Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 13 (15 page)

Jarvis shook his head. Big Mac gave him a curious look, then passed me both the plate of sausages and a pitcher of orange juice. I was holding my first forkful of pancakes dripping with syrup when Lady Macbeth swept into the room.

"I'd like to speak to you," she said to me.

"I'd like to eat breakfast."

"Now."

"Can't this wait, Mrs. Jim Bob? I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon. I was up all night, and I have to go back into Dunkicker to -- "

"Mrs. Robarts just parked out front. Something is going on, and I don't see how I can speak to her until I know what it is. I did not have a restful night, either. Ruby Bee and Estelle refused to monitor the sleeping arrangements in the lodge. There is a reason why I made sure the girls and the boys would be in cabins well separated, but then Larry Joe insisted that they all sleep in the very same room." She stared coldly at him. "That was, of course, begging for trouble. Ruby Bee's cherry cobbler contained so much sugar that -- "

"Ruby Bee made cherry cobbler?" I said weakly. "Did she happen to bring ice cream?"

"No, and I found the crust to be less than flaky. Will you please stop slobbering and tell me what happened?"

I jabbed the bite into my mouth, wiped my chin, and trailed her into the living room as Willetta Robarts came through the front door.

"Anthony has told me," she said. "This is very distressing."

"Yes, we all think that," said Mrs. Jim Bob, glowering at me as she escorted Mrs. Robarts to a really comfy metal folding chair. "Arly and I were just discussing it."

Mrs. Robarts did not thaw. "According to Anthony, the murder weapon was brought by your group. Camp Pearly Gates has operated without violence for forty-seven years. Oh, we've had the occasional drownings in the lake and snakebites, but no one had ever been bludgeoned on the grounds. This will not do, Mrs. Buchanon."

"Bludgeoned?" echoed the aforementioned Mrs. Buchanon.

Despite the petty pleasure I took from watching her writhe, I felt enough pity to intervene. "She has no idea what took place, Mrs. Robarts, and neither do your son, the two deputies sent from Farberville, nor I. The victim had nothing to do with us. Were you aware of this cult?"

"Cult?" said Mrs. Jim Bob, sounding as though CPR might be in her immediate future.

"Don't be absurd!" snapped Mrs. Robarts.

"Why on earth am I being absurd? Your son admitted he had knowledge of their presence. I simply assumed that you did, too. What's really ridiculous is to accuse any of us of having a clue. We arrived yesterday to spend a week making repairs on the bleachers and the dock."

"But the weapon ... "

"The canvas bag was left in the dugout when the storm blew in," I retorted. "Anyone could have taken the bat."

Mrs. Jim Bob began to hyperventilate. "Taken the bat and what?"

I looked at Mrs. Robarts. "So you were unaware of the cult living inside the campgrounds? Anthony never mentioned this small detail over supper?"

Willetta Robarts shrugged. "Of course I was aware of them. They have been here for more than two years. They are Christians, although somewhat overzealous in their adherence to biblical canons. The money they earn working in Dunkicker is pooled and used to buy whatever they cannot produce themselves. The children are schooled in one of the cabins. They perform a limited amount of community service in exchange for being allowed to stay here for free. It is an arrangement that serves all of us."

If Mrs. Jim Bob's jaw had fallen any farther, she would have tripped over it as she sat down next to Mrs. Robarts. "I can't believe you'd allow these people on your property! What if it's a cult where they murder the children and then commit suicide? What if they have weapons and the federal agents come and there's a standoff with tear gas and one of us -- "

"I stay in touch with their leader, Deborah, who is very spiritual, yet level-headed in mundane matters. She comes to me when they need medicine for one of the children, or when they're being harassed by trailer park trash from nearby towns."

"Why do the women shave their heads?" I asked.

