Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 13 (20 page)

He was seated on an aluminum folding chair, eating stew out of a can and regarding the fishing boats on the lake. His plaid shirt was of different hues, but his khakis and canvas hat were familiar.

"I was wondering when you'd come back," he said.

I caught my breath. "And why would you be doing that?"

"I thought you might have some questions."

I realized that I most certainly did.

11

Jacko held up a spoon. "Want some? The carrots are mushy and the beef's chewy, so it balances out: mush, chew, chew; mush, chew, chew. Sounds like a ballroom dance, doesn't it?"

"I don't think so," I said, staying where I was. "Not much of a fisherman, are you?"

"It's not much of a lake."

"Then why are you here?"

He grinned. "Just taking a break. I can listen to my music, dress up like the coverboy for
Field and Stream
, and fall asleep listening to the crickets and owls. No cellphone, laptop, or late-night television. This trip I've been rereading Henry James. You like him?"

"A break from what?" I asked. "Prison?"

"You overestimate me." He put down the can of stew but remained seated, which was for the best, since I didn't want to be obliged to whack him with the stick I had my eye on. "Merely an office job riddled with tedium and tacit despair. Several times a year I make a point of getting away."

"And where would this office be?"

"In a galaxy far, far away, at least for this week."

"I can run your license plate," I said, "and I will if you don't answer my questions. What are you really doing here?"

"Ah, yes, I heard you're a cop. You don't exactly dress like one, do you?"

"Heard from whom -- the crickets and the owls?"

"And how well-educated you are, considering your profession. You recognized Vivaldi and had the sense to turn up your nose when I mentioned Henry James. Do you write poetry when you're not running a speed trap?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't rhyme. Why are you here?"

"Why are you worried about me?"

"Well, you're no fisherman, obviously. Even those clowns out on the lake are pulling up crappies. The best you seem to have caught is Dinty Moore."

"And that's a crime?"

"As I said, I'll run your plate. There was a homicide yesterday afternoon. It seems to have happened about the time you were taking a stroll, unaware of the thunderstorm. If I'd been you, I might have stayed by my tent."

He appraised me for a moment. "What if I said I'd hiked into Dunkicker for a hot meal at the café and been caught on the way back?"

"I'd say you were lying."

"Okay, so I'm not here to fish. That doesn't mean I killed anyone."

"Why are you here?" I repeated. "Is there something about the swarms of gnats and mosquitoes that appeals to you? Cold stew, poison ivy, the occasional cottonmouth dangling in the branches above your head? Aren't you too old to be working on a merit badge?"

"I'm, well -- I guess you could say I'm along the lines of a private investigator."

I'd suspected as much, but I still wasn't sure how to respond. "So you're keeping tabs on the Beamers?"

"I was hired to look into things."

"By whom?"

"You know I won't tell you," he said with a wink meant to distract me, which it did, but only momentarily. "Privileged and all that shit. I'm just making sure the children are healthy for the time being. My employers will make the next call."

"No, I will. A woman was murdered yesterday, and you just happened to be walking down the road in a downpour. You must have seen the clouds gathering. Why on earth did you opt to walk to Dunkicker?"

"Exercise?"

"No, Jacko, or whatever your name is," I said. "We're grateful that you were there to bring Darla Jean to the lodge. No one's arguing with that. But if that's all you have to say, I'll have no choice but to have you taken into custody until you can produce a better explanation than a sudden urge to appreciate nature at its worst. The food in the Dunkicker jail is likely to be better than canned stew. The view, on the other hand, is not so picturesque."

"You've talked to these women, right? They brought their children and started preparing themselves for what they call the Rapture. The family that hired me is worried. They suspect their daughter might ... "

"Harm the children?"

"Yeah," he said. "Can you blame them? Jonestown wasn't that long ago; it may have been an anomaly, or it could happen again."

"Which woman have you come to find?"

