Joan Hess - Mischief In Maggody

"I was here, studying the cards. I saw the King of Wands, the Nine of Swords, and-"

"No, I mean out on the road. A truck. Voices. Lights."

She stood up and went to the window. "I saw no lights in the pasture, but cows do not have flashlights, nor do they converse or drive around. There is nothing out there except the fossils left by the chicken farmer who once worked that land. He is an interesting fellow, by the way."

"Does he live nearby?"

"He lived in this house for forty years, and died in the bedroom where Mason sleeps. He says Mason snores louder than his wife did." She spun around to stare at me. "I cannot help you. You have found the dead woman. Both of us have seen her face-perhaps. I am sure now that it was not that silly high school girl."

Wishing she'd made it plainer to Carol Alice, I went over to the window and studied the pasture, the chicken house, and the distant windbreak of trees. My eyes went back to the chicken house. "Did you hear anything from down that way?" I asked, pointing at the sorry structure. "Maybe a car door slam, or a voice?"

Madam Celeste turned back and followed my finger. "Yes. I heard a thud, but I presumed the rain had loosened a board." Before I could inquire further, she opened the back door and went down the few stairs to the grass. Then, as if pulled by a magnet, she walked toward the chicken house in the far corner of the field.

"Wait a minute," I called as I hurried after her.

She moved ahead purposefully, oblivious to my presence, with all her attention on the building. Although her gaze was directed straight ahead, she did not stumble on the clumps of weeds or snakish vines. I checked once or twice to make sure her feet were making contact with the ground. I couldn't help it.

Once we got there, she stopped several yards from the door. Others of us panted and tried to control our imaginations. I did have enough of my wits intact to see tire tracks in the mud, along with many footprints, as though an army had marched past. Or two men had made numerous trips between the vehicle and the chicken house.

I touched the psychic's arm. "Don't go any farther. I'm fairly sure that there's a half acre of marijuana plants drying in there, and I don't want to screw up the evidence." She brushed off my hand and walked across the evidence to the door. "Yes, green plants rooted in the sky. I have already seen them. There is malevolence inside this place. I can feel it. It frightens me."

She was not alone. I plowed through the evidence and again tried to pull her back. "I don't think we ought to even open the door, Celeste. Let's go back to the house so I can call the sheriff for a backup. Doesn't that sound like a good idea?"

"I must open the door."

She did. For a minute the two of us gaped at darkness, although I could make out the shadowy forms of inverted plants dangling all the way into the darkness. Celeste felt on the wall just inside the door, saying, "There is light somewhere. Very hot, very bright."

Light bulbs and gasoline. "Don't turn on the light!" I screeched, grabbing at her arm.

"I must." She shoved me so hard, I tumbled backward and sprawled into the mud, breathless. Then she felt the wall again. I heard a click. Beyond her the room lit up, and the marijuana plants were spotlighted. A male voice yelled something in alarm.

And then the building exploded with a blinding flash and a wave of searing heat. Celeste was knocked back on top of me. Flames shot toward the sky. Boards cracked as the heat intensified, then seemed to shatter into red splinters. Brilliant sparks streamed like roman candles. The noise was worse than a train in a tunnel.

I managed to roll Celeste off me, then grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the fire as best I could, in that my body was screaming, my eyes tearing, my legs wobbling so wildly I was surprised they held me. Celeste seemed to weigh several tons, and the mud was treacherously slick. I pulled and slipped and fell and struggled up and pulled again for what felt like hours, all the while cursing at the top of my lungs. To this day I have no idea what I said; I have only a vague memory of the scene, as if it were from a movie watched in childhood.

At last we reached the weedy edge of the pasture. I dropped her arm and collapsed beside her. The chicken house continued to burn; the noise was deafening, the light painfully bright. More explosions sent fireballs rolling upward. The smoke was black. I numbly noticed my hands and arms were black and wondered if the flesh had been burned.

I got to my knees and bent over Celeste's body. Shards of wood protruded from her chest and abdomen. Her eyes were open but unfocused. Blood had already began to clot around her nostrils, perhaps from the furious heat. Her mouth was slightly open, her lips cut and bloodied. As I stared, a fly spiraled down and lit on the lower lip. I shooed it away, then fell back in the weeds, and that was all.

Ruby Bee came into my bedroom, a tray in her hands. "I brought you some supper, and I want you to finish every bite of it."

The first two days of being waited on hand and foot had not disturbed me. I'd meekly allowed myself to be bullied, due to lack of any desires more complicated than sleep and liquids to wash down pills. By now it was paling. I felt awful, but not so awful that I wanted this regressive state to become permanent. My burns had been diagnosed as a good assortment of first degree, second degree superficial, and second degree deep. The last would leave scars, mostly on the palms of my hands, since it seems I'd instinctively thrown up my hands to protect my face. For the most part. I wouldn't need mascara or an eyebrow pencil for a long time, nor would I need blusher. A paper bag with eyeholes would suffice.

"What's in the vase?" I said.

"Dried weeds from your little admirer-sorrel and wild marigolds, he said when he brought them." Ruby Bee fluffed my pillows, noted the cover of the book I was reading with a snort of disapproval (escapist stuff, which was exactly what I needed), then put the tray in my lap. "He's been coming over every morning and afternoon to see you, but I told him you were too sick for company. I didn't think you'd want anyone to see you while you look like this. As much as I hate to say it, I've seen stewed tomatoes that looked better than you."

"Thank you for that heartening assessment, Ruby Bee Nightingale. I think I'm up to managing my social calendar from now on. Has the sheriff called?"

"He did earlier this afternoon. I told him you were asleep. The doctor said for you to stay in bed for several days, and I intend to see that you do it. You may have my good looks, but you've always had your father's streak of mulishness. Now are you going to eat your supper or shall I feed you?"

This inspired me to put the tray on the end of the bed, throw back the covers, and struggle to my feet. While Ruby Bee squawked and waggled her finger and predicted all sorts of fatal relapses, I went into the living room and called the sheriff's office.

"Why, Arly," LaBelle said in a noticeably frigid voice. "How are you getting along?"

"Not too badly for a stewed tomato. Is Harve there?"

He came on the line and said he had received the lab reports from the boys in Little Rock at the state crime lab. The explosions had been started by gasoline-filled light bulbs, as I'd guessed. A devilishly clever booby trap designed to destroy the evidence should someone unwittingly flip the light switch. The fact that it destroyed the flippee made it all the more clever. Nate's only mistake was being in the back of the chicken house at an inauspicious moment. I was glad I hadn't been at his autopsy. I get squeamish at wienie roasts.

"So I guess you solved your case," Harve concluded. "The evidence went up in smoke, but your perp did, too. Damn shame about that woman."