Misery Loves Maggody

2

"I was under the impression this was to be an escorted tour," Estelle said as she climbed into the van and assessed her fellow travelers. It was a mixed bag, but everybody looked respectable-for the most part, anyway. The two women who'd taken the first double seat were tacky, gussied up like they were planning to stop by church on their way to a beer bust. Estelle had never trusted women that wore fake fur coats, and she could see right off the bat that no critters on God's green earth had been sacrificed in the making of theirs.

Baggins stopped studying a map of Memphis long enough to put on his C'Mon Tours cap. "I'm the escort. My name's Hector Baggins, but don't go calling me by my first name."

"You're the one that's gonna lecture us about the important Elvis destinations and tell us fascinating facts about his life and times?"

"Hush, Estelle," said Ruby Bee as she sank down on the nearest torn vinyl seat. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll be back."

"She's absolutely correct about the escort," chimed in a man on the seat in the back. Ruby Bee swiveled her head to glare at him, but she couldn't make out much, since he was wearing a floppy cloth hat and darkly tinted sunglasses. His lips were on the thin side, like Mrs. Jim Bob's. What hair that was visible was jet black and came close to brushing the collar of his khaki jacket, but his voice was not that of some kid fresh out of high school. He sounded more like a politician, although it'd be hard to explain why he'd be traveling in a battered van if he was. She concluded he wasn't.

"Furthermore," he continued, "I have a copy of the brochure, and it implies that an expert in Elvisian folklore will be available to offer insights into-"

"That'd be me," Baggins said, folding the map with professional expertise. "Anything you want to know, you just ask."

"In what year did Colonel Parker buy a controlling interest in Elvis's management contract and for how much?"

Baggins tucked the map behind the sun visor. "The next thing, you'll be asking me about his bowel habits. Sure sounds like somebody could use a laxative."

"I asked a straightforward question," the man retorted.

Baggins grinned. "You ever tried Ex-Lax? May do the trick."

"I beg your pardon!"

"Are we gonna talk about poop for the next four days?" said the woman clad in molting orange fur. "How icky"

There might have been a rebellion in the making had Miss Vetchling not arrived on the scene with a clipboard. She ascertained Ruby Bee's and Estelle's names, asked the man in the back if he was Rex Malanac, and looked at the two women. "Ms. Crate? Yes, thank you. Ms. Zimmerman? Oh dear, if that is a cigarette I see in your hand, you must put it out immediately. Out of concern for others, there will be no smoking permitted on the van. Also, alcoholic beverages are specifically forbidden, as well as the use of vulgar language."

She moved aside to allow a young couple to squeeze past her. "Todd and Taylor Peel? Well, then, it looks as if we're all present and accounted for. Did all of us place our complimentary C'Mon Tours duffel bags in the luggage compartment at the rear of the van? We wouldn't want to find ourselves in Tupelo without our toothbrushes, would we?"

Rather than solicit responses, she beamed at the pilgrims as if they might arrive at the Holy Land sooner or later. "I do so hope you'll appreciate the spirituality of your journey. You have this marvelous opportunity to explore the complexity of Elvis's impact on contemporary culture, his contribution not only to rhythm and blues but also the dawning of rock and-"

"I thought we were supposed to have an escort," Estelle said sullenly. "It seems to me all we have is a driver."

Miss Vetchling's smile slipped but did not fail her. "You weren't planning to walk to Memphis, were you?"

Before anyone could offer an argument, she stepped down and slammed the door of the van. Baggins winked at Estelle in the rearview mirror, turned on the ignition, and coaxed the van into a somewhat jerky departure. Miss Vetchling was waving jauntily as they went around the corner and up Thurber Street.

Ten minutes later they were on the highway that would take them through the mountains to the interstate, which in turn would take them across the state in five hours or so to their first goal: Memphis. The next day they'd drive a hundred miles in a southeasterly direction to Tupelo, Mississippi. Their final destination, the casino in a town south of Tunica, wasn't more than thirty miles south of Memphis, but the shortest route from Tupelo went through towns that prided themselves on perpetual road construction.

Estelle glanced at Ruby Bee, who looked as anxious as a preacher at the Pearly Gates. "Is something wrong?" she whispered.

"I'm fine," Ruby Bee said, resting her head against the window.

