Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 06 (18 page)

I let myself out of the room, relieved we hadn’t found Jerome wrapped in a shower curtain and Brenda attempting to drown herself in the commode. As I’d tried to tell Kyle, it was nothing more than a man with a midlife crisis and a sudden interest in the mating rituals of younger women. Not all of them flew to Rio to play out their pathetic fantasies; I personally knew of one who’d settled for a seedy residential hotel two blocks away from his paramour until she could dispose of her spouse and free up some closet space.

I went to my room and lay down on the bed to think—not of the maladies of marriage but of more current events. Jerome was not missing, in a manner of speaking, and therefore no longer qualified as our mischievous corpse. Perhaps Ruby Bee had been sleepwalking, I proposed to myself. She’d managed to get outside the room, gripped by her bloody vision, and awakened when she found herself in the corridor. It had taken her an hour to persuade Estelle to buy her story, and then they’d come knocking on my door.

As for the missing cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut, it was more likely that Geri or Rick had arranged for them to be moved to a less obtrusive location, such as the pantry. All the other odd little things that had happened didn’t matter one damn bit. Durmond had been mugged by an overly conscientious sort who wanted to make him comfortable in Ruby Bee’s bed. Mr. Cambria was a doorman in Miami, and this was a busman’s holiday. Magazine reporters were earthy.

The telephone rang. Remaining supine (mentally as well as physically), I fumbled for the receiver and said, “Yes?”

“Oh, Arly, it’s awful!” Eilene shrieked, nearly piercing my eardrums. “There was gunfire at the café last night! Nobody’s real clear what happened, but the police haven’t seen either of the kids this morning!” She began to hiccup so loudly that I could barely understand her. “The killer’s not dead, though. The police know that much.”

“How do they know that?”

“He ordered a pizza. A large supreme with anchovies and extra cheese. The delivery boy had to take it right up to the door, hand it over, and then run for his life. The deputy said the poor boy had the tip clutched in his hand so tightly they had to pry his fingers open.”

I searched the ceiling for guidance, but all I saw were waterstains, one of which bore an eerie resemblance to a pizza. “Well,” I said weakly, “it sounds as if everybody’s okay. They’re certainly not starving if they’ve got pizza.”

“But, Arly,” she wailed, “Kevin hates anchovies!”

It occurred to me that despite my earlier bout of selfcongratulatory analysis, I didn’t exactly have things under control.

Mrs. Jim Bob figured no one could possibly recognize her, not dressed as she was in a shapeless tan raincoat, drab scarf, and sunglasses. She’d driven all the way to Fort Smith just so she could do her business in private. In that she was the brightest beacon of the congregation, along with being the president of both the Missionary Society and Citizens Against Whiskey, she didn’t want to risk letting any of the more impressionable members get the wrong idea.

She parked on the far side of the lot on the off chance someone might see her car and start speculating about why it was parked in front of a store called “Naughty Nights.” Clutching her handbag with the tenacity of a quarterback, she darted across the lot and into the store, and only when she was well away from the window did she take a breath.

“Hi,” said the teenaged girl seated behind the counter. She put down a magazine and idly tried to guess why the woman was dressed like a Russian spy. “Need some help, ma’am? All the teddies on that rack are on sale this week, and we just got in a new shipment of peekaboo bras.”

Mrs. Jim Bob recoiled, but managed to stammer, “I—I don’t believe—no, not anything like that.” The girl merely waited. “I’m looking for--a gift. It’s for a niece who’s getting married. I don’t approve of this kind of thing, naturally, but her mother said it was exactly what she—the bride, not her mother—wanted.”

“What exactly does she want?”

“Not a peekaboo bra,” Mrs. Jim Bob said, getting hold of herself. “Something to wear on her honeymoon to make her look”—she struggled but couldn’t bring herself to say the pertinent word—“romantic. Cut kind of low and with lace, made out of material you can almost see through.”

“Would she prefer black, scarlet, or apricot cream?”

This was harder than Mrs. Jim Bob had anticipated. Here she was in a store with shameless underwear, being forced to choose from colors that sounded filthy. But she had vowed to herself to do it to save her marriage. She was on a Christian mission, even if it might look otherwise to ignorant busybodies, and she wasn’t going to allow the snippety clerk to deter her. “Black will do nicely,” she said.

