Muletrain to Maggody (16 page)

“Don’t anybody look at me,” said Simon. “I can assure you I’d much rather be someplace else. Anyplace else, for that matter. The only mules I know about are the ones who transport cocaine from Colombia.”

Sweetpea put her hand over his mouth. “I think this will be fascinating, Wendell. Was Henry as much of a rascal as Simon here?”

“Heavens no,” Wendell said, turning pink as she fluttered her eyelashes at him. “The Largesse family originally came from France in 1823. After a decade in North Carolina, they moved to Arkansas and were awarded a land grant from President Tyler for eighty acres. Henry’s father opened a dry goods store and eventually provided an adequate living for his growing family. Henry, born in 1844, was the youngest of six children, four of them female. His brother and one of his sisters died of typhoid fever before they were five years of age. Another sister, Audrey Louise, married a distant cousin of Judge Isaac Parker, who presided from 1875 to 1896 over the Western District from his courtroom in Fort Smith.” He seemed to sense that we were not exactly on the edges of our seats, breathlessly awaiting further details of Henry’s siblings. “I have more detailed accounts of the family and of the other Confederates in my files upstairs.”

“I’d just love to read all about Henry,” Sweetpea said with a wicked smile for Simon, who pretended to be dozing.

“Then I shall be pleased to share the file with you, dear girl. The other privates came from lower-class backgrounds, had little or no education, and most likely had never seen a slave. They were more at home riding mules than they would have been riding horses. The lieutenant, Hadley Parham, on the other hand, was an intriguing character from an upper-class family that can be traced back to England. Due to a poor choice of political alliances, the family lost its fortune after the Restoration, and ultimately emigrated to the colonies in 1770. By the 1820s, they were wealthy and owned a vast plantation that produced an extraordinary income by that period’s standards.”

“From the blood, sweat, and tears of slaves,” said Kenneth, thumping the table with his fist. “Trading in human flesh, treating their animals with better care—those people make me sick! My ancestors earned every penny through their own toil. My great-great-grandfather worked in a mill from sunrise till sunset, seven days a week, as did his sons when they were old enough to carry lunch pails. That’s what the Union was fighting for—the dignity of man! You people just don’t understand that, do you? You think this is nothing more than halftime, and that you can continue to attempt to undermine the very structure of the lawful government and resort to—”

“Kenneth,” said Corinne, “you’re so unattractive when you sputter. Do wipe your chin. Please continue, Wendell.”

Mrs. Jim Bob was visibly mortified by his outburst. “Would anyone care for coffee? I don’t believe the spice cake’s been touched. Joyce Lambertino made it this afternoon and brought it by especially for tonight. I have a pint of vanilla ice cream if anyone would prefer that…”

Wendell appeared a little unnerved, but he took a sip of iced tea and said, “Hadley, the family’s only child, enlisted in 1862. His record was undistinguished, and he was chosen to lead the Little Rock unit because he was the only officer available—or perhaps expendable—at that critical time in the War. As I’m sure you all know from studying the journal, he was shot late in the morning of the skirmish and his body left behind. This caused Henry much grief, but he had no choice but to retreat with his few remaining comrades.”

“Hey, Wendell,” Jim Bob said, risking another whack, “doncha think maybe ol’ Henry or one of the other survivors went back for the gold once the Yankees cleared out? You can be damn sure they must have mentioned this fortune to somebody. I mean, we ain’t talking about a sack of turnips.”

“With the exception of Henry, all of the survivors of the skirmish were killed in the Battle of Farberville the following day. There are no records from the field hospital, but Henry’s journal has explicit details about his arduous trip home. General Lambdin’s troops retreated to Oklahoma. I have pored over the minutiae, and I see no way anyone could have returned to Maggody for several months. Had one of them done so, he would have had no information about the whereabouts of the gold. If you recall, the private who actually went up on Cotter’s Ridge was killed before he could describe the location of the cave to the others.”

“So you think the gold’s still up there?” asked Kenneth. “The gold that indisputably belongs to the federal government?”

