Mischief In Maggody

7

I took a bath that lasted as long as I'd vowed it would. I put on jeans and a shirt, stuck a few bobby pins in the bun on my neck, took it down and did it again, applied some makeup, and remembered that I hadn't called Mrs. Jim Bob. I was debating whether to call or drive over there when I heard a timid tap on my front door.

Hammet stood on the landing. "Howdy, Arly," he said, giving me a smile meant to disarm me via candor and charm. "I thought to come by and see how you was doin'."

I took him inside and put him on the couch. "That's neighborly of you, but I suspect there's more to it than a sudden urge to pay a social call. Does Mrs. Jim Bob know you're here?"

"Her? Course she does. She done telled me to visit you as long as I wanted to. She said I could stay here all night iffen I wanted to."

"What's going on over there, anyway? Are your brothers and sisters raising hell?"

"My siblings happens to be behavin' like they's supposed to," he said indignantly. "Last night ever'body took baths and had some grub. Today we jest hanged around, mostly a-playin' and things like that. What do you think we'd be liked to do? Skin the hide offen that kindly ole woman or somethin'?"

Something like that, yes. "I've been getting frantic messages all day. It was reasonable to assume she was having problems," I said, looking down at him. He gazed up with a dopey, angelic expression that almost-but not quite-convinced me he wasn't lying through his teeth. Which I suspected he was. "Why don't I call Mrs. Jim Bob and let her know you made it over here safely?" I suggested.

"She done knows that. I ain't going to get et by a bear in town."

"Let's tell her anyway." I headed for the telephone, but before I could dial the number, there was another knock on the door. Pretty soon I had David Allen on the sofa next to Hammet, who was delighted to make the acquaintance of this unexpected (read: timely) visitor.

David Allen grinned at me. "I was going to surprise you with an invitation for an exotic cocktail at a bar in Farberville. Something with seven kinds of liqueurs in a plastic coconut shell with lots of fruit and an umbrella. But I've got a better idea: how about a hot fudge sundae with oodles of hot fudge sauce, whipped cream, nuts, and a maraschino cherry? What do you say to that, Hammet?"

If he expected Hammet to clap his hands in childish glee, he was in for a long wait. Hammet studied him, then said, "What be all those things you says?"

"You've never had a hot fudge sundae?" David Allen said, clearly dismayed. "But that's disgraceful. Criminal. Unforgivable. Come on, you two. I have a paternal obligation to get this child into the presence of seven thousand calories. To the wagon!"

Somehow I got bustled out the door, put inside his wagon, admonished to buckle my seat belt, and swept away into the sunset. I had a quick glance at the PD as David Allen dove around the corner, and something was not right. Before I had a chance to pinpoint it, Hammet Buchanon draped himself over my shoulder from the backseat and demanded to know why anybody'd be fool enough to put hot stuff on ice cream, which was supposed to be cold stuff. And who invented it, anyways? One of those Eye-talians, he bet. David Allen was clucking like a hen.

"When we get where we're going, I aim to sit right here in the jeep," Dahlia said. "I don't aim to wander around in them woods and get spiders in my hair like I did last time. But you better hurry, cause it's getting dark. Arly's going to kill you if we run into a old log and wreck the jeep." She gazed at her beloved, feeling a twinge of sadness on account of his inescapable fate. "She's going to kill you, anyways, for stealing the jeep. It's not even hers."

"I didn't steal the jeep. I borrowed it so we could help in the investigation of the missing woman what got lost in the woods, which is my civic duty. Yours too, honeybun. All we have to do is find Robin Buchanon and bring her back to her poor little baby. Arly won't be mad, 'cause it'll mean me and her solved the case without having to call the sheriff." He gunned the engine, sending the jeep bouncing up the trail like a clubfoot rabbit.

"How do you know how to go about finding her, Kevin? There's a lot of trees and bushes. She could be anywhere on the ridge, you know, unless she's over at Starley City a-whorin' on a street corner. How're you going to find her?"

