Muletrain to Maggody (17 page)

“You were always such a pushover.” Sweetpea giggled with such girlish charm that Andrew would have suggestively rubbed her ankle had it not been for the arms and legs flailing beneath the table.

“Scotch sounds good,” said Simon. “I’ve damn well had my quota of lemonade for the next decade. I’m supposed to go somewhere tomorrow and do the audio tape. I can assure you I’ll be back by sunset with a trunk filled with liquor—scotch, gin, tequila, margarita mix, you name it. We can party.”

“Oh, yes,” Andrew said as he and Sweetpea exchanged looks. “Party, party, party.”

“This is all so very exciting,” Wendell Streek said as he came into the kitchen the following morning, beaming like a newly elected politician. “I am positively tingling with anticipation.”

Mrs. Jim Bob would have made more of an effort to be hospitable had she not spent a very unpleasant night listening for the patter of feet in the hallway. Nevertheless, she’d been up early to start coffee, put biscuits in the oven, scramble eggs, set out jellies and jams, fry bacon, and wonder for a few seconds if Jim Bob had really slept on the couch in his office at the supermarket. It wasn’t likely, she told herself as she slammed down some paper napkins and tossed another pound of bacon into the skillet.

“What’s so exciting?” Miss Hathaway asked. Simon and Sweetpea failed to feign interest, but Corinne and Kenneth glanced up from the newspaper they were sharing. Corinne found it appallingly conservative, while Kenneth condemned it for failing to quash the blatantly socialist pundits who refused to acknowledge the wisdom of quashing any and all parasitic opposition.

Wendell circumnavigated the dinette before sinking down in a chair. “I was out shortly after dawn, taking a stroll as I am accustomed to doing except when the weather is inclement, and met a woman with a fascinating story about a Confederate officer buried in her family plot. She even drew me a crude map, which I’ve carefully put in my notebook. I’m absolutely determined to find the final resting place of the lieutenant who supposedly died at the Skirmish at Cotter’s Ridge. What a wonderful appendage this will make to my research!”

“Hadley Parham?” asked Corinne, who was wishing she could have hot tea rather than the coffee she’d been presented with. It was, well, generic.

“Oh, most certainly, and there’s the possibility he was not mortally wounded, but was nursed back to health by the kindly mountain folk. He may have fathered children. One woman in particular, with the charmingly eccentric name of Hospiss Buchanon, claims that she’s a direct descendant of a Confederate officer from somewhere back East, and has a family Bible to prove it. Her great-great-grandmother lived at the far end of a remote hollow, clearly under the most primitive of conditions. According to the version Hospiss was told time and again, after the skirmish her kin and others went to the site to scavenge for clothes and whatever else they could use. The lieutenant was dazed and bloody, but alive. They flung him over a mule and took him with them. He decided to remain at the shack, and eventually agreed for a preacher to legitimize the marriage. The dates are vague, as you can imagine, but it well could have been the young lieutenant. I’ve found no evidence of any other troops from either side in this particular area.”

“Why would the lieutenant have stayed here?” asked Sweetpea. “I mean”—she glanced at Mrs. Jim Bob, who was jabbing at bacon with a vengeance—“why would someone want to stay here? If he’d survived, wouldn’t he have gone on and found his unit?”

“Not until after the greedy rebel bastard retrieved the gold,” Kenneth said with a sneer. “Then perhaps amnesia kicked in and he spent the remainder of the war in a whorehouse in New Orleans.”

Wendell shook his head. “No, I don’t believe he could have found the gold without the assistance of Henry Largesse’s journal, which remained in the family’s possession until it was recently donated to the historical society. I was up most of the night in search of a clue. There’s one cryptic reference dated a few weeks after the skirmish that has caused me to believe that Henry may have had an excellent idea where the gold was hidden from the Yankees.”

“He did?” Harriet stared at him. “I myself read the journal most carefully and saw nothing to indicate that, Wendell. I realize you’ve been staying up late for several weeks to study the journal. Your behavior has certainly been erratic these last few days. Perhaps exhaustion is behind it. After all, something must be.”

“That’s not at all the case,” said Wendell, who was enjoying the limelight. The last time he’d received so much attention was when he’d knocked over the coffee urn at a board meeting at the Headquarters House, nearly scalding the resident cat. Later that evening the cat had bitten him so severely on the ankle that he’d gone to the emergency room for stitches and a tetanus shot.