Wendell was clearly more interested in the genealogical mysteries awaiting his scrutiny. “More than likely. I myself plan to spend the next few days wandering in the local churchyards and hunting down family plots. In rural areas such as this one, most families simply buried their dead in a clearing near the household. The wooden crosses are long gone, but I hope to chance upon some stone markers with crudely chiseled inscriptions. From what I’ve gathered, many of them may bear your family name, Mayor Buchanon. These are the true treasures on Cotter’s Ridge.”

“If you say so,” Jim Bob said, “but you ain’t gonna buy yourself so much as a carton of bait with a stone marker. You can spend the next ten years hunting down dead Buchanons from Adolf to Zorastus.”

Mrs. Jim Bob twisted his ear until he stopped sniggering. “That was merely a joke, Wendell. All of us in Maggody appreciate the abiding value of history. The Lord tells us to honor our father and mother, and I’ve always taken that to mean all of our ancestors, may they rest in peace.”

“Amen,” Simon said with a genteel burp. “I’ll bet Jim Bob here wouldn’t mind getting a little piece tonight.”

Sweetpea grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet. “Let’s go for a drive, darling.”

On that note, Corinne announced that she was exhausted and ready for bed. Miss Hathaway and Wendell trooped after her, although I presumed not to the same room. Kenneth seemed content to sit at the table, and Jim Bob to hover in the shadows at the edge of the patio. It seemed likely that the bottle of whiskey would come back into play once Mrs. Jim Bob had taken the potato salad and cole slaw inside to be covered with aluminum foil and tucked away for the night.

Jack and I thanked her for supper, and then left before she could corner me (or tree me like a coon) to demand updates on Maggody’s ever-expanding list of MIAs.

“That was interesting,” he said as we drove away from the house.

“I won’t be surprised if I’m called in the morning to sort through bodies.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” he said.

I stared out the window. “I think I’ll start faxing my résumé to UN peacekeepers in Bosnia and Afghanistan. At least they can identify the warring factions. These people really don’t like each other.”

“Not even Sweetpea and her darling Simon?”

“Wake me up when I care,” I said.

Shortly thereafter, we arrived at the Dairee Dee-Lishus. While he placed an order, I sat down on a picnic table with Heather and Billy Dick.

“Where’s Darla Jean?” I asked.

“At home, I guess,” said Heather. “I haven’t really talked to her since Friday, when she got all hot and bothered like she had an overdose of PMS or something. She was at school today, but she just walked past me without even noticing I highlighted my hair over the weekend.”

“She in trouble at home?”

Heather shook her head. “I dunno, but it’s not like she’s grounded or anything. I called a couple of times, but her ma said she wasn’t home.”

Billy Dick made a rude sound with his straw. “I’ll betcha she’s carrying on with Cooter. He broke up with his cousin over in Emmett. Maybe she’s doin’ grief counseling on a blanket down by the low-water bridge.”

“She wouldn’t bother to spit on Cooter,” Heather said as she batted at a moth. “I mean, like, who would? He has pustules all over his back, ferchrissake.”

I did not allow myself to conjure up a visual image. “Did Miss Estes ever show up today, Heather?”

“No, and it was truly awful. Mr. Lambertino dragged us to the shop so we could watch the boys repair a transmission. I thought I was going to die of boredom. At least Miss Estes lets us make cookies or something. Last week we learned how to use woks. It’s not like I ever would, you know, but I sure ain’t gonna repair a transmission in this lifetime.”

“Wok! Wok!” barked Billy Dick.

Heather and Billy Dick were slapping at each other, albeit in an amiable fashion, as I joined Jack at the window. “I’m afraid my conscience is bothering me,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to run by someone’s house and make sure she’s okay. After that, we can reheat the tamales and play Scrabble until all hours of the night.”

He was agreeable, so we swung by Lottie Estes’s house. No lights, no cats, no answer to my repeated knocks.

“This is odd,” I said as I peered through a window. “She isn’t the type to disappear like this. She was a constant in my high school career. The basketball team might lose, the toilets might back up, the cafeteria might be closed down by the health department, the custodian might be arrested for selling drugs, but Miss Estes was always there with a lecture on the importance of owning a complete set of measuring cups.”