"I don't rightly know, angel," Kevin admitted, beginning to wonder if his plan was a mite shaky. "But Arly must've searched by the cabin, so I figgered we ought to take one of the trails from the other side of the ridge."

"It's gettin' dark, Kevin."

"I see that, sweetie pie, but we cain't turn around now. We just got to hope this trail will take us to the ridge road."

"Why cain't we turn around?"

Kevin gave her a manly smile, since he was a man who was brave and fearless and willin' to take a risk now and then in the name of civic duty. "Because the trail's too narrow. Now you hang on real tight. We'll get somewhere before too long, and you just wait and see if we don't find Robin Buchanon."

Dahlia took a sandwich out of the basket between her feet. She disposed of it in three mouthfuls, licked her fingers, then carefully folded the wax paper into a neat square and tucked it back into the basket. "I trust you, Kevin," she said with a bovine gaze of deep emotion. And a dainty belch. Kevin took one hand off the wheel to pat her knee. The jeep promptly hit a rut deep enough to drown a mule. Before either of them could so much as shriek, the jeep lunged across the weeds and buried itself in a thicket of firs and scrub oaks. Branches slashed at arms and necks. Fir needles slapped faces with the fury of a spinster schoolmarm. The engine, which had squealed in midair, died as the jeep bounced into an unyielding tree. The silence was louder than anything preceding it.

"Oh, lordy!" Kevin gasped. He looked wildly at his beloved, who seemed to have lodged herself on the floorboard in front of the seat. All he could see was her broad back and one leg hanging out the side of the jeep like a fat white salami. "Dahlia! Are you okay?"

"Git me outta here," came a muffled voice. "I got my face in the chicken salad and it's trying to get up my nose and kill me."

It was not easy, what with her being wedged so tightly, but Kevin managed to get her free and settled back on the seat. Her face was bright red, her cheeks puffing in and out at an alarming rate, and her hands fluttering with distress. "What happened?" she demanded when she got her breath back.

Kevin tried to explain, but he could tell she wasn't impressed. In fact, right when he was describing how he'd battled the steering wheel like their lives depended on it, she bent down to see if the sandwiches had been squashed beyond eating. Luckily, they had not, and that was the only reason Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon was allowed to live.

Once she finished a tuna salad on rye and a pimento cheese on white, Dahlia gazed at Kevin. "What d' you aim to do now? We're stuck plumb in the middle of the woods, and I reckon the jeep's busted. It's miles and miles to town, no matter which way we go. And I ain't gonna walk."

"I never said you had to walk," he protested.

"Ain't no bus service."

"I never said there was bus service, my lamb chop."

"Then what do you aim to do?"

Kevin studied the woods all around them. All tangled and snarly, and on the shadowy side. Getting darker by the minute. Estimating was not his forte, but he hazarded a guess they was more than ten miles from town. He eyed his beloved. She wasn't going to walk, and he doubted he could carry her more than a couple of inches.

She plopped a sandwich in her mouth, and through the chicken salad said, "It's getting cold, Kevin. I heard tell more than one time there was bears and wolves in these here woods. I'm supposed to be at work at nine o'clock. Call for help on the radio; tell them they got to come get us."

Gripped with ambivalence yet unwilling to disobey, Kevin fiddled with the knobs, but the radio remained silent. "It's broken, my angel. Lemme see if I can fix the jeep. There's a toolbox under the seat."

Dahlia worked her way through the remainder of the tuna sandwiches while Kevin crawled around under the jeep. She had just decided to tackle the pimento cheese when she heard a droning noise from somewhere up the ridge. She thought about telling Kevin, but chose not to interrupt him. She also thought about pimento cheese but ultimately chose chicken salad, and was on her third as the noise grew so loud it started to alarm her. "Kevin! Something's coming."

He wiggled out from under the front of the jeep and got to his feet. "You're right, my darling. I hear it, too. But what do you reckon it is?"

"I was thinking that it sounds like that crazy lunatic in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre when he commenced to cutting off everybody's head. Now what do you aim to do?"

