Mischief In Maggody

6

The Ommms drifted over the fence in the late-afternoon light. Kevin Buchanon, agonized by indecision (not to mention tortured by temptation), leaned against the sweet gum tree and told himself not to do it. "Don't do it," he said aloud, hoping it would help. "Kevin, you know you don't want to get your ass whipped. You know better. Don't do it."

He squinched his eyes closed real tight and tried to concentrate on a vision of his true love, with her warm, soft, monstrous-big bosoms that liked to suffocated him on more than one occasion, and her marshmallowy expanse of rippling body flesh, and her always sincere invitation for him to crawl up that heavenly path between her legs and do anything he wanted. Not to forget her kindly words of instruction and willingness to learn him all kinds of wondrous things.

It didn't help. He shinnied up the tree to the first branch, then wiggled around until he was standing up. He still couldn't see what was going on next door. Scrabbling and grunting, he climbed up several more branches, and took a minute to catch his breath before he turned around to see what he could see.

"Oh, lordy, lordy, lordy," he said in a low whoosh, as his stomach flopped over like a catfish in the bottom of a johnboat. They were naked as the day they was born, all four of them. The men were hairy and uninteresting. But the women-well, that was different, at least in Kevin Buchanon's wide, unblinking eyes. The one with a bun in the warmer was a smidgen rounder, as to be expected. The other one, that being the one with the ripe round perky bosoms, each just a handful, and that flat belly that went all the way down to that dark, fuzzy-

"Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon! You git down from there right this minute! You pa's going be home any time now, and you know what he said he'd do if he caught you up in this tree again!"

He made it to the ground with only a few scratches and a rip in the seat of his jeans. "Gee, Ma," he said, his Adam's apple rippling furiously, "I was just making sure they weren't doing nothing illegal that I ought to report to the chief."

"What's Arly got to do with you being a lowdown peeping Tom?"

"She told me to keep an eye on them. Since she doesn't have a deputy anymore, she asked me to do my civic duty and help her." He was real proud of the inspired reference to civic duty, his ma being big on patriotism and a one-time secretary of the county DAR. The rest of it had been planned over several hours of commode scrubbing. Ad-libbing was not his forte.

"Arly Hanks has a sight more sense than that, young man. I've known her since the day she was born, and I've never seen any signs she's mentally retarded. Which is more than I can say about some folks, present company included. You'd better go in the house and pray for forgiveness of both your sins: lusting at naked ladies and lying to your own mother."

"She did so, Ma. It's supposed to be a secret, though, and I'm not supposed to say nothing about it to anyone, including my own flesh and blood. I swore on the Bible and everything. She says those hippies are breaking the law, and all we need is evidence so we can lock 'em up tighter than ticks on a hound dog's tail."

"Commence your prayers," Eilene Buchanon said, unmoved by the importance of his secret assignment to rid the local environs of dastardly crime. "If you pray real hard, mebbe I won't have to tell your pa that I caught you up in the sweet gum again. His belt's hanging by the back door where it's right handy. He'll be home shortly." She went back to the kitchen to stir the corn bread batter. Kevin trailed after her, explaining her civic duty not to tell anybody, including Pa and especially Pa, about the secret assignment.

Across the fence, the chanting stopped. Poppy lay back on the blanket and massaged her belly. "It's kicking. Does anyone want to feel it?"

"Of course we do," Rainbow said, nudging Zachery. "We all love you and we all love our baby. Isn't that right?"

Zachery obediently crawled across the blanket and put his hand next to Poppy's. "Like, wow. I feel it. Do you think it's all excited by the meditation vibes?"

Rainbow smiled as she joined him next to Poppy's supine body. "That's an intriguing thought, Zachery. I don't know why the baby wouldn't sense the cosmic harmony and want to move with it. What do you think, Nate?"

He lit a cigarette. "Probably taking a crap. Listen, I need the truck in the morning. Got to talk to a man in Farberville about some personal business. I'll drop you off at the store on my way out of town. I should be back by the middle of the afternoon."

