Malpractice in Maggody (5 page)

Estelle waggled her finger. “Don’t forget the plaque.”

Ruby Bee frowned at the interruption, then said, “They put it up a day or two ago, but nobody knows what to make of it. It’s a fancy brass thing that says ‘The Stonebridge Foundation.’”

I thought about it for a moment. “Sounds like a corporate retreat or a research facility. How disappointing for Mrs. Jim Bob; I’m sure she’s been praying for something scandalous so she can get her knickers in a twist. And poor Brother Verber won’t get to stand on the road, thumping his Bible and preventing sinners from darkening the threshold of eternal damnation.”

Estelle resumed nursing her glass of sherry, and Ruby Bee went into the kitchen to dish me up a plate of fried pork chops and summer squash. I idly watched customers straggle in for beer and pretzels. Bilious Buchanon put a quarter in the juke box and ordered a pitcher so he could literally cry in his beer. A married couple I knew from high school days glanced coldly at me before settling in a booth for their version of a romantic night on the town. I’d arrested two of their sons for public drunkenness a couple of months earlier, so I wasn’t surprised when they didn’t gesture for me to join them. After a while, most of the booths were occupied, as well as the stools. Conversations concerned the weather, road construction, the weather, the parking problem at the livestock barn, and the weather. The major point of controversy was whether or not it would rain any time soon. I wondered what they’d do if they woke up some morning and discovered there was no weather. Discuss it at length, I concluded.

After I’d polished off a piece of peach cobbler, I got up to leave. Before I could take more than a step, two strangers came into the bar. Since I pretty much knew everybody in Maggody (or at least their faces and parole status), I sat back down. They did not look like the sort of couple propelled by lust to rent a room at the Flamingo Motel, nor did they resemble the occasional truck driver and wife (or girlfriend) who’d stop for supper. The woman was more than six feet tall, with unevenly cropped brown hair, an angular jaw, and the broad shoulders of a football player. Her mouth was set in a frown. If she’d been carrying a briefcase, I would have pegged her for a prosecuting attorney (and if I’d been a defendant, innocent or otherwise, I would have been worried about my future). The man beside her was quite her opposite. He barely came up to her earlobes. His skin had the light brown hue of a walnut shell. He wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt, knee-length shorts, and sandals with dark socks, reminding me of a tourist at a run-down resort. Some of the customers gave him a hard stare, as though suspecting him of being “one of them thar Arab terrorists” intending to blow up a barn or two.

The pair came over to the bar and waited until Ruby Bee bustled over, wiping her hands on her apron. “We have a problem,” the woman announced, her words crisp.

“We do?” said Ruby Bee, alarmed.

“My colleague and I arrived at the Stonebridge Foundation earlier today. Everything seemed to be in order, but an hour ago the power went out. Until the power is restored, we need a room in which we can continue to work. Are there any rooms available in the motel?”

Estelle leaned forward so she could get a good look at them. “The Stonebridge Foundation, you said? What exactly is going on out there?”

The woman glanced back at the rabbity man, as if warning him to stay mute. “The Stonebridge Foundation is a private enterprise. We are not at liberty to discuss it further, but I can assure you it will have no impact on any of the residents here. You do own the motel, don’t you? We could find a room in Farberville, but I would prefer to remain nearby in case we can return to the foundation.”

“I don’t know,” said Ruby Bee. “I don’t rent rooms by the hour. If I did, I’d be changing sheets all night long.”

The dark man shook his head vehemently. “No, madam, it’s nothing like that. We just need a table, a couple of chairs, and a telephone.”

Someone in a booth chortled. “Running a bookie joint, eh?”

“Or making a bomb,” someone else muttered.

“Goddamn foreigners,” added another. “We don’t need the likes of you in Maggody.”

More members of the welcoming committee jumped in.

“Raghead.”

“Mooslim scum.”

I decided to step in before the remarks grew any nastier. “I’m the chief of police,” I said as I approached the couple. “I can let you use the back room at the PD if it’s only going to be for an hour or so.”

