Joan Hess - Mischief In Maggody

"Damn shame," I said dispiritedly. I agreed to come in to write up all the paperwork in a day or two, replaced the receiver, and then gingerly sat down on the sofa and wiggled around until nothing hurt too much. I didn't much feel like crowing over the resolution of the case, however. It didn't feel resolved. It felt frayed, and the little ends were tickling me.

Ruby Bee came into the living room and put the tray in my lap. "You know what the doctor said," she began, her hands on her hips. It is one of her least flattering poses. "You'd better-"

"What police investigation didn't you interfere in?" I asked abruptly.

"Well, yours, of course. I didn't want you to think Estelle and I were involved in Robin Buchanon's murder. We were working on the identities of the fathers. Producing an illegitimate child isn't a crime."

"Did you know where I was most of the weekend?"

"I can't keep track of you when you're all the time running off on these so-called vacations. That darn LaBelle wouldn't tell me, either."

"Did she tell you that Robin had been murdered?"

"She wouldn't give me the time of day," Ruby Bee said with a snort. "All I can say about that is she'd better not enter any counterfeit corn relish in the county fair next year. Not if she values her reputation. Why, do you know she won a blue ribbon this September for-"

"Who told you?" I interrupted.

"One of the judges. He said he recognized the handwriting on the label, even though she'd written over it in ink. He said-"

"Who told you that Robin Buchanon was murdered?"

Don't think for a moment that she didn't know what she was doing. The woman was a pro in the fine art of driving me up the wall, and every once in a while she felt a compulsion to remind me of it. She looked at the tray and said, "Will you eat your supper?"

"Yes, I will eat as much of it as I can. Now will you tell me who told you about the murder?" I shoved a spoonful of chicken soup into my mouth and glared up at her.

"I'll have to think about it, but I'm sure I'll recollect before too long. I don't see what difference it makes. That dark-haired hippie is the one who set the booby traps, isn't he? You practically caught him red-handed in the chicken house. Why does it matter who mentioned the murder to Estelle and me?"

I realized I would have to tell her if I wanted to jar her conveniently muddied memory. "There were two sets of footprints at the pot patch. Nate was psychotic enough to rig the booby traps, but he had a partner. Besides, he was waiting for a telephone call late Saturday afternoon, presumably a tipoff that the patch was no longer under surveillance. When he received the call, he and his partner drove to the ridge, chopped the plants, and were heading for the chicken house by the time I drove back to the Emporium. When I got back to the ridge, I didn't go check to make sure the plants were there; I just crawled into bed and spent a blissful night with the bugs and my beeper for company."

"The sheriff's men found your beeper buried in the mud near the chicken house. A deputy brought it by a day or so ago, and I put it in a drawer somewhere. It was all burned and twisted, and it's not going to beep anymore." I tried to jiggle the conversation back to the point. "I won't mourn its demise. I would like to discover the identity of Nate's partner, though. Two innocent people died because of someone's greed. Neither Robin nor Celeste had anything to do with it."

"Madam Celeste saw her own face, didn't she? Are you still so sure you know everything, Miss Skeptical?"

"The only thing I'm sure of is that I'm going to start screaming all sorts of terrible things if you continue this petty ploy," I said through a rigid smile. By this time I had a pretty good idea whose name she would finally say. There had been no astonishment from someone when there should have been.

"I don't understand why you're so all fired up, Arly. I was just trying to discuss the case with you in an adult fashion, like they do on television. But if you're determined to be snippety, you might as well know it was only David Allen who told us. He heard it from Mrs. Jim Bob, who said something to Hammet while they were on the porch. So you got all riled up over nothing, didn't you?"

"I guess so," I said, sighing. I couldn't imagine David Allen being involved with Nate, nor could I fathom a way he-or anyone else-could have tracked my movements so perfectly. I tried to lead myself through a scenario that was decidedly mazy. Okay, I told myself, David Allen certainly could use the money, since his child's medical bills were apt to rival the trade deficit. He'd hooked up with Nate, and the two had planted the dope in Robin Buchanon's ginseng patch. One or both had rigged the booby traps as a line of defense. Then two things happened Friday. David Allen learned that Robin Buchanon had been killed by a booby trap; it wouldn't have required a leap of the imagination to realize where it had happened. And I left on a mysterious trip-mysterious because I should have been in town to deal with Robin's children, reports, and investigative things. But I'd said that I was trotting away for the weekend, see you later. Again, no quantum leap. Surely no one thought I was that irresponsible.

"Where's Hammet?" I said suddenly.

"I believe he said he was going back to David Allen's house. He's been sleeping over in #2 next to me, but he's right enchanted with some macaroni dish David Allen seems to serve him."

I picked up the receiver and slowly dialed the number of the sheriff's department. Harve and I talked for a while, then he transferred me to some young whiz kid who was very patient with my lack of knowledge in his field of expertise. It didn't bruise my ego too badly. The kid probably couldn't handle the subway system in New York, much less the crosstown buses or Pakistani cab drivers.

Hammet answered the telephone at David Allen's house. I thanked him for the dried arrangement and invited him over for cookies and milk. When he asked if David Allen could come along, I said most certainly, then said good-bye before my voice betrayed me. Ruby Bee reminded me that I was wearing an army surplus T-shirt and that my face was shinier than a red billiard ball.

I changed clothes, but I couldn't figure out how to change faces. Ruby Bee left to see how Estelle was doing behind the bar, pausing only to make a comment about the quantity of soup left in the bowl and the way some people went back on their word, even with their own flesh and blood. I shooed her out, then settled on the sofa. When I heard a tap on the door, I yelled for them to come in.

"Hi, Arly," Hammet said. He took a handful of weeds from behind his back and held them out. "More sorrel and some starworts that ain't too buggy."

David Allen came in behind him and offered me a box of candy. "This is from both of us. We figured if you had some aversion to chocolate-covered cherries, we could eat them for you."

"Thank you," I said as I accepted my presents. "You'll have to forgive my appearance. Ruby Bee can't decide if I'm a billiard ball or a stewed tomato. I'm not real thrilled to be either, but only time will help."

"I think you look prettier than a skillet of red-eye gravy," Hammet said, always the gentleman.

I rewarded his effort with the box of candy and told him to sit next to me. As David Allen perched on a nearby chair, I heard a car pull up next to the store. "Hey, Hammet," I said, "let me ask you something. You and your siblings came back here Saturday afternoon, right? You hung around and watched television until it was so late the channels stopped, then you went over to David Allen's and stayed there. All that right?"

He nodded mutely, since his mouth was full of candy.

David Allen gave me a quizzical smile. "I didn't want to call Mrs. Jim Bob so late, and I doubted she'd care where the children were, anyway. She washed her hands of them in the grand style of Pontius Pilate. Should I have bolted my door and left them out in the rain or something?"