"That's impossible," Rainbow said gently. "Poppy has an appointment with the midwife just before noon. I'm going to drive her over and wait."

"Change it. I need the truck. I'll bet you enjoy hassling me all the time, don't you? Gives you a real kick."

Rainbow's smile trembled as she struggled for sympathy, cooperation, and lovingness. "But Nate, the midwife is an old granny woman who lives in a shack on the county road. She doesn't have a telephone, so we can't call to change the appointment. But let's vote on it, shall we? That way we'll follow the communal spirit and strengthen our harmony. Who feels Poppy's need is greater than Nate's?"

Nate threw down his cigarette and stalked into the house. A few minutes later the truck's engine rumbled to life. A cloud of dust blew over the fence, eventually settling like cocoa powder on the three naked occupants of the backyard meditation garden.

"Like, wow," Zachery said, using his finger to draw a happy face on Poppy's belly. Kevin would have loved it.

I had a pleasant evening and a reasonable night's sleep, although I had to remind myself a couple of times that the Buchanon brood was in good hands. Granted they were pious, self-righteous hands, but at least not gnarled and hirsute talons. Mizzoner, the mayor's wife, had good intentions. The Buchanons were tough enough to deal with her.

The next morning I dawdled at the PD for a couple hours. I was about to get in the jeep when David Allen drove up in his four-wheel wagon. "Aren't you supposed to be counseling the youth of Maggody High?" I asked. "Don't they need scholarship applications for welding schools and the mudwrestling academy?"

"I've taken a break. Do you have time to do the same and join me for a cup of coffee?"

We went into the PD, and he looked around while I started a pot of coffee. "This isn't exactly Scotland Yard," he said, grinning at me. "You could put two of these in the auto-repair shop at the high school and still have room for a Trans Am with a bent axle."

"Did you run away from school to tell me that?"

"No, I ran away from school for two unrelated yet intensely compelling reasons. One is that a terribly sincere girl named Heather Riley has made her seventy-third appointment with me, and I felt a sudden urge to leave. She cries so much, I wear an inner tube while I listen to her. I have no idea what her problems are, either, beyond muddled references to harelips and imperiled virginity. I'm not sure if she wants to lose or acquire either or both."

I handed him a cup of coffee and sat down behind my desk. "And the second compelling reason?"

"You were right about the psychic, and I wanted to drink a toast to your keen grasp of the sociological interactions of the town." He took a sip of coffee and made a face. "At a later time and with champagne. Your waterbed or mine?"

I let it go over my head, which wasn't hard since I was sitting down and he was standing up. The Macaroni law of physics. "So the psychic is no longer upsetting the fragile psyches of the senior class?"

"Carol Alice Plummer is not going to commit suicide. She is sporting an eighteenth-of-a-carat diamond ring, and checking out bridal magazines from the school library. As far as I know, she's not even pregnant; it may be the first wedding ceremony in Maggody in which the groomsmen are not armed. Her fiancé, one Bo Swiggins, who has no neck but does have a sly sense of humor, has sworn to win the homecoming game in her honor. For the gripper, as he is reputed to have said in the locker room."

"Then I can see your professional life is under control, David Allen. I wish I could say the same about mine, but I never lie before noon. In fact, I'd better get back to business."

"Issuing tickets at the stoplight?"

"No," I sighed. I told him about the disappearance of Robin Buchanon and the subsequent problem, collectively known as Bubba, Sissie, Hammet, Sukie, and Baby. "I'm going to drive back up to the cabin and see if she, like a distaff General MacArthur, has returned. I'm not taking any bets on it, though. At the same time, it's hard to envision her deciding to head off across the mountains to points unknown. Her sideline's portable, but her major occupation isn't."

"Turning tricks and making moonshine," he said, nodding. "I'd been in town less than twenty minutes when one of the good ole boys in the subdivision dropped by with a mason jar of the vilest field whiskey I'd ever tasted. Not to say we didn't drink it, of course, but it left scars all the way down my throat. As for her sideline, the ole boy got all choked up when he tried to describe her talents in that arena. Only a couple of the boys have had the nerve to actually go through with it. One of them has never been seen again."

