Joan Hess - Mischief In Maggody

An hour later, after jolting up a wretched logging trail on the north side of Cotter's Ridge while Merle shouted directions in one of my ears and the deputy shouted questions in the other, we parked and got out of the vehicle. Merle led us to a clearing, then stopped and wordlessly pointed at a crumpled and very still figure on the far side. From where we stood, I could see it was what remained of Robin Buchanon. I wasn't totally surprised, but I had to battle the sudden explosion of icicles in my stomach and the flood of sourness in my mouth.

"Goddamn it," I muttered under my breath, thinking about her children. Hammet in particular, since I hadn't been fooled by his casual remarks earlier. A mother is a mother is a mother, even if she's a moonshining, whoring, abusive mountain woman. "What the hell happened to her?"

The deputy caught my arm as I started forward. "Booby traps," he said, pointing down at a thin wire almost lost in the leaves. "The trip wire's attached to some sort of detonation gizmo. The woman must have been in too much of a hurry to watch the ground."

I shook my head as I looked at the rows of fourfoot plants. "I'll bet she was. This must have been the family ginseng patch. She'd have been furious when she saw the marijuana plants, and rushed forward to rip them up." I eased around the perimeter of the clearing, keeping an eye out for wires, buried cans and buckets, dangling fish hooks, and other charming devices, most of which were brought home from the Vietnamese jungle, along with a fondness for marijuana. I won't say much about the odor, but it wasn't anything you could miss, not even from a good fifty feet away. Covering my mouth and nose with a handkerchief, I knelt down at a prudent distance and forced myself to examine the pitiful body. "Yeah, her foot's caught on a trip wire. There's the booby trap in that branch. I saw a diagram of one in a manual at the academy, but I don't guess I've ever seen a real one."

The device was a Rube Goldberg contraption involving the trip wires, a spring-coiled door hinge, a nail, a square of wood with a hole bored in it, and a shotgun shell that had been detonated. That's all I'm going to tell you, and there are no diagrams in the back of the book. Do not go down to the basement and fool around with the above-mentioned items unless you have a perverted secret desire to go through life minus eyes and a smattering of fingers.

The deputy came over to peer at the booby trap. "It's only number six bird shot, but she caught it square in the face. It was probably rigged just to scare the living daylights out of some innocent trespasser, which it sure as hell would of. Bird shot won't kill you unless you get it in the eyes. If she'd been half a dozen inches taller or a few feet farther away, or even turned the other direction, she'd be squawking like a wet hen while she picked pellets out of her bottom."

That wasn't much comfort for Robin Buchanon.

"I'm going to nail the son of a bitch who boobytrapped this patch," I said. My voice must have sounded a mite cold, because the deputy and Merle exchanged cautious looks and stayed quiet. I sucked in a breath through the handkerchief, then continued. "It's one thing to grow a little dope out in the National Forest; God knows it's the number-one cash crop in this part of the state. But this booby trap changes things. We're not going to rip out the plants and haul them to the county incinerator, moaning all the way about lack of manpower. We're going to catch the bastard and hang him on murder one and everything else in the book. He's going to drown in the felony charges we'll come up with."

I stood there and glowered while the deputy radioed in his report. Merle squatted under a tree and did not cackle. After a great deal of staticky conversation, we were told to handle the preliminary investigation ourselves because they doubted they could find us. They had a point.

The deputy and I gingerly examined the scene for evidence, of which there was damn little. Robin's tools and gunnysack were labeled and put into plastic evidence bags, then stashed in the back of the vehicle. The tiny fragments of cardboard from the shotgun shell were treated in a similar fashion. The device that had killed Robin Buchanon was bagged, with a few expressed hopes that fingerprints might be found. The plants were measured, counted, and assessed at more than ten thousand dollars, wholesale alone, although they were short enough to indicate they had been planted as late as midsummer. Retail (a.k.a. street value) could be as much as ten times higher. Six more booby traps were located around the perimeter-and very carefully left intact. At that point the deputy and I grimaced at each other. He returned to the vehicle for a body bag, and we forced ourselves to slide the remains into it. Then each of us found a private spot in the forest in which to vomit. I knelt for a long while afterward, thinking all sorts of crazy things that I still can't put into words. Which goes to show I was about as hard-boiled as the heroine of a Jane Austen novel.

Once the vehicle was loaded, I went back to make sure we hadn't missed anything. The marijuana plants were swaying just a bit in the breeze, like proud, bushy, green plumes. Once the investigation was closed and the son of a bitch was doing a string of consecutive sentences for murder, manufacture of a controlled substance, trafficking, reckless endangerment, and an assortment of federal charges, the patch would be cleared and burned. Maybe the ginseng would come back, I thought with a wry smile. If it did, I'd bring Hammet et al to the spot and show them their family legacy. Their mother's estate, so to speak.

I went back to the wagon. Merle was perched on the edge of the backseat, not real pleased by the bags (and odor) behind him. Sympathizing, I got in the front, rolled down the window, and told the deputy I was finished for the time being. As he drove our makeshift hearse down the road, I stared out the window. "This is my case, you know," I said without turning my head.

"So the sheriff figured you'd say. It's as much your jurisdiction as anybody's, and you did know the deceased. He may be being so generous because we're shorthanded, overworked, and underpaid. Ain't none of us had a decent vacation in the last six months."

I considered suggesting they take so-called vacations instead, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. I leaned back and closed my eyes.

"Looky there," Merle said suddenly, bruising my ear as he stuck his hand out the window to point at a clump of firs. "Do you recollect how I said earlier that I'd seen some kids courting along the road? Looks like they couldn't get their jeep to working again."

I'd forgotten about the courters. And I didn't like the word "jeep," which brought to mind the one that was supposedly parked in front of the PD. Because it now occurred to me-a mere three hours after the fact-that it hadn't been there earlier, when I'd raced over to meet the deputy. It hadn't been there the night before, when David Allen had driven us past too quickly for me to decide what was wrong. That flash of insight was a mere fourteen hours after the fact. Perspicacity is not among my sins.

The deputy jammed on the brakes. "It's under those firs. You got to look real hard to see it, but you can see a flash of red and the sunlight glinting on a taillight."

"Red jeep," I said, sighing. "Just for the record, Merle-who were these two lovebirds you met last night?"

He confirmed my worst fears. The three of us pushed through the brush to the jeep, which was empty of all signs of humanity except for a square of wax paper on the floorboard in front of the passenger's seat. At that moment I caught myself wishing the twosome had been et by a bear, but I put the fantasy aside and yelled their names. Pretty soon the deputy and Merle started yelling, but nobody waddled or stumbled out of the woods.