Arly Hanks - O Little Town of Maggody Part 5

Chapter Seven.

Ripley Keswick drove by The Official Matt Montana Souvenir Shoppe. Seconds later, he pa.s.sed Matt's Billiard Parlor and Family Entertainment Center. He'd already been greeted at the edge of town by a sign welcoming him to the Birthplace of Matt Montana, noted Matt's Parking Lot: $2.00 Hourly; $12.00 If-U-Stay-All-Day, and had braked to read the billboard with an arrow pointing down a county road to Matt Montana's Birthplace & Boyhood Home (Guided Tours 9:00-5:00; Discounts for Children Under Twelve and Senior Citizens; Buses Welcome). A colossal depiction of bungled plastic surgery looked down at him, but after he'd squinted at it, Ripley realized it was meant to be Matt.

He turned the opposite way, but there was no reprieve. At the high school, a droopy paper banner proclaimed that the MagG.o.dy Marauders welcomed Matt Montana. Across from it was a drive-in, and although he couldn't make out the small lettering on the hand-painted menu, he had a fairly reasonable guess as to les specialites du maison. Back on the main road, he continued past Matt Montana's Christmas Craft Boutique and a funny-looking metal building called the Voice of the Almighty Lord a.s.sembly Hall. He was wondering why its name hadn't been changed to Matt's Chapel when he saw the portable sign on the lawn. The Good Lord apparently had endorsed this rest stop on the highway to heaven. Ripley wouldn't have been surprised to see Matt Montana's Eternal Garden out back, dotted with headstones from Matt's Discount Marble Mart (Personalized While U Wait).

Surely, he thought as he drove by Aunt Adele's Launderette and pulled into the parking lot of Matt Montana's Hometown Bar & Grill, which existed in conjunction with Matt's Motel (NO V CAN Y, alas), the town had established diplomatic ties with Hannibal, Missouri. There was only one thing they'd overlooked, but he was not going to be the hark-the-herald of bad tidings. Geoffry would see to that when the time came.

He opened the barroom door and went in warily. Strings of twinkly Christmas lights looped across the ceiling and along the walls; the room looked as if it were under siege by lightning bugs. The jukebox was blaring, and the SRO crowd was belting out the chorus of the hometown boy's number one hit.

He made his way around the dance floor, where couples twostepped enthusiastically on each other's toes, and took a stool at the end of the bar. He would have to identify himself eventually, but he was reluctant to do so at the top of his lungs, which would be the only way to make himself heard over this welter of aboriginal sounds and smells. Oh, to be in Oxford--Oxford, Mississippi, that is--drinking bourbon and deconstructing tales of streetcars named Desire and counties named Yoknapatawpha. If Faulkner were to write about Stump County, it wouldn't be stream of consciousness. This was miles downstream from any discernible consciousness.

"What'll it be?" Ripley smiled at the grandmotherly bartender. "A Manhattan, please."

"I went up there once, and you better believe me when I say n.o.body'd name a drink after that place. If they did, it'd have sc.u.m on the surface and stink like bus fumes. How 'bout a Matt Montana Moons.h.i.+ne Special? It's beer, on account of that's mostly all I sell in the way of spirits, but it comes in a quart jar just like the real stuff. I ordered 'em from the same place Raz gets his." She noticed his puzzlement and explained, "Raz Buchanon's our local moons.h.i.+ner. I don't allow him in here because he's forever chawing tobacco, spitting, scratching his privates, and dragging along his pedigreed sow. Her name's Marjorie.

"Buchanon?" Ripley said, startled. It was the last name of his local contact, but she certainly hadn't sounded like the wife of a moons.h.i.+ner who moonlighted as a mayor.

"I suppose it could be her last name," said Ruby Bee, finding this man more than a little bit peculiar. He was a customer, however, so she gave him an encouraging look and said, "So, how 'bout that Moons.h.i.+ne Special?"

