"07 - O Little Town of Maggody" - читать интересную книгу автора (07 - O Little Town of Maggody)

O Little Town of Maggody

An Arly Hanks Mystery

(book 7 in the series)





Joan Hess



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



"Where do you get your ideas?" is this writer's least favorite question. However, I'm going to be in serious trouble if I don't announce for all to read that the idea for this book came straight from Dorothy Cannell. In the spring of 1992, Dorothy, her husband, Julian, Sharyn McCrumb, and I explored Hannibal, Missouri--a town not oblivious to its most celebrated hometown boy. "It's too bad Maggody doesn't have a famous son," Dorothy sadly opined in her melodious British accent. The conversation blossomed, and long before we arrived in Peoria, Sharyn had named Matt Montana and concocted the majority of the lyrics of his award-winning song (Dorothy and I contributed as best we could, but Sharyn is truly knowledgeable about country music) and we were singing it, to Julian's obvious discomfort.

Three months later I was sitting on the porch of a country inn in North Carolina with Sharyn, Dorothy, Charlotte MacLeod (a.k.a. Alisa Craig), Margaret Maron, Sandy Graham, and Barbara Mertz (a.k.a. Barbara Michaels and/or Elizabeth Peters). "But Mistletoe in Maggody is not a great title," I whined as we sipped tea and nibbled crumpets. Brilliant suggestions ensued, but Barbara receives full credit for that which graces the jacket.

During the months of execution (I did have to fill in the prose), Margaret Maron and Kristen Whitbread provided tidbits of original country music lyrics. Terry Jones, Ray Guzman, and Terry Kirkpatrick fielded legal questions, while Sarah McBee and Dave Edmiston did the same with medical ones. Linda Nickle attended a country music symposium on my behalf and Martha McNair shared her knowledge of literature. Ronna Luper of Crossbrooks Graphics graciously provided information regarding the contents of the souvenir shoppe. Amy Abbott saved me numerous hours at the post office and smiled despite it all. The Fayetteville Police Department told me about a dog named Larry. Ellen Nehr provided astute editorial insights, as did Michaela Hamilton, my official editor, Danielle Perez, her adjutant; and Dominick Abel, my literary agent. Last of all, I would like to thank the Keebler elves, who kept me company while I worked into the wee hours of the night.



Chapter One



"You're a detour on the highway to heaven," sang Ruby Bee Hanks as she ran the dust mop across the minute dance floor of Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill. Her voice wasn't bad for a woman of modest years, she thought with a smile that lit up her chubby, well-powdered face. It weren't nothing like Matt Montana's, not by a long shot, but she carried the tune faithfully. That wasn't surprising since the song came on the jukebox every five minutes from noon till midnight.

There wasn't any question Matt Montana could sing, but nobody'd ever claimed he made the best scalloped potatoes west of the Mississippi. She'd bet her last dollar he'd never won blue ribbons at the county fair for his canned tomatoes and watermelon pickles. This last thought reminded her that she needed to check the apple pies bubbling in the oven, so she took the dust mop and went into the kitchen to get ready for the noon rush. Presuming there was one, for a change.



"I am lost on the back roads of sin," warbled the checkout girl at Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less. The proprietor, Jim Bob Buchanon, who also happened to be the mayor of Maggody among his other sins, gave her a dark look, then went out the door to the mostly empty parking lot. Beneath his noticeably simian forehead, his eyes were yellowish. Those were the two dominant physical traits that proclaimed his lineage in the Buchanon clan, although a geneticist would be quick to point out they were both recessive. There were about as many Buchanons in Stump County as there were varmints up on Cotter's Ridge. Some Buchanons were more intelligent (and less ornery) than these same varmints, but they were few and far between--and living elsewhere. Most of the rest regarded family reunions in the same fashion young executives did singles bars.

Jim Bob leaned against the concrete block wall and watched a lone pickup truck rumble out of view. Business was bad; there was no getting around it. The cash registers weren't pinging, and his bank balance was dwindling to a worrisome level. He shaded his eyes and looked across the highway at Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill, which didn't appear to be faring any better. Down the road, no one was filling up with gas at the self-service pumps, nor was anybody waddling into the Suds of Fun Launderette with a basket of dirty clothes. There weren't any cars or RVs parked in front of Roy Stiver's antique store, and he'd heard that Roy was threatening to close for the winter and go flop on a beach somewhere to write more of that highfalutin poetry he was so proud of. Jim Bob had written some in his day, although his had been calculated to melt comely maidens' hearts and soften their protests. Roy's stuff didn't even rhyme, and gawd help you if you tried to sing it.

Jim Bob figured he might as well be writin' poetry as standing in the parking lot looking at nothing. Like the ancient oak tree out behind his house on Finger Lane, the whole damn town of Maggody was in danger of crashing down in the next gust of wind. The best he could recollect, there were still 755 citizens living along the highway and on the unpaved back roads that led to other depressing towns or petered out up in the mountains. There were more citizens buried out behind the Methodist church, but nobody he knew of had been planted нlately, that is. More folks than usual seemed to have been murdered since Arly Hanks had skulked back home to become the chief of police (and the entirety of the department). But, Jim Bob added to himself, trying to be fair about it, it most likely wasn't her fault. She hadn't brought back a busload of muggers and rapists with her from her high-and-mighty life in Manhattan. No, she'd just brought her smart mouth and snippety way of putting her fists on her hips and staring like a goddamn water moccasin when she pretended to be listening to him. He couldn't think when he last made her blink.

"I have got to get back on the four-lane," the checker was singing as he stomped back inside.

He was about to fire her on the spot, when he realized she wasn't all that unattractive, if you were willing to ignore her stained teeth and rabbity eyes and lack of chin, and concentrate on her undeniably round breasts.

"Malva, isn't it?" he said in a right friendly voice. "Why don't you take yourself a little break in the lounge? I'll get us a couple of cans of soda and a box of cookies, and then you can sing me some more of that pretty song." Malva wasn't fooled one bit, but she was dim-witted enough to think she might get a raise (along with the rise) out of him. "Whatever you say, Mr. Buchanon."

His fingers tingling, Jim Bob took off for the Oreos.