Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 02 (3 page)

The deputy had cleared the door sill and was eyeing his car. "No card, but he had a message for you that'll make your day -- ha, ha. He said the town council voted not to hire a deputy for the time being. Budget's awful tight, he said two or three times, but he didn't look all that sad."

"And the present?"

"It's one of those beeper things like doctors and county agents wear so their secretaries can track them down on the golf course. You're on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."

"You're joking. Please tell me that you're joking."

" 'Fraid not, Arly. But there is some good news -- you don't have to clean the PD anymore. Jim Bob said he'd hired a janitor to come in at night and sweep."

I propped my feet on my desk, tilted back in the chair, and closed my eyes. "Somehow, I have a funny feeling about this. I realize I should shoot off some firecrackers and break out in song, but there's something that smells overly ripe about Jim Bob's generosity." I squinted at the deputy. "Since you won't tell me you're joking, tell me why I'm not singing."

He had his car keys in his hand. "Well," he said, easing out of range should anything come flying through the doorway, "your newest employee is Kevin Buchanon. See ya, Arly."

The screen door banged closed, leaving me in solitude to gripe, growl, and curse Jim Bob Buchanon and the other equally treacherous members of the town council. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week seemed extreme, if not unconstitutional, and I didn't fool myself for a minute that I was going to see a pay raise to go along with it. Oh, no, I got a beeper instead, so that I could never hide. Maggody was going to be a one-gun town. Whoopee.

And Kevin Buchanon, who by sheer coincidence was Jim Bob's second or third cousin, was going to invade the PD on a daily basis, which meant I'd feel obliged to be civil to him. He wasn't as objectionable as his more illustrious relative, but he was a pain in the butt. Jim Bob had achieved that level of animal cunning I mentioned, but Kevin couldn't outwit a possum. Kevin couldn't outwit a rock rolling down a hill. I'd have to show him which end of the broom to use. And I'd probably have to show him every day. Worst of all, I'd find myself listening to his personal problems, most of which would center around the love of his life, the apple of his eye, the dumpling in his pot pie, the pork in his pork 'n' beans, a.k.a. Dahlia O'Neill. I was starting to regret that second piece of pie, because I was definitely feeling queasy.

With a shudder, I planted my feet on the floor and picked up the folder of reports the deputy had left on the desk. It wasn't going to be easy to lose myself in them, but I sure was going to give it my best shot. Welcome back, sucker.

Robin Buchanon moved briskly through the thicket, unmindful of the thorns that tried to tear at her arms or poke through the soles of her heavily callused feet. None of that was any bother to her. She carried a hoe and a knife in one hand, a gunnysack in the other. Her eyes were on the ground, darting back and forth as she searched for the telltale crimson berries and five-leaf pattern of the ginseng plant, but she kept one ear cocked for sounds that were not a part of the forest. It took only one ear, since she was more than used to living in the woods and knew every bird and animal sound.

In fact, she liked coons and skunks and snakes and muskrats better than she did most folks, although she didn't mind when once in a blue moon some city slicker from Maggody came to the cabin for a mason jar of hooch and a little romp. Everybody knew she gave as well as she took. She was, however, beginning to be reluctant these days, since she was getting damn tired of all those younguns underfoot. They was worser than field mice. The baby whined if she din't suckle all the time, and the older ones et everything in the root cellar iffen she didn't keep a switch handy. It'd be right nice to pack 'em off to their pappies and have a little peace and quiet -- even if their pappies wouldn't jump for joy. As she walked, she tried to think of somebody she could ask if she could make 'em do it anyways. Maybe that woman policeman in Maggody, she decided with a nod. Yeah, she looked right educated and there was most likely some kind of law.

The northern side of Cotter's Ridge was a mite cool this late in October, but it were time to 'seng hunt and she didn't need a damn fool calendar to tell her so. Her worn flannel shirt and tattered jeans held up by a piece of rope didn't help much, but she weren't no city woman what squealed ever' time the wind like to freeze her tits. Hell no.