A woman with implausibly red hair swooped in and claimed the stool next to his. "Afternoon," she said to Ripley with a neighborly nod, clutched the edge of the bar and said, "You ain't gonna believe what I just saw, Ruby Bee. I'm almost afraid to tell you, but if I don't, somebody else will sure as G.o.d made little green apples."

"Estelle, what on earth are you carrying on about? I got a roomful roomful of customers, and it's all I can do to handle them until Joyce gets here to help me out. If you got something to say, spit it out."

They both gave Ripley suspicious looks, as if he were dressed in a trenchcoat and sungla.s.ses. He held up his hand and said, "Please don't think I'd stoop so low as to eavesdrop, my dear ladies."

"Then see that you don't," Ruby Bee said sternly before turning back to Estelle. "Well?"

"I was driving out Finger Lane to look for the last of the little yellow bur marigolds to make an arrangement for the table by the door where I keep my appointment book." She smiled at Ripley. "It's a maple drop leaf that I inherited from my second cousin. He died of a broken heart after his wife ran off with a preacher with a wooden leg. I guess you could say she ran off and he hobbled off."

"He doesn't care where you got the table," Ruby Bee said in her snippiest voice.

"I was just being polite by including the gentleman in the conversation," countered the accused, momentarily nonplussed when the gentleman winked at her. "So I drove by Earl and Eilene's place, racking my brain as to where I'd seen the marigolds last year, when I happened to glance at the brick pillars at the bottom of you-know-whose driveway. There's a new sign. I wouldn't be surprised if the paint's still tacky."

"There are new signs all over town. Some of 'em are real tacky."

"How many of them announce the opening of the Mayor's Mansion Bed and Breakfast?"

"You better tell me right this minute that you made this up on account of my forthright remarks about Matt Montana's Hair Fantasies."

"The sign's stuck right there on the J. The one on the B says the rates include a full country breakfast and reservations are required. Remember the meeting when we made our proposals and voted on 'em? Who objected to Joyce wanting to paint portraits of Matt on black velvet to sell out of the back of her station wagon? I myself thought it was a real clever idea."

"She's also the one who fought tooth and nail to keep Elsie and Eula from setting up their craft shop across from the pool hall. At least she didn't get her way on that one." Ruby Bee realized the peculiar man was hanging on their every word like he was paralyzed except for the tic in his eyelid and the quiver of his chin. "When we learned that the famous country singer Matt Montana is coming to town, we formed a little group to make sure he feels welcome," she explained curtly to him. There wasn't any call for tourists to concern themselves with the town's private affairs. She stomped back down the bar, s.n.a.t.c.hed a jar from a customer's hand, and held it under the tap until foamy beer streamed over her fingers and down her arms to her elbows.

Ripley shrugged in apology. "I did notice all the signs about Matt Montana. He was born here?"

"You bet your bow tie he was, out on County 102 just past my house. It's been fixed up real nice, and tomorrow is the grand opening with a parade featuring the high school band and local dignitaries. After that, it'll be open to the public every day till dark, with trained guides to talk about the history of the house and point out the bedroom where Matt Montana was born. You can visit the exact place where Matt was baptized in Boone Creek, and when you get tuckered out, you can ride around the town in the MagG.o.dy-Matt-Mobile. It's like an old-fas.h.i.+oned hayride except for the loudspeakers."

"Are any of Matt's relatives still living here?"

Estelle ran her tongue over her lips (Tangerine Twist to complement her new sweater) while she considered how to phrase her response. "Well, he has a great-aunt who had to go into the county old folks home a while back, but she distinctly remembers the night Matt was born and in which bedroom. All this has been so exciting for her that it's like she's living in a different world these days." She felt real proud of how she hadn't told a single lie, except for maybe fudging about the bedroom. They'd chosen the one in the best condition and sealed off the rest of them. After all, tourists wouldn't pay to see where Mr. Wockermann had pa.s.sed away in his sleep.