"I see you have no compunctions regarding prelunch fabrications. Actually, I'm worried about her. I'll hunt around for her still, but I doubt I can find it any more than I'll stumble across her family ginseng patch. And why would she be lurking for almost a week at either of those places, anyway?" I leaned back in the chair and propped my feet on my desk. "I can't come up with any theories to explain her disappearance. I wouldn't dream of trying to delve into her possible motives to pull this stunt; she's unlike anything I've ever met. All I know is that she left the cabin with a hoe and a gunnysack, and the children expected her back before dark. Nearly a week ago. She's a mountain woman, not the sort to twist an ankle or grab the wrong end of a copperhead. She probably fries up a mess of copperhead for Sunday brunch."

"I have an idea," David Allen said, perching on the corner of my desk and giving me an impish grin. "Why don't you consult Madam Celeste?"

"That's the stupidest thing I've heard all morning," I replied with an impish grin of my own.

Mrs. Jim Bob perched on the corner of her bed so as not to wrinkle the bedspread. She'd been there most of the night. Her best linen skirt was crumpled so badly, it looked as if an army tank had run across her lap. One of her nylons had come unclipped and hung around her ankle like dead skin. Her hair was uncombed. Her best blouse was splattered with something; she couldn't remember what. Her own blood, maybe, unless it was ketchup or mud or something even worse. She didn't care what it was.

The bedroom door was locked. She was pretty sure it was, but she continued to get up every fifteen minutes or so just to check. It came to about fifty times she'd checked thus far, but she didn't care. There was water in the master bathroom, and a grayish candy bar in Jim Bob's night-table drawer. It wasn't like she was going to die. On the contrary, she could barricade herself in the room for a long time, and those despicable creatures couldn't get their filthy hands on her no matter how hard they tried.

Downstairs, somewhere, she couldn't tell exactly, came the sound of shattering glass. For a while she'd tried to envision what each explosion was-the pseudo-Ming vase on the dining-room table, a window, the screen on the television. She hadn't thought to keep a list, and by now she couldn't recollect what all might still be intact. Not much, though.

She went over to the window and stared down at the driveway. Brother Verber hadn't come by for a piece of pie, but it was just as well, since the bastards had chanced upon the pie within a few minutes of storming the house. That was when she was still clinging to the premise that she was in control. Oh, she'd tried to be nice about it and not scold the little one too sharply about the smudge on the new beige carpet. A slap on the hand had stopped the whining. And, she'd told herself at the time, it was important to establish that they were there only out of the goodness of her heart, for which they should be deeply and eternally grateful.

It hadn't turned into a nightmare until she'd announced that the stink was unbearable and that it was bathtime, no ifs or buts. She'd ordered the oldest, a surly thing who was way too big for his filthy britches, into the mud room off the garage. Of course, by the time she'd hustled him there, the others had scuttled into hiding like cockroaches caught in the light. And every time she found one and started dragging it toward the bathroom, another one would leap on her back and claw at her and screech unspeakably vile things at her, as if she weren't engaged in doing her Christian duty to get them one inch closer to godliness.

Which got her back to Brother Verber and his no-show. He was the one who'd counseled her to bring the bastards into her home-or what was left of it. He'd been full of praise for her self-sacrificing, saintly, charitable generosity. Why, if he'd said not to do it, she might well have heeded his advice. But he'd been right enthusiastic. He didn't seem to think it was a sin to disobey her husband, even though she'd said "love, honor, and obey" in a clear, steady voice and had certainly meant every syllable of it at the time.

Which got her back to Jim Bob.

She retreated to the bed and sank down on the edge so as not to wrinkle the bedspread. At last she took the telephone book and looked up a number. She didn't much want to admit things weren't going real well, but she didn't see what else she could do-if she wanted to be the mayor's wife and live in a fine house on top of the hill, complete with professional landscaping and new beige carpet. Her finger was trembling so hard, it took her a long time to fit it in the little circles, but she did.