"Does anybody really care if I have a cigarette?" asked the woman identified thus far only as Ms. Zimmerman.

"I most vigorously object," said the married woman seated behind Ruby Bee and Estelle. "Aren't you aware of the dangers of secondhand smoke?"

"I'll put you on the side of the road if you light up," said Baggins. "Miss Vetchling told you the rules before we left."

"Bunch of crap," muttered Ms. Zimmerman.

Baggins stiffened. "Mind your tongue, missy."

This was not the most promising beginning, Estelle thought, as she watched cheap motels, gas stations, and used-car lots fly by. She chewed on her lip for a moment, then decided to take matters in her own hands and do what it took to make this a "marvelous opportunity." If nothing else, they were all stuck with each other for the next four days.

"Listen up," she said in the perky voice she imagined an escort would use. "Let's all introduce ourselves and say why we came on this trip. I'm Estelle Oppers from Maggody. I'm a licensed cosmetologist and a lifelong Elvis fan. I almost cried my eyes out when he died back in August of nineteen seventy-seven. I remember just like it was yesterday where I was when I heard the news. I was giving Elsie McMay a permanent when my second cousin Charlaine in Magnolia called to tell me. Charlaine was always real thoughtful about passing along things of that nature."

When no one else jumped in, she took a breath and went on. "My friend here is Rubella Belinda Hanks, but you can call her Ruby Bee. She owns a bar and grill in Maggody and makes the fluffiest buttermilk biscuits west of the Mississippi. She was saying just the other day how she remembered when Elvis first appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show. I ain't sure any of the rest of you are that old."

"Estelle!" said Ruby Bee. "There's no call to-"

"So let's move on to you," Estelle said, pointing at the woman with curly brown hair, scarlet fingernails, and a thick slathering of pancake makeup. "Tell us all about yourself, honey."

"My name's Cherri Lucinda Crate, and I just love Elvis. I don't want y'all to think I'm some kind of crackpot, but I'm not convinced he's dead. My niece's roommate's boss is positive she saw him in a record store in Minneapolis last fall. She got right smack next to him and-"

"That's ridiculous," said the man in the back. "I'm an expert in the field, and I can assure you that the King is dead. All these conspiracy theories about falsified autopsies and empty coffins are hogwash."

Cherri Lucinda twisted around in her seat. "Who says you're an expert?"

"I do."

She looked at the others for support. "I want to know what makes him such a know-it-all. Like he has a degree in Elvis or something? I happen to know plenty myself. I can tell you the exact day Priscilla arrived in Germany -and what she was wearing when she stepped off the airplane. I can recite Gladys's genealogy back four generations. Just when did the angels come down and anoint this fellow?"

Estelle agreed that this was an interesting question, so she nodded regally at the man in the hat. "Mebbe you should tell us."

"My name is Rex Malanac, and I'm a professor of twentieth-century European literature at Farber College."

Cherri Lucinda cackled. "I told you he didn't have a degree in Elvisology or whatever you call it. All I can say is he'd better not start lecturing us like we're a bunch of snot-nosed college kids. I paid too much money to be bored to tears from here to Tupelo and back."

"I am also a scholar of popular culture," Rex said in a steely voice. "I have presented more than two dozen papers on the impact of Elvis on contemporary social values. I am considered one of the leading authorities in the field."

"Why doncha take a hike across that one?" said Cherri Lucinda as she pointed out the window at an expanse of stubble. "You'll be right at home with all the bullshit in the weeds."

This was not going as Estelle had planned. She cleared her throat and looked at the would-be smoker, who had frizzy blond hair and even more makeup than her companion. "I'm sure we all have something to contribute. What about you?"

"I'm Stormy Zimmerman, and I don't have a blessed thing to contribute. I just decided to come along at the last minute. All I know about Elvis is that he died the same year my brother did. My mother made me sing 'Love Me Tender' at the funeral. I've hated that song ever since."

"That's so sad," said Cherri Lucinda. She pulled a tissue from her purse and carefully blotted the corners of her eyes. "How come you never told me?"

"You never asked." Stormy looked up at Estelle. "Will you please get on with this stupid party game?"

Estelle had been feeling sorry for the gal up until that point. "We're not exactly in a rush, are we? What is it you do for a living?"