"And did I see something about a benefit concert starring Matt Montana in person?"

"We're beside ourselves. There's not one soul in town that ever believed Matt Montana would be singing in person on the stage at our very own high school. Tickets go on sale to the public in one week, so you'd better snap one up immediately if you want to be there for the Hometown Christmas Concert. You can buy 'em at most of the shops in town, including Matt Montana's Hair Fantasies." She patted her hair in case he needed a nudge to figure it out. "It's almost directly across from the birthplace."

"I'll watch for it," he said as he slid off the stool and gave her the melancholy smile of an anemic southern dilettante. "You've been so kind to share this with me, ma'am. I've always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Estelle blinked at his back as he vanished into the dark ma.s.s of bodies surrounding the dance floor. "Your mama sure raised some rum ones, didn't she?" she said to n.o.body in particular as she reached for the pretzels.

"You found that old woman yet?" Sheriff Dorfer asked genially from his office in Farberville. "It's been my experience that if you don't find someone in the first twenty-four hours, you might as well run an ad in the lost and founds and go fis.h.i.+ng. It's been more than a week."

"I haven't given up yet," I said. "Yesterday I questioned the last of the people who live in that area. The only unfamiliar vehicle turned out to belong to the gas company. A wholesale grocery truck made a delivery late in the morning, and the driver was sure there was no one waiting in a car on the east side of the building. Same thing with a laundry service from Starley City. The cook went outside to smoke a cigarette while everyone was having dessert dessert, and she swears she would have noticed if anyone was parked in the lot or by the road."

"Sounds like you've run into a dead end."

"It feels like it, too. The only person I haven't spoken to is one of the aides. She has a new job and her mother doesn't have the telephone number yet. I left a message for her to call me, but from what I've gathered about the morning's activities, she couldn't have seen anything either." Brakes squealed and horns blared out front. I held my breath and waited to hear a crash, but whatever tragedy was at hand was diverted. "The most popular theory is that Adele left to visit a cousin and forgot to mention it to Mrs. Twayblade. The cousin will get tired of her before too long and dump her out in front of the county home in time for Matt Montana's arrival."

"And all you have to do is hunt up this cousin and make sure Adele has her pajamas and toothbrush. It ain't an unworkable premise, Arly. Old ladies forget things all the time."

I gazed gloomily at my notes. "Problem is, she's not supposed to have any living relatives, with the exception of Matt Montana. I can't overlook the possibility that she was coerced into leaving. Maybe somebody thinks Matt Montana will pay a bundle to get his great-aunt back. I suppose I ought to call him and ask if he's putting together a collection of small, unmarked bills. Think he's listed in the phone book, Harve, or should I try the atlas?"

"I'd hold off for a few more days if I were you."

I dropped my notebook in a bottom drawer. "Mrs. Jim Bob has a telephone number for whoever's coordinating this from Nashville. I'll try it eventually. It's not like I don't have anything else to do these days."

Harve found this highly amusing. Once he'd stopped laughing, he said, "I hear the tourists over in Montanaville are thicker than fleas on a potlicker."

I would have hung up on him if I had the energy, but that would require me to first offer some cleverly scathing retort, and I was clevered out. "Some are camped out in the field behind Eilene and Earl Buchanon's house, and the Pot o' Gold Mobile Home Park's at full capacity for the first time since Buford Buchanon took to streaking every evening at sunset. I've dealt with a couple of fender benders, some heated words at the self-service pumps, and a kid who was left behind at the SuperSaver. The state police flagged down the parents three counties away, and after some d.i.c.kering, they came back. Perkins threatened some picnickers who climbed his fence, but he was careful to aim well over their heads." I yawned so wide my jaws popped and my eyes watered. "I'm getting ready to quit and go take a long, hot bath."