"That is the second stupidest thing I've heard all day," I said. "The only reason it's not the stupidest is that I've already heard it."

"But it makes perfickly good sense," Ruby Bee said. She plopped a spoonful of yellow goop into Baby's mouth, then wiped the little chin with a dishrag. "Madam Celeste has the ability to help you find Robin Buchanon, and you're downright mulish not to ask her to assist in the investigation. I told you how she advised Gladys Buchanon to look in her top dresser drawer for her glasses, and there they were. Now, you can't close your eyes to the significance of something like that."

"Watch me." I closed my eyes until it got boring. When I opened them, I saw Ruby Bee bent down in front of the high chair, shoveling in more goop. "It's out of the question, and I don't want to discuss it further. Madam Celeste is a quack, as in duck."

"She is not," Estelle said in a scandalized voice. She was sitting at the bar, smiling approval at each successful spoon of goop. "Wipe his chin, Ruby Bee; he's liable to chap. Now, Arly, I don't know where you get off saying that sort of thing. Did you hear the story behind Madam Celeste's move to Maggody?"

"Something about a lost boy," I said. "Right out of a book about flying children, pirates, and fairies. I just came by to check on Baby and let you know where I'll be for the next six hours of my life. I did not come by to argue about something that is out of the question."

Estelle held out her hand to inspect her scarlet fingernails. "Well," she said airily, "isn't it timely that you'll have the opportunity to tell Madam Celeste yourself."

"No, I won't. I'm going up to Cotter's Ridge to see how many chiggers and ticks I can find. I'm going to come back to my apartment and take a long, hot bath and read a trashy thriller until my toes shrivel up. If I see fit, I may go hog wild and open a can of chicken noodle soup." I did not add that I would then go over to David Allen's house for a rematch and a bottle of champagne. Nobody's business.

"Tomorrow," Estelle continued in the same complacent voice. "That's when I told Mason to tell her that you were coming. At eleven o'clock, and try not to be late this time, Arly. You can see that it upsets Madam Celeste."

"No."

"Estelle as good as made an appointment," Ruby Bee said.

"Estelle can cancel it," I said, starting for the door.

"Madam Celeste has a very busy schedule, and I don't aim to do anything to upset her," Estelle said.

I stopped and turned back with my firmest expression (my ex-husband used to refer to it as "the Ice Queen Clone"). "This has nothing to do with me. I am not going to allow Madam Celeste to muddle up this investigation. I am not going to allow you two to muddle it up, either. You may make and break appointments to your hearts' desires, but I do not even want to hear about it. Am I making myself clear?"

"Like Boone Creek," Ruby Bee sniffed.

"In April," Estelle snorted.

I turned my back on the pair and stomped out the door. It would have played better if my beeper hadn't started chirping before I made it to the jeep. In that it was the first time it had done anything except disrupt my lines, it took me a few seconds to punch the button that indicated I'd received the message. And of course the radio in the jeep was dead, owing to someone's inquisitive, dirty little fingers.

I went back inside the bar and over to the telephone, ignoring all the raised eyebrows and smirky smiles aimed in my direction. I called the dispatcher and asked for the message, which turned out to be Mrs. Jim Bob Buchanon, an emergency, call as soon as possible. "What kind of emergency?" I asked the dispatcher.

"I don't know, Arly. She sound pretty weird, though, like a character in one of those zombie movies. The last time I had a call like that was from an eighty-four-year-old woman who'd just put two loads of buckshot in her husband's face. Seems he'd been fooling around with some girl at the community college. Night school, naturally. She pled temporary insanity 'cause of unbridled passion, and the jury hooted so hard the judge threw it out of court. It was about a month after Hiram's barn burned."

I thanked the dispatcher for the bit of trivia (although I doubted it would come up in the edition David Allen and I played) and replaced the receiver. I knew darn well what Mrs. Jim Bob's emergency was, but I didn't know how to handle it so that it wouldn't result in a jeepful of Buchanon bush colts.

"Isn't he the sweetest thing?" Ruby Bee cooed.