"To humble themselves," she said as she rose. "I do hope this can be handled discreetly, Arly. If the media catch wind of this, they'll arrive like a flock of turkey buzzards and completely destroy these devout Christian families and their chosen lifestyle. They do not wish to be sensationalized in the same way the Amish have been."

"I'm going into town," I told Mrs. Jim Bob. "You look as if you could use a little extra syrup on your pancakes."

"You mind your mouth, young lady. We have a guest."

I got into the station wagon and began what had become a familiar drive. The sky was back to blue, the foliage robust after a hearty watering. The air was a bit nippy, but once the sun had been up for a few hours, it would warm up nicely. I would have preferred to be fishing off the dock with Ruby Bee and Estelle, or even helping out at the softball field.

I came around a bend and saw a figure shuffling down the middle of the road, oblivious to the puddles and uneven ridges of mud. For a brief moment, I thought it might be Jacko, but then realized that it was the pastor of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall.

"Running away from camp?" I asked as I pulled alongside him. "It's a long walk into town. Need a ride?"

He gave me the look of a bloodhound that had lost the scent and knew he deserved nothing but contempt from his handler. "I can't stay here any longer. I figure I can make my way back to Maggody somehow or other. If nobody will give me a ride, then I'll just walk. After all, the Jews wandered in the desert for forty years. I reckon I can wander down the highway for a few days."

I got out of the car and eyed him across the roof. "Why can't you stay here any longer, Brother Verber?"

"You recollect how I said I saw something yesterday when we first arrived? I prayed for the Lord to tell me what it was, and He finally got around to it. It was the ghost of my sister Daisy."

"Get in the front seat and let's talk about it."

He wiped his forehead, peered nervously at the sundappled trees and bushes, and did as I suggested. "Daisy was six years older'n me. By the time she turned fifteen, she was a wild one, kicking up her heels with every boy in town. She got herself throwed out of school at least once a month. No matter how often my papa whupped her and locked her in her room, she'd never even pretend to repent. My mama was so humiliated by the gossip that she all but stopped going to church. The preacher used to give sermons about the Whore of Babylon and stare right at us the whole time, his eyes blazing and spittle flying all over the congregation members unfortunate enough to sit in the front pews. Folks took to comin' earlier and earlier every week, just to get a seat in the back of the church. Some of them said they'd just as soon sleep over Saturday night as risk a pious shower come Sunday morning."

"How did Daisy die?" I asked, aware I was due at the PD in less than fifteen minutes. Mindful of the state he was in, I couldn't shove him out of the station wagon and drive away, nor could I be sure that if I finally found a place to turn around (not all that easy) and took him back to the lodge he wouldn't take off again, mumbling to himself about Daisy and spittle and whatever other memories were fogging up his mind. "Did she come down with a terminal disease?"

"Mama would have handled that better," he said, snuffling. "One night, when she was just shy of seventeen, she climbed out her bedroom window and down a sycamore tree by the house. I was out in the yard catching lightning bugs, and she didn't see me at first. I asked her what she was doing. She said it was none of my business, but if I told anyone, she'd come back, rip out my tongue, and nail it to the door of the tool shed. She said some other things, too, then ran down the road." He stopped and blew his nose. "'Long about midnight, there was pounding on the front door. I hid at the top of the stairs. A state policeman had come to tell Mama and Papa how Daisy and her boyfriend had been out drinking and driving, and had a wreck. I knew right then it was my fault. If I'd hollered for Papa when Daisy started to leave, he would have caught her and none of it would have happened. She would have hurt me real bad, but at least she'd have been alive."

"You were only ten years old."

"But I knew what she was doin' was sinful. I just let her go because I was afraid of her. Now I'm afraid of her again. She's here for retribution on account of she knows that I should have saved her life that night."

"And the Lord told you all this?"

"That's right, and I got to get back to Maggody and take sanctuary in the Assembly Hall. Not even a ghost as vicious as Daisy would have the audacity to come in there."