He came around to the passenger's side, a wrench held in his decidedly sweaty hand. "I ain't going to let some crazy lunatic attack you. If he so much as makes a move in any of your directions, I'll bash him on the head until he sees stars and begs for mercy." He could see she was impressed, although he had a few doubts himself. However, there wasn't anything to do but stand there, prepared to defend his woman from a chain-saw lunatic.

A light cut across the tops of the firs. The drone, now a heartchilling buzz that implied decapitation and worse, grew louder and louder. Kevin sucked in his gut and raised the wrench. The light bounced in the branches. Dahlia solemnly ate the last of the chicken salad, wondering if she'd ever see pepperoni pizza or cherry cobbler again. The buzzing became a million angry hornets. Kevin stepped forward. Dahlia let out a belch of sheer terror.

A motorcycle crashed through the underbrush. The driver, disguised by a bubble helmet, wore a black leather jacket and boots. Kevin stumbled backward, lost his balance, and sprawled across Dahlia's lap. The driver leaned over to cut off the engine. Dahlia goggled, just knowing in her heart this madman from hell was reaching for the chain saw. He came up emptyhanded. Taking off the helmet, he said, "Kevin Buchanon and Dahlia O'Neill? What in blazes are you two a-doin' up here?"

"Merle?" Dahlia said as she tried to remove Kevin's shoe from her rib cage. "Merle Hardcock? What are you a-doin' up here?"

"I was practicing my cross-country technique," Merle said. He smoothed down his wispy white hair and gave Dahlia a conspiratorial wink. "Got to get ready for the big one, you know."

Dahlia didn't know anything, including why Merle was winking at her like he had a gnat in his eye. "For goodness' sakes, Merle; you liked to give me a heart attack. Kevin and I came up here for a picnic, but we had a small variety of problem with the jeep."

"Like running into a tree?" Merle cackled. "You two can get on with your picnic, but it's getting dark. I got to hustle ass back to town and find Arly."

Kevin freed his head from under the steering wheel to peer across Dahlia's broad thighs. "Why do you have to find Arly? Is it police business?"

"You might say that." Merle let out another round of cackles. "It's a dead body, so I'd say it was likely to be police business."

"I am on assignment for the chief," Kevin said in his best official voice. He pulled himself up and ordered his Adam's apple to stop bobbling like a yo-yo. "You better tell me what you found, Merle Hardcock. You just tell me whose body you found and where you found it-and for your sake, I'd like to hope you didn't tamper with the scene. I'll report to Arly."

"From your tree phone?" Merle put on the helmet, muffling the cackles. The motorcycle came to life with a thunderous roar, then edged past the jeep and plummeted down the trail.

"Well, holy shit," Kevin said in disgust.

Dahlia unwrapped a pimento cheese sandwich.

Celeste lay in her bed, surrounded by plump feather pillows in lacy cases. A satin cover was pulled to her chin, but she was awake and staring at the ceiling. Mason eyed her from the doorway, then came a few feet into the room. "Would you like a glass of sherry or a cup of tea, Sis? You're looking a bit pale."

"Can you do nothing but play waiter? Do you realize that you spend a great deal of time in doorways asking me if I should like something to eat or drink? Do you aspire to be a waiter in a ritzy New York restaurant?"

"I don't mean to offend you," he said soothingly. "I just feel responsible for you at times. Besides, you're always occupied with important things like giving readings and-"

"Shut up, Mason."

He hung his head, trying to look properly chastised while he decided how to escape her room. "I was just trying to help," he mumbled.

"Yes, you will help. Tomorrow morning, as the sun first rises, you must go to this Arly Hanks and bring her back here. Although she is skeptical, she will listen to what I have to say to her. The miasma of violence grows like a cancer in this putrid village. She is the chief of police, and she must do something before it is too late."

"Now, Celeste, we don't want to get involved with the police, not after what happened back in Vegas. You were six inches from jail, and damn lucky the judge's wife turned out to be one of your clients."

"I will not discuss that incident, Mason. You and I both know that I took money from the child's mother only because she insisted. I provided the information. I had no knowledge of the location until I saw it in a trance." Celeste gave him a cold look. "Do you understand what you are to do, my little brother? Knock on this woman's door before dawn and bring her to me."

