Arly Hanks - O Little Town of Maggody Part 1

O Little Town of MagG.o.dy.

An Arly Hanks Mystery.

Joan Hess.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

"Where do you get your ideas?" is this writer's least favorite question. However, I'm going to be in serious trouble if I don't announce for all to read that the idea for this book came straight from Dorothy Cannell. In the spring of 1992, Dorothy, her husband, Julian, Sharyn McCrumb, and I explored Hannibal, Missouri--a town not oblivious to its most celebrated hometown boy. "It's too bad MagG.o.dy doesn't have a famous son," Dorothy sadly opined in her melodious British accent. The conversation blossomed, and long before we arrived in Peoria, Sharyn had named Matt Montana and concocted the majority of the lyrics of his award-winning song (Dorothy and I contributed as best we could, but Sharyn is truly knowledgeable about country music) and we were singing it, to Julian's obvious discomfort.

Three months later I was sitting on the porch of a country inn in North Carolina with Sharyn, Dorothy, Charlotte MacLeod (a.k.a. Alisa Craig), Margaret Maron, Sandy Graham, and Barbara Mertz (a.k.a. Barbara Michaels and/or Elizabeth Peters). "But Mistletoe in MagG.o.dy is not a great t.i.tle," I whined as we sipped tea and nibbled crumpets. Brilliant suggestions ensued, but Barbara receives full credit for that which graces the jacket.

During the months of execution (I did have to fill in the prose), Margaret Maron and Kristen Whitbread provided tidbits of original country music lyrics. Terry Jones, Ray Guzman, and Terry Kirkpatrick fielded legal questions, while Sarah McBee and Dave Edmiston did the same with medical ones. Linda Nickle attended a country music symposium on my behalf and Martha McNair shared her knowledge of literature. Ronna Luper of Crossbrooks Graphics graciously provided information regarding the contents of the souvenir shoppe. Amy Abbott saved me numerous hours at the post office and smiled despite it all. The Fayetteville Police Department told me about a dog named Larry. Ellen Nehr provided astute editorial insights, as did Michaela Hamilton, my official editor, Danielle Perez, her adjutant; and Dominick Abel, my literary agent. Last of all, I would like to thank the Keebler elves, who kept me company while I worked into the wee hours of the night.

Chapter One.

"You're a detour on the highway to heaven," sang Ruby Bee Hanks as she ran the dust mop across the minute dance floor of Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill. Her voice wasn't bad for a woman of modest years, she thought with a smile that lit up her chubby, well-powdered face. It weren't nothing like Matt Montana's, not by a long shot, but she carried the tune faithfully. That wasn't surprising since the song came on the jukebox every five minutes from noon till midnight.

There wasn't any question Matt Montana could sing, but n.o.body'd ever claimed he made the best scalloped potatoes west of the Mississippi. She'd bet her last dollar he'd never won blue ribbons at the county fair for his canned tomatoes and watermelon pickles. This last thought reminded her that she needed to check the apple pies bubbling in the oven, so she took the dust mop and went into the kitchen to get ready for the noon rush. Presuming there was one, for a change.

"I am lost on the back roads of sin," warbled the checkout girl at Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less. The proprietor, Jim Bob Buchanon, who also happened to be the mayor of MagG.o.dy among his other sins, gave her a dark look, then went out the door to the mostly empty parking lot. Beneath his noticeably simian forehead, his eyes were yellowish. Those were the two dominant physical traits that proclaimed his lineage in the Buchanon clan, although a geneticist would be quick to point out they were both recessive. There were about as many Buchanons in Stump County as there were varmints up on Cotter's Ridge. Some Buchanons were more intelligent (and less ornery) than these same varmints, but they were few and far between--and living elsewhere. Most of the rest regarded family reunions in the same fas.h.i.+on young executives did singles bars.