"He's such a darling," Estelle simpered. "It's just awful that no one seems to have taken the time to give this cutie pie a name. Now, look at that tiny nose. Isn't that the tiniest little nose you ever laid eyes on?"

I took my thirty-five-year-old nose out the door, telling myself I'd deal with the emergency at Mizzoner's house when I got back to town. The justification for the cowardice was the premise that I'd find Robin at the cabin, sick with worry about her children and frantic to dash back with me so she could clutch them to her bosom. It put a strain on my powers of imagination, but I clenched my teeth and gave it my best as I drove toward Cotter's Ridge. At fifteen miles over the speed limit. I wasn't going to issue a citation to myself, after all.

Mrs. Jim Bob glared at the telephone, but it still wouldn't ring. Somewhere below there was a thud that shook the house, followed by a screech and some howls. Mrs. Jim Bob kept her eyes on the telephone, willing it to ring. Making all kinds of promises to the Lord if He'd make it ring. Making promises in Jim Bob's name if He'd make it ring, and telling herself she would take it upon herself, Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon (they were second cousins once removed), to see he carried out every last one of them. The telephone remained silent.

When she'd called earlier, she was promised that the message would be beeped to Chief Hanks pronto. She'd told Jim Bob that the purchase of the beeper was a waste of municipal funds, but he'd snickered and said he'd have preferred a choke collar, but couldn't convince the other councilmen to agree. Well, it was obvious who was right and who was wrong. The beeper was a waste of money-since it didn't work.

Thinking of that brought her back to Jim Bob, for the umpteenth time. He was going to be furious, both at the fact that she'd defied him and at the destruction of the house. He could be meaner than a pit bull terrier with mange. She certainly couldn't call him all the way down in Hot Springs to get his advice about the horrid frenzy going on downstairs. Arly didn't seem inclined to return her call. Besides, she told herself with the slightest hint of a wicked smile (because she was not a wicked woman; everybody knew that), the bastards needed a strong moral hand to slap them into a semblance of civilized behavior. And who was the shining beacon of morality and righteousness and decency in Maggody?

Wincing at a particularly loud crash, she dialed the number of the Voice of the Almighty Lord parsonage, which was a mobile home parked out behind the building. The line was busy. Sighing, Mrs. Jim Bob dialed the dispatcher to try again.

The cabin was as vacant as a dead man's eyes. Having expected nothing to the contrary, I forced myself to poke around for clues. What kind of clues did I think I'd find? Nonexistent clues. The cabin was a two-room shack, the front room a general-purpose living room, library, kitchen, sleeping area for the children, and den. A living room because of a couple of hickory chairs with splintery seats; a library because of a family Bible and a few tattered picture books; a kitchen because of a wood stove and a bucket of greenish water; a sleeping area because of the straw pallets. A den because it was fit for animal occupancy.

The back room was Robin's bedroom. The bed was a contraption of sticks lashed together with rope, the mattress stuffed with corncobs. A pile of clothes reeked in one corner, and two complacent mice scratched in the other. Over the bed hung a small square of cross-stitch that said, God Bless Our Happy Home. Robin probably traded a jar of hooch for it.

She wasn't there, though, and the stove was cold. There were a lot of cobwebs, but I had no idea how long they'd been there. Years, maybe. Dirt and grime and grease. Dried leaves on the pinewood floor. A tin plate with some unidentifiable smears of a meal long past. If you noticed I didn't describe the bathroom, it's because it was at the end of a path out back and I wasn't in the mood to open the door for a quick search.

It got to me. I went outside and sat down on the edge of the porch, still amazed and depressed that people could live that way. It was more than thirteen hundred miles to Manhattan-it was more like a million miles. Had my ex, who thought he was dealing with a primitive culture when his martini lacked an olive, been given a tour of the cabin and adjunct, he would have assumed he was hallucinating and dashed off to his analyst to discuss the implications. Had Robin been given a tour of the Manhattan co-op, she would have laughed herself silly at what we felt was vital to a civilized existence.

