Madness In Maggody (4 page)

*****

Alex had taken
Jackie outside to play catch, which was somewhat interesting in that Alex couldn't catch a cold, much less a ball. Neither could Jackie, for that matter, but he was a docile sort and trudged along rather than argue.

Ivy was reading a book that would have caused the good folks at Organic Gardening to faint in their compost piles. "Organophosphate," she read aloud with difficulty. "Tetraethyl pyrophosphate." She repeated the words until they had a pleasant rhythm to them and seemed to roll off her tongue.

Alex wouldn't hear them, because once he understood what they meant, he'd be as panicky and upset as a bronco with a burr in its tail. Alex preferred ladybugs and praying mantises to control the insects that savaged the gardens every summer. He planted marigolds to fight the slugs. He constructed quaint scarecrows when a shotgun would have been much more effective.

Alex was in harmony with his environment, Ivy told herself as she put aside the book. He genuinely liked the rabbits that gnawed the lettuce, the groundhogs that wallowed in the squash, the deer that nibbled everything they could reach over the fence, or everything in sight when they'd knocked the fence down, which they did once a month or so. For all she knew, he had affection for the bugs and slugs and other foul things.

Ivy was more in harmony with the real world of dwindling bank accounts, bills, mortgage payments, supplies, the increase in the electric rate, and all the basically nonorganic aspects of their life.

There wasn't much she could do about the animals that trampled the gardens and enjoyed a well-balanced diet at her expense, but she could do something quite lethal to the ones that traveled on six legs. The insecticide wasn't cheap, but the increase in productivity per acre would more than cover the cost. There was a possibility they could lower prices just a bit, and perhaps keep a few customers.

Alex would protest and perhaps go so far as to forbid it—if he knew, of course. Ivy figured she could send him and Jackie into town on some errand, then waltz out to the garden and orchards to take care of the insects all by herself. Alex could continue to be as organic as he wished, and she could use enough of the organophosphate to at least attempt to be competitive with the supermarket. Or she could sprinkle it on the salads in the deli department and ensure there would be no more supermarket with which to be competitive.

*****

Geraldo Mandozes slammed
down the checkbook and leaned back in the metal chair. If business got any slower, he figured he'd have to call it quits and try to sell the damn building and equipment to someone else. But there would be no buyers beating down the door. He'd used all his savings to buy the business and bring his family to this godforsaken place. Geraldo's anger grew hotter than a peck of jalapeño peppers as he remembered how long he'd cooked for other people to save the money.

His tamales really were the best, the very best. It was not fair that this supermarket deli would destroy the Dairee Dee-Lishus as if it were a dry twig to be stepped on.

A mouse darted out from under a stack of dry goods, then froze. "Vaya!" Geraldo snarled. The mouse vaya-ed back from whence it had come. "This is too much. I got bills, I got payments, I got less customers every day, and now I got mice. I got enough trouble without goddamn mice."

He took the box of poison off the shelf and began to sprinkle it along the baseboards, being careful not to inhale the whitishgray powder.

*****

Lillith Smew stared
in horror at the brown bug scuttling across the kitchen counter. She put her hand on her heart, which wasn't at all strong, and held back a shriek. It was one thing to risk her health, which wasn't at all good, to come live with Buzz and the children and take care of them, but she hadn't bargained on roaches in the kitchen. Why, she was having one of her palpitations right there; she could feel it under her hand.

She forced herself to sit down and try to calm herself so she wouldn't have another heart attack. She'd already had two, even though the snooty young doctor had said they were bouts of indigestion. Lillith Smew figured she knew more than he did, anyway, because she'd spent a goodly amount of time in various doctors' offices, hoping one of them would acknowledge the gravity of her heart condition.

Martin poked his head in the kitchen. "What's the matter, Gran? Are you sick?"

"I saw a roach , Martin. It caused a severe palpitation, and I had to sit down to catch my breath."

"They get to be a problem in the summer," Martin said agreeably. He had big brown eyes, but they never widened in surprise these days, nor did much of any expression ever cross his face. "There's a box of powder under the sink. You want I should sprinkle some around?"

"Oh, Martin, you are such a good little boy. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you and sweet little Lissie. You'll be my only grandchildren now that your poor mama has gone to heaven." Lillith made a sad face and spread out her arms, looking somewhat like the crucifix at the Assembly Hall. "Come here so I can give you a big hug."

Martin dutifully crossed the room and allowed himself to be crushed. She smelled like medicine, he thought without much interest. She had enough little boxes and bottles to stock a drugstore, and she was always going on about her heart or her blood pressure or her veins or her waves of dizziness or something.

"There's another roach," he said so she'd let go of him. "I better get the poison."

