"No, you didn't ask that," I said, totally bewildered. "I'm not sure what I'll do about lunch, Ruby Bee. Maybe I'll pick up a cheeseburger and a lemonade at the Dairee Dee-Lishus and have a little picnic while I lurk for speeders out north of town. Is that all right with you?"
"Hold on a minute." She put her hand over the receiver, but I could hear a muffled conversation. I was about to hang up when she came back on. "No, don't do that. That's a terrible idea, Arly. There's a rumor in town that the Mandozes fellow is using a cheap grade of beef-if it is beef. We can't have you getting sick."
"Why not?"
"Because I said so, Miss Glib Lips. You just go on home and have some soup. That way you won't be courtin' botulism."
"Whatever you say," said, and hung up before she could say anything else equally peculiar. Ruby Bee and Estelle make me crazy. They always have an elaborate justification for involving themselves in my business, personal and official, and they involve themselves with more enthusiasm and dedication than teenagers toilet-papering a tree. They thrive on cop and private detective shows on television. Estelle once wrote a six-page letter to Tom Selleck pointing out a clue he'd overlooked, but he didn't respond, and after a few months she stopped grousing about it.
The telephone rang, but I managed not to hear it. I picked up my beloved travel guide, went into the back room of the PD (which has exactly two rooms: the front room and the back room) to get the radar gun out of the metal cabinet, and ambled out to the car. Botulism? Beef-if that's what it was?
Shaking my head, I opened the car door. It was very much like opening the oven door to see if the turkey was done. Earlier, I'd cleverly parked the car in the shade and uncleverly forgotten to roll down the windows. The shade was now over by the soda machine next to the door of the PD.
I went ahead and rolled down the window (barn doors and stolen horses here), then decided to go across the road to my apartment, where I could slump in front of the fan and cast enigmatic smiles at the count.
Roy Stiver was sitting in a rocking chair in front of the antique store, watching the traffic and thinking about whatever he thought about. "Yo, Arly," he said as I approached him. "You got yourself an out-of-town visitor. I went ahead and let him into your apartment."
My fingers tightened around the book, but I knew I hadn't quite worked myself up to that stage of schizophrenia, despite the recent exchanges with my mother. The sheriff and/or the friendly state trooper would have hunted me up at the PD. I couldn't think of any other men who might want to drop in on me. No editorials, please.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"I reckon it's supposed to be a surprise," Roy said, cackling like a damn hen. "I knew you wouldn't mind me using my key, Arly."
"I don't care whether you reckon it's supposed to be a surprise or not. Who is it?"
"Oops, I think I hear my phone ringing. I've been waiting all morning for a call from my broker. See ya later." He pushed himself up and went into his store, still cackling to himself. I was almost surprised there was no egg in the cane-bottom seat.
Roy's departure left me with a few options. I could chase him down to question him further, but I doubted I'd find out anything. I could stand there at the side of the highway until I was clipped by a truck. I could go back to the car, pick up lunch at the Dee-Lishus, and continue on with my original plan. Or I could climb the rickety stairs at the side of the building and find out what the hell was going on. It seemed obvious that Ruby Bee was behind it, which wasn't much comfort.
I finally opted for the last option. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear my television set blaring as I arrived at the landing. "Glad to see you've made yourself at home," I called angrily as I banged open the door.
A small figure with stringy black hair was squatting three inches from the television screen. Several soda cans were on their sides, as was a box of crackers. He jerked up in alarm at my voice, then smiled broadly and said, "Howdy, Arly."
"Hammet?"
"Yeah, it's me. How be ya, Arly? Sure is god-awful good to see ya again."
I came into the room and sank down on the sofa, wondering if the truck had indeed clipped me and I hadn't noticed. "Hammet?" I repeated.
He regarded me soberly through small, unblinking, Buchanon-tinted eyes. "You having a conniption or sumpun? You look whiter'n a dead cow in the moonlight."
"How did you get here?"
"It was real easy. First the social lady called over where I been staying all this time and sez you wants me to visit. I does okay there, mostly, but my stepma said she thought that'd be a right fine idea and had me on the curb when those ladies drove up in a big ol' station wagon. You look mighty funny, Arly. Is your belly achin'?"
"No, Hammet," I said weakly, "I'm a little surprised to see you, that's all. There's something screwy going on here. You said a social worker called your stepmother and said I wanted you to visit?"
"Sure were kind of you. It gits kinda wild sometimes. I got this halfass brother what sez he's the biggest so I got to mind him, but that's a crock of shit and we get to hittin' and kickin'. Then this snot-nosed sister starts grabbin' on his hair, and he commences to bawlin', and then my stepma gits all het up." He gave me an appraising look. "Ain't easy by any means."
I caught myself grinning just a little bit. "No, I imagine not. So your stepmother agreed and had you all ready when the ladies drove up. Anyone you recognized?" I don't know why I even bothered to ask; I really don't.
"That lady what cooked for us'n and t'other one what hung around all the time," he explained eloquently.
"That's what I thought."
"They was real nice, Arly. They got me stuff to eat and drink in the car, and then they said all about how I could play baseball like those fellows on television. I was aimin' to watch 'em while I waited for you, but I reckon they's at home today."
I closed my eyes and tried not to sigh too loudly. "Oh, they're real nice ladies, Hammet. Real nice. Food, drink, and a promise that you could play baseball."
His smile faded. "Mebbe, they said, lest mebbe. They said nobody was gonna get to play if'n they didn't find someone to coach the team. I ain't ever played baseball, but I think I might like it better'n sorghum on corn bread for supper."
A lot of images went through my mind at that moment. My favorite involved Ruby Bee's staked-out body, sorghum, and an advancing line of big black ants. Hammet, for the uninformed, was one of Robin Buchanon's five illegitimate children. Robin had been murdered while hunting ginseng on Cotter's Ridge. He and I had gotten to be buddies (in our own way) during the subsequent investigation and I'd really become fond of him (in my own way). I'd been downright misty when the social worker took him to his pa's home, but it clearly wasn't possible to insert a small, untamed boy into my lifestyle. We both had realized it wouldn't have worked. However, I'd nurtured a flicker of guilt that was now a full-fledged forest fire.
"Is you okay?" he asked, watching me anxiously.
"I'm fine and I'm glad you're here to visit. Tell you what let's do, Hammet. Let's go down to where the real nice ladies are and have a chat. You can have a piece of pie with ice cream on it."
Hammet bounced up and hooked his thumbs through the straps of his faded but clean overalls. "And see if'n I git to play baseball?"
I nodded grimly and hoped he couldn't see the steam roiling out of my ears. As we walked down the highway to Ruby Bee's, Hammet regaled me with the highlights of fistfights in his new home and I tried to decide what I was going to say to the real nice ladies. Hammet's vocabulary had mellowed greatly since he'd come down from the cabin, and I certainly didn't want to remind him of his innate talent for four-letter words and quaint colloquialisms, most of which concerned farm animals and improbable sexual activities.