She curled her lip, exposing a sparse collection of mossy teeth, as she scrabbled up a gully toward the patch. Her patch. It'd been her pappy's afore, and his pappy's afore that. There'd been a worrisome minute when it looked like grandpappy was gonna die right there in his bed without telling anyone where his patch was -- grandpappy was about the most ornery sumbitch anybody ever met. But pappy got a bit rough with the old coot and choked it out of him afore he died. It were a good thing, too, because old grandpappy had died right afterward, and 'seng was scarcer than preachers in paradise.

A good 'seng patch was worth a fortune -- at least a hunnert dollars every fall, when she sold the dried roots to that oily man what came to Maggody in a big black car. And she'd tended to her secret patch better than she'd tended to her brood of younguns, chickens, pigs, and goat. She always cut the roots real careful, so that there'd be some the next year, and scattered berries every spring. Why, she thought in her ponderously slow way, this patch was at least a hunnert years old by now. And 'seng huntin' was a nice break from making hooch or whuppin' younguns or even lettin' the hound dog get all excited over her like she was a bitch in heat, which was about her favoritest thing.

She was still grinning as she topped the gully. The grin faded as she stared at the half acre that should have been thick with yeller-gold ginseng leaves. "What the goddamn hell ... ? " she said aloud.

A rage began to bubble deep in her gut. No yellergold leaves, no red berries. No ginseng plants -- in her goddamn patch that she loved better than most anything in the goddamn world! A growl curled up along her gullet, growing and sparking and burning until it erupted in a cry of primeval fury. A flock of starlings flapped away with squawks of alarm. A squirrel fled across the branches. A polecat lifted his head to consider the wisdom of investigating, then slunk off in the opposite direction. Only a trio of buzzards in a dead tree on the top of the ridge took pleasure in the sound, which hinted of easy pickin's in the future.

Robin stumbled forward, her fingers tightening on her tools of the trade. Some low-down, thievin' sumbitch had been here, that much she could tell. She began to gnaw on her lower lip as she tried real hard to figure out just what the hell was a-goin' on, anyway. Weren't nobody in sight, and she was pretty sure ever'thing had been okay last spring. But why in tarnation would some damn fool dig up her 'seng patch out here on the far side of the ridge? Didn't make a hog's hair of sense. There was a loggin' road not too far yonder, she remembered. Some sumbitch must have decided to do his farmin' out in the middle of nowhere. But why in her beloved 'seng patch? Her tools fell to the ground as she wrapped her arms around herself and began to wail. It weren't fair. That sumbitch should be tied up agin an oak tree and be learned what a godawful thing he'd done in destroying her patch. Grandpappy's patch.

Below her simian brow, her eyes turned the shade of yeller gold that she should have found. She sure as hell could show him what a sinful thing he'd done, she told herself as she moved toward the tidy rows of plants. She'd just plumb tear up all his plants and throw 'em in the gully to rot. Rip up those plants the way she wished she could rip off his tongue and dick and feed 'em to the hogs. Mebbe have one of the younguns keep watch and run back to the cabin iffen anyone came back. Then she'd bring some barbed wire and --

A click about shoulder height caught her attention. As she turned, wondering what the fuck was a-goin' on now, her face exploded.

"Of course I understand why you're upset," David Allen Wainright said for not the first time in the last half hour. He took a quick peep at his watch, then sighed and leaned back in the chair. "It's admirable that you're showing this deep and obviously genuine concern for your friend. It's important that we share our feelings, especially during our high school years, when it's common for us to be unsure of ourselves."

Heather snuffled into the tightly wadded tissue in her hand. "I feel really awful, Mr. Wainright. I mean, like I shouldn't be telling you any of this because I swore on Carol Alice's Bible that she got when she was baptized last spring at the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall that I wouldn't tell a soul. She's my best friend in the whole world."

"Which is why you've shown such maturity by coming to talk to me," David Allen said soothingly. It was almost two-thirty; surely she'd have to leave in a minute in order to catch her bus. Surely. "Sometimes we're so confused by our emotions that we're at a loss to know what to do or where to turn. That's why I'm here." On the other hand, he had no idea why she was here. No one actually believed someone would commit suicide on the basis of some idiotic psychic's dour prediction.

