Mischief In Maggody

Mason figured that the truth was he was tired and she was drunker than a boiled owl. But, being the good brother that he was-and depending on her for his substantial allowance-he sat back and took a swallow of beer. "So, Celeste, did you have a good day?"

"No, I did not. My first client was late, and although she listened and asked questions, I could see that she was skeptical. This disturbed me. It ruined my day, in fact, and made it impossible for me to put aside her condescending smile and concentrate on more cosmic things."

"One of those biddies from the beauty shop?"

"Those women believe in my powers and pay very promptly for my services. Of course, I am worth every pe

"Single?"

"She did not wear a wedding ring, but there was a faint mark as if she'd worn one once. The sand said she had been treated badly not too long ago; perhaps a divorce-I could not be sure."

This time Mason leaped to his feet and, with a small bow, filled Celeste's glass. "Allow me, Sis; I can see you're tired. This new client client-she's my age and single? Does she have warts or anything?"

"She was pretty, in a cool way. Dark hair in a bun, dark eyes, the high cheekbones so common in the Slavic aristocracy. But why are you asking all these questions, my little brother? I can smell cheap perfume on you, so I know you have been with a woman. Are you still so very desperate?"

Mason squirmed as her eyes bored into him; he wondered if maybe she did have a line to an inky universe he sure couldn't dial direct. "Lay off it; I told you about that already. It was just a group having di

"Because she's a cop, dammit." Celeste shot him an unfathomable look, then banged down her tumbler and left the room.

The beeper was an interesting little critter. Black, so it'd go with both my uniform and my cocktail dress. Two buttons, and a grill that covered its mysterious organs. The idea was that I'd leave the PD telephone on call forwarding so folks would end up with the sheriff's dispatcher. She'd beep me, and I'd know to call her for a message. Damn thing had a range wide enough to cover the county, so there weren't too many places I could hole up or hide.

I was sitting behind my desk playing with it when the door banged open. Mrs. Jim Bob marched into the room, her expression more rigid than Edwina Spitz in a bargain-basement girdle. There was a righteous glint in her eye, and her mouth was a white line. Mrs. Jim Bob is also known as Mizzoner, but only to a select few who have nothing better to do than to idle away the hours in the PD making up feeble puns.

Mrs. Jim Bob is not one to waste her precious time on pleasantries. Ungluing her lips, she said, "Arly, it has come to my attention that a most dreadful event has taken place."

"Jim Bob knock up Raz's oldest girl?" I flipped over the beeper to study its serial number and arrangement of tiny, shiny screws.

"My husband is in Hot Springs at a municipal league convention, thank you. He takes his responsibilities more seriously than some city employees around here, and he and the other members of the town council went to the meeting despite any personal or financial sacrifice."

"Raz's oldest girl is out of town, too. You don't think he took her along, do you? She's just the type to be impressed by a snooty hotel and a real live convention. I hate to imagine what she'd be willing to do for one of those laminated name tags. What do you bet she's never even heard tell of room service?"

She gave me a beady look. "I'll be sure and ask him about it when he gets home next week. He'll think your remark was real fu

Needling Mrs. Jim Bob was not enough of a challenge to merit the effort. "So what dreadful event has taken place?" I asked.

"Robin Buchanon is gone."

"And that's dreadful? I think we ought to buy a bottle of champagne-no, let's get a whole dadburn case of champagne and invite the neighbors over for a celebration. I'll stop by the Kwik-Screw for a box of Ritz crackers and some onion dip, and we'll party 'til the sun peeks over the tallest tree in the national forest. What's more, you can offer the first toast." Good thing I hadn't made a New Year's resolution to stop needling her-those who claim the copyright to half the Bible are such easy targets.

"It is not a source of amusement-and neither are you. You know perfectly well that I wouldn't touch alcohol with a ten-foot pole. I am a good Christian woman. Now, are you going to stop being a smart aleck and listen, or do I have to call Jim Bob long distance all the way to Hot Springs and tell him that you're shirking your duty as chief of police?"

"Gee, do the telephone wires go all the way to Hot Springs?"

"You listen to me, Ariel Hanks-I am fed up with your remarks. Now once and for all, are you going to hear me out or not?"

I put the beeper away and took a pad out of the middle drawer. "Do you want to file a missing persons report, ma'am? We can have the FBI here within the hour."

She nibbled on her unsullied lips (cosmetics being a vanity that led straight to you-know-where). "Well, I suppose so. But that's not the reason I-"

"Victim's full name and address, please. Date of birth. Physical description, including any and all warts, moles, tattoos, and scars. Next of kin in case something terrible has happened. Name of dentist, should we need dental records for purposes of identification. When last seen and by whom." I poised my pencil and gave her a bright smile. "But you feel free to take your time, Mrs. Jim Bob. It's a long report, but if we hang in there, we can do it." If she wanted officiousness, she was going to get it. Ad nauseam and then some.

"I don't know those things any better than you do, Arly."

I threw the pencil in the trash can, scoring two points along the way. In an aggrieved voice, I said, "Then why don't you just tell me how I'm supposed to fill out the report and put it on the telex to the FBI? I'm trying my damndest to follow procedure, but I'm not getting any assistance from you, if you don't mind me saying so. Those FBI fellows get hotter than a peck of parsnips if they get called in on some wild-goose chase." I toyed with suggesting that Robin was shacked up in a Hot Springs hotel room, but lost my nerve at the last minute.

I could see she wasn't quite sure whether I was ribbing her or not. She twisted her gloves for a full minute, then concluded that I was and gave me a hundred watt frown. "You want proof? Well, you just sit there and I'll be back with proof!" She stomped out the door.

I was trying to unscrew the back of the beeper when she stomped back in the door, dragging a small figure who looked mighty miserable under a tangle of black hair.

"This," she said triumphantly, "is one of Robin Buchanon's bastard children." She shoved the figure forward. "You tell the policewoman what happened and be quick about it. Take your finger out of your mouth while you speak, so's she can understand you. And speak up nice and loud."

The child looked to be about nine or ten, and was blessed with the simian features of the Buchanon clan. He/she wore dirty, ragged overalls, with neither shirt nor shoes. "I ain't talking to no police," he/she said in a mumble I could barely hear from four feet away. I could, however, smell a sourness that was clear evidence of lack of familiarity with soap and water for quite a while.

Mrs. Jim Bob prodded a shoulder. "Stop that nonsense and tell the policewoman your name. If you don't, she'll lock you up in a dark, wet cell and let the rats eat your face until you feel more obliged to talk."