Jim Bob leaned against the concrete block wall and watched a lone pickup truck rumble out of view. Business was bad; there was no getting around it. The cash registers weren't pinging, and his bank balance was dwindling to a worrisome level. He shaded his eyes and looked across the highway at Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill, which didn't appear to be faring any better. Down the road, no one was filling up with gas at the self-service pumps, nor was anybody waddling into the Suds of Fun Launderette with a basket of dirty clothes. There weren't any cars or RVs parked in front of Roy Stiver's antique store, and he'd heard that Roy was threatening to close for the winter and go flop on a beach somewhere to write more of that highfalutin poetry he was so proud of. Jim Bob had written some in his day, although his had been calculated to melt comely maidens' hearts and soften their protests. Roy's stuff didn't even rhyme, and gawd help you if you tried to sing it.

Jim Bob figured he might as well be writin' poetry as standing in the parking lot looking at nothing. Like the ancient oak tree out behind his house on Finger Lane, the whole d.a.m.n town of MagG.o.dy was in danger of cras.h.i.+ng down in the next gust of wind. The best he could recollect, there were still 755 citizens living along the highway and on the unpaved back roads that led to other depressing towns or petered out up in the mountains. There were more citizens buried out behind the Methodist church, but n.o.body he knew of had been planted lately, that is. More folks than usual seemed to have been murdered since Arly Hanks had skulked back home to become the chief of police (and the entirety of the department). But, Jim Bob added to himself, trying to be fair about it, it most likely wasn't her fault. She hadn't brought back a busload of muggers and rapists with her from her high-and-mighty life in Manhattan. No, she'd just brought her smart mouth and snippety way of putting her fists on her hips and staring like a G.o.dd.a.m.n water moccasin when she pretended to be listening to him. He couldn't think when he last made her blink.

"I have got to get back on the four-lane," the checker was singing as he stomped back inside.

He was about to fire her on the spot, when he realized she wasn't all that unattractive, if you were willing to ignore her stained teeth and rabbity eyes and lack of chin, and concentrate on her undeniably round b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Malva, isn't it?" he said in a right friendly voice. "Why don't you take yourself a little break in the lounge? I'll get us a couple of cans of soda and a box of cookies, and then you can sing me some more of that pretty song." Malva wasn't fooled one bit, but she was dim-witted enough to think she might get a raise (along with the rise) out of him. "Whatever you say, Mr. Buchanon."

His fingers tingling, Jim Bob took off for the Oreos.

"So that I can see Mama again," sang Perkins's eldest as she maneuvered the vacuum cleaner down the hallway and deftly turned into the living room, the electrical cord whipping behind her like a skinny black sidewinder.

"I wish she'd hush up," said Mrs. Jim Bob (a.k.a. Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon) as she came back into the sun-room with a fresh pot of coffee. Her hair was brown and sensible, her face devoid of the devil's paint, her eyes mostly brown with only a few flecks of mustard. She wore a blue dress and freshly starched underwear in case there was some sort of untimely disaster and she found herself submitting her resume to the Lord.

Elsie McMay gazed solemnly across the table. "Did you hear those hippies what own the hardware store are talking about closing up and moving away?"

"It'd be a blessing if they did. They're lewd and lascivious, probably all sleeping in one bed. There's a fancy French name for what they do, but I'm too good a Christian to even know what it is. I told Brother Verber to go over there and give them a word of warning about eternal d.a.m.nation, and he said he would just as soon as he had the time." Her thin lips grew thinner as she thought this over. "I seem to recall that was more than two years ago." The mention of the pastor of the Voice of the Almighty Lord a.s.sembly Hall led to a discussion of the latest uproar in the Missionary Society (too many ballots in the box) and several cups of coffee.

After Elsie left, Mrs. Jim Bob pulled on a sweater and went out to the front porch. It was a mite crumpy for November, maybe an ominous sign of things to come. If business was as bad as Jim Bob had sworn, then they were in trouble. He'd used all their savings to open the supermarket, even getting his hands on the nice little sum she'd inherited from Great-Uncle Arbutus Buchanon, who, for the record, was a Buchanon from her side of the family rather than Jim Bob's.

As befitting the mayor's wife, she had the finest house in all of MagG.o.dy, a two-story red brick structure on the top of a hill where everybody in town could see it, and a driveway that wound down to a gate with the letters J and B formed out of bricks and spanned by a wrought-iron arch. But if the store went broke, they'd be lucky to have a rusty mobile home at the Pot o' Gold.