"I don't even know her. I can't go banging on her door at dawn, demanding that she come with me. That's crazy, Celeste. She's liable to pull out a gun and shoot me in the stomach."

"I want her here," Madam Celeste said, her eyes narrowed to slits. "One of my clients came this morning to tell me how some local woman has disappeared. It seems this policewoman is too proud to ask for my help, but I shall give it to her despite her petty jealousy. And I must see her immediately. Death is very near. We cannot waste one minute."

"Does this have something to do with the face you saw?"

"Mason, I have known asparagus stalks more perceptive than you. Will you do what I tell you to do-or will you return to Hickory Ridge, Mississippi, to sell used cars?"

Mason's hand curled into a fist, but he prudently kept it behind his back. "This is crazy," he persisted. "She's not going to go wandering off with a total stranger, especially at that hour of the morning. Nobody in her right mind would."

Madam Celeste closed her eyes and put her fingers on her temples. "I am having a vision, Mason. It is of…of a '77 Chevy with less than ninety thousand miles. It has had only one owner. The interior is immaculate. The price is painted on the windshield, and it is an excellent deal."

"All right, all right. That's not real funny, you know. I will go over to this policewoman's house and ring the bell. After I explain why I'm there, she can decide for herself if she's willing to come back here with me. But I'm not going to drag her out the door and into my car. That's called kidnapping or assault or something, and I'm not having anything to do with it."

"I shall be in the solarium when you return with her. Now, I must rest because it will be most difficult for me in the morning. Stop fidgeting and leave me alone."

Mason went downstairs and into the kitchen, wishing he had stayed in the army long enough to learn something more useful than how to hurl grenades at gooks. He'd been offered further electronics training if he reenlisted, but he was too eager to get as far away from the army as he could. So now he was qualified to sell used cars, dig ditches, twiddle his thumbs, or do as Sarah Lou Dickerson Grinolli Vizzard, a.k.a. Madam Celeste, ordered.

He looked out the window at the chicken house across the pasture. The roof had caved in on one end, and the sides were boarded up with scrap lumber, old signs, and sheet metal. There hadn't been a chicken there for twenty years, but it still reeked so badly of manure that he could smell it on sultry days when the wind came up the valley. He was about as useful as an old chicken house, he thought as he took a can of soda pop from the refrigerator and went to the living room. He fiddled with the TV controls until he picked up a sumo wrestling match from Tokyo. The lack of action lulled him to sleep before the soda was half gone.

Hammet, David Allen, and I ended up at the drive-in movie, where we were treated to nonstop violence, bloodshed, an improbable storyline that included the removal of vital anatomical attachments of almost everyone in the cast, and enough fake blood to fill a swimming pool. Hammet adored it. He ended up in the front seat, crouched in a ball and yelling encouragement to the mass murderer. David Allen kept the popcorn coming.

In the middle of one of the more grisly scenes my beeper beeped. "Damn it," I said under my breath, remembering that I still hadn't called Mrs. Jim Bob. Approach avoidance at its zenith.

David Allen reached across Hammet. "Let me have that insidious cricket. I know the perfect place for it."

"You can't throw Jiminy out the window. He's official police equipment, I'm sorry to say."

He took the beeper, wrapped it in a handful of napkins, and stuffed the bundle in the glove compartment. "See? No violence to the little chap."

"I wish I could ignore it, but I've been ignoring it for too long. I need to find a telephone to get the message. I was about to do it earlier, but you two abducted me."

"You're going to miss a particularly fine decapitation."

"The sacrifices we have to make in the line of duty. Can I bring back anything from the concession stand?"

"I wants some more candy bars," Hammet said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "And another sody and a hot dog."