I was still ten minutes from Dunkicker. "We need to talk about this some more," I said. "You can ride into town with me while I tell you what you really saw."

"I know what I saw, Arly. I don't reckon it'll hurt to let you get me to the highway, then we'll part ways."

As we bumped down the road, I told him about the body in the creek and the peculiar women and children living on the hillside above the lodge. "They must wear white robes unless they're working in town. What with their shaved heads and dark lipstick, they're pretty spooky, especially from a distance."

"If you think you can make up a preposterous tale to keep me from leaving -- "

"I'm not making this up."

"The Lord told me I saw Daisy," he insisted, his lower lip protruding.

"The Lord did no such thing," I said. "Maybe you'd better come with me when we confront the members of the cult. You can see for yourself."

Snuffling ripened into blubbering. "If I was to come face-to-face with Daisy, I'd have a heart attack. That'd suit her just fine. She used to poke me with pins just to make me cry."

Great. I had one dead body, one menopausal mother, ten frightened teenagers, and now this pudgy baby who was likely to wipe his nose on my shirt if I didn't keep an eye on him.

At least he didn't leap out of the station wagon as I reached the highway and turned toward Dunkicker. By the time I pulled into the parking lot outside the municipal building, he'd subsided, although I remained leery.

"Pull yourself together," I said. "There's a member of your flock inside who's in dire need of guidance. Did you bring your Bible?"

"Someone needs my guidance?"

"Duluth Buchanon was arrested yesterday for public drunkenness. I have no idea what he's doing here. Maybe you can talk to him, being his spiritual leader and all."

Brother Verber brightened at the thought of sermonizing to a sinner, particularly one behind bars and unable to escape the pieties and scathing appraisals of his proximity to damnation. "Why, I think the Lord would approve of me trying to help this strayed member of the flock. Once I have won his confidence, I'm right sure he'll confide in me."

"Me, too," I said as we went into the brick building. Corporal Robarts was on the telephone, whining. Les and Bonita were drinking coffee and sharing a newspaper.

"You're late," Les said.

I shrugged. "Yeah, I know. Have you heard anything from the lab?"

"Only that they'll send the fingerprints to the FBI. We'll be shooting off fireworks before we hear anything."

"What about the drunk?"

"He's stirring, but as ornery as a polecat. When Bonita here offered him coffee, he swore at her. I think he'll be pissing in a can and eating granola bars for the rest of the day."

Brother Verber licked his finger, and held it up as if to calculate which way the wind was blowing. "I sense there is a troubled soul in need of the comfort only a man of the cloth can bring. Prayer can bring him back on the path of righteousness. If you'll just show me to his cell ... "

"Down the hallway," said Bonita, who had sharp eyes and short, wiry red hair. "He's all yours, honey."

He clasped his hands together. "'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.'"

"I can assure you all he wants is to get out, but you do your best." Bonita gave him a shove, then turned around and grinned at us. "Guess I didn't mention that the prisoner spent the night barfing all over himself and soiling his pants. It smells real nasty down there."

Corporal Robarts muttered an expletive, then stuck the receiver at me. "Sheriff Dorfer wants to talk to you."

"Lucky me." I took the receiver. "What, Harve? Got a hangover from the party?"

Harve growled. "Maybe I do, but it ain't as bad as the headache you're gonna get. Panknine's not bad, but he's out of the picture and this Robarts boy can't tie his shoes. You're in charge of the investigation."

"I most certainly am not."

"I am authorized by the county prosecutor to appoint anyone I damn well choose to run an investigation. Les is a good man, but he ain't the next General Patton. Bonita's a bright girl, and once she gets some experience, she'll be coming after my job. If it weren't for my back acting up, I'd do it myself."

I swiped the discarded newspaper sections off the desk and rested my fanny on it. "Has your back ever acted up just before a fishing trip, Harve? Has it ever prevented you from playing poker in the back room at city hall or kept you from putting a case of whiskey in the trunk of your car?"