Mrs. Jim Bob was s.h.i.+vering as she went back inside to rinse out the coffee pot and have a stern word with Perkins's eldest about the baseboards.

"When Mama lay a-dyin' on the flatbed," sang Estelle Oppers, although the words were m.u.f.fled on account of the bobby pins wobbling between her lips. More were scattered across the counter among bottles of shampoo and conditioner, combs, hair nets, plastic and foam rollers, hair dryers, curling irons, and other accoutrements of the profession she ran out of her living room.

Eilene Buchanon frowned at her reflection in the mirror as Estelle caught a wisp of brown hair and pinned it back in place. "Can you make it less fluffier on top? My niece--the one on the drill team over in Farberville--she says it makes me look like a French poodle."

Estelle gave Eilene a hand mirror and swiveled the chair around. "I think this looks real sweet, Eilene. These teenaged girls today all think they have to wear their hair so it looks like they were lined up to be the next bride of Frankenstein." She glanced in the mirror at her own fiery red beehive, today festooned with a row of spitcurls across her forehead. Yesterday she'd tried a two-tiered effect, but this was undeniably more becoming. "Amateurs don't know about the artistry of cosmetology. Just the other day I offered to fix Arly's hair--not that she's a teenager by a good fifteen years--but she ducked her head and said her schoolmarm bun was dictated by the police manual. If that wasn't a platter of barbecued Spam, I don't know what is!"

"She still moping around the police department?" Eilene asked as she handed back the mirror and stood up, wondering in the back of her mind if she didn't look just a tiny bit like a dog that answered to Gigi.

"Moping like a wet mop. I can't tell you how many times Ruby Bee and I have tried to talk some sense in her. We might as well be arguing with a box of rocks. Arly says she's perfectly happy to spend her days at the police department and her nights in that shabby one-room apartment, except when she's wolfing down biscuits and gravy at Ruby Bee's or slurping cherry limeades from the Dairee DeeLishus. The most exciting thing that's happened to her in the last month was stopping a silver Mercedes for speeding out by the remains of Purtle's Esso station and finding out the guy was a state senator."

"She give him a ticket?"

"In a Noow Yark minute, and still giggling about it."

Eilene paid Estelle and booked her next appointment. "Kind of sad, isn't it? Arly ain't bad looking, but she isn't going to find herself a man in this town. At the rate things are going, this may be a ghost town afore too long. Earl keeps busy repairing burst pipes and unstopping toilets, but he hasn't had a subcontracting job in months. He heard Ira Pickerell down at the body shop had to fire his own first cousin Jimson on account of business being so poor. I guess folks can't afford to get their dents fixed when they have to worry about rent and groceries. Christmas is gonna be real bleak this year, if you ask me."

Estelle went out to the front walk and stood watching as Eilene backed her car onto County 102 and drove away. As if she didn't know business was poor these days. All she had scheduled for tomorrow was a trim for Joyce Lambertino's little niece after school let out. She'd heard about the hippies leaving, and she wasn't all that surprised about Ira having to get rid of Jimson. More times than not, Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill was half-empty at noon, and happy hour was downright gloomy these days. The poultry plant in Starley City had cut back the night s.h.i.+ft. The used-car lot was nothing but a field of weeds. Everybody was hurting.

Out by the ditch, the sign that read ESTELLE'S HAIR FANTASIES creaked in the bone-chillin' wind. What paint that hadn't flaked off was nearly illegible, and one corner of the sign drooped where a screw had fallen out. With a sigh, Estelle went back inside, switched on the television to her favorite soap, and settled back for an hour of somebody else's misery.

"She warned me not to truck with girls like you," sang Dahlia (nee O'Neill) Buchanon. She had a sweet voice, but at the moment she was so depressed that the words were oozing out like mola.s.ses on a winter morning. Her eyes kept overflowing with tears that ran down her chunky cheeks and leaked into the cracks between her numerous chins. She was slumped on the sofa of what her new husband kept describing as "our little love nest," but anyone with a pittance of a brain could see it was nothing but the same house where she'd always lived with her granny. Her granny'd put up quite a fight when Dahlia made her move to the county old folks home; lordy, how she'd covered her ears and squawked like a chicken whenever Dahlia tried to reason with her about how nice it would be to sit with the other old ladies on the porch every day. She was still clamming up when Dahlia visited every Sunday afternoon, but she'd stop being a crybaby sooner or later.

