Joan Hess - Maggody And The Moonbeams

"I've had it with you, Byron," she was saying. "You miss one more stop and Chief Panknine's gonna have you picking up litter alongside the highway until Christmas-if you're lucky. Any questions about your deliveries?"

"No, ma'am," he mumbled.

She turned to the other two. "I'll make a point of visiting with all of our patrons later today. If so much as one of them is missing a green bean or a sliver of cake, you'll find yourselves in orange jumpsuits, hoeing turnip fields at the state prison. You should be back in an hour, with all the names checked off your lists. Got that?"

After more mumbling, the hulks left with their loads. I waited by the door for a moment, then advanced. "I'm Arty Hanks," I said. "The sheriff asked me to investigate the murder that took place yesterday afternoon."

"You mind if I start cleaning up while we talk? Once the boys get back, I'd like to leave. I've been here for five hours, preparing forty meals for shut-ins. My back's killing me."

Sarah may have assumed that I'd pitch in, but I sat down on a stool.

"I'm here to ask you about Ruth," I said.

"She was useless, when she even showed up. She'd peel one carrot, then start gabbing about some soap opera. Do I look like someone who watched soap operas? I worked in a factory, second or third shift most days. I was a lot more concerned about the deductions on my paycheck than I was about a bunch of actors and actresses with capped teeth, perfect hair, and the morals of alley cats."

"Ruth hadn't been here long, right?"

Sarah began to fill the sink with steamy water. "I don't know why she was allowed to come here in the first place. We were all told what was expected, but she carried on like she'd thought she was coming to a fancy spa. Well, my knuckles are scabbed and my ankles are so puffy they look like bread dough. The masseuse ain't called to make an appointment."

"So Deborah warned you?" I asked.

"I knew what I was getting into. Nobody pressured me." She submerged a roasting pan and began to scour it. "I've got another three weeks here, then I'll start working at the motel. I pity the next Moonbeam that has to deal with those boys and a bunch of snivelers who want peas instead of beans, molded lime salad instead of cole slaw, biscuits instead of cornbread. It wouldn't hurt them to show a little gratitude every now and then, but all they do is bitch."

Somehow, we had moved away from the topic into volatile territory. I waited a moment, then said, "Did Ruth say anything about her background?"

"She didn't have one, any more than I do. It's part of the deal."

"You gave up your past because of your religious convictions?"

"Yeah, that's right. My children are being taught the fundamentals and learning the value of physical labor. They have chores in the garden, not time to waste on television and video games. My daughter is making a scrapbook of pressed wildflowers. My son likes sketching down by the creek. They complained at first, but they've adjusted real well."

"How about Ruth's children?"

Sarah looked over her shoulder at me. "I should know? I get up at dawn, take a cold sponge bath, and walk here to start preparing the meal. I'm usually ready to go back in the middle of the afternoon. If Anthony sees me, he'll give me a ride to the top of the road, but that doesn't happen very often. When I get there, I barely have the energy to deal with my own kids, much less worry about any of the others."

"So why are you doing this?" I asked, having noted a distinct lack of spirituality in her recitation. "You said you knew what you were getting into."

"Yeah, I did."

I waited for a moment, but she seemed more interested in scrubbing cake pans than elaborating. "Where were you recruited?"

"I'm not allowed to talk about that. My children are safe for the time being, and so am I. I ain't gonna say anything else about it."

"No, of course not," I murmured. "How did you and your children get to Dunkicker?"

"In a rusty white Honda Accord with a faulty transmission and a cracked windshield. Now I think you'd better leave. If Deborah finds out I've been talking to you-well, I need the Daughters of the Moon for my children's sake, and mine, too."

"How would Deborah know we'd been talking?"

"Just go on, please. I've got pots and pans to wash, and the oven needs cleaning. After that, I'll have to wipe down the counters, mop the floor, and put everything away so I can be ready to leave when the delivery boys get back."

I got off the stool, but paused by the door. "I have to ask this, Sarah. What about the father of your children?"

"We're divorced. He never paid child support, but always expected me to produce the children every other Friday evening so he could spend the weekend poisoning their minds. The last time he had them, my daughter came home and asked me if I was really a whore like Daddy said. Helluva guy, huh?"

"So you took your children and left?"

"I already told you that I don't want to talk to you anymore. Either grab the mop or let me work in peace."

I drove to the PD. The door was unlocked, but the adage about barn doors and horses applied. We certainly didn't want to prevent Duluth from returning, should he find the urge to spend more quality time on a urine-stained mattress no thicker than a paperback novel.

It would have been a waste of time to try to call the state medical examiner's office. At best, I would have spent thirty minutes working my way through various option menus before I was left on hold while the kudzu vines slithered over the windowsills and choked the last breath out of me. Harve was on his johnboat, swilling beer, eating his wife's chocolate cake, and defying the fish to disturb him.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, then rooted through Captain Panknine's desk until I found a candy bar. I also found some evidence that he was less than loyal to Mrs. Panknine, who was driving to Little Rock every day to sit by his bedside and relate the latest local gossip.

That, however, was none of my business. Chief Panknine's chair was not as comfortably worn as mine, but I rocked back and propped my shoes on the corner of the desk, my preferred posture for thinking.

Sarah was hardly a devout Daughter of the Moon, and I doubted Norella had been, either (if, of course, she had been there, and I still wasn't sure). Both of them had gone through hostile divorces and squabbles over visitation. Duluth had claimed to have paid child support on a regular basis, but I had only his version. Sarah had offered me an abbreviated story; it could have been tainted with the animosity that usually accompanies divorce. My own had been bitter, but in that children had not been an issue, I'd been able to walk away with my dignity and the gawdawful crystal pickle dish Estelle had given me as a wedding present.

These days it serves as a depository for change and a few keys whose purpose eludes me.

The Welcome Ya'll Café was likely to be busy in the middle of the day, so Rachael would not be available for a private conversation. If she were inclined, which she most likely would not be. Sarah had not been frightened when Deborah's name came up in our conversation, but she had been uneasy. Judith had been less than forthcoming. Deputy Robarts had barely stopped short of fidgeting.

The only person I could think of who might be able to offer information was Willetta Robarts, august matriarch of Dunkicker and its environs, which might stretch as far as Greasy Valley. I decided to try to talk to her before I returned to the Beamers' campsite. How to find her was a problem, however. I found a slim telephone directory in Chief Panknine's bottom drawer, but an address on Robarts Road was of little help, since Dunkicker, like Maggody, had yet to find funding for street signs.

I was about to dial the number when I heard scratching from the back of the building.