"Cherri Lucinda and I are entertainers. What else do you want to know? My ma was an alcoholic and my pa took off when I was ten. I married a truck driver when I was seventeen, but he turned out to be a real bastard and I got divorced two years later. Before I moved to Farberville last fall, I worked in Bossier City. Oh, and I have a butterfly tattooed on my butt."

"Oh, really?" said Rex. "I'm a bit of an amateur lepidopterologist. Ten dollars says I can identify the particular species. I'll give you two-to-one odds."

"In your dreams-or your worst nightmare," she shot back, her hair obscuring her eyes but not her scowl.

Estelle tried again. "How about you two?" she asked the couple in the third seat. "You're married, aren't you?"

The purported husband stared at his purported wife, then slumped down in the seat, exhaled loudly, and closed his eyes. His neck was as thick as a ham and his bulk took up a good deal of the space. His round head and close-set features reminded Estelle of a bowling ball just waiting to be rolled down an alley. The woman, in contrast, was trim, with short, sensible dark hair, a clear complexion, and wire-rimmed glasses that gave her a sober look.

"I'm Taylor," she said, "and this is Todd. I wrote on the form that we're married, but that's not exactly true. We're supposed to have a big wedding this summer in a church in Little Rock, with five hundred guests and a dinner dance at a country club after the ceremony. Todd's mother has been handling all the preparations, since we're both students at Farber College." She looked over her shoulder at Rex. "Todd's third-year law, and I'm a business major, so I guess we've never taken any classes from you."

He shrugged. "One of the prerequisites for my classes is the ability to read and write. From what I've heard, neither is required in your respective fields."

Estelle doubted she could persuade the driver to stop long enough to chuck the smarmy professor off the van. "This wedding sounds real lovely," she said to Taylor.

"I got married in a courthouse," said Stormy. "Afterward, we had a dinner dance at a truck stop just outside Texarkana. The orchestra canceled at the last minute, so we had to feed quarters in the jukebox all night long."

"Yeah, real lovely," Todd said suddenly, opening one eye. "So what the hell are we doing on this shitty van?"

Now it was Taylor 's turn to pull out a tissue and dab her eyes. "The thing is," she said in a quavering voice, "my parents were killed in a car wreck when I was a baby. My grandparents, who raised me, died last summer. They left a sizable estate, but there have been problems with probate and until the court sorts them out, I'm virtually penniless. I had to borrow money from the bank to cover tuition this year."

"Give me a break," said Baggins, bearing down on a lump of roadkill in the middle of the lane. "You want to stop at one of these junk shops and buy a violin?"

Estelle glowered at the back of his head. "One more word out of you and I'll call your boss at the first rest stop. Please go on, Taylor -we're all just as interested as we can be."

Taylor blinked earnestly. "It's customary for the bride's family to pay for the wedding and reception. As things are right now, I couldn't afford five hundred hamburgers, much less lobster and steak. Todd's mother insisted that she and Todd's father would pay for everything, but I'm not one to accept charity. I guess you could say we're eloping. I've made arrangements for us to get married in the chapel next to Elvis's birthplace. All of you are invited."

Todd rumbled like a backhoe on a steep incline. "My mother is gonna have a stroke when she finds out. She's already booked the club and the caterers, and is expecting to have an engagement party during spring break."

"She'll survive," Taylor said. "She can use all the money she saves to treat herself to a month at one of those incredibly expensive spas. The pedicurists and masseuses will adore hearing her complain about our treachery."

"I'll hear it for the rest of my life. We've been over this a thousand times. My mother got carried away with her plans, but we don't have to go along with everything. She can cut back on the guest list, and if we get married in the morning, we can do the cake-and-punch thing at the church."

Rex leaned forward and said, "Why don't you invite her to meet us in Tupelo? She can be your flower girl."

"Shut up," snarled Todd, his face turning so red that he, rather than his mother, appeared in imminent danger of a stroke. "Leave my mother out of this-okay?"

Taylor elbowed him hard enough to elicit a grunt. "Why don't you go back to sleep, Todd? You'll feel better when we get to Memphis, and we can have a blast on Beale Street tonight."

"We might as well, 'cause all hell's gonna break loose when we call my mother and tell her we're on a really glamorous honeymoon in friggin' Tupelo. Who wouldn't rather be there than in Hawaii? I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

"Well, then," Estelle said, abandoning any perkiness, "I guess that's it. I think we should all agree to have a fine time."