The girl went over to a rack laden with perverted merchandise. “What size does your niece wear, ma’am? Does she prefer long or short? These little nighties are cute, and they come with bikini-cut panties.”

“Long, I should think, and without any bikini-cut anythings, ” Mrs. Jim Bob said, proud of her steady voice. “She’s about my size, so she ought to take a medium.”

Various gowns, all long and black, were pulled out for consideration, and within a few minutes one had been selected and whisked to the back room to be giftwrapped. Mrs. Jim Bob kept an eye on the door, but she righteously avoided letting the other eye drift to racks that might have items like peekaboo bras and bikini-cut panties.

“Here we go,” the girl said as she returned with a box wrapped in silver paper and a white ribbon. “Will this be cash or charge?”

“Cash.” Mrs. Jim Bob took out her wallet. “How much is it?”

“Thirty-seven fifty. With tax, it comes to forty dollars and twelve cents. There’s no charge for gift wrapping.”

She counted her cash, then sighed and took out a credit card. “Use this, I guess.”

“Sure,” the girl said as she accepted the card and read the name. “If you’d prefer, you can put it on your charge account, Mrs. Buchanon. That way you can settle it with one check at the end of the month.”

“My charge account?”

“Your husband opened one more than three years ago; he’s one of our best customers. Haven’t you ever noticed the gold NAUGHTY NIGHTS stickers on our boxes?”

“Yes, of course I have,” Mrs. Jim Bob said with a tight smile. “The gold stickers with the name of the store, right there on the boxes for the last three years. I forgot all about it, but indeed, let’s put this on the charge account. In fact, before you ring it up, maybe I’ll take another look. My cousin Sharon in Shawsville has a daughter who’ll be marryin’ soon, and this way I can save myself another trip. Why, now that I think about it, the McIlhaney girl’s engaged and so is the oldest Riley girl.”

Mindful of her commission, the clerk came out from behind the counter, and an hour later she was in the back room, giftwrapping half a dozen lacy gowns of all lengths, a silk teddie with a little satin bow, and a single black peekaboo bra for some cousin or other with an approaching birthday.

Mrs. Jim Bob nodded when she was presented with a charge slip. “Four hundred twenty-seven dollars and eighty-two cents,” she murmured as she wrote her name very carefully. “But worth it, don’t you think? This will save me so much bother down the road.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the clerk said dutifully.

“Yoohoo,” Estelle called as she knocked on my door. “Brenda’s feeling chipper enough to go down to the kitchen. You want to come with us? Ruby Bee ought to be finishing up afore too long, and if she’s not supposed to make her cake till later in the afternoon, I thought we might do some more sight-seeing.”

“No,” I called back, too appalled at the idea to lift my head, much less unlock my door. “I think I’ll take a nap.”

“Suit yourself. Come on, Brenda, Miss City Slicker is too high and mighty to visit the Statue of Liberty.”

I listened to their voices until they faded, then rolled over on the bed and burrowed my face into the scratchy bedspread. Despite the temptation to call the airline and find out when I could catch the next flight south, I was reluctant to do so. Or perhaps too cheap, since I might get a call from Estelle the minute the plane landed in Maggody, and find myself in the identical position I’d been in two days earlier—but this time with a depleted bank balance.

A noise from beyond the adjoining door caught my attention. It had occurred to me that Geri might not react well if the cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut had disappeared without a flake. She was angry enough to turn on Kyle, who was dangerously tense. We very well might end up with more than one bloodied body in the kitchen, this time along with a handful of witnesses.

I went to the door and tapped. “Durmond? I was wondering how it went in the kitchen.”

There was no response. I told myself it was a helluva lot more sensible to go downstairs and see for myself, then eased open my door and gave his a tiny push. Marveling at my lack of judgment, I opened his door and said, “Durmond? Are you here?” He was not, nor was anyone else. Guilt battled with curiosity, but it was a piss-poor war and two seconds later I was at the dresser, stealthily opening drawers and flipping through the neatly folded shirts, handkerchiefs, and socks. In the bottom drawer I found a faded red sweatshirt emblazoned (at one time, anyway) with the logo of a school called Drakestone College. That answered one question of noticeably minor significance.