Dahlia heaved all of her three hundred pounds to her feet, wiped her face, and trudged into the kitchen to make supper for Kevin. Marital bliss sure wasn't the way they showed it on television. The honeymoon had been one disaster after another, and then they'd come back to find out that Kevin had lost his job at the supermarket and Ruby Bee couldn't afford the salary for one barmaid, not even part-time.

Spilling a can of beans into a saucepan, she wondered if she'd done the right thing getting married in the first place. Kevvie'd talked about a cozy cottage and going to the picture show every Friday night, but he took the first job he could find--selling fancy vacuum cleaners in Farberville--and hardly ever got home before ten o'clock at night. Just what was the new Mrs. Kevin Buchanon supposed to do all day?

She popped a couple of cookies in her mouth and imagined herself on the Grand Ole Opry stage next to Matt Montana, whose photograph she kept tacked to the wall in the living room and whose face had been known to invade their double bed on those rare nights Kevin didn't stagger through the door and fall asleep in the recliner. In her daydreams, she was always as thin as Ronna (but with Dolly's bust), with Barbara's exquisite seash.e.l.l blue eyes, with Wynonna's cascading blond hair, with Katie's stark and mysterious cheekbones. She was dressed in a white sequined gown and cute little cowgirl hat, and her boots were dainty as ballet slippers.

"But I was caught in the glare of your headlights," she recommenced to singing, this time in perfect two-part harmony with Matt, "and went joyriding just for the view."

"Your curves made me lose my direction," sang Brother Verber as he stood in the doorway of his trailer parked beside the Voice of the Almighty Lord a.s.sembly Hall. He dearly hoped the highway he was gazing at wasn't the one in the song, because it wasn't clogged with cars and trucks heading for the Pearly Gates. A cadaverous hound was asleep on the dotted yellow line, threatened only by an empty beer can rattling across the road.

The collection plate was getting lighter every week, which meant not only were the little heathen orphans in Africa missing out on the opportunity to be enlightened (as soon as he got their address), but also that he'd been obliged to quote a verse from the Good Book to that sa.s.sy young woman who'd called that very morning. " 'The Lord is my light and my salvation: whom shall I fear?' " he'd demanded of her. She'd suggested the rural electric cooperative.

Religion ain't immune to recession, he thought bleakly as he went to the kitchenette to pour out another tumbler of wine, and then lay down on the sofa. Why, he couldn't find the energy to change out of his pajamas and bathrobe, and it was already early afternoon. Hanging over the end of the sofa, his bare feet looked like a pair of dead fish. All in all, at the moment even he would admit he wasn't the epitome of evangelical inspiration.

Brother Verber got up long enough to turn on his television to one of those talk shows where people seemed eager to tell the whole world about how they'd l.u.s.ted after their household pets or dressed up in leather underwear and performed degrading acts on the kitchen floor, or both. Brother Verber didn't approve of this kind of thing being shown on television, but he figured watching it fell into the realm of better preparing himself should a sinner come a-knockin' on the rectory door.

It occurred to him that he might could charge a small fee for eternal salvation, maybe even run some kind of special at Christmastime.

"But you were just one more roadside attraction," sang Kevin Buchanon as he walked up the sidewalk of a house in Farberville, "and it's been ten thousand miles since I prayed." He wore a dark suit and a tie, and despite the fact that his trouser cuffs failed to hide a good three inches of white socks, he was sure he looked like a bright young businessman. After all, his manager, Mr. Dentha, had slapped him on the back and told him that exact thing at the regular morning sales meeting at the Vacu-Pro office.

Kevin tightened his grip on the case containing the body of the vacuum cleaner and its thirty-five attachments. The proud owner of a Vacu-Pro could not only clean her carpet but also shampoo upholstery, sand wood, spray-paint walls, dust venetian blinds, strip furniture, and so many other useful things that it had taken Kevin more than a week to memorize the list. Now he could rattle 'em off in under a minute. And who wouldn't want the finest vacuum cleaner on the market, a contraption on the cutting edge of the technological revolution? Sure, a Vacu-Pro was expensive, but so was a jet airplane--and try to scale a fish with one of them!

