Closely Akin to Murder (30 page)

Lottie nodded. “I'll put that in the new press release, too. Having a real live professional golfer should help attract more players, along with the bass boat.”

“Hallelujah,” Brother Verber intoned. He needed to
run along home and work on his sermon, but he figured they'd take a break for refreshments pretty soon. He hadn't had a chance to sample Eula's caramel-pecan coffeecake.

 

By the following day, there was only one topic being discussed in Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill, and it wasn't the weather.

“One helluva fine boat,” said Jim Bob Buchanon, mayor of Farberville and owner of Jim Bob's Super-Saver Buy 4 Less. He had the Buchanon look about him—beetlish brow, yellowish eyes, and a curled upper lip. His boot-camp haircut accentuated his lumpy skull. He was wilier than most of the clan, however, which is why he reigned over the town like a schoolyard bully. “I'd lick the dew off a bull's balls for a Ranger Z21.”

Jeremiah Mcllhaney refilled his glass from the pitcher. “With an Evinrude ETEC, a hydrojack plane—”

“Trolling motor with lift assist,” cut in Larry Joe Lambertino, getting misty as he pictured himself out in the middle of Greezy Lake, a beer in one hand and a rod in the other. Joyce would be at home with the kids, getting ready to fry up the fish and a batch of hushpuppies. Larry Joe loved Joyce's hushpuppies.

“It's a fuckin' shame that some outsider's gonna walk away with it,” Jim Bob said. “If any of us was to win it, we could all own shares and take turns using it.”

“The problem being,” said Roy Stiver, proprietor of Stiver's Antiques: New and Used, “is that none of us can play golf. How are we supposed to win this helluva fine boat?”

Big Dick MacNamara poked him. “Didn't you used to play golf down in Florida?”

“I couldn't play worth a damn, even after a couple of lessons, so I sold my clubs and took up duplicate bridge. The ladies fought over the privilege of playing with me, since I was the only fellow in the club without a catheter bag. I had more homemade pies and cakes than I could eat in a lifetime, and dinner invitations every night. Sometimes, breakfast was included.” He leaned back and grinned. “Beat the hell out of trying to whack a golf ball on a hot afternoon.”

They stared morosely at the empty pitcher.

From behind the bar, Ruby Bee tried not to laugh at their hangdog faces. “Look at those ol' boys feeling sorry for themselves on account of that expensive boat. It's a darn shame the tournament's not about shooting a mess of squirrels.”

“As if you care,” Estelle Oppers said as she plucked a pretzel out of the basket. She glanced at her reflection in the fly-specked mirror and absently patted her towering beehive of red hair adorned with spit curls and plastic cherry blossoms. It wouldn't do for the owner of Estelle's Hair Fantasies to be spotted with anything short of a perfectly styled hairdo, as well as thick mascara, orange eye shadow, and an undeniably bold slash of crimson lipstick. “You heard anything new from Arly?”

“Not in the last five minutes since you asked. I'm hoping she'll show up for supper to night.” Ruby Bee went into the kitchen and blotted her eyes on the hem of her apron. She couldn't for the life of her guess what Arly was likely to do, what with her lying low like a groundhog in a cabbage patch. After a stern lecture to herself, she checked on the brisket simmering in the oven, stirred the pot of ham and beans, and went back
out the back door. The sign for the Flamingo Motel out behind the bar looked the worse for wear. Another neon letter had flickered out, and now it merely advertised the existence of a VCAY. It sounded like an ointment for psoriasis.

Beyond the gravel parking lot, where many a surly sumbitch had found himself sprawled on his rear end after mouthing off inside, the stoplight seemed stuck on green. The tourists had no reason to stop or even slow down as they headed toward the artificial paradise of Branson, home to has-been celebrities and theme park employees with bright, unfocused eyes. Raz rattled by in his muddy pickup, his pedigreed sow Marjorie riding in the passenger's side. Ruddy Cranshaw's Nash Rambler was trailed by puffs of black smoke. Mrs. Jim Bob drove by in her pink Cadillac, her expression merciless. Ruby Bee wondered if she was hunting Jim Bob, who had a reputation for dalliances at the Pot O' Gold trailer park.

She was about to go inside when a long, sleek, black car adorned with blinding chrome rolled by with the majesty of an ocean liner. The windows were tinted, hiding the occupants from view. “Omigod,” she whispered. Her knees threatened to buckle. She leaned against the concrete block exterior of the bar and willed herself not to crumple into the weeds. Maybe it was just a trick her mind was playing, she told herself. Or more likely, a similar make and model. It wasn't like there was just one Imperial Crown made forty-odd years ago, and surely a goodly number of them were black.

Nearly ten minutes passed before she made it into the kitchen, splashed water on her face, and went out to
the bar. Estelle stared at her. “You're pale as a baby's bottom,” she said. “Did you see a mouse?”

“More like a rat,” Ruby Bee said as she poured herself a shot of bourbon from the bottle she kept stashed in a cabinet below the cash register.