“So where is it?” drawled Jim Bob from the doorway.

“Yeah,” Kenneth added, “let’s hear it.”

Corinne pursed her lips for a moment. “It was some kind of secret code, wasn’t it? He must have worried his journal might fall into the hands of heartless Yankee imperialists determined to ravage the South.”

“His motive for failing to disclose the location was more likely to be that of personal gain,” Wendell said judiciously. “He was a smart lad, and he must have realized that CSA tender would be of no value if the North prevailed, as it appeared to be doing that year.” He stood up and took his sweet time ambling to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Henry and Emil, the private who hid the gold, were very close. They’d been reared in proximity and enlisted the same day. In fact, Emil’s older brother was engaged to be married to one of Henry’s sisters, a twenty-three-year-old widow whose husband had been killed during a foray into Indian Territory. They married in 1866 and went on to have eleven children, one of whom became a prominent attorney in El Dorado and—”

Jim Bob took the coffeepot from Wendell’s hand. “So where is it?” he repeated in the same voice he used to confront grazers in the produce department, most of whom immediately confessed to everything from littering to stealing watermelons while in grade school.

“I must do more research before I’m prepared to say anything further. My hypothesis is tentative, and may not be correct.”

“And this is something you found in the journal?” asked Kenneth. “You’re not just making this up?”

“Well,” cooed Sweetpea, “I know what I’m going to do this morning. Instead of taking my watercolors and a pad down to the creek, I’m going to find a nice sunny spot to read the journal. Would you like to join me, Wendell? We can take some cucumber sandwiches, cookies, and a thermos of iced tea.”

Harriet smiled at her. “Wendell wouldn’t dare do something like that. He’s just recently announced his engagement to Miss Lydia Berle. She’s the chairperson of the program committee, isn’t she, Wendell? A delightful woman, if you disregard her unfortunate overbite and braying laugh. She’s mentioned that she’d like to have the wedding at the Headquarters House, but of course that’s impossible. Sites listed on the Historic Register are not for rent. Las Vegas chapels with Elvis impersonators, on the other hand, require no advance notice. All you have to do is drive up to the window. Blue suede shoes are optional, I understand.”

“Now, Harriet,” said Wendell, “that really is a matter unsuitable for discussion at this moment. These good people are much more interested in Henry’s journal and the location of the gold.”

“Wendell has many secrets,” Harriet said, glancing around the kitchen. “Oh, yes, he’s quite an enigma.”

Corinne slid a plate of biscuits across the table to Simon. “Aren’t you supposed to go to Springfield today to do the audio?”

Simon shrugged. “Yeah, I said I would. Anything more exciting than watercolors on your agenda, Sweetpea? It doesn’t sound like ol’ Wendell is going to play footsie out in the cow pasture. I’d hate for you to be bored all day.” When she ignored him, he added, “I’d better find you here when I get back. Fraternizing with the enemy can be dangerous.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she replied coldly.

Corinne finished her coffee with a delicate shudder. “Well, I do believe I’ll drop by the high school and let the coordinator know I’ll be available tomorrow. You, Kenneth?”

“Fuck ’em. I’m going to take a walk and familiarize myself with the terrain. Unlike General Ames, I have no spies to report back to me.”

“And you, Wendell?” said Harriet. “Hoping to find an underage slut on Cotter’s Ridge who can reinvigorate your withered manhood before your honeymoon with Miss Lydia Berle? This woman named Hospiss, or maybe one of her illegitimate daughters? It’s too bad the whorehouse Kenneth mentioned last night is so far away. It might do you a world of good.”

“I am going to Cotter’s Ridge, but only to do further research,” he said. “What’s more, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Harriet. I’ve never heard you say such things before.”

Jim Bob tapped his wife’s shoulder, since she hadn’t moved in more than a minute and was failing to notice that the bacon in the skillet was beyond crusty. “Guess I’ll take a shower and then go to work. If you need anything, call me.”

Mrs. Jim Bob turned off the burner with a click reminiscent of the cocking of a rifle. “I’m going into Farberville to pick up a few things. You all will have to make do with what’s in the refrigerator at lunchtime. Perkin’s eldest will be here shortly to clean up the breakfast things and vacuum. If you need something, ask her. I should be back by the middle of the afternoon.”