"You want some backup for this parade tomorrow?" he said between puffs on what I knew was a vile cigar. He was in a good mood, but he usually was when he was giving me a hard time; I reciprocated when the compa.s.s needle swung my way. "I can send over Les and maybe Tinker, if he's recovered. I'm short on account of the epidemic of stomach flu that goes around every year during deer season. If I wasn't such a trusting soul, I'd almost wonder if it was something more than a coincidence."

"Yeah, send over whoever shows up. This parade is strictly small-time, from what I can gather from yet another memo from the Homecoming Committee." I found the pertinent missive under one ordering me to enforce the noparking regulations alongside the county roads; I suspected it had more to do with filling the parking lot than pedestrian safety.

"Hard to think it'll rival that parade they showed on television Thanksgiving morning. Two deputies ought to do it, one at each end of town to stop traffic."

I yawned again, this time nearly dislocating my jaw. "Parade's at one, Harve. Tell Les and Tinker I'll meet 'em at the PD at noon."

I had turned off the coffee pot and switched off the light in the back room when an unfamiliar man came into the PD. I'd learned by now that Matt Montana fans came in all shapes and sizes, but he was a combination I hadn't yet encountered: tall, clad in corduroy, bare-headed, and with a glimmer of intelligence in his pale blue eyes.

"Can I help you?" I asked wearily.

"May I presume this is the Matt Montana Police Department and Souvenir Shoppe?"

"Probably will be by tomorrow. I'm Arly Hanks, designated upholder of the law. And you're ...?"

"Ripley Keswick." He sat down, crossed his legs, entwined his fingers around one knee, and gave me a twinkly smile.

My smile was less twinkly as I sat down behind my desk. "What can I do for you, Mr. Keswick?"

"I'm the executive vice-president of Country Connections, Inc."

"So you're the man from Nashville," I acknowledged with a sigh. "I've heard about you."

"Nothing slanderous, I hope. I'm only in town for a brief time to a.s.sess the progress for Matt's upcoming visit. It was not easy to overlook the profusion of signs relating to it."

I put my afflicted feet on my desk and leaned so far back in the chair that my head b.u.mped the wall. The water stain on the ceiling was beginning to develop oversized ears and a s.h.i.+teating grin. "I hear they're painting Matt's face on the sides of all the cows tomorrow, and there's been some discussion about chipping his profile on a bluff up on Cotter's Ridge."

"You seem a bit grumpy about all this, Arly--if I may call you that?"

"You can call me Mathilda Montana if you want," I said with all the grumpiness I could muster. "I realize this is a boon to the local economy, and it's been hurting since the carpetbaggers went back home. But this town's gone berserk. Yesterday morning it was ... well, if not normal, at least predictable. This morning signs had sprouted like toadstools after a rain and a full-grown industry was in place. I just don't know what that will mean when this Matt mania fades and we're left with a bunch of shoppes filled with dusty souvenirs."

"Graceland does a steady business."

"So it does, Mr. Keswick."

He studied me with a dispa.s.sionate expression. "A pragmatist," he said suddenly and delightedly. "You're a rarity in the rural South, my dear. We Southerners pride ourselves on the depth and irrationality of our emotionalism, although of course we're trained from birth to disguise it under a demeanor of the utmost civility right up until the moment we've no choice but to knock someone upside the head with a pool cue."

"I had a lot of moments like that today, Mr. Keswick," I said, hoping he'd take the hint.

"Please, you must call me Ripley. I apologize for lapsing into a philosophical flight of fancy. I wanted to let you know that we'll do everything we can to cooperate with you. Fans can be difficult, even destructive, and I want to apologize in advance for any undue burden we'll place on you." He paused in case I wanted to express grat.i.tude for either the apology or the burden, then proceeded with a list of those descending by bus on MagG.o.dy and an a.s.surance that the concert would be a lowkey production without pyrotechnics or elaborate sound equipment. I pretended to take notes.

He finally unlocked his fingers and unfolded his legs. "My motel is in Farberville. I'll be back tomorrow to finalize a few details."