*****

"Then he
put his hand on her thigh," Lottie Estes told Elsie McMay, who'd come by to pick up a half-pint of Lottie's blackberry jam, which had won the blue ribbon at the county fair for as many years as Elsie could recall.

They were sitting at the kitchen table, with a plate of thinly sliced pound cake and an open jar of jam handy. Elsie put her hand to her lips. "Did he...?"

Lottie had to stop for a second to compose herself before she could continue. "Yes, Elsie, I'm afraid he did. Now this is in the strictest confidence, of course, and just between you and me, but he did his level best to slide his hand toward...Well, to actually touch poor Heather in a very private place that she shouldn't even touch herself, much less allow a man to touch. Heather is a good girl. If she wasn't, she certainly wouldn't have confided in me, her home ec teacher, would she? I don't worry about the ones who share their innermost private secrets with me. No, Elsie, I worry about the ones who don't!"

"Such as?" Elsie said as she spooned a bite of jam on a corner of the cake slice.

"Let me start us another pot of tea and then I'll tell you." Lottie smiled contentedly as she headed for the teakettle on the stove. It was so nice of Elsie to drop by, and even nicer to take such a deeply charitable interest in Lottie's students. And she knew she could rely on Elsie not to repeat a single word.

The count had
roguish eyes and a dimple. I'd noticed him glancing at me as I sipped espresso on the hotel patio, but I'd pretended to be engrossed in a mystery novel. I wasn't staying at this particular hotel. The less pretentious hotel was perfectly adequate for my basic needs and well within the budget. The concierge (okay, page 314) had suggested I have coffee at one of the more grandiose places on the boulevard that ran beside the beach.

I noted out of the corner of my eye that the count was murmuring to the garçon, who was staring at me. I returned to my novel but allowed an enigmatic smile to dance across my face.

The telephone rang. I looked up quickly, but the count and the garçon were nowhere to be seen. The telephone would have to go, I thought sourly. Sure, this was a PD of sorts and I was its sole P, but that didn't mean I had to answer the telephone as if I was a receptionist in a front office. It occurred to me I could take my radar gun and travel guide and drive down the road a piece to a secluded, shady spot near the skeletal remains of Purtle's Esso Station. Then, if everyone had the decency to observe the speed limit, I could get on with more important things.

I finally picked up the receiver. "Oui?"

"Is there someone with you?" Ruby Bee said.

"Mais non," I said with a Gallic shrug. "C'est moi."

"You said we. Why'd you say that, and what was that other gibberish?"

"A small joke, Ruby Bee...a very small joke. What's up? Armed robbery in the bar and grill? Another hostage situation in the motel? Mold on the hamburger buns?"

"I swear, you have been in the dadgum strangest mood lately. I am not the only person in town to have commented on it, either. Ivy Sattering said you were talking to yourself in the launderette, and when you left, you said 'chow' to her instead of 'see you later' or 'have a nice day.' Why would you say something like that, Ariel Hanks? As your own mother, I think I'm entitled to an explanation."

"There's a lot you're entitled to," I said mildly. "Is this display of petty tyranny the purpose of the call? There is criminal activity afoot as we speak, and as the defender of the faith, the protectress of the little people, the—"

"Some days you sorely try my patience. I just wanted to tell you that the bar and grill is closed for lunch 'cause I've been having a terrible time with those big black ants and I'm going to have to seal the cabinets and put out that powder the exterminator left last time."

"Okay," I said. After a distinct lull, I added, "Is there anything else?"

"So what are you planning to do about lunch?"

"I have no idea. What difference does it make to you?"

"Why should it make any difference to me? I was just inquiring, for pity's sake. I didn't ask what time you got home after your date last Saturday night with that state trooper friend of yours, or why it was well after three in the morning—particularly when you told me beforehand that you all were going to the early picture show."

"No, you didn't ask that," I said, totally bewildered. "I'm not sure what I'll do about lunch, Ruby Bee. Maybe I'll pick up a cheeseburger and a lemonade at the Dairee Dee-Lishus and have a little picnic while I lurk for speeders out north of town. Is that all right with you?"

"Hold on a minute." She put her hand over the receiver, but I could hear a muffled conversation. I was about to hang up when she came back on. "No, don't do that. That's a terrible idea, Arly. There's a rumor in town that the Mandozes fellow is using a cheap grade of beef—if it is beef. We can't have you getting sick."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so, Miss Glib Lips. You just go on home and have some soup. That way you won't be courtin' botulism."

"Whatever you say," said, and hung up before she could say anything else equally peculiar. Ruby Bee and Estelle make me crazy. They always have an elaborate justification for involving themselves in my business, personal and official, and they involve themselves with more enthusiasm and dedication than teenagers toilet-papering a tree. They thrive on cop and private detective shows on television. Estelle once wrote a six-page letter to Tom Selleck pointing out a clue he'd overlooked, but he didn't respond, and after a few months she stopped grousing about it.

