Muletrain to Maggody (19 page)

Harve chuckled. “You sound like you’re about to swoon, Miss Melanie. Now you just handle informing the next of kin and leave me a message. I got a baseball game to watch.”

The sumbitch hung up on me. I was still fuming when Jack came into the PD and stopped.

“Oh dear,” he said, eyeing me. “Hard day?”

“I won’t be able to go out to dinner tonight,” I said. “Wendell Streek’s body was discovered up on the ridge. I need to go find Miss Hathaway and ask her how to get in touch with his relatives.”

“That pompous little man?”

“That pompous little man, now deceased.”

He winced. “Sorry, it just came out. What happened?”

“I don’t know. You’d better go on to dinner by yourself, or settle for something to eat at Ruby Bee’s. I promised I’d take Terry some chicken soup, but I didn’t get around to it. I’m sure Ruby Bee will fix a tray for him, and probably force-feed him if it comes to that. Why don’t you catch up with me tomorrow?”

“Not later tonight?”

My toes curled despite myself. “No. I don’t know how long this will take, but once I’m done, all I want to do is take a long shower, check myself for ticks, and fall into bed.”

Jack sat down across from me. “Can you tell me what happened to Wendell?”

“His body was found at the bottom of a thirty-foot bluff. He most likely fell this morning, although the coroner will have to determine the time of death. I helped bring up the body, and now I need to inform Miss Hathaway so she can provide information about his family and I can make the necessary calls. I’ve done this before, but it’s nothing I look forward to.”

“Was he alone?”

My feet hit the floor as I pushed back my chair. “I’m not in the mood to participate in dialogue from some prime-time cop show. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Maybe I’ll go check on Terry. Tomorrow, then.”

Wow, now there was a way to nurture a meaningful relationship. I wondered if I ought to take a few lessons from Corinne. Or, heaven forbid, Sweetpea.

T
here were plenty of cars parked in Hizzoner’s driveway, including one that was doing irreparable damage to what I thought might have been a tree peony in a very recent past life, and another that had left ruts in the lawn. I hoped the miscreants were long gone by Sunday morning, when Brother Verber thundered about the sanctity of nature from his bloody pulpit. Most of the time his fore-shadowings of eternal damnation were centered on whiskey bottles discarded on gravel bars and the debauchery any righteous Christian would infer from such, but if Mrs. Jim Bob harbored an abiding love for her tree peony, it would be the focal point. This is not to imply I attended the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall on Sunday mornings to cleanse my soul. I mostly cleansed my clothes at the Suds of Fun, but Ruby Bee and Estelle had heard about the juicier remarks by the time I wandered in for lunch.

The house guests, minus one, were assembled in the backyard. Sweetpea and Simon were standing at the far end, several feet apart and cooing sweet nothings. Miss Hathaway was seated at the picnic table, making notes on a pad. Kenneth Grimley was occupied with a corkscrew and a bottle of wine.

Corinne waved at me. “What a nice surprise to see you, Arly. You look absolutely dreadful. Can we offer you a glass of wine or a tourniquet?”

“I need to have a word with Miss Hathaway.” I went to the picnic table and sat down beside her. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“Is it about the mules? I don’t see how we can—”

“About Wendell Streek,” I said softly. “We found his body this afternoon on Cotter’s Ridge. It appears that he fell off a bluff.”

“Wendell? That’s absurd. He wouldn’t fall off a bluff. He’s deathly afraid of heights. It’s all he can do to go up to the attic of the Headquarters House. There must be some mistake.”

“I’m sorry. I made the identification myself.”

The pen clattered on the concrete. “You must have been confused. I will admit I was concerned when he didn’t return this afternoon in time for tea and cookies, but I never once thought…”

“What’s this?” Corinne said as she stooped over us and put her arm around Miss Hathaway. “Could he have had a seizure? Was he in good health?” She hesitated, then added, “You don’t think he could have been depressed, do you? We see this kind of tragedy in Charleston all the time, but it’s usually on account of a family history of alcoholism or the uncovering of a scandal. Noah DeVille, just three houses down from me, drank a quart of bourbon and then shot himself in the head because of a drop in the Dow Jones. They found out later that he’d been playing fast and loose with his clients’ IRA accounts.”

Harriet shook her head. “Wendell was in perfect health, and was hardly likely to do something rash because of a flux in the stock market.” She clutched my hand. “Can you tell me what happened?”

I wished I could swat away Corinne, but she was hovering with the tenacity of a gnat. “His body was taken to the Farberville hospital about an hour ago,” I said. “I won’t know anything until tomorrow or the next day. I need to notify his next of kin. Can you help me?”

Kenneth set down a glass of wine in front of her. “Drink up, woman. It’ll settle your nerves.”