"By the way, Ripley, have you or anyone else in Nashville had any communiques regarding Adele Wockermann?" I asked delicately. "Phone calls from her, or maybe a message about her future welfare?" I figured I didn't need to alarm him by spelling it out in letters clipped from a newspaper.

"All of our dealings with her are through a woman who I now understand to be the wife of the local moons.h.i.+ner. Should we antic.i.p.ate a call from a local lawyer? Frankly, we didn't budget for the use of her house in the publicity shots, but I suppose something can be worked out." He took his wallet from his pocket and put a business card on my desk. "Have him get in touch with me."

He left before I could ask about his weird a.s.sumption that Mrs. Jim Bob was a moons.h.i.+ner's wife, but I finally dismissed it as a typical city slicker's paranoia. He'd probably expected to see a was.h.i.+ng machine on the porch of the PD and hens scratching behind my desk.

Either Matt was keeping Keswick in the dark while negotiating with the kidnappers, Keswick was lying, or my theory was a washout. I had to admit it had sounded pretty lame to begin with and had not improved. Mrs. Twayblade had stressed that the residents were free to come and go as they pleased. Adele had been pleased to go (and I couldn't blame her).

I sat in the gloom and tried to figure out how she had managed to disappear and where the devil she could be ... and what Ripley Keswick would do when he learned about it the next day. From the moons.h.i.+ner's wife, no less. Marjorie would be livid with jealousy when she found out.

I locked the door and went home.

Dahlia had borrowed Eilene's car through deceit, having said she needed a yard more fabric for her vest and another foot of fringe for her skirt. To minimize the sin, she'd gone by the fabric store in Farberville and picked up a packet of sequins, then stopped at a grocery store for provisions before parking in the driveway of a vacant house half a block away from the Vacu-Pro office.

Belching mournfully, she swallowed the last of the orange soda pop and tossed the can into the back seat with the cellophane wrappers and empty onion dip carton. It was already getting dark, and before too long, she wouldn't be able to spot Kevvie if he showed up. Spot him and what? She'd already asked herself that question about once a minute since she'd arrived, and she hadn't come up with much of an answer.

It wasn't at all like the television shows, where the suspect appeared before the commercial. She'd been sitting there for more than two hours, and the only person who'd entered the Vacu-Pro office was an old guy with silver hair, most likely Kevin's boss, Mr. Dentha, coming by to pick up the profits. He hadn't come out yet.

She was scrabbling for the crumbs in the bottom of the potato chip bag when the office door opened. A skinny little woman as frumpy as Elsie McMay paused to put on a scarf and b.u.t.ton her coat, said something over her shoulder, and then marched down the sidewalk. When she reached the corner, however, she spun around and stared right through the darkness as if she could see the car and every pore of its driver's face.

Dahlia's hands shook so hard she could barely turn the ignition key. She fumbled with the lights, backed out of the driveway, cringed as the fender grazed the rock wall, and raced away in the opposite direction. What she hadn't seen, and had come within inches of running down in her panic, was the silver-haired figure who'd emerged from an alley and was in the midst of writing down her license plate number when the car barreled toward him. She hadn't seen him leap sideways into a crackly bush either.

Once Mr. Dentha'd extricated himself, he was forced to sit down on the curb and wait until his heart stopped jumping inside his chest. When he got back to the office, he poured himself a shot of scotch and sank back on the sofa, his lips still bluish and his eyes watery. If only he'd gotten a glimpse of the driver. Could it have been a process server lying in wait for him? An irate husband? A goon sent by the bookie? A disgruntled ex-employee? A spy from the regional office? The possibilities, if not limitless, were abundant--and uniformly alarming.