I reminded myself that Robin Buchanon had chosen her lifestyle. She had enough relatives in the county to throw herself on one of them, to live in the back room or up in the attic. Or down in the root cellar, for that matter. But her children hadn't made the decision to live in incredibly grim poverty, isolated from normal people, deprived of any chance for an education and thus unable to escape from a lifetime of this. Perhaps I'd done them a disservice by bringing them off the ridge, I thought bleakly. Especially Hammet, who seemed to have a quick wit and a curious mind.

"Aw, hell," I said aloud, startling a lonely hen that had wandered around the corner to peck at the packed dirt. She gave me a beady look, then produced a single cluck of disapproval and stalked away.

I decided to see if David Allen might be able to do something for the children, who were legally required to attend the local school, even if said school was not delighted to have them and willing to waive the long-standing truancy. However, for the moment I needed to search the area for Robin's still and the ginseng patch. Both were probably in an eighty-acre section. I reluctantly rose and started into the woods, glad I'd had the sense to wear boots and a heavy jacket.

Mason opened the door cautiously. "How you doing, Celeste?" he asked in a low voice. "Can I fetch something for you-a soda pop or a sandwich?"

She sat in front of a round table. Tarot cards were spread in front of her, each a brightly colored depiction of an ancient symbol. "Come in, Mason," she said without looking up.

"Ah, sure." He entered the solarium and sat down across from her at the dinette table. "Have you figured out whose face you saw when you were with Carol Alice?"

"No. But there are many swords in the cards these days, which tell me there will be trouble. The King of Wands appears every time I deal the cards; he will not go away and he is always reversed. I do not like it." She tapped a card with a picture of a bearded monarch.

"He doesn't look all that nasty," Mason said. "You see him from your side of the table. To me, he is reversed, which indicates the presence of at best an unreliable man, at worst a sly liar."

Mason laughed, albeit uncomfortably. "Not your baby brother, I hope. I may forget to watch the time once in a while, but I'm a terrible liar. You know how my face turns red and I start to stammer."

She glanced up for a brief second, her expression enigmatic. Returning to the cards, she said, "I am not sure who it represents. He is surrounded by the Nine of Swords and the Moon, which warns me there is trickery and deception in this town. There is much mischief afoot in this little town of Maggody, but I do not know who is behind it or why." She tapped a picture of a skeleton holding a scythe. "And Death is here, grinning at me."

Mason stared at the card, reminding himself he didn't believe in this crap. "Is someone going to die?" he heard himself say with a gulp.

"It does not always mean that someone will die. There will be changes, however, and not necessarily for the best. And the King of Swords, reversed, speaks to me of violence. I do not like what I see, Mason, but the cards do not lie to me."

He couldn't think of much to say, so he settled for a nod and repeated his offer to fetch her something to eat or drink. He was relieved when she ordered him away with an irritable demand to be left alone. Fine with him, he thought as he went out to his car. He'd go over to Ruby Bee's and see if anybody wanted to discuss pro football over a beer. As he backed out of the driveway, he spotted the redhaired beautician coming toward the mailbox. He rolled down the car window and said, "Good morning, Miss Oppers. How are you this fine autumn morning?"

"Did you tell Madam Celeste that Arly wanted an appointment tomorrow morning?"

"You have my deepest apologies, because I forgot all about it. Do you want me to run back inside and ask her if that'll be okay?"

She stood there chewing her lipstick for a long while. "No, that's real kind of you, Mason. But I can see you're leaving, so I'll just tap on the door and have a word with Madam Celeste myself. Things are a little more delicate than I'd first thought they'd be."

Mason considered warning her about his sister's present mood, since her moods weren't all that good even when she wasn't upset. He settled for a smile and another comment about the crisp sunshine and glorious foliage of the trees. He then got the hell out of there and went in search of a beer.