Cherri Lucinda flicked Baggins's shoulder with one of her talons. "What about you, Mr. Escort? You a big Elvis fan?"

"He's more likely to be a convicted felon," drawled Rex.

The van went into a gut-wrenching swerve before it squealed to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. The driver of the pickup behind them yelled an obscenity as he went past, and his gesture was far from salutary.

Baggins cut off the engine and swiveled around in his seat. "I ain't taking that kind of shit from anybody, sir. I may not have a college degree, but I've been driving for a good forty years. If you got a problem with me, let's step outside and settle it right now."

Cherri Lucinda held up her hands. "Hey, I was just making conversation. There's no reason for everybody to get all hot and bothered, especially with so many miles in front of us. Mr. Malanac, you owe this man an apology. He's a working stiff like the rest of us."

"That's right," said Estelle. She was hoping Ruby Bee and the others would jump in, but everybody was pretending to be more interested in the chicken trucks grinding past. It was right cowardly of them, Estelle thought, and of Ruby Bee in particular. College students and entertainers might not know how to face down bullies, but barkeepers sure did.

She was about to say as much when she noticed Ruby Bee was giving Cherri Lucinda a downright bumfuzzled look, and to make things even more peculiar, Cherri Lucinda was looking toward the back of the van with the exact same expression.

"I apologize," Rex said grandly. "Please drive on."

Once they were back on their way to the interstate, Estelle nudged Ruby Bee and in a low voice, said, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I wish you'd stop pestering me, Estelle. There's not a single thing wrong-okay? If you ask one more time, I swear I'll get off this van at the first stop and hitchhike home."

"Who's gonna stop for a middle-aged woman carrying a green-and-orange duffel bag? You'd look like a fugitive from a health club."

Estelle thought she was being funny, but it was clear from Ruby Bee's snort that she didn't have the same opinion. There wasn't much to do but sit back and keep her fingers crossed that they'd survive for the next four days without bloodshed.

"Hey, Arly," Kevin said as he came into the PD, "have you seen Dahlia?"

"Yes," I said, finishing the last cold swallow of coffee. I set down the mug, stood up, and began to pull on my coat. "Give me a few days to think about it and I can come up with the precise moment I last saw her. It may have been outside the emergency room before they took her up to the maternity ward. I'll let you know." I slung a wool scarf around my neck and picked up my car key. "I'm in a bit of a rush, Kevin."

"I can see that." He gulped several times, causing his oversized Adam's apple to bobble like a buoy in a squall. "The thing is, Dahlia left right after she got the twins down for a nap, and she hasn't come back. I'm gittin' worried."

"You didn't leave them home alone, did you?"

"I'd sooner kiss Perkins's eldest than do a thing like that. I called my ma and she came over to watch ' em while I went looking for Dahlia. Ma said she called you a few days back, but you dint have any luck."

I hadn't exactly beaten the bushes until dark, but I had kept an eye out for her car as I followed one of the school buses to the county line to make sure everybody stopped when the children scrambled out of the bus. Upholding the law in Maggody usually doesn't require spurts of hand-to-hand combat or manhunts up on Cotter's Ridge. "No, I didn't see her that afternoon."

"What am I gonna do?" he said with a groan. "She ain't been herself since the babies came two months ago. One minute she's cooing and kissing their little toes, and the next she's locked in the bathroom, bleating like a calf left out in the cold. I don't know what to make of it, Arly"

He was so pathetic that I relented. "Sit down," I said, gesturing at the uncomfortable chair I keep for unwanted visitors. Kevin most assuredly fell into that category. "Have you talked to her?"

"I tried, but you know how she can be." He took out a wadded handkerchief and blew his nose. "The doctor sez it ain't unheard of for a new mother to feel kinda blue, 'specially when she's dog-tired all the time. Kevvie Junior and Rose Marie are perfect angels, but they still got to be fed and have their diapers changed and take their baths and-"

"I get the picture," I said. "When Dahlia left, where did she say she was going?"

"She said it weren't any of my business," he said, giving me a bewildered look. "This isn't the first time she's gone off like this. I'm scared that some day she won't come back from wherever she goes, and my sweetpeas will grow up without a ma's love. What'll I tell them when they get older?"

"How often has she been disappearing like this?"