His shoulders squared and his chin held so high that anyone in the neighborhood could see his throat rippling, Kevin pushed the doorbell.

The door opened slowly, and all of a sudden he was gulping and fighting for air as he found himself staring at a woman wearing a scarlet nightie, lace panties that hung on her shapely hips, and not another st.i.tch. He jerked his eyes up to her face, which was wearing a bewitching grin amidst a cloud of crimpy blond hair that looked soft as cotton candy.

"Well, h.e.l.lo," she purred, her tongue curling along her scarlet lips. "I've been waiting all day to have my carpet shampooed. n.o.body told me they were sending a handsome young man to do ... it. I've been told there are all sorts of interesting things to do with the attachments. You did bring your attachments, didn't you, honey?"

Kevin knew he was supposed to launch into the joys of owning a Vacu-Pro, but not a single word made it out of his mouth. All he could do was gurgle as she took his arm and pulled him into the house.

"So he did it again," muttered Pierce Keswick as he grimaced at his younger brother. They shared a family resemblance strong enough to give Pierce ulcers. Ripley had the same hawkish nose and washed-out blue eyes, and the same sharp chin, but his hair hung to his collar in an untidy mess that' begged for a comb (or, in Pierce's opinion, a weed whacker). Pierce wore silk; Ripley preferred corduroy and one hundred percent cotton. They rarely--just short of never--communicated outside of the office, which suited both of them just fine.

"I am not overwhelmed with amazement," Ripley said with only a faint smirk.

"This is the second time since Matt won the award that he's been arrested. He was scheduled for a couple of telephone interviews this morning, but I called the radio stations and made excuses. He missed two shows in Memphis last weekend, just flat out didn't show up. Harry says he and the h.e.l.lbellies are thinking about backing out on the tour and just riding out the winter here in Nashville. This latest c.r.a.p gets out, no one's gonna risk opening for him and we might as well cancel the tour and kiss off the quarter of a million we've put into the alb.u.m."

"I said right after he won the award that Lillian wouldn't be able to control him. The annals of country music have proven that small-town rednecks are notoriously incapable of handling fame and fortune."

"That's it!" Pierce said, hitting his desk with his fist so hard his secretary glanced up from her computer and inadvertently added a zero to some lucky devil's contract. He got up and went to stand at the wide window, smiling at the mountains faintly visible through what the Nashville chamber of commerce elected to describe as haze. "The club agents, the deejays, the fans, even the h.e.l.lbellies--they all need to be reminded that despite his newly acquired reputation reputation as a total f.u.c.k-up, Matt's nothing but a simple country boy with treasured memories of his hometown. Tie in this Christmas thing--'tis the season, deck the halls, away in a manger. Help me here, Ripley. We need some kind of publicity about where he grew up ... and we need it before the tour starts falling apart. Let the media see him surrounded by his kinfolk, decorating the Christmas tree, singing carols in the high school gym, and reminiscing about his beloved granny. Get him on the line and ask him where he grew up."

"I should think at the moment the poor boy's sleeping off what must be a ferocious hangover. In interviews, he talks about Little Rock."

"Little Rock's too big for a hometown. Come up with someplace quaint and honest, with hard-working folks and a cafe where everybody has coffee on Sat.u.r.day morning."

"There's something in the file ... I seem to think he spent at least part of his childhood in some little cesspool in the Arkansas Ozarks. Let me check his bio." Ripley left the room, then returned with a folder containing a few grains of truth and a lot of whimsy. "I was right, of course. On his AFM application, he says he was born in a place called MagG.o.dy. There's a next-of-kin listed, too."

Pierce rubbed his hands together. "Perfect! Matt Montana's going home for the holidays."

Chapter Two.

"Matt Montana was born in MagG.o.dy?" I said. This dutiful display of incredulousness in no way delayed a forkful of mashed potatoes destined for my gullet via my gaping mouth. "I don't think I've ever heard that."