My beeper beeped sporadically all afternoon. That was the only thing that happened, except for a minor heart stopper over a six-foot black snake and a slight sensation of paranoia that came from being alone in the middle of nowhere, with only squirrels, birds, gnats, mosquitoes, and a horde of unseen critters for company. I didn't spot any pay phones among the scrub oak, so I didn't call the dispatcher. Maybe I was psychic, since I knew precisely what the message would be. No still, no ginseng patch. No sign of Robin Buchanon. No sign of anyone else, for that matter. I spent an hour working my way to the top of the ridge in a zigzag. I sat down on a log until the sweat dried, then moved half a mile east and zigzagged back down to the cabin. Robin hadn't come back in my absence. A spider had started a web in the jeep. A bleached sow with an amiable expression ambled out of the brush and went past me without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. The hen, perched on the porch rail, watched me closely as I eased the spider out with a stick, started the engine (I will admit to a small word of prayer as I turned the key), and drove down the road to town.

As I went past Ruby Bee's, I noticed a silver BMW parked among the pickup trucks, but I was too sore and itchy to waste more than a second wondering why anyone with that sort of income would have such wretched taste in their choice of watering hole. I did feel obligated to stop at the PD, despite the knowledge that Kevin Buchanon might stumble through the door while I was there.

The beeper chirped as I parked out front. I told myself I was going to have to grit my teeth and do the right thing, but I wasn't feeling any tingles of anticipation as I called the dispatcher. Who told me that Mrs. Jim Bob Buchanon had left eleven messages concerning the escalating state of emergency.

I was about to call her when Kevin did indeed stumble through the door. Telling myself I really ought to adopt this psychic stuff and set up shop in some distant city, I managed a civil greeting. "You look downright awful, Arly. Did something happen to you?"

"I look like someone who spent more than three hours fighting briars and mosquitoes up on Cotter's Ridge. As soon as I make one call, I'm going home to clean up." I picked up the receiver, hoping he'd take the hint.

Subtlety was not his forte. "Was you looking for Robin Buchanon? Dahlia says the dirty slut done run off and left her babies all alone. Dahlia says the littlest baby was near starved to death. Dahlia says you ought to lock Robin up and swallow the key."

"I'll take Dahlia's suggestions into consideration. Now, if you don't mind, I need to make a call."

"Sure thing. Don't pay me no mind, Arly." He sat down and stared at me as though prepared for small green antennas to slither out my ears.

"You can sweep the back room."

"Okay." He didn't move. Well, his Adam's apple bobbled and his eyes blinked and his lips twitched and his fingers plucked at the hem of his plaid shirt. His rear end, on the other hand, might as well have been epoxied to the chair.

"Is there anything else, Kevin?"

"Whatcha going to do about finding Robin? Do you want me to go with you next time to help you search for her? I could ask Dahlia to pack some samwiches and RC colas so we could search all day."

I held back a shudder. "No, but thank you for the offer. I realized this afternoon just how futile it is to think I can find anything in that many square miles of woods. I'm going to take the jeep back to the sheriff in the morning and see if he can send over some deputies to help. If we have to, we can try for a helicopter from the state boys. By noon tomorrow, the whole case will be out of my hands." I'd decided all that on the drive home-while scratching the innumerable red spots and watching the blood well up in some of the deeper lacerations on my hands.

"But we can find her ourselves, Kevin protested. "I know we can."

"There is no 'we,' Kevin. I am paid to serve as chief of police and you are paid to sweep the floors and empty the wastebaskets. Those are entirely different job descriptions."

"I'll be a deputy for free. You don't have to give me no extra money. It's my civic duty, and-"

"Please sweep the floors," I said with a sigh.

"But I know we can find out where Robin's holed up. Mebbe Dahlia can come with us to help search. If you want, I can call her right now and ask her if she can come along."

"The search is over," I said in a stern voice, trying not to even imagine Dahlia O'Neill trudging through the woods. It was an ecological nightmare. "I am going home. When you finish your chores, you go home and spend a quiet evening in front of the television with your ma and pa."

"But gee, Arly, don't you-"

"Good night, Kevin." I let the door slam for emphasis.

I heard his whines as I cut through the parking lot and waited on the side of the highway while a battered pickup truck ran the light. Then, clutching my coat tightly around my shoulders, I trotted across the street and took sanctuary in my apartment. With the door locked and the telephone off the hook.