She left the room before she was subjected to any more of this bickering and profanity in her own home, where she’d hosted the Missionary Society on numerous occasions. Where Brother Verber had said many a blessing over Sunday dinner, his head bent and his voice quavering with respect for the Almighty Lord. Where she’d always made sure there was a Bible in every bedroom and a fresh roll of toilet paper in every bathroom, along with a booklet of daily meditations. Where this morning she’d found two empty wine bottles in the trash and an unopened one on a shelf in the refrigerator. Let them starve, she thought as she grabbed her handbag and car keys. Let them indulge in their naked depravity for Perkin’s eldest’s entertainment, presuming Perkin’s eldest had a sense of humor.

Mrs. Jim Bob was beyond caring.

J
ack was sitting on my sofa when I came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my head. My bathrobe was as shabby as an antique teddy bear, but I’d never much cared for silky little wisps that were useless on lonely winter nights in Maggody. This is not to imply I’d been lonely the previous night.

“So what’s your schedule today?” I asked.

“I called Simon and suggested that I pick him up, but he wants to meet me at my studio at noon. If he can read in anything but a bored monotone, we should be done by midafter-noon and I’ll be back here by dinnertime. Would you like to try one of those places with a wine list?”

“That would be very nice,” I said, “assuming you won’t be too tired.”

“Too tired for what?”

I realized my toes were curling. “Dinner, of course, and then, if you’re in the mood, a Scrabble rematch. If you hadn’t nibbled my neck every time it was my turn, I’m quite sure I would have whomped your ass, as we say in Maggody. What’s more, we’re going to use a dictionary tonight. None of these esoteric words for Chinese concubines or Moroccan variations of couscous. I’m on to your tricks.”

“Then indeed a rematch. Do you have any felonies on your agenda for the day?”

“I suppose I’d better check on some missing persons, none of whom are apt to be in the clutches of foreign agents, then make sure Earl’s amenable to having a dozen mules in his pasture. Oh, and I need to run by the bridge and make sure the Confederate private camped there is behaving. If he gets too carried away with role-playing, he’s liable to steal a couple of chickens or a pig. That wouldn’t sit well with the locals. The guy swears his name is Jeb Stewart, if that gives you a clue.”

Jack dislodged my towel as he gave me a kiss that vanquished all thoughts of an agrarian uprising in Stump County. Or couscous.

“Later, then,” he said.

“Later,” I agreed, as quivery as any preteen who’d caught a glimpse of her idol coming out the stage door.

After half an hour devoted to dressing, drying my hair, and reminding myself that adolescent behavior was not attractive in women over thirty, I walked across the road to Ruby Bee’s for bacon, eggs, biscuits, grits, and coffee. A “closed” sign hung on the door. Grumbling under my breath, I went to the supermarket, bought a package of month-old doughnuts, and headed to the PD for the backwoods version of a continental breakfast.

I’d just started making coffee when Millicent McIlhaney came into the PD. She was so pale and wobbly that I hurried over to help her to the chair across from my desk.

“Can I get you a cup of water?” I asked. “The coffee will be ready in a few minutes.”

“No, thank you. Just let me sit here and collect myself. The last thing I want to do is take to bawling like a baby.” She took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “I’m just so darned worried! Darla Jean’s never done anything like this before. She may be mouthy on occasion, and sometimes downright rude, but she’s a good girl. I can’t believe she’d do something like this! What am I gonna tell Jeremiah?”

“What’s she done?”

Millicent began to snivel, but, thankfully, not to bawl. “I wish I knew, Arly. This morning Jeremiah and I had to leave early to go to a co-op prayer breakfast on account of him being on the board of directors. I woke up Darla Jean and told her she’d have to fix her own breakfast and get herself to school. When I got home an hour ago, she was gone. I didn’t think a thing about it until the secretary in the office called to verify her absence. I looked all over the house and yard, then searched her room and found her backpack in her closet. She hasn’t missed a day of school since she had the chicken pox in second grade.”

“It’s a pretty day,” I said soothingly. “Maybe she and some of the other kids decided to play hooky. They’re probably catching crawdads in Boone Creek.”

