Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 13 (18 page)

Dahlia put down the gravy ladle. "You callin' me an idiot? Kevin, I cain't believe you're gonna sit there and let your pa say that to me!"

"I'm sure he dint mean that, my lusty bunny. All he meant was that -- "

Earl pushed back his chair and stood up, the napkin tucked under his chin flapping like a battle flag. "They ain't identical. Tell 'em, Eileen."

"Are, too," Dahlia said, standing up as well.

It occurred to Eileen that she could have agreed to chaperon the teenagers for their week at Camp Pearly Gates. She could be sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of the lodge, reading a book, crocheting, or just enjoying the breeze off the lake. Later, they'd toast marshmallows and sing about where all the flowers had gone and how Michael had rowed the boat ashore, hallelujah. Once nightfall came, she'd fall asleep listening to lovelorn whippoorwills calling to each other.

"Listen up," she said, "this is Sunday breakfast, not an amateur wrestling event. Shut up, sit down, and eat. Anyone with a problem about that can fix a plate and take it to the kitchen, the back porch, or out to the pasture, for all I care! I spent two hours fixing this meal, and I intend to eat it in peace. Kevin, please pass the grits."

"Are, too," Dahlia said as she sank down.

"Are not," Earl countered, then glanced at his wife and sat down.

Kevin didn't know what to say, but he had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and passed his ma the bowl of grits. The babies, in adjoining highchairs and happily stuffing bits of scrambled eggs up their adorable button noses, had the same rosy cheeks and rosebud mouths. Their little feet curled when they cried. Their diapers seemed to fill up at the same time, which was most of the time when he was caring for them so Dahlia could go visit her granny at the old folks' home. They both hated beets and loved applesauce. If that wasn't identical, what was?

Across the table, Dahlia stared at the gravy congealing on the biscuit. There was something she was gonna hafta tell Kevin afore too long.

10

Corporal Robarts and I sat in the waiting room while Doc Schmidt took care of Bonita. All the magazines involved blood sports and were dated from the previous decade. The weapons used to kill fish, fowl, and mammals were bigger and badder these days, but nothing else had changed: hook 'em, cook 'em, or mount 'em on the wall. The last of these was my least favorite. I was grateful that Doc Schmidt had not seen fit to adorn his walls with glassy-eyed heads of patients who had delayed treatment (or declined payment).

"I spoke to Judith," I said abruptly.

"She tell you anything?"

"Not really. According to her, the women are all victims of remarkably convenient amnesia. Previous identities have been wiped out; supposedly, not one of them could make her way back home, even with a map. I find that hard to swallow."

"I don't understand why they want to live that way," he said, "but it's no skin off my nose." He put on his hat, took it off, and looked at the prints of ducks captured in perpetuity as they winged their way across the walls. "How long you think it's going to take?"

"Shouldn't be much longer. Do the Beamers ever try to recruit local women?"

"That wouldn't sit real well with the townsfolk. Most everybody here's Baptist. We got a scattering of Seventh Day Adventists, one family that's Lutheran, and some old hippies in a cabin at the far end of Greasy Valley who claim they're Druids. This is a conservative town, but we get along with our neighbors, long as they don't flaunt themselves."

"Do you know anything about Deborah?"

"Only that she's kinda in charge."

"Have you met her?" I persisted.

"Once or twice," he said nervously. "I really don't have much contact with them, except for Rach and Sarah. Sometimes I give one or the other of them a ride home, but they always get out of the car before we get too near the cabins where they're staying. They say they do that to avoid upsetting the children. Same with Ester, who left a week ago or so. But, yeah, I've met Deborah. She looks just like the others. It ain't all that easy to tell them apart, as you might have noticed. I guess their mamas could, but no one else can."

I leaned back and crossed my legs. "Judith told me that Deborah wasn't at their site today. Could she be in Dunkicker?"

"I don't think so. To the best of my recollection, she's never had a job in town."

