"01 - Malice In Maggody" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hess Joan)

"You jest send Paulie Buchanon out there to get my dawg," Raz said, backing toward the door. "I don't need some damn fool paper to say Perkins stole Betty."

"Officer Buchanon will report the facts of the case at his first opportunity," I said. "In the interim, stay away from the pen so that you won't destroy any evidence. We may need to make plaster casts of the footprints and dog residual in order to convict Mr. Perkins of this heinous kidnapping charge."

"I got to feed the other dawgs. How in thunderation am I supposed to do that if'n I stay away from the pen?"

I gave the dilemma serious thought. "The only solution, Raz, is throw the dog food from your back porch. Otherwise, Perkins will get away with the crime and you won't be able to regain custody of Betty."

Raz showed me two toothless gums. "Thankee, Arly."

"My pleasure, Raz." I picked up the block of wood, which had not transformed itself into anything remotely resembling a duck. Perhaps an elephant, or dog residual. The creative juices were clearly not bubbling, so I put my knife away and replaced the wood in a drawer. I then opened my purse, reapplied lipstick, breathed on my badge and polished it with my cuff, and went to see my mother.

Ruby Bee's Bar and Grill is situated at the north end of Maggody, exactly one-half mile from the south end of Maggody, which gives you an idea of the entire scope of said town. Unlike more picturesque communities snuggled in the verdant valleys of the Ozark Mountains, Maggody despondently straggles along both sides of the state highway. After the half mile, it peters out with a few dilapidated billboards and a sign that welcomes Rotarians, Lions, Kiwanians, and Masons. Maggody possesses none of those, but it does strive for a friendly note.

The population has decreased steadily since the turn of the century. I know from personal experience that the dream of every Maggody teenager is to move away as quickly as possible and, with luck, never come home again. Some do; others never quite find the nerve to venture into the land of dragons and freeways. Yes, I did, and I ended up back where I started, at least for a time while I recuperated from an ugly divorce and a bad case of the ego shakes. After all, my advertising-hotshot ex-husband did leave me for a model who specialized in foot commercials--dear Veronica something-or-other of the sculpted toes. I wished them happiness, herpes, and bunions in what used to be my Manhattan co-op, dining on my china and sipping champagne out of my crystal goblets. I walked out empty-handed but with my pride intact. No one uses much crystal in Maggody.

I'm the chief of police only because I was the one and only qualified person to apply after the last chief snuck out of town with Dahlia O'Neill's older sister. Paulie Buchanon applied, but the town council felt obliged to take me.

Paulie hasn't been to the police academy yet, while I'd done so and also had several years of experience with a private security firm. Nothing to do with police work, naturally, but I didn't share that with the town council. Hell, I needed some entertainment while I sorted things out. It was a good thing I didn't need much money.

If all the Buchanons are confusing you, good luck. Half the residents of Stump County are Buchanons. Inbreeding and incest have produced the beetlish brow, beady amber eyes, and thick lips. Nothing in the way of intelligence has been produced. Buchanons are known for a certain amount of animal cunning, but nothing that would outwit an above-average raccoon. The other half of the Maggody PD and my loyal deputy, Paulie Buchanon, is smarter than most of his relatives; he's terribly sincere and determined to escape Maggody via the state police academy. Jim Bob's no dummy, either, if holding the office of mayor for thirteen years is any indication. He pulled enough horse trades to put up the Kwik-Stoppe Shoppe (known to locals as the Kwikн-Screw) and to build a big brick house on a hilltop overlooking Boone Creek. He may have made an error when he married Barbara Anne Buchanon, his second cousin from over in Emmet. Everybody calls her Mrs. Jim Bob, a local and inexplicable tradition that's not worth dwelling on.

Ruby Bee's, as I mentioned earlier, is on the north end of town just before the skeletal remains of Purtle's Esso station. Once you pass that, there's nothing worth looking at until you reach the Missouri line, unless you like staring at cows. Ruby Bee's is a low concrete-block building painted a curious shade of pink and decorated with metal signs extolling the virtues of PepsiнCola, Royal Crown Cola, and something called Happy Daze Breads and Buns. There is a six-unit motel behind the bar, although no tourist has found the courage to actually stay there more than an hour. It's called the Flamingo Inn; there's still one solitary plastic flamingo posing under the sign that says V can y. Ruby Bee resides in Number One so she can keep an eye on the activities that take place after midnight. The locals refer to it as the Maggody Stork Club. Work on it.