Millicent shook her head. “Not Darla Jean, and besides, I asked the secretary who else was absent. All of her close friends are at school today, including Heather, Billy Dick, Cooter, Ramona, and that slutty Pipkin girl with the purple hair. I can’t see Darla playing hooky by her lonesome. I think she must have been kidnapped. What do you aim to do about it, Arly?”

I tried to envision a scenario in which Ruby Bee stopped by the McIlhaney house to invite Darla Jean to skip school in order to go shopping in Farberville. And meet Lottie, Brother Verber, and Petrol for lunch at a quaint café, where they would feast on quiche, arugula, and crème brûlée I caught myself before I smiled. “I don’t think we should jump to the conclusion just yet that she’s been kidnapped. I gather she didn’t leave a note.”

“If she’d left a note explaining her whereabouts,” Millicent said darkly, “then I wouldn’t be sitting here, would I?”

“I suppose not. Let’s be reasonable about this. She was in her bed this morning when you left the house, and sometime thereafter, she decided not to go to school. It’s not even ten o’clock, Millicent. It’s premature to call in the FBI.” I remembered the conversation I’d had with Heather the previous evening. “Has Darla Jean been upset lately?”

She sighed. “Even Jeremiah commented on it, and he’s not what you’d describe as sensitive. Last week one of the boys at work shot him in the buttocks with a staple gun, and he didn’t even notice till he got home and I saw the bloodstain. But yes, Darla Jean’s been acting peculiar. She spent the weekend in her bedroom with the door locked, refusing to answer me or come down for meals, and wouldn’t talk to Heather when she called. It was all I could do to convince her to go to school yesterday. I told her that if she didn’t snap out of it, I was gonna take her to see the doctor.”

I poured a mug of coffee while I thought this over. Darla Jean was far from angelic; I’d caught her and her friends with beer and pot more than once—and I’m talking more than once a month when summer nights are graced with shooting stars, whip-poor-wills, and lightning bugs. Some of the condoms discarded on the banks of Boone Creek undoubtedly bore traces of her DNA. It did not seem wise to share this with Millicent, however.

“Here’s what let’s do,” I said. “You go home and wait by the telephone in case she calls. If you hear from her, leave a message on my machine. I’ll drive around town, and if I don’t have any luck, go to the high school and pull Heather out of class. She may have some idea what’s been bothering Darla Jean.”

Millicent wasn’t overly impressed with my plan, but allowed herself to be escorted out to her car. “I know I sound as dithery as a grannywoman, but I can’t imagine Darla Jean doing something like this. She has eleven gold pins for perfect attendance at Sunday school. She made the honor roll last semester, and has been talking to the counselor about going away to college after she graduates in a year. Jeremiah’s not real excited, since he thinks she ought to settle for the secretarial school in Farberville, but he told her that we’d give her something to help with her expenses. Now she has an unexcused absence, which means she can’t make up the work. It’s just not like her.”

“She’ll turn up,” I said, then waited until Millicent drove away before going back inside the PD to gulp down coffee and gnaw on a desiccated doughnut. Once I’d taken in enough calories to hold me for an hour or two, I called the high school and ascertained that neither Lottie Estes nor Darla Jean had shown up.

I stopped first at Lottie’s house, where I had no response. I could have grubbed in the flowerpot for the key and gone inside, but I saw no indication that anyone had been in the house since Jack and I had searched it the previous evening. Folks were beginning to behave oddly, I thought as I made a mental note to ask the health department to make sure a hole in the ozone layer hadn’t appeared directly above Maggody. Even Ruby Bee had vanished, as if she’d heard rumors of a Union cavalry unit staking out a position in Earl Buchanon’s pasture and fled to Cotter’s Ridge to hide the family silver (two souvenir spoons and a misshapen gravy ladle from a flea market).

I sat in the car for a few minutes, then headed for the bridge. Jeb Stewart had as much physical appeal as a cadaver left to bake in the sun for a week or two, but Darla Jean might have found a way to romanticize him. I hoped not, since I’d have to take her to my apartment and keep her in the shower for an hour. And then come up with an explanation to appease Millicent and Jeremiah. Family counseling was not among my many talents.

A campfire was smoldering at the edge of the woods. There were two pup tents, which surprised me, since I’d assumed Jeb was alone in his melodramatic mission to do himself in before any minié balls found their way to a vital organ. What’s more, the soldier who leaped to his feet as I approached was wearing a threadbare blue uniform and was clean-shaven.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said as he snapped to attention.