“Shall we go inside?” asked Jack.

“I’m not authorized to do any damage.”

“Oh, I think we can do it without any broken glass.” He checked above the doorsill, under the mat, and ultimately found the house key in a flower pot next to the porch swing.

“You sure you’re not an operative?” I asked as he unlocked the door.

“For the KGB, the CIA, the FBI, the ATF, or the IRS?”

“I don’t know,” I said rather peevishly. “You did lie to me, you know.”

He gestured for me to precede him inside. “I told you I was a fisherman. If you remember, I was fishing at the time. Rod in hand, flies pinned on my canvas hat, khaki jacket, waders, all that sort of thing. After you left, I did catch a perch, although I had to toss him back so he could finish nursery school.”

I realized how ridiculous I sounded, and it wasn’t because I was worried we’d discover Lottie Estes decomposing in the bathtub or facedown in a wok, having stir-fried a fatal batch of bok choy. I was worried about the rest of the evening—which might result in the rest of the night. Well, not worried exactly. Something, though.

“Let’s just take a quick look,” I said.

Jack and I met at the front door less than a minute later, both of us shrugging. Since I could think of no way to take further action in the matter of Lottie’s failure to provide instruction in the complexities of home economics, I drove us to my apartment and we settled down to drink beer, eat tamales, and play Scrabble.

Yeah, right.

Andrew Pulaski was sitting in a booth at Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill with a bizarre person who claimed to have been impregnated by alien sex slaves. It was hard for Andrew to imagine anyone (or anything) willing to be intimate with a man of some eighty years who smelled worse than a backed-up sewer and kept digging into his ear with a toothpick. “Did you give birth?” he asked.

“Hell, no! It’s still growing in my belly. You recollect that movie when the critter comes ripping out of the woman? It’s gonna happen one of these days. You reckon you ought to buy another pitcher of beer? I ain’t told you all the details as of yet how they strapped me on this metal table and allowed this scaly green creature to slither all over me. Biggest tits I’d ever seen, all six of ’em. What’s more, she—”

“Please stop,” said Andrew. Coming a few days early had been a terrible mistake. His wife probably still hadn’t noticed his absence (he’d once come back from Baja after a week’s deep-sea fishing and she hadn’t so much as commented on his tan), but Sweetpea had promised she’d find some time for intimacy. Intimacy with Sweetpea transcended definition. A country inn near the site of the miniseries filming had charged two hundred dollars to repair the damage to the bed and the floral wallpaper.

Oh, Sweetpea, won’t you dance with me?

And here he was, with nothing to do for three days but eat fried food, stare at a fuzzy TV, and converse with specimens of what might well prove to be offspring of the missing link, which had no business being discovered.

He was about to retreat to his motel room with its quaintly distressed decor and a shower that did nothing more than spit cold water when Sweetpea and Simon came into the bar.

“Oh, my goodness,” she said, “here’s Andrew Pulaski. Are you playing a role in this documentary? Simon’s the star, you know, the private who wrote that tedious journal with all the whining about gangrene.”

Andrew dispatched his boothmate to the floor with a well-executed swipe of his foot. Ignoring muffled curses from underneath the table, he stood up and said, “Sweetpea and Simon, what an unexpected pleasure. Please join me. Yes, I’m to be the officer who led the Union cavalry unit. Sorry, Simon, but we did outnumber you.”

“Shit happens,” said Simon as he sat down. “Any hope of a gin and tonic?”

Sweetpea sat down next to him, apparently oblivious to the stream of invectives beneath her feet. “Andrew, you’re just nothing but a sight for sore eyes. We haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. How’s your wife doing these days? Still spending her time raising money for the symphony?”

“Beer,” Andrew said to Simon, trying to sound apologetic. “I’ve got a bottle of scotch in my room, if you’d rather.” He smiled at Sweetpea. “Julia has found a new pet project, something to do with inner-city children and interpretive dance. She tells me it’s very worthwhile, so I dutifully write checks.”