I parked my patrol car in front and called the county sheriff's dispatcher to let her know I'd be out of touch for lunch. She wasn't especially interested--could be because I get a message from the dispatcher maybe once a month, and that for a vehicle accident. Due to the vigilance and alertness of the Maggody PD and the ennui of the residents, there is no crime. As I got out of the car, I decided after I ate I'd run a speed trap by the school zone sign until it was time to follow the school buses to the county line. Or maybe at the signal light. Such decisions.

Did I mention that the infamous Ruby Bee is, among other less enchanting things, my mother?

"Ariel, honey, what's wrong?" she called as I stepped into the cool dimness of the bar. It's a good-size place, with booths along one wall and a few tables scattered around a handkerchief dance floor. On Saturday nights it's jammed with good old boys at the bar and girls dancing with their eyes closed, mouthing the words of songs while they picture themselves on the Grand Ole Opry stage.

"Nothing's wrong," I said irritably. "I came in to eat lunch, not to collapse of malaria on the barroom floor." I pulled myself together and managed a smile. "Sorry, but this place is starting to close in on me. I really thought I knew what I was doing when I moved back. The only thing Maggody and Manhattan have in common is a couple of letters of the alphabet, but I'd forgotten how quiet things are around here--along the lines of a mouse pissing on a cotton ball. Do I look all that bad?"

"You just look so pale, honey. Why don't you wear a little more makeup?" This from the woman who wears alternating stripes of pink eyeshadow, black eyeliner and mascara, and scarlet lipstick. I probably did look pale through her eyes. Her blond hair (worth every penny of it) and girlishly white complexion gave her painted features a rather ghostly look, as though she hovered behind the bar. Her body was substantial but reasonably trim for a woman who refused to get out of bed on the day of her fiftieth birthday--five years ago.

"It's mere malnutrition," I promised, "and soon to be alleviated, if you feed me." I told her about Raz and Perkins while she dished up a plate of pork chops, rice, gravy, and fried okra.

"Raz is just being ornery," Ruby Bee informed me as she brought a glass of milk to the bar. "Perkins whupped him in checkers three nights running and won seventy-five cents."

"Did he purloin poor Betty for revenge?"

"Probably, but Paulie ain't going to find the bitch until deer season's over." My mother has her finger on the pulse of Maggody. Her sweet round face invites confidences, which she promptly repeats to anyone who'll listen, including me. There's not much else to do in Maggody. While we were discussing ways to rescue the victim, Ruby Bee's dearest friend, Estelle Oppers, came in and joined us.

Estelle is as tall as I am (five-feet-ten in my socks) and as skinny (135, soaking wet and no socks). She is not pale, however, and no one has ever suggested she add more color to her violet eyelids or to her fire-engine red hair, arranged that day in sort of a Grecian column effect. She is the proprietor and sole operator of Estelle's Hair Fantasies, located in the living room of her house. Every female in Maggody has at one time or another found herself in Estelle's chair except me. I prefer to maintain my dark hair in a sensible bun. Trimming is done with cuticle scissors and provides most of my excitement on weekends. Twenty years ago Estelle played the piano and warbled in a motel lounge in Little Rock, our state's major metropolis. With enough sherry pumped into her, she still reminisces about her promising career that was cut short by some obscure tragedy. According to her, when she got warmed up she could put every customer in tears with her rendition of "Moon River." I don't doubt it for an instant.

Estelle bellied up to the bar beside me and gave me a puzzled frown. "You look different, Arly. Did you finally do something to your hair?"

"I combed it, but that's about all. Why all this concern about me out of the blue, ladies? I can swear on Grandpappy Hank's Bible that not one tiny thing has happened to me--or anyone else I know--in a coon's age." I tried to return to my pork chop.

The two exchanged meaningful looks, then Ruby Bee took over. "Estelle and I was just thinking that, and I don't mean to insult you, you're looking a little peaked these days, honey. You work all day, then sit around that dreary apartment all night instead of getting out to have some fun. You could go to the dance over in Kingsley next Saturday and meet some young people like yourself."