Jacko shook his head. "I have no information concerning the homicide yesterday. I walked to the gate, then realized the storm was moving in and headed back. I found the girl under a scrub oak and carried her to the lodge. That's pretty much all I have to say. Run my plate if it entertains you; you'll discover that I live in Springfield, Missouri, and have no outstanding warrants for felonies, misdemeanors, jaywalking, or overdue library books. I may be a lousy fisherman, but I am an upstanding citizen. I'd show you my plaque from the Jaycees if I hadn't left it at home."

"You are very annoying," I said.

"Any chance you'd like to crawl into my tent and let me really annoy you?"

"No, I would not," I said forcefully, if mendaciously. "Don't leave the area without telling me or Corporal Robarts."

"I'll be here for a few more days." He picked up the can of stew. "Sure I can't offer you lunch?"

I went back to the road and found his car. The license plate had been removed. The doors and trunk were locked, naturally. I contemplated letting the air out of his tires just to prove which of us could be more annoying, then virtuously headed for the lodge.

Raz gazed sorrowfully at Marjorie. "I reckon you would have preferred a mule, but it was a real nice goat. Not pedigreed like you, a'course, but with fine flanks and big brown eyes. You and her could have got along jest fine, even been friends."

Marjorie looked away.

"Uncle Tilbert raised goats till his lactose intolerance got the best of him. He always said they wasn't the smartest animals, but they could find their way home come suppertime, which was more than his young'uns could do. I can't hardly keep from cacklin' when I recollect how his eldest boy upped and married that bearded lady named -- "

Marjorie sniffled.

Raz realized he wasn't makin' no progress with goats. "Thing is, I can't just up and go over to Perkins's place, unless I want a load of buckshot in my backside. Even if I was to temporarily borrow Perkins's mule, it'd have to stay in the barn till things quieted down. What kind of companionship are you gonna git with a mule down in the barn? It ain't even air-conditioned."

It was clear from Marjorie's expression that she hadn't considered that.

"If you was to spend your time in the barn," he persisted, "you'd miss your favorite shows on the satellite channels. I'd say offhand that it's a matter of time afore Gilligan drags Ginger behind a coconut tree. What's more, any fool can see that Ozzie and Harriet are headin' for divorce court, with judge Judy presiding." He paused, then went in for the kill. "But if you're down in the barn, as opposed to watching reruns and pay-for-view, then so be it. Don't think I'm going to bring down bags of microwave popcorn, 'cause I ain't. I'll be sittin' right here watchin' Xena's boobs bobble."

Marjorie's eyes watered and her snout began to drip on the new tangerine area rug.

Raz figgered he needed to reconsider his options. Arly was out of town, which was good. Perkins, on the other hand, had been mouthin' off at the barber shop about what all he might do iff'n anybody set foot on his place. It occurred to Raz that a quart of 'shine might help.

All was idyllic at the lodge. The kids were sitting on the lawn, the girls still involved with magazines, the boys with poking each other and making what I was sure were crude remarks. They were doing so quietly, however, since Mrs. Jim Bob was on the porch in a wicker throne, staring at them as though she would, if a profanity was spoken aloud, order Larry Joe to pull out the tools and start constructing a guillotine. She professed to being a devout Christian, but I'd always felt she preferred the Old Testament approach when faced with transgressions of both major and minor magnitude.

"Where's Larry Joe?" I asked.

"Calling his wife," said Amy Dee. "That is like so sweet. If I ever get married, I'd want my husband to call me every day."

Big Mac snickered. "I hear they have rules about how often you can make phone calls from the state pen."

Heather arched her eyebrows. "And you should know, considering how many of your kinfolk are there. I hear tell they have a whole wing set aside for Buchanons."

"Excuse me," came a voice from the porch.

"Not your side of the clan," Heather said hastily. "All I meant, you know, was like how maybe -- "

"That will do," said Mrs. Jim Bob. "In case all of you have forgotten, this is the Sabbath. Put away your trashy magazines and gather on the porch steps. We will have a reading from the First Epistle of Paul the Apostle to the Corinthians, in which he expounds on the evils of sectarianism. There is enlightenment to be gleaned."

"Good work, Heather," Jarvis muttered as he rose.

