Joan Hess - Madness In Maggody

"We don't have anything to warrant a major investigation, or at least not yet. Sure, twenty-odd people barfed all over the floor and a couple of folks fell, but that doesn't mean we've got ourselves a bigtime felony. Could be the deli got hold of some spoiled meat or bad cheese. Offhand, I'd say it was nothing more than an unfortunate incident."

I opened one eye and squinted at him. "Had a call from the county judge, huh?"

He got real busy shuffling folders. "Might have. That doesn't mean we're not going to carry out a proper investigation and find out exactly what happened. But our hands are tied until we get some answers from the state lab, so there's not much point in sitting on the gate to keep the cows out."

I opened the other eye for a double-barreled squint. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means there ain't no call to keep the supermarket closed. It means you might as well let it open for business."

"Another little political favor? Gad, that stinks worse than the floor of the damn pavilion, Harve, and you know it. We don't have any idea why twenty-three people became violently and copiously ill after sampling the food. We've got to wait for the lab results before we let Jim Bob start peddling food from the deli. I've already talked to the state health department, and strangely enough, they expressed the desire to do a thorough reinspection of all the facilities." I stood up, put my hands on the edge of his desk, and leaned over as far as I could bear, in that the ashtray was smoldering. "Yes, it may have been one package of spoiled meat. It also may have been a serious problem with refrigeration or operating procedures. For that matter, it may have been intentional."

"Bullshit, Arly. Are you implying one of the gals in the deli dumped poison in a pot? Why'd anyone risk doing that?"

"We don't know," I growled, frustrated. "And it doesn't have to be one of the cooks in the deli. For one thing, Dahlia was one of the victims, and the other two are from another of Petrel's supermarkets and only there temporarily. They were both terrified they'd be fired. For another, the platters were prepared in the kitchen, then taken out and left on a table; the cheerleaders picked them up and carried them around. Maybe somebody sprinkled something on a platter while it was on the table."

"Like who, for instance?"

I sat back down and thought for a minute. "Well, Jim Bob's always had enough enemies to comprise a Third World army. There are a lot of locals not pleased about the SuperSaver because they're afraid it will put them out of business."

"Anybody who appears on a regular basis in the Hanks's family photo album?" Harve asked blandly.

I was beginning to regret the conversation. "Ruby Bee was worried that her customers might defect, but so were the Satterings, who operate a small farm with a produce stand, and the Mexican who bought the Dairee Dee-Lishus a few months back. Jim Bob issued himself a permit to sell beer, which may have upset the guy at the pool hall, who does a brisk bootleg beer business despite my continual admonishments. The hippies who own the Emporium may have been concerned that the SuperSaver would carry a lot of hardware odds and ends. It could have been anybody in town, Harve. They were all there."

"Any of those folks you mentioned by name end up in an ambulance?"

"It was an absolute madhouse. Les and I were trying to scribble down names and addresses, and the medics were dragging off the victims before we could do it. Ruby Bee was okay. I think I noticed Mandozes watching the scene with a supercilious look. I didn't see the Satterings, but Les may have logged either or both of them. I'll check with him."

"Good idea." Harve tugged at his lower lip and watched a fly inching toward the ashtray. "Tell ya what…the health department boys'll need to inspect the entire store. Even if the deli section gets okayed, it stays closed until we hear from the state lab. But if I don't order you to let the store open within a day or two, I might as well take a one-way hike to the fishing hole and commence my retirement. The county judge is a mean sumbitch with a memory a damn sight longer than a possum's tail."

I wasn't thrilled, but there wasn't much I could do about it. I went to hunt up Les and get his list. None of the names I'd mentioned appeared, but that didn't prove much of anything, because we didn't know if there was anything to prove. After an idle chat with Les about his wife's reaction to his vomit-splattered uniform, I drove back to Maggody for Sunday-afternoon baseball practice.

Kevin had beenpermitted into Dahlia's bedroom by her granny, who usually was awful strict but was wearied of playing nursemaid by now. His beloved was under a tan blanket; he couldn't help but think of an undulating sand dune in the Sahary Desert as he tiptoed across the room.

"Dahlia?" he whispered.

The dune quivered. "Whatta you want, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon?"

"I came by to see if you was feeling better. You looked mighty pale yesterday."

"So would you if'n you'd retched your gut out all afternoon."

He sat on the edge of the bed and patted what he guessed was her shoulder or head or something. "I felt real bad for you, my darling. It must have been about the worst thing what ever happened to you. I brought you a little present."

The blanket edged down until two dark eyes were regarding him in a most unnerving way. "What?"

"A package of vanilla sandwich cookies. I know how much you like 'em, and I was just hoping they might speed you along on your road to recovery." Kevin held his breath until a hand snaked out from under the blanket and snatched the package from his lap. "I guess I'd better let you get some rest now. When do you reckon you'll be better?"

"About the time the preacher finishes the sermon and they lower my casket into the hole. Then everybody throws ashes to ashes and dust to dust down on me and goes away to watch television or have supper, while I just lay there waiting for the worms."

Kevin's stomach began to flop like a crappie in the bottom of a johnboat. "But, sweetness, your granny said you was already feeling better and would be able to get up today. This stomach flu was a terrible thing, what with all those folks retching and upchucking all over the place, but I ain't heard that anybody in town is going to up and die from it."

Cellophane crackled. "That ain't what I'm talking about," came the muffled voice from under the blanket. "I am referring to this humiliating session we got to go to with Brother Verber, that fat ol' pious pig. It's your fault, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon, and you know it. On account of how you jumped all over me on the porch swing and tore a hole in my best blue blouse, I got to listen to the preacher go on and on about lust and sin and the fast track to eternal damnation. And so do you."

By now his stomach was flopping so hard, he started to wonder if he had a touch of the same stomach flu that had gripped hold of everybody the day before. "I do?" he croaked.

"Brother Verber and Mrs. Jim Bob came up to me while I was in the kitchen waiting for the pan of tamales to heat up in the oven, and the two of them started lecturing about how I was a lustful slut and you was some kind of sex maniac. All I could do was stare. Before I could even think what to say, she was telling me how the whole town knows you and I was fornicating on the porch swing, and he was all the while sermonizing about going to hell in a hand basket. Then she got all priggy and said we got to have some damn fool premarried counseling session or we're going to be the stars of next week's sermon."

"Oh my gawd…"

The blanket flew back and Dahlia grunted and struggled around until she was sitting up. Her eyes were almost invisible under her lowered brow, and her mouth was screwed up something fierce. Her words came out like bullets that pierced his heart. "This is all your fault. What do you aim to do about it?"