Joan Hess: Maggody In Manhattan

"Then you're going to shoot 'em for me? I can loan you my gun, but I've only got three bullets so you'll have to aim real carefully."

"The liquor," she said, sounding a bit strained, "came from Raz Buchanon's still. Everyone in town, from the youngest child to poor Adele Wockerman out at the county rest home, knows that he's running his still up on Cotter's Ridge. I'm surprised that the chief of police has seen fit to allow him to do it right under her nose, and without any discouragement or suggestion that he cease."

"The chief of police knows about this?" I said incredulously. "I can't believe it, Mrs. Jim Bob."

"Now listen here, Arly Hanks, I've had quite enough sass from you! As the wife of the mayor, who does pay your salary, I demand that you arrest Raz Buchanon and destroy the still before it destroys the moral fiber of Maggody!"

I put aside my urge to continue needling her (for fun, if not for profit). "I'm aware that Raz is back in business, but it's a tad more complicated to stop him than you're implying. I've tried four times in the last month to find the still. I can show you bruises and scratches, although the tick bites are more private. He may not be the smartest person in town, but he's cunning enough to move his operation any time he catches wind of my imminent appearance, and not just to another spot on the ridge. In case you haven't noticed, we're surrounded by wilderness, all of it crisscrossed with logging roads. If it were a matter of watching Raz until he rented a U-Haul, I might be able to track him down. As it is, he ought to work for the Pentagon."

I leaned back in my chair and watched her beady eyes dart as she considered her response. She rarely deigned to speak to me, much less to come into the PD and attempt to bully me into action. But here she was, fuming and ready to fight, dressed for battle in a navy dress, a prim hat, white gloves, and a girdle no doubt partially responsible for her pink face (I'd like to take a little credit myself). It finally came to me-she'd been ignored recently, what with the wedding of the decade and Ruby Bee's well-publicized culinary triumph. Mrs. Jim Bob was feeling like a neglected middle sibling, and she was here to put herself smack-dab back in the limelight. That she intended to do so at my expense was hard to overlook.

This flash of intuitive brilliance required action. Before she could attack, I said, "It is a serious problem. I hate as much as you to see the kids drinking. If we could encourage some of the leaders of the community to become involved, we might be able to prevent the problem from escalating."

This caught her off guard. She swallowed several words and forced a tight smile. "Then you agree with me that this should be taken as a serious threat to our youth?" I nodded to confuse her more. "Well, then, I suppose I could be prevailed upon to organize a committee of concerned citizens, and I shall accept the burden of leadership, no matter how trying it will prove. Brother Verber certainly will wish to be included, as will Lottie Estes and perhaps Elsie McMay. It's just as well Ruby Bee is out of town; in that she owns and operates a saloon, she might find it awkward to join the battle against demon whiskey."

"Just as well," I said mildly. "I'm sure you'll select your committee with as much regard for their upright moral standing as for their dedication to the cause of temperance. Keep in touch, and let me know if I can help down the line."

"Tomorrow at seven, I should think," Mrs. Jim Bob said as she stood up and smoothed away the wrinkles in her skirt. "Please have coffee made, and perhaps a nice platter of cookies. Store-bought will do. Don't forget the napkins."

I was still gaping as she swept out of the PD, and I have to admit I wasn't feeling as damn clever as I had minutes earlier. There have been times when I've been known to underestimate the enemy. This appeared to be one of 'em.

"Some honeymoon," Dahlia grumbled as she spread extra-chunky peanut butter on a cracker and glared at Kevin's shoes. She would have glared at Kevin proper, but all that she could see of him were the shoes and a few inches of ankle, the rest of him being under the car. "If I'd wanted to watch folks crawl under cars, I would have gone down to Ira Pickerel's body shop and watched Ira hisself do the crawlin'. I sure wouldn't have chosen to stand on this dusty old cowpath watching someone who doesn't know a tire from a hole in his head."

Some of this was lost on Kevin, partly because he was engrossed in the oil pan and partly because she had popped the cracker in her mouth in the middle of her comments. "I'm working as fast as I can, my beloved," he called back, hoping to appease her.

"What's more," she said, not at all appeased, "I was the one who said we needed to ask directions. I told you this wasn't the right road, but you were too smart to listen to me. So where are we now? Nowhere, that's where we are-and it's all your fault, Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon. I swear, if I'd realized how bullheaded you were, I would have married Ira. At least he's got the sense to come out of the rain."

"Why don't you take a can of soda pop and go sit in the shade?" he called to her. "I seem to recollect there's a nice patch of grass under that ol' oak tree."

Dahlia was about to tell him that was the stupidest thing he'd said yet, but then she realized it was a nice patch of grass and there wasn't any reason for her to stand in the hot sunshine, sweat streaming between her breasts and gathering in the creases of flesh.

"Maybe I will," she muttered. She put the crackers and jar of peanut butter in the picnic basket, took a can of orange pop from the cooler, and managed to transport it all across the ditch without losing her balance. Once settled in the shade, she removed everything from the basket and arranged things within reach, popped the top of the soda, and leaned back against the rough bark.

Kevin was sweating as copiously as his new bride, although for reasons beyond the stupefying heat. For one thing, the car was swilling oil the way his love goddess did orange soda pop, and he was pretty sure there was a crack in the oil pan. The fact that oil was dripping rhythmically on his forehead also made him suspicious. He'd heard you could put oatmeal in a leaky radiator, but he didn't know if that worked with oil pans.

The way the car had stopped with a wheezy shudder alarmed him something fierce. And Dahlia's remarks about this being the wrong road did nothing to ease his panic. Unless they'd gone through downtown Nashville without noticing, they were on about the wrongest road in the country. Pavement had turned to gravel, and eventually petered out into rocks and dust. They hadn't seen a cow in over an hour, much less a house or another living soul.

Tears welled in Kevin's eyes, adding to his inability to trace the source of the leak and try to figure out what to do about it. Thus far, the honeymoon had been nothing but a series of disasters. The first three days they'd been obliged to stop every few miles because of recurring gastric distress Dahlia blamed on his ma's pineapple sherbert punch. Intimate marital relations had been out of the question (he'd asked the particular question, of course, but she'd locked herself in the bathroom, sobbing and flushing all night).

The fourth night they'd ended up in a motel with an hourly rate, and the undeniable presence of insect life in the sleazy room had resulted in Dahlia sitting in the middle of the bed directing him while he stalked critters with a rolled-up newspaper. That, coupled with the roar of trucks on the freeway-and the squeals and shrieks and groans and howls from the next room-had failed to kindle a romantic ambience.

Now they were lost in Tennessee, unless they were lost in Kentucky or Idaho or Florida, for that matter. It had been a good thirty minutes since Dahlia had mentioned exactly which of them had left the well-marked maps in one of the motels behind them, but he reckoned it was near time to hear about it once more. He bravely wiped his eyes and spotted a bead of oil beginning to swell. He flicked it away with his finger, plucked the wad of gum from his mouth, and stuck it on the exact spot. It wasn't how smarmy Ira Pickerel would have done the job, but Kevin figured it might hold until they found a town and a garage. And maybe a motel with clean sheets, an air conditioner that worked, and the chance for cool showers, a jug of fancy wine, a loaf of bread, and…