The woman assessed me as if I had a slightly fishy odor. “You’re the chief of police?”

I took my badge out of my pocket and pinned it on. “So they tell me.”

“Let’s accept her offer and get out of here, Brenda,” the man said hurriedly. “If the electric company can’t restore the power soon, we’ll go to Farberville. Vincent isn’t coming until tomorrow, anyway.”

She nodded at me. “This is very kind of you. I hope it’s not a bother.”

I gestured for the two to follow me out to the parking lot and pointed. “It’s that little brick building about a block from here. There’s a police car out front. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

By the time they parked, I was already unlocking the door of the PD. Neither looked especially impressed as they took in the faded gingham curtains, the piles of dust bunnies in the corners, the uncomfortable chair I kept to discourage visitors, and the overall shabbiness. I couldn’t argue with their tacit distaste. Ruby Bee had offered to hang prints of kittens and puppies peeping out of baskets, but I’d declined. I wasn’t on the FBI’s most-wanted-poster mailing list, either, so the walls were unadorned with anything more than stray spittles of tobacco juice from some of Maggody’s less cultivated residents. Perkin was the worst of the offenders whenever he plunked his behind in the chair and carried on about obscure issues concerning his dawgs or trespassers. Raz was also a contender, but he was keeping a low profile lately.

“I’m Arly Hanks,” I said.

“Brenda Skiller,” the woman responded without enthusiasm.

She elbowed the man, who gulped and said, “Randall Zumi. It’s very kind of you to offer this. I hope we’re not intruding.”

I shrugged. “No problem, since the local troublemakers respect my office hours. Can you tell me a little bit about”—I thought for a moment—“this Stonebridge Foundation? It’s not in my jurisdiction, but I’m as curious as everybody else in town. The rumors have been pretty far-fetched.”

Brenda shook her head. “As you said, it’s not in your jurisdiction, and it will in no way disrupt the town. That’s all you need to know.”

“Are you doing research on chemical weapons or something?” I asked. “Should we all be stocking up on duct tape and bottled water? We deserve some sort of explanation.”

“I don’t see why.” Brenda went into the back room.

Randall shrugged apologetically, looking as though he wanted to dive into a corner and hide with the dust bunnies (some of which were impressive after three weeks of negligence on my part). “Let’s just say we’re helping people. Our success depends on the anonymity we guarantee them.”

“Helping people do what?” I persisted.

“Get better.”

“Better at what? Tennis? Poetry?”

“Randall,” Brenda called, “bring the laptop and the folders in here. Miss Hanks, I hope you won’t object if I make a few long-distance calls. I can assure you that we’ll cover the cost when you submit the telephone bill. I’d use my cell phone, but there doesn’t seem to be any reception because of the mountains.”

I felt as though I should apologize for geological upheavals in the distant past. “You’ll have to use the phone in here,” I replied.

She came to the doorway. “My calls are of a private nature. If it’s not too inconvenient for you, could you possibly leave us here until the power is restored? All of our phones at the foundation are cordless and require electricity. Randall, call the number. If you get the answering machine, we can return.”

“Do whatever you want,” I said as I moved toward the front door. “Just turn out the lights when you leave.”

“Don’t we need to lock the door?” asked Randall.

I shook my head. “Don’t bother. Anyone who bothers to break in here deserves whatever he can find. It won’t be state-of-the-art technology, not by a long shot. If for some reason you need me, I’ll be in the apartment above the antiques store. Let me write down the phone number so”—I stopped as the lights flickered and went out, leaving us in a distinctly dim room. “Hell, I guess that means the power company’s digging up lines to repair your problem. If I were you, I wouldn’t go back to Ruby Bee’s.”

Randall stepped outside with me. “I can assure you that I’m not a terrorist, Chief Hanks. My parents live in Delaware. My father’s a lawyer, and my mother’s a high school chemistry teacher. My family is originally from India and are Hindus, not Muslims. The only thing any of us have ever blown up is a balloon.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to find that this is not what you’d consider an open-minded community. Our only foreigners are a family from Mexico, and they’re tolerated only because they keep to themselves. The father owns the Dairee Dee-Lishus across from the high school. Outside of Ruby Bee’s and the deli at the supermarket, it’s the only place in town to grab something to eat. The food’s greasy, but the cherry limeades are heavenly.”