"Two or three times a week. She stays gone all afternoon, then comes home and goes straight to the kitchen to make supper. If I so much as try to give her a peck on the cheek, she threatens to knock me silly with the skillet."

I was mildly intrigued. "Any particular days?"

Kevin screwed up his face as he considered my question. "I reckon not, but never on Sundays. We always have dinner at my ma and pa's and spend the afternoon there. Ma turned my old bedroom into a nursery. Kevvie Junior's crib has a blue blanket and Rose Marie's has a pink one. There's a sampler on the wall that sez-"

"It sounds charming," I said. "Are you sure Dahlia hasn't said anything about where she goes? She's never mentioned a name?"

His jaw dropped, giving me a distasteful view of his stained teeth. "You don't think she's seeing some fellow, do you? She wouldn't do something like that, Arly. We have spats like all married folks, but she ain't the kind to turn her back on her babies and her lovin' husband."

"No, Kevin," I said, trying without success to keep the irritation out of my voice, "that's one thing I most definitely was not thinking. It's more likely that she feels the need to get away for a few hours and is doing nothing more than driving around the county."

"Then why's she more ornery than a polecat when she gets home?"

"All I can suggest you do is ask her."

"And git my face squashed with a skillet," he said morosely. "I thought what with you being a trained police officer, you should be able to do something."

I readjusted the scarf. "I can't arrest her unless she's sticking up liquor stores on her afternoons off. I have to leave now. I was supposed to meet someone in Scurgeton five minutes ago."

Kevin thrust out what little chin he had. "You got to promise to talk to her. You can act like you just dropped by to see the babies, then trick her into spillin' the beans. I cain't go on with her being mad at me all evening and rolling over in bed and knocking my hand away if I so much as dare to cuddle up. It ain't healthy."

"All right," I said, "I'll stop by in the morning. You may continue to sit there the rest of the afternoon if it amuses you. Close the door when you leave."

I went out to the car, not at all sure I wouldn't find him there when I got back, snuffling and sniveling as he pictured his three-hundred-pound love goddess in the arms of a swarthy stranger. Kevin's mind, in the rare moments when it's activated, can come up with some damn peculiar ideas.

Scurgeton's population was half that of Maggody's, and its appearance even bleaker. I drove past a couple of trailers and a gas station nearly hidden behind a mountain of tires, found a faded sign that read " Mount Zion Church," and turned down the indicated dirt road. The church, a squat concrete block structure with a flat roof, was a hundred feet from the intersection and ringed on three sides by stark trees. All it needed to perfect its resemblance to a prison was a fence topped with concertina wire.

I parked behind a sedan, buffed my badge with my coat cuff, and tried to simulate the demeanor of a qualified and competent law enforcement agent who was eager to serve the public. Which, at that moment, I was anything but.

The interior of the church was no more inviting than its exterior. The furnishings consisted of metal chairs and a wooden pulpit. On the back wall was a framed depiction of Jesus surrounded by sheep. An elderly man with thin white hair, a beakish nose, and hunched shoulders was pacing behind the pulpit; as I approached, he halted and gave me a suspicious look.

"You are…?" he said.

"Chief of Police Ariel Hanks from Maggody. Sheriff Dorfer asked me to take a statement from you and have a look around."

"You're a woman."

"Is that an observation or an accusation?" I said, wishing I'd brought my gun and at least one bullet.

"I was not expecting a woman. The desecration of my church is a serious matter. Sheriff Dorfer should have come himself."

He did not add "or at least sent a man," but I could almost see the words hovering above his head. I had a feeling he and I were not going to be bosom buddies by the end of the interview.

I took a notebook and pencil out of my pocket. "And you are…?"

"The Reverend Edwin W. Hitebred. I'm the pastor of the Mount Zion Church, and nothing like this has ever happened in the fifty-seven years I've served the congregation. I really think I'd better call Sheriff Dorfer and insist that he deal with this in person."

"Go right ahead, Reverend, but you won't have much luck catching him. He's dealing with a drug-related shooting in a sleazy nightclub on Tuesday. One guy dead, two critically wounded, DEA agents camped in his office, reporters demanding updates every hour. That's why he asked me to talk to you."

Hitebred's bushy white eyebrows twitched as he studied me for a long moment. "Well then, Chief Hanks, it looks as though you are my cross to bear, although I will not do so gladly. Where do you want to begin?"