I went to the concession stand and asked where to find a pay telephone. I listened to concise directions, then made it halfway to the door before hearing that the phone was out of order. I inquired if I might use the office phone. I was informed that only the manager could permit it. I asked to speak to the manager. I learned the manager was home with a stomach virus. I showed my badge. I was told that only the manager could permit the use of the office phone by an unauthorized party. I argued some more. I gave up when told that the manager with the stomach virus who was the only one who could permit the use of the office phone by an unauthorized party also had the only key, so it wasn't going to do a damn bit of good to stand around and argue the point. Did I wish to purchase anything before the concession stand closed? Wishing I had a chain saw, I bought drinks, candy bars, and a hot dog, then went back to David Allen's wagon and watched the last dozen people get their heads cut off. It suited my mood perfectly.

Brother Verber, dressed in pajamas and a robe, stared at the simulated walnut paneling above the television set, unmindful of the chatter from the sitcom. He kept trying to convince himself that he wasn't being cowardly, but he was losing the argument. Poor Sister Barbara had come to him in her hour of need. He'd comforted her and offered spiritual guidance-or at least he'd intended to do a bushel of comforting and guiding until he'd learned the name of the mother of the poor little orphan bastards. Just thinking the name made him a mite sweaty under his elastic waistband.

But, he told himself as he peeked at the television on the off chance that the blond girl in the miniskirt might cross her legs, Sister Barbara was a strong woman, with a solid Christian sense of duty and a pair of fine, muscular thighs from all that pious praying. She could handle those awful bastards, and instill in them a healthy fear of the Lord and a feverish desire to battle the wickedness of their souls. Why, she didn't need any help from him. She was a battleship armed with cannons of righteousness. She was a rock of piety. She was an army tank that could run right over Satan and squish him into the mud. It was arrogant of him to think she needed his help. Sinfully arrogant.

Brother Verber got on his knees to beg the Lord's forgiveness for his arrogance. He glanced a bit nervously at the telephone receiver dangling below the coffee table, then closed his eyes and settled his knees on the braided rug. It might well take hours of seclusion and prayer to regain his humility, he thought with a windy sigh. If the Lord chanced to be occupied with more important things (like striking down evolutionists and homosexuals and feminists), it might even take days.

It was nearly one o'clock before we got back to Maggody. Hammet, bloated from an incredible amount of junk food, was snoring in the backseat, while visions of blood-drenched sugarplums danced in his head.

"What do we do with him?" David Allen asked as we drove past the Emporium.

"I don't know. He's supposed to be staying with Mizzoner, but it's pretty late and supposedly she knows he's with me." I looked back at the little liar. "I guess I'll let him sleep on my sofa tonight. Tomorrow morning I'll go by there and find out what's happening, but I'm too tired to face it now."

David Allen slammed on the brakes as a blackclad figure on a motorcycle roared from out of a side street and vanished down the highway. "Officer, arrest that maniac!"

"I prefer to let that sort self-destruct," I said, turning around to make sure Hammet hadn't rolled off the seat. He hadn't. "I feel sorry for Hammet and his siblings. I've given up trying to find his mother. I searched part of the ridge today and realized how absurd it was to think I might find her. I'm going to call the sheriff and request assistance, which is what I should have done in the first place. If his posse has no luck, he can contact the state police for a helicopter. I should have called Social Services, too, and had them take responsibility for the children. Mrs. Jim Bob's on the anal-retentive side, but her gesture was generous. However, she and I are both amateurs and way out of our league. The professionals have institutions and foster homes for this situation."

"I think you did the right thing. This Buchanon woman may show up at any moment to demand her children. If they had been placed in foster care by an agency, she might never unwind the red tape in order to get them back."

"I know." I closed my eyes as we drove past the PD so I wouldn't have to think of all the things I was busily doing wrong.

David Allen parked beside my stairs. He took Hammet's inert form from the backseat and carried him to my door. Once we got him settled on the sofa with a blanket, I walked downstairs with David Allen.

He took his keys out of his pocket and gave me the look that meant he was deciding whether to risk a good-night kiss. I gave him the look that said no, don't even try, then thanked him for the ice cream and the movies. The look faded, and he told me I was more than welcome. Neither one of us could come up with anything more, so I said good night and went up to my apartment to lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling.

