of town."

"For seven hours? How many enchiladas did you eat in seven hours?"

"Well, after dinner we went to a couple of bars to listen to music. Listen, Sarah Lou, I'm old enough-"

"Do not call me that. It is not my name." She found a glass of sherry on the table and drank the contents in one gulp. "I have told you never to call me that again. Sarah Lou is some child who lives in a hovel and wears hand-me-down clothes. She is some mindless womanchild who whimpers while her drunken husband beats her until her eyes are so swollen she cannot see. Sarah Lou is dead." She broke off with a scowl and pointed a finger at Mason. "Bring me another bottle of sherry."

Mason found a bottle in a kitchen cabinet and came back to the sitting room, still wishing he were upstairs in bed. "If she's dead, why don't you arrange a seance and see what all she has to say about the other world?"

"Do you think that amuses me, Mason? Do you see me smiling? Do you hear me laughing? Am I dressed in a clown suit?"

"I was just making a little joke, Sam. Lighten up, why don't you?"

"Do you think what I do is a joke?" She filled her glass and drank half of it. "It is not easy, you know. I have many feelings that you and the others cannot understand. I see auras; I hear voices. I know things that do not always make people happy-but I tell them the truth because I know the truth."

Mason figured that the truth was he was tired and she was drunker than a boiled owl. But, being the good brother that he was-and depending on her for his substantial allowance-he sat back and took a swallow of beer. "So, Celeste, did you have a good day?"

"No, I did not. My first client was late, and although she listened and asked questions, I could see that she was skeptical. This disturbed me. It ruined my day, in fact, and made it impossible for me to put aside her condescending smile and concentrate on more cosmic things."

"One of those biddies from the beauty shop?"

"Those women believe in my powers and pay very promptly for my services. Of course, I am worth every penny of it," Madam Celeste said, pouring yet another six inches of sherry into her plastic tumbler. "No, this was a woman not older than you. The daughter of one of my clients; she has been away on a vacation for several months. I took her as a favor, but now I think I should not have done so."

"Single?"

"She did not wear a wedding ring, but there was a faint mark as if she'd worn one once. The sand said she had been treated badly not too long ago; perhaps a divorce-I could not be sure."

This time Mason leaped to his feet and, with a small bow, filled Celeste's glass. "Allow me, Sis; I can see you're tired. This new client client-she's my age and single? Does she have warts or anything?"

"She was pretty, in a cool way. Dark hair in a bun, dark eyes, the high cheekbones so common in the Slavic aristocracy. But why are you asking all these questions, my little brother? I can smell cheap perfume on you, so I know you have been with a woman. Are you still so very desperate?"

Mason squirmed as her eyes bored into him; he wondered if maybe she did have a line to an inky universe he sure couldn't dial direct. "Lay off it; I told you about that already. It was just a group having dinner and barhopping. Why does that make me desperate?"

"Because she's a cop, dammit." Celeste shot him an unfathomable look, then banged down her tumbler and left the room.

The beeper was an interesting little critter. Black, so it'd go with both my uniform and my cocktail dress. Two buttons, and a grill that covered its mysterious organs. The idea was that I'd leave the PD telephone on call forwarding so folks would end up with the sheriff's dispatcher. She'd beep me, and I'd know to call her for a message. Damn thing had a range wide enough to cover the county, so there weren't too many places I could hole up or hide.

I was sitting behind my desk playing with it when the door banged open. Mrs. Jim Bob marched into the room, her expression more rigid than Edwina Spitz in a bargain-basement girdle. There was a righteous glint in her eye, and her mouth was a white line. Mrs. Jim Bob is also known as Mizzoner, but only to a select few who have nothing better to do than to idle away the hours in the PD making up feeble puns.

Mrs. Jim Bob is not one to waste her precious time on pleasantries. Ungluing her lips, she said, "Arly, it has come to my attention that a most dreadful event has taken place."

"Jim Bob knock up Raz's oldest girl?" I flipped over the beeper to study its serial number and arrangement of tiny, shiny screws.

"My husband is in Hot Springs at a municipal league convention, thank you. He takes his responsibilities more seriously than some city employees around here, and he and the other members of the town council went to the meeting despite any personal or financial sacrifice."

"Raz's oldest girl is out of town, too. You don't think he took her along, do you? She's just the type to be impressed by a snooty hotel and a real live convention. I hate to imagine what she'd be willing to do for one of those laminated name tags. What do you bet she's never even heard tell of room service?"

