"02 - Mischief in Maggody Txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hess Joan)

"Not I. But it's too early to eat. What's the big deal, anyway?"

"You just get your smart-aleck self down here right now."

The receiver clicked in my ear, with a finality that unsettled me. In that I couldn't think of a particularly good reason to stir up trouble with Ruby Bee, I checked my lipstick, stuck the folder in a drawer, hung a Closed sign on the PD door, and walked down the highway to Ruby Bee's Bar and Grill.

The parking lot was thick with pickup trucks and good ole boys slapping each other on the back and kicking each other in the fanny. I joined the jocular group as we shoved our way through the door for that timeless tradition known as Happy Hour (in another life it was known, if I recall correctly, as the cocktail hour--martinis, hors d'oeuvres, crystal bowls of peanuts, politically correct conversation). Ruby Bee serves dollar draws and free popcorn, which suits everybody just fine.

I struggled through a row of denim backs along the bar, perched on a stool, and waved to Ruby Bee. When she came over, I requested a light beer and a bag of potato chips.

She sucked on her lip for a minute. "I thought you came here for supper, Arly. You don't want to ruin your appetite with junk food, do you? You just go sit in the last booth, and I'll bring you a nice plate of pork chops, okra, beans, and mashed potatoes. The cobbler will go right nice with vanilla ice cream, don't you think?"

"I'll eat after a while. I'm feeling a bit nostalgic for the cocktail hour. I realize I can't have chilled shrimp and patщ, but I have hopes potato chips will ease my longings."

"You just go sit where I told you."

"I don't want to just go sit where you told me. I want a light beer and a bag of potato chips. If I have to go buy 'em at the Kwik-Screw and sit on the gravel beside the highway while I eat 'em, I will."

Her eyes narrowed, and she did some more chewing on her lip. Finally, looking about as guileless as a fox in the henhouse door, she said, "If I give you a light beer and a bag of potato chips, then will you go sit where I told you?"

I thought of all sorts of things to say, not to mention questions that deserved being asked. But obedient child that I am, I said I'd take my light beer and bag of potato chips and go sit in the last booth. I'd even consider the pork chops et al in a half hour or so. But when I got halfway across the room, I noticed there was someone already in the last booth. Not thinking much about it, I aimed myself on a tangent and started for another booth.

Estelle grabbed my arm. "Come on, Arly, there's someone I want you to meet." She propelled me to the last booth and shoved me down on the plastic bench across from a man with blond hair and, not unreasonably, a startled expression. "David Allen, I don't believe you've met Arly. She's Ruby Bee's daughter, divorced, and the chief of police. Arly, David Allen just moved to Maggody last month; he's widowed and the guidance counselor up at the high school. David Allen, Arly. Arly, David Allen. If I can't bring you two anything else, I'll just leave you to get acquainted."

She sailed away, leaving both of us to blink across the table at each other. I put down my beer and extended my hand. "Hi, I'm Arly Hanks, and I think I've just been set up by my mother the professional manipulator. My apologies."

"Oh, no apology needed," he murmured, flashing a pair of dimples as he shook my hand. Blue eyes, broad shoulders, about forty. And not bad at all. "And please don't give Ruby Bee a hard time about her manipulations; I'm delighted to meet you." He realized he was still squeezing my hand, and released it with an embarrassed laugh.

"So you're the new guidance counselor," I said cleverly. "How do you like the traumatized teens of Maggody High?"

"They're remarkably like the traumatized teens of anywhere. The halls reek of angst--along with armpits, hair spray, and dollar-a-gallon eau de cologne. I took the job here so I could be within driving distance of my son, who lives with his grandparents in Farberville. I try to get over every weekend to spend some time with him."

"How old is he?"

"He'll be seven in November. He's already reading and was the star slugger of his T-ball team this summer," David Allen said with a flicker of parental pride. "I wish I could have him with me, but he has a kidney problem and needs dialysis treatments several times a week. His grandparents live a block from the hospital. Anyway, my bachelor existence would make both of us crazy. I'm big on pepperoni pizza and beer. He needs a woman's hand these days--someone to make him eat spinach and take a bath every night."

"It's fortunate that you found a job not too far away. Were you able to find someplace not too dreadful to live?" We police officers are trained in the delicate art of interrogation.

"I rented a house in that subdivision past the high school. I'm in one of the twenty-five houses jammed together in the middle of a forty-acre cow pasture. In fact," he said, wiggling his eyebrows at me, "I live on an honest-to-God cul de sac. Impressed?"

"Immensely. I live in a dingy apartment above the antique store."

We continued on in that vein for most of an hour, comparing notes on the citizens of Maggody and the mysterious local rituals. It turned out David Allen was forty (as I guessed), a Vietnam veteran, a graduate of Farber College, and a football fan. His wife had died a couple of years back from cancer; he didn't say much about it, and I didn't ask. His one vice, he admitted, was spending too much money on model rockets, which he launched in the pasture behind his house and usually lost. My one vice , I admitted, was lying in my bed in the dark and thinking up ways to needle my mother. He invited me to watch a launch; I did not invite him to lie in my bed. We had made our way through pork chops and cherry cobbler and were into coffee when he gave me a frown.

"There is something I ought to discuss with you in your professional capacity," he said in a low voice.

Dearly hoping he wasn't going to mention outstanding felony warrants, I put down my cup. "I don't fix traffic tickets, David Allen, but I can put in a good word with the municipal judge when he comes next Tuesday night."

"It's about this psychic woman. One of the girls was in my office all teary about a friend who was upset enough by the psychic to talk about suicide. I don't understand why anyone would take that sort of thing seriously, but I do take suicide threats seriously, especially with adolescent girls. Do you know anything concerning this Madam Celeste?"