Harriet’s grip on my hand tightened, causing my fingers to begin to resemble albino worms. “His mother, but she isn’t well. We had a little party last month for her ninetieth birthday. She fainted while attempting to blow out the candles. This will simply kill her. Wendell has a brother in someplace like Boise or Billings, but I have no idea how to get in touch with him.”

Corinne whipped out a lacy handkerchief and thrust it into Harriet’s free hand. “We’ll do everything we can to help, dear. Might there be an address book in his briefcase?”

“Or we could call his fiancée,” suggested Kenneth. “What’s her name—Linda or something like that?”

“His fiancée?” I said. “Maybe I should call her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Harriet, regaining her color. She picked up the wineglass and drained it without so much as blinking. “They became engaged only three days ago. I have known Wendell for more than twenty years. I darned his socks, stayed with his mother during her bouts of noctur-nal incontinence, left casseroles in the freezer, and encouraged him to pursue his interest in genealogy after he retired. I always made him divinity for Christmas. When he lost his resolve, I took his canary to the vet’s office to be put out of its misery.”

“Perhaps you should have taken his mother as well,” said Kenneth.

“That’s enough!” I snapped at him. I took Harriet’s arm and urged her to her feet. “Let’s go inside and find a place where we can talk.”

“You’re quite sure it was Wendell?” she said as we went through the sun porch. “You couldn’t have made a mistake?”

“Quite sure, I’m afraid.”

Mrs. Jim Bob was in the kitchen, looking more like a sullen scullery maid than a mayor’s wife. “Just what are you doing here, missy? Shouldn’t you be out looking for Lottie and Brother Verber? I can only accommodate eight at my dining room table. I used to be able to seat ten until Jim Bob used the extra leaf to make a plaque to mount some fish he caught in a tournament. Why don’t you just take yourself down to Ruby Bee’s and have some fried grease and gravy for supper? I am preparing a nice dinner for my guests.”

“There’s been an accident,” I told her. “We found Wendell Streek’s body on Cotter’s Ridge this afternoon.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she began, then looked at Harriet. “Take her to the living room so she can lie down. I’ll fix her a cup of tea.”

Harriet was staggering as we made it to the sofa, but she sank down before her knees buckled. “I just can’t believe this. Not Wendell. He wouldn’t so much as climb on a footstool to change a lightbulb. He would never get within yards of the edge of a precipice. He must have had a heart attack.”

I propped a pillow behind her head. “That may well be what happened. Had he been diagnosed with heart trouble? Did he take any medication for high blood pressure or allergies?”

“I don’t know.” Harriet closed her eyes. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a few minutes to assimilate this. Wendell was so filled with energy and enthusiasm this morning that it was all he could do not to start tap dancing in the kitchen. He did love the Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies.”

I was trying to think of something to say when Sweetpea swept past me and knelt by the sofa.

“Oh, Miss Hathaway, this is just the most terrible news,” she said. “Is there anything I can do for you? Would you like an aspirin or a cup of tea with a splash of brandy? You’re trembling, you poor thing. Can I get you a blanket?”

I took Sweetpea’s arm and pulled her aside. “Mrs. Jim Bob is fixing tea, but don’t count on the brandy. Please stay here while I find Wendell’s room and look for his address book. Someone in the family has to be notified.”

She lowered her voice. “He was sharing a bedroom with Simon. Upstairs, second door on the right. You may have to dig through Simon’s dirty clothes to find much of anything. Ruthie’s been his nursemaid since he was born. He’s never dropped a dirty sock in the laundry hamper, made a bed, hung a wet towel on the rack, or even put a dirty dish in the sink. He’s in for a shock when we get married, because my name’s not Ruthie. I’ve made it clear to him that we’re not going to have full-time help.”

“Oh?” I said, not nearly as fascinated as I sounded.

“I’ve had servants underfoot all my life. Not at boarding school, mind you, but when I’d come home for the holidays, my suitcase would be whisked away, my things unpacked, my nightgown pressed, the covers on my bed turned down. I always felt as though I was staying in a hotel in Paris, if you know what I mean.”

“Life’s tough,” I said, nodding. “If you don’t mind waiting here…”

“Simon can be such a spoiled brat. He thinks he’s entitled to fancy cars, expensive wines, prime tee times, access to the hot clubs in Atlanta. It’s like he’s never seen pictures of starving children in Africa or those cripples in Vietnam and Cambodia who stepped on land mines. Most likely he just has Ruthie change the channels so he can watch a golf tournament—after she brings him a fresh gin and tonic, of course. I’m always surprised when he manages to slice a lime all by himself. Then again, he’s adorable.”

“Are my adorable ears burning?” said Simon as he came into the living room. He glanced at Harriet, who’d curled into a fetal position. “She okay?”