One of greater significance came to mind when I saw the butt of a gun under said sweatshirt. It turned out to be a .38 Special just like one all the way back in Maggody, although mine was rustier from not having been used since the year before Eve ate the apple. He’d mentioned having a gun, but he hadn’t elaborated on his reason. It was obvious he hadn’t been kidding, though.

I replaced the sweatshirt, closed the drawer, and did a quick search of the rest of the room, the closet, and the bathroom. He’d not left his wallet for my perusal, nor had he written any letters and forgotten to mail them. I would have settled for a postcard. The wastebasket held only a crumpled potato chip bag, the copies of the insurance paperwork from the hospital, an empty bourbon bottle, and the stub of a train ticket, His toothbrush was in sorry shape, as was his encrusted razor. Wet towels had been kicked in a corner.

I went back to my room and stood in front of the window. A creature lacking opposable thumbs could do a better job of putting the puzzle pieces together than I was doing, I thought as I watched the traffic inch along. I was trying to come up with something clever when Gaylene Feather appeared below, crossed the street, and took off at a brisk clip, a large leather purse bouncing off her hip with the beat. A moment later, Ruby Bee and Estelle stopped at the curb, exchanged remarks inaudible to me but likely to be heard on Staten Island, and headed in the direction Gaylene had gone.

I would not have described myself as suspicious by nature, but the nurturing of the last thirty years had left its mark. Ruby Bee and Estelle were not taking a nice walk; they were following Gaylene. It did not give me a rosy glow of contentment to see they’d found a new hobby.

As they disappeared around the corner, I looked down to spot yet another intrepid traveler. It was Durmond’s turn to hesitate for a moment, cross the street, and walk past the coffee shop to the corner. He stopped, however, as the door of the coffee shop opened and a man in a khaki jacket came out to the sidewalk. The grime on the hotel window prevented me from seeing with perfect clarity, but I got a fairly decent view of the man’s long, stringy hair and unkempt beard. After a furtive glance toward the hotel, Durmond slapped the man on the back, and the two began to talk as they went around the corner.

I didn’t know what to make of it, but I was certain something ought to be made of it. Morose professors from Drakestone College in Connecticut did not seem the type to relish the company of disreputable street bums. To add to the problem, the encounter lacked spontaneity. I may have been a bumpkin cop, but I could spot a prearranged meeting a block away, and just because I hadn’t seen any lip-licking didn’t deter me from leaping to a conclusion, maybe two.

It seemed like a good time to go downstairs and persuade Geri to part with information about various contestants. How I was going to do this was not clear, but I figured inspiration would come to me before I arrived in the lobby. I made sure my bun was firmly pinned, grimaced at my image in the cracked mirror above the dresser, and went down the stairs.

The front desk was deserted, as usual. Brenda sat alone in the dining room, a cup of coffee and an untouched danish on the table in front of her. She was studying a recipe card rather than a dagger, so I continued to the kitchen.

“He called me at home,” I heard Geri say, and not in a pleasant voice. “I cannot believe you went tattling to your father like a little snot-nosed crybaby!”

Kyle sounded no more convivial. “Just run the damn contest like a big girl, okay? Stop with the princess on the pedestal routine, unless you’d like to end up without a nose or anything else. All you have to do is let them make their entries, and then we’ll taste them, decide, and present the prize. If you can’t stomach it, we don’t have to taste them. We’ll draw straws. This nightmare could be over in ten hours, if you’ll keep your eyes dry and your act together. We’re not messing with a bunch of clowns from Ringling Brothers.”

I went into the kitchen in time to see Geri start toward him, her fingers curled into a fist and a less than regal expression on her face. “How’s it going?” I asked. Geri reluctantly lowered her fist. “Peachy. We’ve worked out the time frame and everyone’s checked to see he or she has the necessary items. We begin at one with Catherine.”

The four cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut were stacked ever so innocently next to the wall. On the island were the five boxes, now crisscrossed with silver tape. If Geri and Kyle were standing in a puddle of blood, with a mutilated corpse at their feet, they were handling it with admirable aplomb.

“Well, good,” I said with what aplomb I could muster, which wasn’t worthy of anyone’s admiration. “Where are all the contestants now?”

Geri stiffened. “How should I know? I’m not a babysitter; I’m a marketing professional—to my regret. I’d imagine they went out sightseeing or to grab a bite of lunch. Now that we’ve confirmed times, no one is obliged to hang around this dismal dump except for me.”