Ruby Bee padded to the refrigerator and took out a plastic baby bottle. She ran some water into a pan, set the bottle in it, and turned on the burner of the stove. Baby continued to howl as Ruby Bee waited a few minutes, then picked up the bottle to sprinkle some droplets on her wrist.

Once she was satisfied, Ruby Bee padded on into the living room and picked up the red-faced, screaming baby and retreated to the sofa. She managed to cut off the cries by inserting the nipple in the appropriate orifice, then sank back to gaze through befogged eyes at the level in the uptilted bottle. In that it was the third time that night that she'd fed the little darling, she was feeling less than charmed by the button nose, perfect flower-petal ears, and tiny clenched fists.

Maybe, she thought as she put Baby back in the bassinet and padded to bed, maybe Estelle should have an opportunity to have a sweet overnight guest tomorrow night. After all, she and Estelle were good friends, and it wasn't fair not to share all those special moments. It would mean so much to Estelle, especially since that foreigner with the mustache hadn't shown up as of yet. Why, it would be a big help in taking her mind off her disappointment.

A smile on her face, Ruby Bee drifted to sleep.

Celeste threw back the satin cover and switched on the bedside light. Despite the lateness of the hour, she pulled on a robe over her negligee and went downstairs to the solarium. She sat down at the table and shuffled the tarot cards, then dealt them out and bent forward to study the results.

The King of Wands, the King of Swords, the Nine of Swords, and the Moon. Could they not for even one time stay away? It was as if they now were citizens of Maggody, these symbols of malice and violence, of deceit and trickery and fear. And Death was there, as always.

The psychic pushed the cards away and sat back, her eyes closed. She forced herself to recall the face she had seen earlier. It was definitely a woman, she decided with a shiver, but it was impossible to see any features beyond those distorted with blood. Although there was an elusive impression of hair color, of age, of eye color, of cheek and brow and jaw…all was dominated by blood. By flies. By the pervasiveness of decay.

She gathered up the cards and once more dealt them, hoping for some sign to identify the face.

The faces on the cards gazed back at her through glassy, two-dimensional eyes. They seemed to be smiling.

Poppy took the milk carton from the refrigerator, then tiptoed across the kitchen to get a glass from the cabinet. She flinched as the cabinet let out a tiny squeak. It wasn't that she didn't want company, she told herself as she eased the cabinet closed. She was committed to the concept of sharing, of oneness and wholeness and cosmic harmony and the manifestation of collective energy and all that; if she weren't, why, she'd still be waiting tables at the Pizza Hut and living in that drab apartment over the bowling alley. It was just that it was tiresome at times, all that determined family sharing and everything.

She was standing by the window when the door opened behind her. Nate gave her a guarded look as he went to the kitchen table and set down a paper sack. "What's wrong with you?" he said, scowling.

"Nothing. The midwife told me to drink a lot of goat's milk."

"Good for her." He sat down and took out a hamburger. "Get me a beer, will you?"

Poppy tried not to pout as she took a beer from the refrigerator and placed it in front of him. "That's poison, you know. The meat is from animals raised on chemicals, and the bread's all preservatives and artificial flavors."

"Name one," he commanded through a mouthful of chemicals, preservatives, and artificial flavors.

"Oh, things that cause cancer. Where've you been all night?"

"Out. I had to see a middleman about a deal. Why are you skulking around the kitchen, for that matter? I thought pregnant women were supposed to sleep twelve hours a night so they weren't too tired for their morning nap."

Poppy almost stamped her foot, but thought better of it. "Rainbow says I need to-"

"I don't care what she says. God, I'm about to drown in her cheerful, warm, cozy, sugary smiles and suffocating cosmic awareness. As soon as I work out this deal, you can kiss my ass good bye, 'cause I'll be driving down that long country road."

Poppy couldn't think of anything to say. On the other side of the kitchen door, with her ear pressed against the wood, Rainbow couldn't think of much herself. But her smile was far from toasty warm and her eyes were cold. Silently she moved away from the door and returned to bed. She snuggled next to Zachery and tried to meditate to the rhythm of his gentle snores.