Sweetpea glowered at him. “Why do you assume that every conversation I have is about you? Tad is a damn sight more adorable than you, and he was never so much as five minutes late when we were dating. Even Trip, with all his mental problems, always brought me an orchid from his parents’ greenhouse. Brad arranged for fireworks over Charleston Harbor on my birthday, but you missed it because you were shacked up with Shelby in Aruba. Sometimes you’re barely tolerable, Simon. Now take Arly up to your bedroom and help her find Wendell’s address book.”

“At your service.” He offered me his arm as if we were going into the dining hall. “May I escort you upstairs, Chief of Police? I promise not to be overly adorable.”

“And I promise not to be overly impressed,” I said. We stepped back as Mrs. Jim Bob came in with a tray, then went upstairs. The bedroom was far from the shambles Sweetpea had led me to anticipate. Both beds were made, due no doubt to Perkin’s eldest. One suitcase looked as though it had been rummaged by drunken airport security guards, but the other was tidy. I knew which one merited my attention.

Simon sat down on the nearest bed. “What did Sweetpea have to say about me? That I’m a ne’er-do-well, unscrupulous, after her family’s money?”

“She didn’t go into detail.” I shuffled through starched shirts and neatly folded pairs of boxers. “Are you?”

“That was multiple choice, and the fourth answer is ‘none of the above.’ I’m a pragmatist, if you understand what that means.”

I looked at him. “That’s way too many syllables for a simple gal from the Ozarks. We’re more accustomed to descriptions like ‘dumb shit’ and ‘pond scum.’ ”

“What’s your problem? I came all this way to do some pissant documentary, didn’t I? I haven’t run that pathetic stoplight or crashed into a school and killed squealing toddlers. Would you like me better if I lived in a shack and slept with my sisters?” He lit a cigarette and leaned back. “In this society, Chief Hanks, there are givers, who want to gnaw off their extremities to save the less fortunate, and those of us who are willing to sit back and take whatever comes our way. It’s an economic reality. Some of us couldn’t be rich if others weren’t willing to be poor. Marxism, as amusing as it was, didn’t work.”

I began to sort through the files on Wendell’s bedside table. “I gather you don’t work, either.”

“Oh, but I do, every day and quite diligently. I handle most of my mother’s correspondence and deal with her agents, lawyers, and accountant so that she can devote herself to writing. It may be a minor contribution to the collective opus of literary fiction, but I like to think I do my part. After all, how could the Daughters of the Confederacy continue to thrive without Corinne Dawk’s annual potboiler? If there were no reworked renderings of Scarlett O’Hara, there could be no Rhett Butler waiting to scoop them into his arms and carry them up the staircase. That means they’d have to acknowledge that they’re married to good ol’ boys with bloated bellies and a fondness for waitresses at the truck stop out by the highway.” He stubbed out his cigarette in a crystal bowl of dried leaves. It began to smolder, but the aroma was not unpleasant. “So this guy Wendell fell off a cliff. What’s the big deal?”

“Well, he’s dead,” I said flatly.

“As is Private Henry Largesse.”

I resumed flipping through files. Most of them contained only a few pages of names and dates, written in such a cramped style that they were impossible to decipher without a magnifying glass. Not that I cared, mind you. Some day genealogists and historians might hold symposiums to debate the relative merits of Private Custis E. Delaney’s ancestry and his contributions to the efforts of the CSA. A weekend might be devoted to Henry Largesse and his fertile sisters.

In the drawer of the table I found an address book. I straightened up the files and looked at Simon, whose eyes were closed. “I’m going downstairs,” I said.

“Don’t let me detain you.”

We most definitely were not destined to be friends. I slammed the door on my way out of the bedroom, which I admit was petty but all I could do without a musket. In the living room, Corinne and Sweetpea were draped all over Harriet, to Mrs. Jim Bob’s visible distress. Jim Bob hovered in a corner.

“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded as I tried to flit past the doorway.

I nudged him into the hall, told him about Wendell Streek, and concluded with, “The body’s at the morgue, and McBeen’s conclusion will be blunt impact trauma. Blood work and tox analysis will have to come from the state lab, and that could take a week, if we’re lucky. Until Sheriff Dorfer and I hear otherwise, we’re assuming it was an accident.”

“This don’t look good,” Jim Bob said. “I don’t want tourists thinking it’s dangerous to come to Maggody.”

“Tourists don’t come to Maggody. Why would they?”

He scratched his chin. “I don’t know, ferchrissake. Maybe they want to buy antiques at Roy’s shop or pick up sandwiches and chips at the SuperSaver deli and have a picnic.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Mr. Mayor. Did Wendell say anything this morning about why he wanted to go to Cotter’s Ridge?”