The telephone rang, but I managed not to hear it. I picked up my beloved travel guide, went into the back room of the PD (which has exactly two rooms: the front room and the back room) to get the radar gun out of the metal cabinet, and ambled out to the car. Botulism? Beef—if that's what it was?

Shaking my head, I opened the car door. It was very much like opening the oven door to see if the turkey was done. Earlier, I'd cleverly parked the car in the shade and uncleverly forgotten to roll down the windows. The shade was now over by the soda machine next to the door of the PD.

I went ahead and rolled down the window (barn doors and stolen horses here), then decided to go across the road to my apartment, where I could slump in front of the fan and cast enigmatic smiles at the count.

Roy Stiver was sitting in a rocking chair in front of the antique store, watching the traffic and thinking about whatever he thought about. "Yo, Arly," he said as I approached him. "You got yourself an out-of-town visitor. I went ahead and let him into your apartment."

My fingers tightened around the book, but I knew I hadn't quite worked myself up to that stage of schizophrenia, despite the recent exchanges with my mother. The sheriff and/or the friendly state trooper would have hunted me up at the PD. I couldn't think of any other men who might want to drop in on me. No editorials, please.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"I reckon it's supposed to be a surprise," Roy said, cackling like a damn hen. "I knew you wouldn't mind me using my key, Arly."

"I don't care whether you reckon it's supposed to be a surprise or not. Who is it?"

"Oops, I think I hear my phone ringing. I've been waiting all morning for a call from my broker. See ya later." He pushed himself up and went into his store, still cackling to himself. I was almost surprised there was no egg in the cane-bottom seat.

Roy's departure left me with a few options. I could chase him down to question him further, but I doubted I'd find out anything. I could stand there at the side of the highway until I was clipped by a truck. I could go back to the car, pick up lunch at the Dee-Lishus, and continue on with my original plan. Or I could climb the rickety stairs at the side of the building and find out what the hell was going on. It seemed obvious that Ruby Bee was behind it, which wasn't much comfort.

I finally opted for the last option. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear my television set blaring as I arrived at the landing. "Glad to see you've made yourself at home," I called angrily as I banged open the door.

A small figure with stringy black hair was squatting three inches from the television screen. Several soda cans were on their sides, as was a box of crackers. He jerked up in alarm at my voice, then smiled broadly and said, "Howdy, Arly."

"Hammet?"

"Yeah, it's me. How be ya, Arly? Sure is god-awful good to see ya again."

I came into the room and sank down on the sofa, wondering if the truck had indeed clipped me and I hadn't noticed. "Hammet?" I repeated.

He regarded me soberly through small, unblinking, Buchanon-tinted eyes. "You having a conniption or sumpun? You look whiter'n a dead cow in the moonlight."

"How did you get here?"

"It was real easy. First the social lady called over where I been staying all this time and sez you wants me to visit. I does okay there, mostly, but my stepma said she thought that'd be a right fine idea and had me on the curb when those ladies drove up in a big ol' station wagon. You look mighty funny, Arly. Is your belly achin'?"

"No, Hammet," I said weakly, "I'm a little surprised to see you, that's all. There's something screwy going on here. You said a social worker called your stepmother and said I wanted you to visit?"

"Sure were kind of you. It gits kinda wild sometimes. I got this halfass brother what sez he's the biggest so I got to mind him, but that's a crock of shit and we get to hittin' and kickin'. Then this snot-nosed sister starts grabbin' on his hair, and he commences to bawlin', and then my stepma gits all het up." He gave me an appraising look. "Ain't easy by any means."

I caught myself grinning just a little bit. "No, I imagine not. So your stepmother agreed and had you all ready when the ladies drove up. Anyone you recognized?" I don't know why I even bothered to ask; I really don't.

"That lady what cooked for us'n and t'other one what hung around all the time," he explained eloquently.

"That's what I thought."

"They was real nice, Arly. They got me stuff to eat and drink in the car, and then they said all about how I could play baseball like those fellows on television. I was aimin' to watch 'em while I waited for you, but I reckon they's at home today."

I closed my eyes and tried not to sigh too loudly. "Oh, they're real nice ladies, Hammet. Real nice. Food, drink, and a promise that you could play baseball."

His smile faded. "Mebbe, they said, lest mebbe. They said nobody was gonna get to play if'n they didn't find someone to coach the team. I ain't ever played baseball, but I think I might like it better'n sorghum on corn bread for supper."