"I understand you believe that trespassers have entered the church on several occasions. Is there evidence of this?"

"I would hardly describe these satanists as mere trespassers," he said icily, "and of course I have evidence. Come this way."

He went through a doorway into a small room with a desk, several straight-backed chairs that were apt to be more uncomfortable than the one in my office, and stacks of journals and battered hymnals along the wall. I waited just inside the doorway while he opened a desk drawer, pulled out a manila envelope, and dumped its contents on his desk.

"Here's your evidence," he said.

I went over to the desk and examined the debris. "A paper clip, a cigarette butt, a pink barrette, three rubber bands, a button, and a piece of chalk. What exactly does this prove?"

"It proves that satanists broke into the church at least four times in the last month. They conducted abhorrent rituals and desecrated the sanctity of the church. I demand that you put a stop to this, Chief Hanks. I want the culprits caught and sent to jail to ponder the wickedness of their deviant beliefs."

I held up my hand. "Let's take this one step at a time, if you don't mind. Just why does this pile of trinkets prove anybody is breaking into the church? Isn't it more likely that members of your congregation dropped these during services?"

"Absolutely not?" he snapped, scraping everything back into the envelope. "I should have known you would fail to grasp the significance of this evidence. When will Sheriff Dorfer have this other business wrapped up?"

My teeth clenched, I moved newspapers off a chair and sat down. "Why don't you explain the significance, Reverend Hitebred? Speak slowly and perhaps I can follow you."

He returned the envelope to a desk drawer and sat down across from me. "My daughter cleans the sanctuary after each service. She sweeps the floors, straightens the chairs, and puts away hymnals. Anything accidentally left behind is placed in a box in the vestibule to be retrieved by the member before the next service. We find eyeglasses, pens, scarves, umbrellas, and Sunday school lessons. The evidence I showed you was not discovered after a service but beforehand, when I was making sure everything was in readiness to offer praise to the Almighty God. Do you attend church, Chief Hanks?"

"This is an official investigation, Reverend Hitebred, and personal remarks are inappropriate. Even if I accept your assertion that the objects were not dropped during or after a service, I still don't see why you think satanists are involved."

He began to drum his fingers on the desk in an uneven cadence. "It's obvious that unauthorized persons have been sneaking into the sanctuary at night. There's nothing worth stealing. I take the cash box and checkbook home with me after each service. Our hymnals are worn and dog-eared from decades of use."

"I still can't make the leap to satanists and rituals. Why not kids with nowhere else to meet?"

"My daughter sets the thermostat at fifty when she leaves. The folding chairs were selected for durability, not comfort. Furthermore, members of the congregation have driven by at odd hours during the night, and no one has noticed a light. A cold, dark building would hardly make a cozy clubhouse, would it?" His fingers quickened their beat. "If not satanists who find twisted satisfaction in defiling the sanctuary, then who?"

I felt as though his fingertips were pounding my temples. "These unauthorized entries could be taking place during the day. Maybe some unfortunate guy's holed up in a shack out in the woods and is taking advantage of your plumbing."

"Our plumbing consists of a sink and a toilet in a shed out back. We do not waste the contents of the collection plate on luxuries, but on doing God's work."

He may have been boasting about their contempt for worldly pleasures, but he had a point. It may not have been sharp enough to poke through a slice of bread, much less do damage to a hostile cyclops, but I could tell from his condescending smile that we both knew it. Despite the weather, I would have preferred to be at a roadblock with Harve's deputies, stopping vehicles to make sure sinister drug dealers weren't hunkered in the backseat, than to be sitting in the office of the Mount Zion Church in the company of the Reverend Edwin W. Hitebred.

"Okay," I said, "then what about locks? Surely the doors aren't left unlocked for the convenience of stray souls seeking asylum in the bosom of the Lord."

His smile vanished. "That smacks of sacrilege, Chief Hanks. Yes, both doors are kept locked, and my daughter and I have the only keys. If someone wishes to bring in flowers for a holiday service, one of us comes down to open a door. We live only a mile farther down the road, and since I'm retired, I'm always available." He paused, then added, "Unlike Sheriff Dorfer, or so it seems."

"There's nothing he can do," I said, standing up, "but feel free to call him if you find any hobgoblins under your bed."

I would have preferred to exit on a broomstick, but as it was, I just walked out the door.