Dentha finished his drink, grateful for the warmth that eased the iciness of his hands and feet. After another, a devious idea came to him. He went into his secretary's office and sat down by the old-fas.h.i.+oned typewriter. "Miss Vetchling," he pecked carefully, "the car we noticed belongs to a very pleasant real estate saleswoman, so we needn't worry further about it. Earlier this afternoon I thought I recognized an old army buddy at a stoplight, but the light changed before I got a good look at his face. He's the gunner whose life I saved when our plane went down in the Pacific. Please call the vehicle registration office in Little Rock and ask them to help a nearsighted old WWII vet by finding out who owns the car with the following license plate."

He took a paper from his pocket, smoothed it out, and searched for the appropriate keys. He was initialing the note when the telephone rang. The office was ostensibly closed, but he worked late most evenings and every now and then one of the boys would call to cinch a sale with a plea for a "special discount just this one time because of the regional sales contest."

"Vacu-Pro Systems," he said into the receiver.

"This is--huh, this is Arly Hanks, and I--huh--I want to see about having one of your vacuum cleaner salesmen come by because--because my husband said just this morning that I could have a fancy new vacuum cleaner if I let a salesman show me how it works first. Tonight--he has to show me tonight!"

"There's no need to be nervous, Mrs. Hanks. We'd be delighted to demonstrate the Vacu-Pro System. One of our salesmen will arrive within an hour to shampoo the carpet of your choice at absolutely no cost to you so that you can see the actual germs that lurk in the pile and pose a deadly threat to your children and family pets. Your address and telephone number, Mrs. Hanks?"

"I'm at a pay phone."

"That won't do us much good, will it? I need your address and your home telephone number so that Solomon can call if he has trouble finding your house."

"Solomon?"

"Solomon is our very finest Vacu-Pro System salesman. He's been with us longer than anyone else, and--"

"I don't like the sound of this Solomon fellow. I want somebody who's still fresh in his mind about the attachments." There was a wheezy lull, replete with gurgles and a m.u.f.fled belch. "I got it. A friend of mine said this real nice young man came to her house a while back, just as mannersome as a body could be and sharp as a tack when it came to rattling off all the amazing uses for the attachments. She said his name was Kevin ... Kevin Buchanon, I seem to think. He's the one I want."

He dropped the pen and closed the book. "You're out of luck, Mrs. Hanks, because the young man left the Vacu-Pro sales team two weeks ago. If we're talking about the same salesman, that is, and I have my doubts."

He might have recounted them, and indeed they were numerous, but he would have been doing so to a dial tone.

Chapter Eight.

Over the next few days, my optimism dwindled and I began to worry that Adele's biological clock (in the purest sense) might have slowed down or even stopped ticking. Hospitals, bus stations, homeless shelters, and county morgues had been notified to be on the lookout for her, but Arkansas is not as densely populated as, say, Manhattan, and there are vast mountainous areas in which a body can remain undiscovered for months. Conventional channels were useless: Adele had never had a driver's license, credit cards, department store charge cards, or a long-distance calling card. I doubted she'd ever had a library card.

None of the homeowners in the vicinity of the county home had called me back to say they'd remembered seeing an unfamiliar car. The only one I'd heard from was a widow who reported Papists were training in the woods behind her house. I suggested she contact Larry at the Farberville PD.

The only person left to question was Patty May Partridge. She'd purportedly called home twice and her mother had pa.s.sed along my messages--a good half dozen of 'em thus far.

If I'd had so much as a thread of a lead, a stone left to be unturned, an a.s.surance that there was a needle somewhere in the d.a.m.n haystack, I wouldn't have bothered with Patty May. If she'd seen anything, she'd have told me at the time or made an effort to call me back. As it was, I drove over to Hasty and rang the doorbell of a nondescript brick house.

A tired-looking woman in an ap.r.o.n came to the door, a hot pad in her hand. The toasty air smelled of cinnamon and ginger, and in the background, falsetto voices belted out a Christmas carol.

"Yes?" she said.

"I'm Arly Hanks, Mrs. Partridge, and--"