“Who are you?”

“Private Waylon Pepperstone out of Missouri. I’m not trespassing, am I?”

“No,” I said. “I came here to have a word with Jeb Stewart, but I don’t see him. Did you shoot him and bury his body in the woods?”

Waylon was gaping at me as if I were Nancy Hanks’s great-great-granddaughter. “No, ma’am—I mean, I don’t know where he is. He was gone when I got up this morning. His gear’s still here, so he’ll be coming back. Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am? Would you like some coffee?”

I looked at the rusted coffeepot in the ashes of the campfire. “No thank you. When did you arrive in Maggody?”

“Last night. My truck’s parked on the other side of the woods. I had to open a gate, but I was real careful to close it behind me. Has there been a complaint?”

“Lighten up, Private Pepperstone,” I said. I brushed past him and looked inside both tents, not at all sure if I wanted to find Darla Jean curled up in a blanket. “So you arrived last night and ended up here. Did anyone from town come out to welcome you?”

He shook his head. “Jeb and me caught some fish for supper, then compared notes about reenactments. We both went to bed pretty early. Last night he said he wanted to do some exploring this morning, so that’s where I figure he is.”

“Does he have a metal detector?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, he’s real hard core. He probably parked his car a couple of miles away so he could hike to town. I gotta tell you, if he doesn’t do something about those sores on his feet, he’s in for real trouble. My uncle let a blister turn so ugly that he had to go into the hospital for blood poisoning. They amputated his big toe. Afterward, even when he was just standing there, he kinda rocked back and forth.”

“Do give him my regards,” I said, “and tell Private Stewart that I’d like a word with him as soon as he returns. He knows where to find me.”

“And where would that be, ma’am?” said Private Pepperstone.

“He knows.” I went back to my car and drove over to the rectory. Brother Verber’s car was still absent. I went inside and took a quick look on the off chance I’d find him passed out in a scarlet negligee and high heels, then searched the Assembly Hall more thoroughly in case Darla Jean had decided to hide there for her own inexplicable reasons. She had not.

Ruby Bee’s Bar & Grill was still closed, much to the consternation of those parked out front and nurturing visions of fried chicken and scalloped potatoes for lunch. I parked in front of the PD and went inside, hoping I’d find a message on the answering machine that Darla Jean had turned up like either a bad penny or a shiny silver dollar. The evil eye was not flashing. I needed to call Harve about Saturday morning, but I decided it could wait while I reheated the coffee, propped my feet on the corner of the desk, and thought about Jack. The Scrabble had been entertaining, the tamales tasty, and the sex fantastic. At some point I’d have to consider where the relationship, if indeed there was one, might be going. For the moment, I was content to anticipate another night with him, although it might be prudent if he rumpled the sheets on his bed at the Flamingo Motel to lessen the suspicions of the proprietress.

Which reminded me of his sickly assistant, Terry, whose last name had yet to be mentioned. I wrapped up the last doughnut in a napkin and walked down the road to the motel to make sure an ambulance—or a coroner—was not required. The blinds in all the units but one were closed, so I took my chances and tapped on the door.

“Come in,” said a weak voice, “but don’t get too close. I think I’ve got dengue fever.”

Terry proved to be a boy of twenty-odd years, with watery eyes and a raw, red nose. He looked at me, then slumped back on the pillows and snatched up a handful of tissues. “I want to be buried in Springfield.”

“And with luck you will be,” I said. “Would you like some hot tea or a soda? A doughnut, maybe?”

“Under a tree.”

It took me a second to follow him. “I’m sure there’s a nice, shady plot waiting for you. Can I fetch anything for you in the interim? Do you have aspirin and decongestants?”

“All I want is to be left alone to die.”

“Very few people die of a head cold. I’ll come back later with some soup.”

He lifted his head to stare at me. “I can’t get ESPN or CNN. Have I already died and gone to hell? Is my punishment for all eternity to be in a motel room with avocado green shag carpeting, prints of kittens taped to the walls, toilet paper made of unprocessed wood pulp, and towels that could double for sandpaper?”

“Chicken noodle soup.” I waggled my fingers at him, then left before he could start sneezing and coughing in my direction. The last thing I need was a dose of Yankee germs, especially when the Civil War was heating up in my petty domain.