"But she somehow manages to send potential Beamers to Camp Pearly Gates. Where do you think she finds them?"

"How would I know?" He stood up. "Guess maybe I'll go by the Welcome Y'all and get a burger for the prisoner. After you've seen to Bonita, come to the PD and we'll figure out what we ought to do next. Les and Brother Verber won't be back for at least three, maybe four, hours."

"Okay," I said. "I shouldn't be more than half an hour."

After he'd gone, I stared blankly at the bleached prints and tried to organize what I knew. The four Beamers living in the cabins were Judith, Rachael, Sarah, and Naomi. Ruth had made five. Ester would have made six, but she was gone, as was someone named Leah.

If the body we'd found was indeed that of Norella Buchanon, how and why had she joined the Beamers and subjected herself to the bizarre makeover and less than luxurious lifestyle? If she'd been afraid of Duluth (and it seemed as though she might have had cause, after all), then why hadn't she found a third cousin twice removed to take her and the boys in until she could get a restraining order? Folks in Stump County have more cousins than they do dollars in the bank. Or common sense, for that matter.

It was clearly time for Duluth to crawl out of his hangover and do some explaining, I concluded.

I was beginning to get impatient when Bonita came into the waiting room, with Doc Schmidt holding on to her shoulder. He had shaggy white hair, bushy eyebrows, and shrewd blue eyes, the consummate personification of a country doctor -- or a vet, which I hoped he wasn't. All creatures great and small did not include sheriff's department personnel.

"She's a little bit wobbly," he said apologetically. "I wanted to give her a local before I cleaned out the cut and did the stitches, but she wouldn't let me. I put a packet of pain pills in her shirt pocket. She needs to take two now, another in four hours, and get some rest. An ice pack should bring down the swelling in her lip; the black eye's gonna have to run its course. Bring her in tomorrow so that I can make sure there are no symptoms of infection."

"I'm perfectly fine," Bonita protested in a less than convincing squeak.

"Thanks," I said to Doc Schmidt. I took Bonita's uninjured arm and steadied her as her knees buckled like those of a newborn foal. "Send the bill to Chief Panknine and we'll sort it out later."

"No charge. Any chance you can tell me what happened out at Camp Pearly Gates last night?"

"What have you heard?"

"Nothing," he said, flushing. "Ol' Crank Nickle lives by the turnoff to the camp, and he said there was all kind of traffic coming and going in the wee hours, including the hearse from Tattersol's funeral home."

"We'll release information when the time comes. I need to get Bonita to bed," I said as I urged her into motion.

We drove down the road to the Woantell Motel, where the primary decor consisted of water stains on walls and a crusty shag carpet underfoot. I waited while Bonita put on a nightgown and washed her face, bullied her until she took a couple of pills, and made her swear to stay in bed until I returned to check on her.

She was still squeaking as I turned out the light and left, but I figured she'd be asleep in a matter of minutes. I drove back to the PD and parked beside Corporal Robarts's car. Duluth had been able to resist Brother Verber's pious reproaches and offers of redemption. No matter how daunting a man of the cloth might be, a woman of the badge, especially when deeply frustrated, was a whole 'nother ballgame.

Corporal Robarts met me at the door. "I was just coming to find you," he said. "The prisoner escaped."

"I'm not in the mood for jokes."

"I'm not, either. The cell door's open."

"And on your watch. Imagine that." I stomped down the short hallway, ascertained that Duluth was not cowering under a bunk, and returned to the front room. "So when did this happen?"

"He was here when you and Brother Verber arrived at about nine o'clock. I asked him if he wanted coffee and he spat at me, so I figured he could make do with the pisspot in the corner and the sink if he wanted water. After you and Bonita left to question the Beamers, Les, Brother Verber, and me went over to the café for breakfast. We weren't back five minutes when you got here. I didn't think to check before you and me took Bonita to Doc Schmidt's office. The key to the cell door's on a hook on the opposite wall. Maybe Brother Verber unlocked the cell door so's to pray with the prisoner, then failed to make sure it was locked when he came back out."