He squinted at the sole traffic light, which was out. “We’ll have a chef at the foundation, so that won’t be a problem. I can promise you that you won’t even know we’re there.”

“Or what you’re doing,” I said drily. I waited in case he wanted to say anything further, then added, “My old-fashioned phone will work if you want to call the electric co-op and try to get an idea of how long it’s going to take them. If I were you, I’d go find a hotel in Farberville.”

Before he could reply, Kevin Buchanon came galloping up the road, his arms flapping like a maniacal rooster. “Arly! I’ve been trying to get hold of you all week, but ever’time I come by, the office was empty. Did you know the electricity’s out?”

“Is that what you came to ask me, Kevin?” I said.

“No,” he panted, then bent over to catch his breath. “It’s about my ma.”

“Is she somehow responsible for this?”

He gave me a startled look. “How could she be? She ain’t an electrician, for pity’s sake. Why would you think such a thing?”

“Calm down,” I said. “What’s this about your mother?”

“I’m a doctor,” Randall volunteered. “Is she in need of emergency medical care?”

Kevin straightened up. “Heck, no. I mean, she might be, but since nobody knows where she is, I don’t see how you kin help, but I thank you all the same for offering.” He looked at me. “This morning when Pa got up, she was gone. Her car, too. It ain’t like her, unless it had something to do with Dahlia’s granny. Ma ain’t much happier than Dahlia about this mess. And Pa’s storming around the house on account of her not being there to cook his meals. I don’t reckon he’s had anything but cheese sandwiches all day.”

“He’ll survive,” I said. “Okay, Eileen left sometime before dawn, in her car. Did she take anything with her, like clothes and a suitcase?”

“Pa said that he dint think she took anything. He ain’t sure, but he sez her half of the closet looks the same as always.”

Randall tilted his head. “She didn’t leave a note?”

“Nuthin’,” Kevin said with a shrug.

“Well, that’s a hopeful sign. Those planning to commit suicide almost always leave a note either begging forgiveness or casting blame on others.”

Kevin gulped so loudly that he might have alarmed a possum on Cotter’s Ridge. “You saying she’s gone off to commit
suicide?
My ma wouldn’t do that. ’Course, she’s been mighty frazzled ever since Dahlia’s taken to calling her all day long.”

“She’s an adult, Kevin,” I said. “She left voluntarily, and she hasn’t been gone twenty-four hours. There’s nothing I can do. It sounds as though you should go home and help Dahlia.” Since I knew what that problem involved, I didn’t bother to elaborate for Randall’s edification. Not that his initial impression of the citizens of Maggody could sink any lower.

“This is all the county judges’ fault,” Kevin said darkly.

I gave him a gentle nudge. “I can’t do anything about that, either. Call me tomorrow if your mother hasn’t come back.” The stoplight came to life, and I took the green light as an omen. “Go on, Kevin.”

“What about my pa? He ain’t had a decent meal all day.”

“Take him home with you for supper, or send him to Ruby Bee’s. Better yet, tell him to fix his own damn supper. If he can drive a tractor, he can open a can of pork ’n’ beans.”

Kevin didn’t look convinced (and I doubt I did, either), but he turned around and trudged up the road.

Brenda Skiller came out of the PD, where the lights were shining as best they could, since the town council insists that I use 40-watt bulbs—and not out of concern for the environment. “I called the foundation, and the power is back. Let’s go, Randall. We’ll be up half the night as it is. I brought some high-protein bars in my suitcase.” She gave me a halfhearted smile. “Thank you again for your kind offer, Chief Hanks. I have a feeling we’re not welcome here.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right,” I said, “but not solely because of Randall’s ethnic background. People are upset about the abrupt closure of the county old folks’ home, as well as being highly suspicious that something dangerous is going on behind that fence. They’re demanding an explanation from me, and I don’t have one.”