"There's a lot of stuff you ain't heard," Ruby Bee said from behind the bar, glaring as if I'd criticized the meat loaf or voiced doubts about the greasy perfection of the collard greens. I preferred to live another day.

Perched on her favorite stool at the end of the bar (elbow room and proximity to the ladies room given equal consideration), Estelle rolled her eyes beneath artfully drawn eyebrows and in a smarmy voice said, "And here I thought we were blessed by the company of Miss World Almanac."

They weren't blessed by much other company. The room was empty except for the three of us, two unemployed poultry processors drinking beer at a table, and an insensible truck driver in the last booth. For the first time in weeks, the jukebox was not blaring "You're a Detour on the Highway to Heaven," or its flip side, the less popular but loyally played "I Bit My Lip and Held My Tongue When You Walked Out the Door." It was, therefore, the first time in weeks that I'd been able to eat without feeling as if I were being aesthetically a.s.saulted. I'm an old rock-and-roll fan, myself-- something I'd hidden well in a previous life in Manhattan. It doesn't play all that much better in a backwater where the primary decor in a lot of living rooms is a depiction of The King on black velvet. And I don't mean one buried in Westminster Abbey; this one's planted by a swimming pool in Memphis.

Estelle slid a glossy magazine down the bar in my direction. "But I got to admit it's peculiar," she said, twisting a red curl around her finger and nibbling on magenta lipstick. "According to this interview, he grew up in Little Rock, and there ain't one word about MagG.o.dy. He's not but twenty-five now, and I'd like to think I'd remember someone who went on to become as famous as Matt Montana. But Patty May Partridge out at the county old folks home said that the man who called was real insistent. She ought to know, since she was the one who had to talk to him on account of Adele having one of those days."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Ruby Bee murmured. "She back to listening to aliens on her hearing aid?"

"Just like it was the six o'clock news. Anyway, Patty May said the man was going to call Adele again before too long when maybe she'd be in a more responsive state. Patty May went back to the sitting room to find out what on earth he meant, but Adele kept right on clicking her dentures and peering real grimly out the window."

Ruby Bee s.n.a.t.c.hed up the magazine before I could look at it, although I may have been more interested in my stomach than in outlunging her to get my hands on the latest issue of Country Cavalcade Cavalcade. "Look at this, Estelle," she said as she jabbed at a photograph. "This is Matt when he was seven years old. Cute little fellow, with those jug ears and curly eyelashes."

"And we might a.s.sume," I said idly, "that Montana is a stage name."

Ruby Bee blinked at me. "Like an alias?"

"Don't be a ninny," Estelle said with a snort. "Lots of famous actors change their names when they go to Hollywood. Some do it because they have sissified names and others because they have peculiar foreign names with sixteen consonants and no vowels. Writers do it, too, although they're so goofy n.o.body cares what they do. Matt must have changed his name, but it's kind of hard to understand why he'd pick another state."

"Albert Arkansas doesn't exactly roll off the tongue like Tennessee Ernie Ford," countered Ruby Bee, no doubt insulted at the idea she wasn't fully aware of the shenanigans pulled by famous movie stars and impoverished writers. She tossed aside the magazine and began to wipe the immaculate surface of the bar with a dishrag.

Eating steadily, I used my free hand to open the magazine to the page of photographs of the singer who purportedly was MagG.o.dy's most renowned hometown boy. "I'll tell you who he looks like in a vague way," I said, then paused to pursue a slippery green bean. Successfully, I might add. "He looks like Adele's nephew or whatever he was. He came to visit for a few years. The last time I saw him was the summer after I graduated from high school. He and some nasty little savage from the trailer park were spying on us out by Boone Creek."

"And what were you doing out there, missy?" said Ruby Bee.

I finished off the meat loaf and pushed my plate toward her. "Counting lightning bugs for biology cla.s.s."

"Thought you said the summer after you graduated?"

"Must have been a graduate project," I said coolly. "They were snickering behind some bushes and we--"

"We?" said Ruby Bee.

"Yes, we chased them down to explain how polite young men should behave."