"So Duluth could have hightailed it as much as two hours ago? A possible suspect in a brutal murder, who may be hiding in the woods at Camp Pearly Gates, where ten teenagers and a scattering of adults are getting ready for Sunday dinner and planning to spend the afternoon at the softball field or fishing off the dock? Is this who we're talking about?"

"It wasn't my fault," he said in a surly voice.

"Then whose fault was it?"

"Like I said, Brother Verber most likely didn't lock the cell door."

"Did you lock the door of the PD?"

"We was just going across the road for breakfast. Chief Panknine never locks the door, even at night. The only time anyone's ever come in after hours was when Miz Neblett brought in her son and locked him in the cell after she caught him smoking dope. Chief Panknine gave him what for the next morning, and the boy upped and joined the army that very afternoon. Ain't never been back, far as I heard."

"All right," I said with great restraint, "here's what is going to happen. I'll call Sheriff Dorfer and ask him to put out an APB for Duluth, who may be in the area -- or heading for Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, Louisiana, or British Columbia, where he'll stow away on a freighter for Hong Kong."

"Hong Kong?" he echoed. "Isn't that where they make those karate movies?"

"Don't worry about it. We won't get a posse on horseback or bloodhounds, but the state troopers will be looking for him. Then I need to go back to the campgrounds and make sure the group from Maggody is taking precautions. All you're going to do is sit down, shut up, and take telephone messages. Got it?"

"What about the Beamers and their kids? If he knows karate -- "

"Shit," I said as I tried to think. Bonita was snoring in the Woantell Motel, out of commission for at least a couple of hours. Les would not return with Brother Verber any time soon. "All right, I can deal with the group from Maggody and be back here in an hour. You go on down to the Beamer compound, tell them what's going on, keep everybody from straying too far, and sit on a picnic table until Les or I show up. If you see Duluth, shoot him in the leg."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah, Corporal Robarts, on the off-chance he does know karate. He may have killed a woman. The Beamers will not appreciate your presence, but we need to do what we can to ensure their safety."

"So I'm just supposed to sit on a picnic table while everybody else searches for this killer."

"That's right -- park your butt and keep your eyes open." I waited until he stalked out of the PD, then reluctantly called Harve at home. Odds were good he'd already gone fishing, but it turned out he hadn't yet assembled his gear, which consisted primarily of a cooler and a picnic basket. Sunscreen was mandatory; bait was optional. After I'd finished telling him what had happened, I let him sputter for a moment, then added, "Thing is, we don't even know if the body is that of Norella Buchanon. Duluth may have just sobered up and decided to go home, presuming he had a vehicle parked somewhere. Why he showed up here is a bit of a mystery, though."

"Could he have been looking for you or Ruby Bee?"

This hadn't occurred to me. "I suppose so. He was in charge of all the repairs to Ruby Bee's kitchen. Everybody in Maggody knew where we were going."

"So he drove down to show you paint samples, drank too much on the way, and ended up in a ditch on account of the thunder and lightning. Some folks are fearful of things, no matter how tough they pretend to be. I seem to recollect you let out a screech when a field mouse ran across your foot while we was pulling that body out of the reservoir last fall."

"It was a rat," I said stiffly. "You're saying Duluth came all this way to show us paint samples?"

"Or something along those lines. I'm not claiming he's an interior decorator. Like I said, I'll put out the APB, but you got no call to assume he's hiding in the woods with a softball bat."

"Somebody was," I pointed out.

Harve paused to light a cigar. "I can't argue with that. You need help? I'm not sure I can scare up anybody today, it being the weekend, but I can send somebody tomorrow."

Tomorrow was another day, I thought wearily. "I'll call you tonight and let you know. We should have an ID on the body; if it's not Norella, then ... I don't know what to do. Maybe I can get some information from these damn Beamers."