Madness In Maggody

"Ninety-nine percent of it is pure malarky," I said, shaking my head. "The hottest theory is that Lamont Petrel tampered with the packages, then eluded a county-wide dragnet, has been raping women nonstop for the last week, and is numero uno on the FBI's most wanted list."

"He struck me as a nice enough guy. I guess you never can tell, can you?"

"We'll let you rest," I murmured, not in the mood to explain the fine line between hysterically explosive rumors and tedious truth.

Martin and I drove back to Maggody. Hammet was watching television, but as we came into the living room, he switched it off and gave me a worried look. "Is it true what I heard about Miss Ruby Bee being squashed flatter than road kill-and in a big ol' square garbage can?"

"Not exactly," I said. I showed Martin where I'd put his clothes, then sat down across from Hammet and said, "Where'd you hear this latest tidbit?"

"From Saralee, who heard her aunt talking to some lady who was drinking coffee. Lissie said she supposed there was bank robbers' money in the garbage. I du

"Neither can I," I said, amused in spite of myself. Hammet's link to the grapevine was as slippery as anyone's in town. I shuddered to think what the younger side of the population was making of the snatches of conversation they were picking up. Bank robbers and road kill, obviously.

I told the boys to rest up for the big game, then walked across the street to the PD and allowed myself a walking tour of Brussels and a glass of lager at a sidewalk café in the main square. It calmed me down to the point of idle musing, and after a few minutes, I got out my notebook and reread the notes from all the interviews. It became increasingly interesting, this collection of half-truths, gossip, and out-and-out lies, and shortly thereafter some things began to fall into place. Not everything, mind you, because some witnesses (i.e., Ruby Bee) were about as recalcitrant as diving mules.

Cherri Lucinda Crake had admitted to Plover that Lamont Petrel had been at her apartment since the afternoon of the grand opening. She'd continued to deny that Jim Bob visited her Monday night, but once I decided that was a lie, all sorts of things began to make sense, including Kevin's avowal that Jim Bob had returned to the supermarket and Ruby Bee's screwy story about a serial killer in the motel parking lot. Petrel's motive for disappearing was obvious, and his current whereabouts unknown but within bounds of speculation. I was fairly sure I'd be hearing about it soon, thanks to Hizzoner, but for the moment there wasn't much I could do.

I knew who had laced the tamale sauce and sponge cakes with ipecac, and who had stuck pins in the cupcakes. I knew how and why and when and where, thus qualifying my theory for a journalism class exercise. I moved on to the mysterious poisonings at Buzz Milvin's house. It was possible that the same perp had doctored the coconut cakes, perhaps underestimating the toxicity of the polysyllabic substance. But unless Martin had lied, he hadn't consumed the damn things.

I called Plover and asked him to call back with the lab report on the contents of Martin's stomach. He tried to weasel answers out of me, but I hung up and waited, drumming my fingers on my notebook and staring at the visitor's chair.

It took him only a few minutes to report back to me. "Spaghetti, corn bread, soda pop, crackers, a minute trace of cereal, milk," he said. "Just what the kid's been saying all along. What're you thinking, Arly?"

"That he didn't lie," I said, mostly to myself.

"Lie about what?"

"About what he ate that day, of course." I was hedging, but I wasn't quite ready to explain the fuzzy idea that was struggling to take shape. "I'll get back to you shortly." I hung up, called Ruby Bee, and demanded she repeat the one bit of gossip that nobody had shared with me. She hemmed and hawed, but finally she told me what I'd suspected I would hear. I confirmed it with a second source, then called Plover back to relate my theories.

"I think you're right," he said after a minute of silence. "So what's our schedule?"

"I'm going to call Harve with all this, and then, Sergeant Plover, I'm going to a baseball game. The grande dame of the dumpster is having a party for the team afterward, so I can leave Hammet and Martin in her care. I should be in your office by four-thirty."

After I'd made the final call, I went back to my apartment, put on the pink T-shirt, gathered up the equipment and the two players, and we drove to the baseball field behind the high school.

Most of the town was there for the big shootout, and it took some maneuvering to find a parking place among the pickup trucks and station wagons. Raz was there, as were the Satterings, Perkins and his eldest, Earl Boy Nookim's parents, and the entire force of both the missionary society and the pool hall coterie. Picnic baskets and coolers were everywhere.

The Ruby Bee's Flamingos were milling around near third base, which was not a burlap bag. Georgie McMay, Saralee, and Earl Boy Nookim were exchanging ominous looks, but not blows. Lissie and Jackie were after butterflies, and Enoch was watching reruns in his head. Ray was talking to his father, who went to the bleachers when he spotted us approaching.

I put down the equipment bag, said hello to the team, and shaded my eyes to look across the field at the SuperSavers. If anything, they'd all grown half a foot and a couple had sprouted whiskers. Larry Joe Lambertino was pointing here and there and presumably offering last-minute advice. Hizzoner and Mizzoner stood nearby, both wearing insufferably smug smiles. Petrel was not in sight, but if my theory was correct, he would be before too long.

I turned around to assess the fans in the bleachers. Brother Verber was mopping his face and neck, and looking as composed as a deer caught in the glare of headlights. Dahlia and Kevin were at the far end. Kevin fluttered his fingers at me, but Dahlia didn't even blink, which was fine with me. Joyce was passing out cookies to keep her kids relatively contented. Several high-school girls were sitting together, but a goodly number of their boyfriends were not in sight.

As Ruby Bee walked past the bleachers, there was a low murmur and a few snickers. She held her chin up, however, and I doubted anyone had enough courage to make any remarks within her earshot. Estelle trailed after her, carrying a large plastic bag that bulged oddly but didn't seem heavy.

It looked as if we were all present and accounted for, except for Petrel. I went over to Larry Joe and inquired about procedure. Before he could answer, Mrs. Jim Bob marched over and stuck a piece of paper under my nose.

"I have made all the arrangements," she said with a pinched smile. She consulted her watch. "The pregame ceremonies will begin in three minutes, so I suggest you instruct your team to commence their warm-up."

"Who's the umpire?"

"Why, Jim Bob, of course. I believe he's selected a couple of his employees to umpire out in the field. There are only two minutes remaining."

I thought about protesting, but it wouldn't have done any good and it didn't really matter, since the game was predetermined by relative size (monsters versus dwarfs) and athletic ability (some versus none). There wasn't much reason for our team to warm up, so I told them to sit down and try to remember some of the basic rules.

The SuperSaver cheerleaders tried to rouse the crowd out of its amiable indolence by shrieking and cartwheeling into each other. When they finally gave up (and got up), Mrs. Jim Bob dragged Brother Verber to home plate and clapped her hands until everybody settled down.