"Whaddya think?" Hammet called to me. "Ain't we sumpun?"
"Oh, yes indeed." I turned back and with admirable restraint said, "Do you feel this confrontation is in the best interests of community goodwill?"
Estelle clattered up in a pink shirt, a skirt, and high heels and looked down her nose at me. "I don't see why Ruby Bee has to account to you, missy. You may be the chief of police, but that doesn't mean you're entitled to get too big for your britches."
"Goodness gracious," Ruby Bee said as she fanned her face with her hand, "it must be approaching a hundred degrees out here and I'm feeling dizzy. Let's go see whatall Jim Bob thinks he can give away at this fool picnic pavilion of his." She slipped her arm through Estelle's, gave me a vaguely triumphant look, and beckoned to the flock of Flamingos. "Come along, boys and girls. Maybe there's free soda pop and cookies."
Two seconds later, I had the parking lot to myself I took a deep breath and counted to ten (in French, no less), called to the deputy that he could leave (no Les?), and followed the crowd into Jim Bob's SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.
The air conditioner was going full blast. The linoleum floor was shiny, the fluorescent lights bright, and the aisles wide enough to accommodate those wandering up and down with awed expressions. The three registers were manned by grim, pockmarked checkers. A ten-foot-square area beyond the last register was enclosed by plywood panels; the door had a suspiciously opaque mirror that hinted of covert observation. It was, I presumed, the office.
Jim Bob, Petrel, Mrs. Jim Bob, and Brother Verber had vanished, which was fine with me. I decided to explore the store. I took a hard right and found the produce aisle-and two members of opposing baseball teams on the verge of mayhem. I grabbed Saralee with one hand and a brutish Buchanon mutant with the other. "What's going on?" I demanded in my best cop voice.
Saralee jerked free. "This dumbshit says I can't play ball."
"She's a girl. Everybody knows girls cain't play ball," the SuperSaver muttered. He also jerked free and began to rub his arm. "She oughta stay home and sew doll clothes."
"Take it back, manure mouth," Saralee responded graciously.
"Listen here, you little fat bitch," the SuperSaver began, holding up a fist the size of an early-summer cantaloupe, "you better learn to-"
I blocked his path and glared at him. "Shut up-now." It occurred to me I was glaring up at him. "How old are you, anyway?"
"None of your beeswax, fuzz lady."
"In order to qualify to play in the intermediate league, you're supposed to be entering fifth or sixth grade this fall. Just how old are you?"
He tried to slouch down to eye level. "I be going into sixth grade this fall. If'n you don't believe me, you can call the school and ask."
"He could be telling the truth," Saralee contributed. "It must have taken him three or four years to get through first grade, what with him being such a dumbshit and all. I saw him driving down the highway the other day."
I hushed her and told the boy to drive down the highway right that minute if he didn't want to be charged with terroristic threatening. I could tell the phrase sailed over his head with several feet to spare, but after a dark look at Saralee, he slouched away.
I shrugged at her. "Even though it's illegal, some of the boys start driving at fourteen or even younger. But he must be six feet tall, for Pete's sake. If he's twelve years old, then so am I. And Ruby Bee's going on twenty-one."
She wasn't interested. "Where'd Hammet go? I was right behind him when we came inside, but then he took off like a hornet flew up his rear."
I suggested we search for him in the vicinity of the free food. The picnic pavilion wasn't difficult to locate; the bodies were packed in and the voices loud. As we approached, a cheerleader bounced up with a platter and invited us to sample a fried chicken wing. Saralee grabbed one. We were again halted by another cheerleader, this time with a platter of sliced meat. The third platter had cocktail wienies in barbecue sauce.
I scanned the crowd for Hammet, Ruby Bee, Estelle, or anyone else of interest. Dahlia O'Neill was of no interest whatsoever, but I watched as she came out from behind the deli case with a platter in each hand and, in the style of a naval icebreaker, forced a path to a picnic table covered with a red and white checked paper tablecloth. She banged down the platters, stopped to wipe her forehead, and trudged back through the crowd. Dahlia usually has a contented expression, verging on bovine, but at the moment she looked royally pissed. I caught myself wondering if she was in a snit because she wasn't in a red and white striped miniskirt, then told myself to stop before I conjured up that image.
Several folks moved over to examine this new offering, and I resumed my search for Hammet, although I wasn't sure I could hand him over to Saralee and still sleep at night. A harried cheerleader rammed me with a platter, gave me a sniffly smile, and offered what appeared to be caterpillar segments in orange oil. I declined, and even Saralee turned up her nose. Another came at us with more chicken wings and a no-nonsense (you'll eat this spinach and like it, young lady) expression. We hastily retreated to the relative safety of a paper-towel display, and the cheerleader veered off at the last second.
Geraldo Mandozes appeared at my side, with Ray trailing along unhappily. "Did you taste the tamales?" he said angrily. "I took one bite and spit it out. They taste like horse meat and sugary catsup."
"I looked at one," I said.
"But these idiots are stuffing them down like they were genuine Mexican tamales. These tamales, they are terrible. They are so very bad, they will make people sick. But then, when these people get well and want genuine Mexican tamales-genuine because they are made by me, Geraldo Mandozes-they will find a 'Closed' sign on the Dairee Dee-Lishus. I will have gone away to be a migrant worker because I must support my family."
"The samples today may save you," I said soothingly.
"At least they're not giving away free samples from the produce department," Ivy Sattering said from behind me. "Of course, the variety's enormous and the prices lower than any thing we can sell for and show any profit. Where do we sign up to be migrant workers, Mr. Mandozes?"
"Do not make fun of me," he growled. He grabbed Ray's shoulder and propelled him into the crowd.
Ivy gave me a wry smile. "Not much of a kidder, is he? Jackie had a great time at practice yesterday, Arly. It's awfully kind of you to let him play, and I hope you don't let Jim Bob make you quit. I heard how Mrs. Jim Bob threatened you."
"I'll do my best."
"I guess I'd better find Jackie and Alex," she said, frowning at the barricade of bodies. "We need to go on home and open the stand in case anyone's foolish enough to stop by for one hundred-percent organic produce." She followed Mandozes's route and vanished.
I caught a glimpse of Estelle's alpine red hair in the crowd, and a flash of Ruby Bee's tight blond curls, but there wasn't any way to extricate them, so I waited patiently. Saralee wandered away, her eyes glittering as brightly as her braces.
"Do you like our shirts, Miss Arly?" a timid voice asked.
I smiled down at Lissie Milvin. "They're really pink, aren't they?"
"Miss Ruby Bee has one for you, too, but she said she didn't think you'd want to wear it-" She stopped as her father, brother, and grandmother approached.
"Heard you had a wild practice," Buzz said, grinning at me.