A lot of images went through my mind at that moment. My favorite involved Ruby Bee's staked-out body, sorghum, and an advancing line of big black ants. Hammet, for the uninformed, was one of Robin Buchanon's five illegitimate children. Robin had been murdered while hunting ginseng on Cotter's Ridge. He and I had gotten to be buddies (in our own way) during the subsequent investigation and I'd really become fond of him (in my own way). I'd been downright misty when the social worker took him to his pa's home, but it clearly wasn't possible to insert a small, untamed boy into my lifestyle. We both had realized it wouldn't have worked. However, I'd nurtured a flicker of guilt that was now a full-fledged forest fire.

"Is you okay?" he asked, watching me anxiously.

"I'm fine and I'm glad you're here to visit. Tell you what let's do, Hammet. Let's go down to where the real nice ladies are and have a chat. You can have a piece of pie with ice cream on it."

Hammet bounced up and hooked his thumbs through the straps of his faded but clean overalls. "And see if'n I git to play baseball?"

I nodded grimly and hoped he couldn't see the steam roiling out of my ears. As we walked down the highway to Ruby Bee's, Hammet regaled me with the highlights of fistfights in his new home and I tried to decide what I was going to say to the real nice ladies. Hammet's vocabulary had mellowed greatly since he'd come down from the cabin, and I certainly didn't want to remind him of his innate talent for four-letter words and quaint colloquialisms, most of which concerned farm animals and improbable sexual activities.

There was a CLOSED sign on the door of the bar and grill, but we marched in with no difficulty. The barroom was uninhabited. I told Hammet to pick out a stool, then went around the bar and into the kitchen, where I saw one real nice lady crawling alongside the baseboard and the other watching her. Neither looked especially thrilled to see me.

Ruby Bee got to her feet. "I told you I was closed so's I could tackle these darn ants."

"So you did," I said politely. "I went to my apartment for lunch, just as you suggested."

Estelle and Ruby Bee swapped looks. At last, Estelle cleared her throat and said, "Hammet's lookin' fine, isn't he? It's astounding how much he's grown in the last year. With clean hair and decent clothes, he looks right smart, doesn't he?"

"Right smart," Ruby Bee said when I failed to respond. "He did so well in school that he's going into fifth this fall. He should be in sixth, but he was ignorant as they come when he started last year. Couldn't even count, his new ma told me. Can you imagine not knowing how to count?"

"I'm counting to ten right now," I said, "but it may not be sufficient. I may have to count to a hundred, or a thousand, or even a million. Did it occur to you to consult me before you invited a guest to stay at my apartment? What if I'd planned a trip or simply preferred to be alone? What if—" I stopped as the door opened behind me and Hammet came into the kitchen.

"Sumpun smells right tasty," he said, sucking in the noxious odor with the style of a seasoned connoisseur.

Ruby Bee put down the box of ant poison and scurried over to him. "I was just telling Arly here how well you've been doing at school. She's real proud of you, I bet. How about some pie?"

We all trooped back to the barroom and Hammet accepted a piece of peach pie, and with an encouraging word from me, a scoop of ice cream on top. I declined the same, mostly because I was so pissed, I wouldn't have accepted a bushel basket of ten dollar bills from the woman. She could have offered to hang the moon for me, and I'd have suggested an extremely uncomfortable place to do it. Without hesitation.

"So which one of you is head coach?" I said when I could trust myself.

Ruby Bee held up her hands. "I don't know anything about baseball...not one blessed thing."

"Neither do I," Estelle added quickly. "Why, I got more confused than a preacher in paradise when I tried to think what they call the players."

I gave them an evil smile. "I'll dash right into Farberville to the Book Depot and buy you a book that'll explain everything."

"Now, honey," Ruby Bee said, "you know I'm too old to teach a gang of children how to throw baseballs and swing bats." She leaned over the bar and put her mouth close to my ear. "Don't forget I'm fifty-two years old. You wouldn't want me to have a heart attack on the field. You'd feel guilty the rest of your life."

I raised my eyebrows and my voice. "Fifty-two, my foot! You're fifty-five if you're a day, and a heart attack's a damn sight cleaner than matricide—which is an appealing alternative at the moment."

"I cannot believe my ears!" Estelle gasped. "Your own mother! Imagine saying such things to your own mother. You young folks have no respect for your elders."

"Can it," I said. "If you've lined up nine players, and I'm assuming Hammet's visit has numerical significance, then you've got eight sets of parents. Surely one of the fathers is a closet jock who'd like to live out his fantasies on the field."

Ruby Bee opened the drawer below the cash register and took out a much-creased piece of paper. "Don't go jumping to conclusions, young lady. For starters, discounting Hammet, we've got six families. Now Saralee is staying at the Lambertinos', and Larry Joe is already coaching the SuperSavers. Joyce has her hands full with the little ones, so there's no way she can coach."