Joan Hess - Maggody And The Moonbeams

Earl pushed back his chair and stood up, the napkin tucked under his chin flapping like a battle flag. "They ain't identical. Tell 'em, Eileen."

"Are, too," Dahlia said, standing up as well.

It occurred to Eileen that she could have agreed to chaperon the teenagers for their week at Camp Pearly Gates. She could be sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of the lodge, reading a book, crocheting, or just enjoying the breeze off the lake. Later, they'd toast marshmallows and sing about where all the flowers had gone and how Michael had rowed the boat ashore, hallelujah. Once nightfall came, she'd fall asleep listening to lovelorn whippoorwills calling to each other.

"Listen up," she said, "this is Sunday breakfast, not an amateur wrestling event. Shut up, sit down, and eat. Anyone with a problem about that can fix a plate and take it to the kitchen, the back porch, or out to the pasture, for all I care! I spent two hours fixing this meal, and I intend to eat it in peace. Kevin, please pass the grits."

"Are, too," Dahlia said as she sank down.

"Are not," Earl countered, then glanced at his wife and sat down.

Kevin didn't know what to say, but he had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and passed his ma the bowl of grits. The babies, in adjoining highchairs and happily stuffing bits of scrambled eggs up their adorable button noses, had the same rosy cheeks and rosebud mouths. Their little feet curled when they cried. Their diapers seemed to fill up at the same time, which was most of the time when he was caring for them so Dahlia could go visit her granny at the old folks' home. They both hated beets and loved applesauce. If that wasn't identical, what was?

Across the table, Dahlia stared at the gravy congealing on the biscuit. There was something she was gonna hafta tell Kevin afore too long.

Corporal Robarts and I sat in the waiting room while Doc Schmidt took care of Bonita. All the magazines involved blood sports and were dated from the previous decade. The weapons used to kill fish, fowl, and mammals were bigger and badder these days, but nothing else had changed: hook 'em, cook 'em, or mount 'em on the wall. The last of these was my least favorite. I was grateful that Doc Schmidt had not seen fit to adorn his walls with glassy-eyed heads of patients who had delayed treatment (or declined payment).

"I spoke to Judith," I said abruptly.

"She tell you anything?"

"Not really. According to her, the women are all victims of remarkably convenient amnesia. Previous identities have been wiped out; supposedly, not one of them could make her way back home, even with a map. I find that hard to swallow."

"I don't understand why they want to live that way," he said, "but it's no skin off my nose." He put on his hat, took it off, and looked at the prints of ducks captured in perpetuity as they winged their way across the walls. "How long you think it's going to take?"

"Shouldn't be much longer. Do the Beamers ever try to recruit local women?"

"That wouldn't sit real well with the townsfolk. Most everybody here's Baptist. We got a scattering of Seventh Day Adventists, one family that's Lutheran, and some old hippies in a cabin at the far end of Greasy Valley who claim they're Druids. This is a conservative town, but we get along with our neighbors, long as they don't flaunt themselves."

"Do you know anything about Deborah?"

"Only that she's kinda in charge."

"Have you met her?" I persisted.

"Once or twice," he said nervously. "I really don't have much contact with them, except for Rach and Sarah. Sometimes I give one or the other of them a ride home, but they always get out of the car before we get too near the cabins where they're staying. They say they do that to avoid upsetting the children. Same with Ester, who left a week ago or so. But, yeah, I've met Deborah. She looks just like the others. It ain't all that easy to tell them apart, as you might have noticed. I guess their mamas could, but no one else can."

I leaned back and crossed my legs. "Judith told me that Deborah wasn't at their site today. Could she be in Dunkicker?"

"I don't think so. To the best of my recollection, she's never had a job in town."

"But she somehow manages to send potential Beamers to Camp Pearly Gates. Where do you think she finds them?"

"How would I know?" He stood up. "Guess maybe I'll go by the Welcome Y'all and get a burger for the prisoner. After you've seen to Bonita, come to the PD and we'll figure out what we ought to do next. Les and Brother Verber won't be back for at least three, maybe four, hours."

"Okay," I said. "I shouldn't be more than half an hour."

After he'd gone, I stared blankly at the bleached prints and tried to organize what I knew. The four Beamers living in the cabins were Judith, Rachael, Sarah, and Naomi. Ruth had made five. Ester would have made six, but she was gone, as was someone named Leah.

If the body we'd found was indeed that of Norella Buchanon, how and why had she joined the Beamers and subjected herself to the bizarre makeover and less than luxurious lifestyle? If she'd been afraid of Duluth (and it seemed as though she might have had cause, after all), then why hadn't she found a third cousin twice removed to take her and the boys in until she could get a restraining order? Folks in Stump County have more cousins than they do dollars in the bank. Or common sense, for that matter.

It was clearly time for Duluth to crawl out of his hangover and do some explaining, I concluded.

I was beginning to get impatient when Bonita came into the waiting room, with Doc Schmidt holding on to her shoulder. He had shaggy white hair, bushy eyebrows, and shrewd blue eyes, the consummate personification of a country doctor-or a vet, which I hoped he wasn't. All creatures great and small did not include sheriff's department personnel.

"She's a little bit wobbly," he said apologetically. "I wanted to give her a local before I cleaned out the cut and did the stitches, but she wouldn't let me. I put a packet of pain pills in her shirt pocket. She needs to take two now, another in four hours, and get some rest. An ice pack should bring down the swelling in her lip; the black eye's gonna have to run its course. Bring her in tomorrow so that I can make sure there are no symptoms of infection."

"I'm perfectly fine," Bonita protested in a less than convincing squeak.

"Thanks," I said to Doc Schmidt. I took Bonita's uninjured arm and steadied her as her knees buckled like those of a newborn foal. "Send the bill to Chief Panknine and we'll sort it out later."

"No charge. Any chance you can tell me what happened out at Camp Pearly Gates last night?"

"What have you heard?"

"Nothing," he said, flushing. "Ol' Crank Nickle lives by the turnoff to the camp, and he said there was all kind of traffic coming and going in the wee hours, including the hearse from Tattersol's funeral home."

"We'll release information when the time comes. I need to get Bonita to bed," I said as I urged her into motion.

We drove down the road to the Woantell Motel, where the primary decor consisted of water stains on walls and a crusty shag carpet underfoot. I waited while Bonita put on a nightgown and washed her face, bullied her until she took a couple of pills, and made her swear to stay in bed until I returned to check on her.

She was still squeaking as I turned out the light and left, but I figured she'd be asleep in a matter of minutes. I drove back to the PD and parked beside Corporal Robarts's car. Duluth had been able to resist Brother Verber's pious reproaches and offers of redemption. No matter how daunting a man of the cloth might be, a woman of the badge, especially when deeply frustrated, was a whole 'nother ballgame.

Corporal Robarts met me at the door. "I was just coming to find you," he said. "The prisoner escaped."