I grabbed him. "I'll bring him back in a few minutes," I said to Mrs. Jim Bob, then dragged him behind the bus, ignoring the alarmed stares of the other kids.

Once we were out of sight, I said, "I need to ask you a few questions."

"About what? Cookies missing from the pantry?"

"Why? Did you steal some?"

Jarvis gave me a sly look. "Wanna frisk me?"

In that he was wearing a threadbare T-shirt and tight shorts, I was fairly certain he had not concealed much more than a cloverleaf on his person.

"Larry Joe said you went back to the softball field yesterday afternoon," I said.

"Yeah, I did. My ma gave me a wallet for my birthday last month. I thought I'd left it up there, but I was wrong. I must have left it at home."

"But you were up there for half an hour."

"Look, I didn't want to come here in the first place," he said. "It was my ma's idea. She ain't doing all that well these days, so I said I'd do it just to keep her happy. By the afternoon, I was getting real tired of all the whining and complaining. These girls carry on like they're in middle school. Big Mac, Parwell, and Billy Dick don't stop bragging about ... well, you know. It's not my thing. I went to the softball field, sat in the dugout for a few minutes, and then went back to the cabin."

"You didn't hear anything?"

"Like what?"

"A loud conversation?" I suggested. "A scream?"

"Or someone getting whacked with a softball bat?"

I debated whether or not to tell him that it was possible that Norella Buchanon had been the victim of the brutality. Later, I decided, when we had some sort of confirmation.

"Okay," I said, "we can let this go for the moment. I'm not satisfied with your story, but I'm willing to concede that it makes sense. Don't go off by yourself anymore."

Jarvis returned to the lawn. It was possible that I was not endearing myself to the teenagers, but I wasn't sure that I'd ever had a snowball's chance of winning their confidence. I was, after all, not only a member of the adversarial generation, but also a cop. In this case, two strikes and I was out.

I waved at Mrs. Jim Bob, then drove away before she could dethrone herself. As I reached the highway, I saw what I supposed was Crank Nickle's farm at the intersection. The fences were in disrepair and the barn appeared to be standing by only spit and a prayer. The house was a tribute to tattered tar paper. Mangy hounds sprawled on the porch barely opened their eyes as I drove by.

I hoped they had enjoyed the previous night's activity, although I suspected it would have taken a presidential motorcade and a slew of Secret Service agents to rouse them.

Ruth, when she'd been forced to get out of bed, had worked with Sarah at the church. I decided to stop there, then go by the café and speak to Rachael before I tackled Judith again.

The Baptist church was situated between a body shop and a seedy building with a portable sign that advertised a flea market every other weekend. A few members of the congregation were still conversing out front, but no one openly gawked as I pulled around to the back.

Several pickup trucks with oversize tires were parked near a door. I parked well away from them and went inside, where I found myself in a kitchen. Three hulking boys, neckless and most likely witless, were loading Styrofoam containers onto cookie sheets under the instructions of a Beamer with a noticeably sharp tongue. Same shaved head, lack of eyebrows, and ghoulish lipstick, of course, but in this case dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt beneath an apron. She was shorter than Judith and broader than Rachael, but those were the only differences I could detect.

"I've had it with you, Byron," she was saying. "You miss one more stop and Chief Panknine's gonna have you picking up litter alongside the highway until Christmas -- if you're lucky. Any questions about your deliveries?"

"No, ma'am," he mumbled.

She turned to the other two. "I'll make a point of visiting with all of our patrons later today. If so much as one of them is missing a green bean or a sliver of cake, you'll find yourselves in orange jumpsuits, hoeing turnip fields at the state prison. You should be back in an hour, with all the names checked off your lists. Got that?"

After more mumbling, the hulks left with their loads. I waited by the door for a moment, then advanced. "I'm Arty Hanks," I said. "The sheriff asked me to investigate the murder that took place yesterday afternoon."

"You mind if I start cleaning up while we talk? Once the boys get back, I'd like to leave. I've been here for five hours, preparing forty meals for shut-ins. My back's killing me."

Sarah may have assumed that I'd pitch in, but I sat down on a stool.

"I'm here to ask you about Ruth," I said.