Joan Hess - Maggody And The Moonbeams

"Do you have a county credit card?" I asked as I braked for a rabbit.

"What do you think?" muttered Bonita, sounding as though her stitches and bruises were catching up with her. "You want the rest of the pizza?"

"Toss it out the window. Do you want to lie down on the backseat?"

"And vomit? I don't think so, Chief Hanks."

"I told you to call me Arly."

"When we were interrogating the Beamers. You've made it real clear who's in charge." She leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.

As we went into the PD, I heard clattering and curses from the hallway in back. "Call the sheriff's office about the license plates," I said to Bonita, then went to see what was happening. Duluth's cell door was open, but he was having a hard time dragging out the iron bunk. "What do you think you're doing?" I said, exasperated. "Should I add attempted theft to the charges? Get back in there! I don't even want to talk about it."

"This looks like the kind of town that could rally a lynch mob. I ain't about to-"

"Just shut up." I waited until he was back inside the cell, slammed the door, and locked it. "I'll keep the keys with me. If you're sitting there quietly when I get back, you can have something to eat. If you're not, I'm going to deputize Crank Nickle and issue him a license to kill. You want to end up as catfish food, Duluth?"

Tears filled his eyes. "I wanna go home."

Bonita was on the phone when I returned to the office. She glanced up, nodded, and resumed scribbling in her notebook. Although I was dying to peer over her shoulder at her notes, I started a fresh pot of coffee and kept a civil distance until she hung up.

"Got it?" I asked.

"All four of them, but I can't see how it's going to do much good. One of the cars was registered to Norella Buchanon. The other three are just names and addresses. Some guy in Cave Springs, another in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and a woman in Springfield, Missouri. You want me to try to send deputies to question whoever might be home?"

"Do your best," I said. "I'm going to take a look at the cars, then stop by the café and get Duluth something to eat."

"You don't think I could read license plates?"

"Bonita," I said warningly, "don't make me hold you down and cram half a dozen pain pills in your mouth. I worked for a vet one summer, and I know how to coerce unwilling patients into taking medicine."

She picked up the receiver.

I drove to the body shop. The building itself was dark, as was to be expected, but I was surprised when my headlights shone on a ten-foot chainlink fence that prevented me from continuing around back. I parked and got out, glumly noted the padlock on the gate, and then walked along the perimeter, avoiding foul-smelling batteries, rusty cans, and other obscure automotive debris. A utility pole cast enough light for me to see the four pertinent cars parked along the back of the building. Examining them more closely was a problem, however.

I'd about given up when I saw a pile of splintered wooden crates. I rattled the fence to make sure guard dogs were not on the prowl, then clambered up the boxes and grabbed the top of the fence, trying to recall when I'd last had a tetanus shot.

I was dripping with sweat when I at last scrambled over the fence and dropped to the ground. Dogs within a mile radius were barking, but the only sound in my proximity was the scurrying of rodents that had been interrupted while gnawing upholstery.

One of the cars was the white Honda Accord that Sarah had acknowledged; in the dim light it was more of a dingy gray. The plate was from Oklahoma. The one from Missouri was a red Camaro with a headlight affixed with duct tape. I'd never asked Duluth about Norella's car, so I had no idea which of the remaining two was hers. One was the sort of behemoth that Elsie McMay drove, the other a subcompact that did not seem large enough to be allowed on a highway.

Being a professional and all, I ascertained that the windows were rolled up and the doors locked. I was trying to see what might have been left on the seat of the behemoth when I noticed a pungent smell. I squatted down and peered under the car, assuming that some vital fluid had leaked out of the engine.

Darkness was a factor. I stood up, took a last look inside the car, and had turned to examine the subcompact when I heard a blood-chilling sound along the lines of a shotgun being cocked.

"What the hell you think yer doin'?" said a voice from outside the fence.

I finally located the figure on the far side of the gate. "Conducting police business. Does your mama know you go prowling with a shotgun, Crank?"

"I ain't prowlin'. Lester pays me ten dollars a week to make sure the local boys don't come scroungin' for parts for their trucks. Preacher Skinbalder pays me the same to walk around the church and watch for broken windows. Not more than a month ago, the little assholes made off with three televisions and a VCR. Miz Rutledge says she's gonna hire me if her watermelons start disappearing like they did the last two summers." He poked the barrel through a gap in the fence. "How do I know you ain't lookin' for an exhaust pipe."

"I don't smoke," I said curtly. "Do you have a key to the gate?"

"Ain't locked." He dragged it open and motioned at me to come out. "If you're a cop, where's your badge?"

"At home in a drawer. You saw me earlier at the PD, for pity's sake."

He lowered the shotgun. "Mebbe I did, but that don't mean you shouldn't pay a fine for trespassin', same as ever'body else. I'll let you go this time for five dollars, but it'll be ten if I catch you again."

"Quite a little racket you have going," I said. "I hope you're not behind the thefts. You wouldn't have three televisions and a VCR in your barn, would you? Was that why you were so upset when you caught Duluth in there?"

"If you know what's good for you, you'll be about your business."

I make it a policy never to argue with those packing shotguns, rifles, handguns, crossbows, or even spatulas. I got into the station wagon and drove out of the lot before he decided for reasons of his own to blast out the rear windshield. Estelle would not take it well, and Harve most likely wouldn't pay for it.

The café was brightly lit, but the parking lot was again uncrowded. Hoping that Chief Panknine had a charge account, I went in and sat down on a stool. The threesome in the corner might have been the ones I'd seen the day before, or Sunday pinch-hitters. Two teenaged boys eyed me, scattered change on the tabletop, and left. I did not warn them that Crank Nickle, aka 005, was on patrol.

Rachael came out of the kitchen. "I heard it was Ruth who was killed," she said in a low voice. "We were damn scared when Anthony came out to tell us what happened. It could have been any of us."

"Any of you?" I said curiously. "The popular theory is that Ruth's ex-husband killed her. Why would he have hurt someone else?"

She turned around to pour a cup of coffee, then set it down in front of me. "I didn't mean him. It's just that we're women and children living in isolated cabins in the woods. The lodge was safer because we could lock the doors at night, but the cabins are wide open. Three days ago I took the afternoon off and went for a picnic with my kids down by the lake. It was getting dark before I could convince them to get out of the water and put on their shoes. I still get nervous sometimes."

"Shouldn't you find moonlight comforting?"

"I don't think moonlight's going to help much if some psycho comes charging out of the bushes with a baseball bat. We're used to drunks driving by, hollering and tossing beer cans all over the road."

"When you and your children were at the lake, did you notice anybody else?"

She thought for a moment. "A couple of geezers in a boat. They didn't look like they were having much luck. Then again, how would I recognize luck? I keep hoping someone's going to leave me a lottery ticket for a tip, and all of a sudden I'll have fifty million dollars in the bank. At the moment, I have twelve dollars in my pocket, and Judith will take most of it for bread and milk."