She gave me a beady look. "I'll be sure and ask him about it when he gets home next week. He'll think your remark was real funny, Miss Chief of Police."

Needling Mrs. Jim Bob was not enough of a challenge to merit the effort. "So what dreadful event has taken place?" I asked.

"Robin Buchanon is gone."

"And that's dreadful? I think we ought to buy a bottle of champagne-no, let's get a whole dadburn case of champagne and invite the neighbors over for a celebration. I'll stop by the Kwik-Screw for a box of Ritz crackers and some onion dip, and we'll party 'til the sun peeks over the tallest tree in the national forest. What's more, you can offer the first toast." Good thing I hadn't made a New Year's resolution to stop needling her-those who claim the copyright to half the Bible are such easy targets.

"It is not a source of amusement-and neither are you. You know perfectly well that I wouldn't touch alcohol with a ten-foot pole. I am a good Christian woman. Now, are you going to stop being a smart aleck and listen, or do I have to call Jim Bob long distance all the way to Hot Springs and tell him that you're shirking your duty as chief of police?"

"Gee, do the telephone wires go all the way to Hot Springs?"

"You listen to me, Ariel Hanks-I am fed up with your remarks. Now once and for all, are you going to hear me out or not?"

I put the beeper away and took a pad out of the middle drawer. "Do you want to file a missing persons report, ma'am? We can have the FBI here within the hour."

She nibbled on her unsullied lips (cosmetics being a vanity that led straight to you-know-where). "Well, I suppose so. But that's not the reason I-"

"Victim's full name and address, please. Date of birth. Physical description, including any and all warts, moles, tattoos, and scars. Next of kin in case something terrible has happened. Name of dentist, should we need dental records for purposes of identification. When last seen and by whom." I poised my pencil and gave her a bright smile. "But you feel free to take your time, Mrs. Jim Bob. It's a long report, but if we hang in there, we can do it." If she wanted officiousness, she was going to get it. Ad nauseam and then some.

"I don't know those things any better than you do, Arly."

I threw the pencil in the trash can, scoring two points along the way. In an aggrieved voice, I said, "Then why don't you just tell me how I'm supposed to fill out the report and put it on the telex to the FBI? I'm trying my damndest to follow procedure, but I'm not getting any assistance from you, if you don't mind me saying so. Those FBI fellows get hotter than a peck of parsnips if they get called in on some wild-goose chase." I toyed with suggesting that Robin was shacked up in a Hot Springs hotel room, but lost my nerve at the last minute.

I could see she wasn't quite sure whether I was ribbing her or not. She twisted her gloves for a full minute, then concluded that I was and gave me a hundred watt frown. "You want proof? Well, you just sit there and I'll be back with proof!" She stomped out the door.

I was trying to unscrew the back of the beeper when she stomped back in the door, dragging a small figure who looked mighty miserable under a tangle of black hair.

"This," she said triumphantly, "is one of Robin Buchanon's bastard children." She shoved the figure forward. "You tell the policewoman what happened and be quick about it. Take your finger out of your mouth while you speak, so's she can understand you. And speak up nice and loud."

The child looked to be about nine or ten, and was blessed with the simian features of the Buchanon clan. He/she wore dirty, ragged overalls, with neither shirt nor shoes. "I ain't talking to no police," he/she said in a mumble I could barely hear from four feet away. I could, however, smell a sourness that was clear evidence of lack of familiarity with soap and water for quite a while.

Mrs. Jim Bob prodded a shoulder. "Stop that nonsense and tell the policewoman your name. If you don't, she'll lock you up in a dark, wet cell and let the rats eat your face until you feel more obliged to talk."

"I ain't talking."

You've got to admire spunk. Smiling, I said, "I'm fresh out of dungeons and rats today. Why don't you at least tell me your name? It can't hurt. In fact, I'll bet you have a real pretty name."

"Like shit you do."

Mrs. Jim Bob grabbed the shoulder and gave it a shake hard enough to make brain milkshake. "We will not tolerate that sort of language. Didn't your mother teach you anything at all, you filthy-mouthed heathen?"

"Yeah-not to talk to cops unless'n I wanted the shit beat out of me."