"How about young women? Don't think you're fooling me with this--"

"You didn't make much of a lasting impression on them," Estelle said, rescuing us from what might have escalated into a full-fledged maternal diatribe concerning an incident of no postcoital consequence. "I read in another magazine that just last week Matt was arrested at a bar in Nashville. He got into a fight over Katie Hawk, that mysterious black-haired singer who's supposed to be part Indian."

"Wonder what his wife had to say about that," Ruby Bee said under her breath as she took my plate into the kitchen. Pots and pans clattered as she made known her disapproval of biology projects, infidelity, and barroom brawling, but when she rejoined us, she was back to business. In this case, business meant shaking the grapevine to find out if Matt Montana was really Adele Wockermann's Wockermann's nephew or whatever and what Adele was going to do if those Nashville folks called her again. And, when she had some spare time, searching through the boxes out in the storage room for my high school yearbooks.

I left them to their plotting and walked back to the PD to sift through flyers begging me to protect my loved ones with a wise investment in life insurance. The only loved one I had was Ruby Bee, and nothing could protect her from her sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued, meddlesome self. Picture the two of us in a boat out in the middle of a pond. A sudden breeze blows off her scarf. I get out of the boat and walk across the surface of the water to retrieve it for her. If you think she'd be impressed, think again. "What's the matter, Miss Tippy Toes?" she'd say tartly. "Forget how to swim?"

h.e.l.l, I'd probably apologize. A couple of years in MagG.o.dy and I'd regressed into childhood. The symptoms were hard to overlook. After a brief romantic fling with a state cop, I'd shrugged him off and subsequently dedicated my life to reading Sears catalogs and watching grainy black-and-white movies in which the heroine dies in her paramour's arms in time for a message from Bad Bubba at the discount furniture farm. I was bored, petulant, and, somewhere not too far in the back of my mind, usually wondering what my mother would fix me for supper.

Whose fault? I'd blamed it on my ex-husband for a while, righteously telling myself I was so scarred from his betrayal that I was incapable of anything more complex than a do-nothing job in a town where there was nothing to do. I was merely being realistic about my temporary emotional debilities. When the time was right, when I was no longer a bruised orchid but something more like an invincible kudzu vine, that's when I'd venture out into the real world. Bear in mind, when all you do all day is mark the minutes until your next meal, you can come up with some impressively eloquent metaphors for sloth.

Berating myself had become so boring that I dozed off. When the dispatcher from the sheriff's office called to invite me to a "real humdinger" of a truck wreck near Emmet, I heard myself come too d.a.m.n close to bubbling over with grat.i.tude. I hung the CLOSED sign on the door of the PD and left to go sc.r.a.pe bodies off the pavement. With any luck, I'd be busy trying to match arms and legs until suppertime.

Mrs. Jim Bob parked in front of the county old folks home. As the mayor's wife, it was only proper that she be the one who determined what all this call from Nashville was about, and why in heaven's name some man had insisted on talking about Matt Montana to doddery old Adele Wockermann.

The gloomy foyer smelled of a disinfectant pungent enough to make her eyes water. Pinching her lips, she listened to the faint squawk of a television set behind one of the closed doors and voices that drifted down the pa.s.sageway beyond an uninhabited desk. She hadn't been in the building since Cousin Vinnie Buchanon had been placed there temporarily while his daughter dealt with his mailorder bride from the Philippines. He'd been in the wing to her left. The ladies resided in the one to her right. The common rooms were clumped in the middle, and somewhere there was a nursing ward. The memory of it made her uneasy. Good Christians knew it was their duty to visit the sick and dying, but she figured that Brother Verber's seminary training had better prepared him to offer a dose of bedside solace.

After a terse mental lecture about the gravity of her visit, she went by the desk and tracked down the voices to a pair of aides in a staff lounge. Both wore drab green smocks and white stockings. One of them, a chubby young woman with tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses and a ponytail, had taken off her shoe to ma.s.sage her foot. The other, made up like a tart, was filing her nails and nattering.

"Is one of you Patty May?" asked Mrs. Jim Bob.

"Oops, a room buzzer," said the tart. She didn't exactly run out of the room, but she didn't dawdle either.