Madness In Maggody

"Beats the hell out of me," I said, although not affably. I flipped through my notebook, scowling at the question marks sprinkled here and there as if they'd drifted down from the ceiling, and replaying bits of conversations. I looked up abruptly. "Jim Bob made an odd comment when I went back to tell him what Cherri Lucinda said. He sputtered something about having a hundred witnesses to prove she lied."

"Exhibitionism to an extreme?"

"I don't think so," I said, trying not to visualize Hizzoner and the blonde engaging in sexual antics on the runway. "When's the last time there was a gathering of that many people in Maggody? At the grand opening, of course. And Jim Bob had a really fu

"Is this leading somewhere, Chief? What difference does it make if Jim Bob's girlfriend came to the grand opening?"

Plover went into the back room and started the coffeepot, allowing me time to try to come up with an answer to his obnoxiously smug questions. When he returned, I said, "Because she lied. I doubt either of them will admit she was there, but if we're lucky, there is a way to prove it." I told him about the freewheeling cheerleader and the subsequent disaster in the crowd. "The cameraman caught every last squeal and curse. I don't know if it was deemed worthy of the six o'clock news, but he still might have the film. I noticed a blond woman-and I'll bet all three of my bullets it was Cherri Lucinda Crate."

"And?"

"If Jim Bob didn't invite her, maybe someone else did. Lamont's car is parked at the motel, so he didn't drive away. He had a ride."

"So you're theorizing that he left voluntarily with the Crate woman? Any ideas why he'd do that?"

"No," I admitted.

"You could ask her."

"We didn't hit it off real well," I said glumly. I found the telephone book in a bottom drawer under my beloved travel guide, looked up the number of the television station, and persuaded the gumsnapping receptionist to put me through to the cameraman who'd covered the grand opening. He told me the film had been played several times for the amusement of the staff, who'd particularly enjoyed the expletives and one exceptional flash of thigh. The film had then been taped over at a Cub Scouts awards banquet. I hung up and regarded Plover. "Crate might talk to you, especially if you crinkle your nose and produce the boyish grin while staring in awe at her body. "

"You're convinced she knows where Petrel is, then?" Plover said, crinkling his nose and producing the boyish grin but not staring in awe at my body, which was adequate but hardly awesome.

"No, but it's a lead, and we're not exactly swimming in them. We're not even wading in them. All we've got is unsubstantiated gossip and harebrained rumors. Even Hammet is keeping secrets-and from me, his very own coach."

Plover agreed to question Cherri Lucinda Crate and left. I decided to indulge myself with a quick trip to Amsterdam, but not even the flower market and canals could take my mind off the madness in Maggody. I put the book back in the drawer, dealt with a rebellious bobby pin, and went out into the humorless heat of my car.

The Milvin house had the dispirited look of an empty house. The grass looked a little shaggier than I had remembered, and the porch furniture shabbier and less inviting. The seals on both doors were intact, but I had no qualms about ripping one off in order to go inside. The key was under a flowerpot; the only other place it might have been was under the mat. We're not obsessed with security in Maggody. Otherwise, how would your neighbors get in to water your African violets, feed your cats, and snoop through your bedside drawers while you're on vacation?

The house had been bottling up the heat, and the odor was almost enough to send me back outside. I left the door open, yanked open the nearest window, and forced myself to breathe slowly until the odor seemed less oppressive. The recliner was still extended. A magazine lay beside it, offering a glimpse of a football player poised to fling himself at an enemy.

I hurried past Lillith Smew's bedroom and went into the children's room. It was more orderly than many I'd seen (and one I'd inhabited), and I wondered which of the house's inhabitants was responsible for this unchildlike tidiness.

Interesting, but not useful, I told myself as I packed some of Martin's clothes in a bag, then continued to wander through the house, trying to imagine the sounds of a family going about its daily grind.

The children had had breakfast at the kitchen table. Buzz had come home, had a conversation with Lillith, scolded Martin about the mess in the toolshed, and then gone to bed. Martin had climbed a tree to chase a gimpy squirrel, and Lissie had watched television until her father sent her outside. No one had stopped by for a visit. At some point, Lillith and Buzz had shared the package of coconut cakes laced with a polysyllabic pesticide. Martin had not, but had ended up with the same poison in his system.

"Root beer and crackers," I snapped at a cockroach on the counter. I grabbed a fly swatter off a hook, but the little bugger had vanished by the time I turned around. I slapped the swatter down anyway to hear the crack of plastic on plastic, replaced it, and looked at the artwork taped on the front of the refrigerator, along with coupons and an unpaid electric bill. The last item reminded me of what Buzz had said about needing his mother-in-law, which made me feel even worse. There would be no more Social Security checks.

I let myself out, locked the door, and put the key back under the flowerpot. I then remembered the open window, but decided to leave it so the house would be slightly more bearable when Buzz and his children returned home.

None of this had accomplished anything, and I figured I wasn't going to get anywhere until I talked to Buzz. There were a couple of hours until practice, so I decided to pick up Lissie and drive once again to the hospital.

"Isn't this just amazing?" Estelle gushed. "Here I am to ask a few questions about your telephone service, and it turns out you drive one of those monster trucks all the way to California! That sounds so romantic I can hardly stand to think about it."

Arnie smiled modestly. "I like to think of myself as a lone rider, like a cowboy ru

"Just amazing," she said, crossing her legs so he could appreciate her ankles, which she secretly felt were every bit as good as a lot of Hollywood starlets'. "I do believe I'll accept your kindly offer of a beer. Being a telephone company pollster can make you dry as the desert."

As soon as he went into the kitchen, she hurried to the window and looked down at the dumpster. The lid covered the half nearest the building and obscured the view of most of the interior. She thought she caught a flicker of motion, but at that moment, Arnie came padding back into the living room.

"Watching the planes come in?" he said as he gallantly opened her beer and handed it to her.

"Nothing to see at the moment." She moved away from the window and perched on the edge of the sofa. "I do wish you'd sit right there across from me and tell me more about truck driving. Those ol' things are so big, I don't see how you can steer them."

He flexed his muscles. "It ain't a job for a weakling. Now the rig's got a hydraulic system, of course, but it boils down to man against machine.

"Really?"

He went into a long rigmarole about the philosophical implications of changing gears, but Estelle was having a hard time trying to look fascinated while fretting about poor Ruby Bee in the dumpster with the rats. There was an increasingly loud rumble from outside, as if Arnie's truck was pulling in, and she finally realized it wasn't an airplane landing.