Needless to say (but I'm saying it anyway), that did not sit well with Hizzoner's wife. Only her sense of Christian charity stopped her from following Robin Buchanon's guide to rearing perfectly correct children. She huffed and snorted for a long time, while I studied the child, who was busy studying me right back. "Is your mother missing?" I asked once everybody'd finished doing whatever he/she was doing.

"I dunno. Don't care neither."

Mrs. Jim Bob pushed her witness aside. "What happened is that I chanced to find this little heathen rooting through the garbage cans behind the store. I knew at once who he was and demanded to know how he had the audacity to steal right there in broad daylight. Once I'd assured him that he could go to jail for a long spell, not to mention other places for the sin of lying, he said that he and his brothers and sisters had been alone for several days with no food."

The child, who could by now be presumed male, gave me a sly look. "You cain't arrest me, because I didn't take nothing. The old bitch came out afore I could find sumpthin' worth taking. What was in those cans were meaner than gar-broth, anyways."

The old bitch started huffing. "You remember what I said about finding yourself locked in eternal damnation for the sin of cursing? If I hear one more foul word from you, I'm going to wash your mouth out with a bar of soap-and it won't be Ivory, either."

"Fuck you, lady."

We were having real success with this one. I gave Mrs. Jim Bob a wry smile meant to convince her of the futility of the situation (which was about as futile as they get), and said, "Well, I see no point in continuing this. The child is unwilling to make a statement. I can't take any action based on the information we have, so if you'll excuse me, I need to follow the school buses to the county line. We wouldn't want our youth jeopardized by those who fail to stop for school buses." Which would also allow me to breathe through my nose instead of my mouth.

"Don't be absurd. You must go to the cabin and investigate. If the mother is truly missing then you must bring the rest of the heathens back to town."

"I shall presume all that heavy breathing has induced hyperventilation," I said. "Go home and breathe into a paper bag."

"It is your Christian duty. Think of those poor, starving children all alone in the forest."

I stood up and clipped on my beeper. "If it's anyone's Christian duty, Mrs. Jim Bob, it's yours. Feel free to think all you want about those poor, starving children all alone in the forest. Tell this child the story of Hansel and Gretel until you turn blue in the face. But you're crazier than a flea on an elephant if you think I'm going up there, especially on some vague notion that Robin may have taken a hike for a couple of days."

"More'n that," the witness contributed. "And the baby ain't had tit for a long while. He's a-cryin' and a-mewin' all the time."

I glared at the child. "What's your name?"

"Hammet."

"Okay, Hammet," I said through clenched teeth, are you willing to tell me the whole story now? I'm hardly in the mood to sit here all afternoon and drag it out of you one word at a time."

Mrs. Jim Bob nodded as if she had singlehandedly pulled off a damn coup d'état in South America. "Of course Hammet will cooperate with the authorities. He doesn't want to go straight to hell on a freight train, does he?"

"Ain't never been on a train," Hammet muttered. "I heard 'em on t'other side of the ridge, though. How fast do you reckon they can go?"

This whole thing was going too fast for yours truly. "I will listen to the story," I said. "If it seems warranted, I will go so far as to borrow a fourwheel-drive jeep from the sheriff's office and try to find Robin's cabin out there in the middle of nowhere. If she has not returned, I will even fill the backseat with heathens and transport them back to town." I crossed my arms and stared at Mrs. Jim Bob. "Do you have any suggestions as to what I do next?"

She tried to pretend she missed the point. "Why, you do everything possible to find Robin and reunite her with her children."

"And until I find her?" I persisted, not missing a beat. "What do I do with the children until then?"

Mrs. Jim Bob paled. "Why, I'm sure you'll find a nice, warm, safe place for them to stay. They'll need food, beds, and clean clothing, of course, but they won't be any bother once they're fed and…disinfected."

I looked down at Hammet. "See this kind, Christian woman just brimming with charity? She lives way on the top of a hill, in a great big house with lots of bedrooms and bathrooms, and her refrigerator is bigger than the broad side of a barn. Ooh, it's just stuffed full of good things to eat, like meat and 'taters and cookies and ice cream. How would you and all your dear little brothers and sisters like to visit her?"

"I think," Mrs. Jim Bob said in a strangled voice, "that I'd best go see Brother Verber at the Voice Of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. I feel a sudden need for prayer."

I let her stumble away. Then, after opening the back door and the windows, I sat Hammet across the room and we got down to business.