"Then," Heather said through a series of distastefully damp hiccups, "you'll talk some sense into Carol Alice?"

He formed a temple with his fingers and gave her his most professional smile (Adolescence and Stress, Chapter Seven). "Well, we may worsen the situation if I confront your friend with the knowledge that I'm aware of her problem. She may be driven to take some sort of drastic action out of fear or embarrassment. We wouldn't want that, would we?" No, we want the buses to be announced on the PA system. We want this drippy little thing to shriek out her gratitude and leave. He realized she was heading for another deluge, and hastily said, "But I do see how serious the problem is, Heather" -- was that her name? -- "and I won't allow anything to happen to Carol Ann."

"Carol Alice, Mr. Wainright. Thank you so much for letting me talk to you about this. It was so kind of you." Heather picked up her books and purse, and with a hesitant smile stood up. "I feel much better knowing that you'll do something about that awful woman and poor, brokenhearted Carol Alice." She emphasized the last word, just in case he was still confused. Which wasn't hard to understand, considering how many students there were at Maggody High School and him being new and all.

"You may rest assured that we'll deal with this problem. Now, we don't want you to miss your bus, do we? You run along, and I'll spend some time this evening deciding what needs to be done." Over a six-pack and pizza, of course. He was relieved when she left with a coy glance over her shoulder.

Heather, on the other hand, was in love. Why, if she'd seen Billy Dick in the hallway, she wouldn't have slowed down long enough to give him the time of day.

I idled away the weekend in my apartment, dealing with several inches of dust, a smattering of mouse droppings (but no visible perpetrators), and fuzzy things in the refrigerator. For exercise, I periodically dashed across the road to the Suds of Fun to process seventeen loads of dirty laundry through all the appropriate cycles. All in all, it was pleasantly uneventful. Bright and early on Monday morning I reported (to myself) for duty at the PD. It was dim and smelled of industrial strength disinfectant. The gingham curtains were frayed at the hems. My middle desk drawer was filled with wadded up gum wrappers. The telephone book was missing. The creamer jar was empty. Were I inclined to do so, I could have written my name in the dust on each and every flat surface. Home sweet home.

I finished the reports: one trespassing, two lost dogs, a meager collection of traffic citations, and eight obscene telephone calls -- I suspect Elsie McMay relished them more than her caller, since she always insisted on repeating them to me down to the last disgusting syllable and then having me read them back to her. Some of them went on for a couple of pages; I asked her once why she didn't hang up, and she haughtily informed me that that would be rude and she was better reared than that, missy.

I made a pot of coffee, considered opening Jim Bob's present, decided not to, and went out to play with my radar gun on the curve just east of town. After an hour I'd met my quota on Japanese imports (speedy little things), so I drove back through town and parked in front of the Emporium, mostly out of curiosity rather than an urge to arrest the new owners on charges of corrupting the youth of Maggody.

It looked pretty good. The glass glittered, and the windows were piled with merchandise. Someone had painted the name in fat red curlicues outlined with yellow, and done a competent job. Customers were coming and going. I nodded to several folks as I went inside to check out the wild, dope-crazed sex maniacs.

The first wild, dope-crazed sex maniac I spotted was a willowy woman with curly auburn hair, a wide mouth, cinnamon-sugar freckles, and warm, friendly eyes. A cloud of musk drifted behind her. "Hi," she said, taking in my uniform with a wince. "Are you here on official business?"

I introduced myself and told her that I was there out of curiosity. Idle curiosity, I stressed as I looked around. As Ruby Bee and Estelle had told me, there were all the usual things indigenous to hardware and dry goods stores. But alongside them were whole passels of things that were un-Maggodyish, to say the least. Crystals dangling from threads thumbtacked to the ceiling. Cellophane bags of dried herbs. Boxes of incense. Posters of eyes and clouds and butterflies. The music would have been a real challenge to sing along with. Maggody had not yet moved into the New Age. We were still struggling to escape from the Stone Age.