I sat down on the grass at the lake's edge and waited until Bonita joined me. "Let's go back to Dunkicker," I said. "I'd like to know if the department's heard back about the license plates."
"You planning to dump me in the motel room?"
"If I thought you'd stay put."
"Don't count on it," she said dryly. "My ass is the only part of me that doesn't ache, and I'm not about to rest on it. What'd you say to that boy? When he came back, he looked like he was ready to cry."
"I'll tell you on the way back to town." While she put on her socks and shoes, I stood up and gestured at Les, who took a final fling of the Frisbee and came across the road.
"You're going to have to spend the night at the PD," I told him. "Corporal Robarts has gone back to the Beamers' campsite, and Bonita's going to crash before too long. Need to swing by the motel and pick up your teddy bear?"
"I knew I'd forgotten something," he said. "Any chance I can grab a meal at the café before I settle in for the night?"
Voices and country music. "You go on to the PD. I'll get something for you and Duluth, presuming he hasn't been liberated by aliens again."
"So who do you think's been letting him loose? I can't see Brother Verber unlocking the cell in the first place, and, from what you said, nobody should have been there while you were having Sunday dinner with Mrs. Robarts."
I sank back down on the grass. "From what Duluth said, it must have been a Beamer. It doesn't make any sense, though. Why would any of them do him a favor?"
"To keep him from being questioned?" suggested Bonita as she sat down beside me.
"But why?"
"Until you talked to him, you thought he was the obvious suspect," she countered in a complacent voice that would serve her well after she'd joined the bar, or even bellied up to one. "Once he gave you his boogerwoods story about being drunk, you started having doubts. Maybe the Beamers would just as soon let you go on assuming he went crazy and killed Norella. If he'd been found facedown in a pond, the whole thing would have been written off as another abusive man going after his ex-wife."
Les stared at her. "Are you saying that one of the Beamers killed her? You prepared to pick one?"
"Well," she said, giving it serious consideration, "Judith and Naomi were at the campsite. I don't know about Rachael and Sarah, but they could have been there, too."
"Rachael was working at the café," I said. "I think I would have noticed if she'd been soaking wet when I came looking for Corporal Robarts. Sarah seems to finish up by the middle of the afternoon, though. I suppose it could have been one of them."
"Or Duluth," said Les.
"Or some maniac wandering around the woods." I got to my feet. "Les, I've changed my mind. It'll be better if you stay here tonight. Everybody sleeps in the lodge again."
"What about you?"
"I'll stay at the PD to keep an eye on Duluth. Don't sleep too soundly; the kids may seem innocent, but they can be devious when their postpubescent urges kick in."
"Yeah, right." Grumbling, he went to rejoin the Frisbee game.
I told Bonita to wait and went into the lodge, managing to ignore both Mrs. Jim Bob's dark look and Brother Verber's piteous one. In the kitchen, Ruby Bee was regaling Estelle with her adventures as Mrs. Coldwater, implying that she'd alphabetized the children by name and packed them all off to some sort of mysterious shelter where they would be saved from brutal hardship and the influences of bald-headed women with smart mouths.
As reluctant as I was to interrupt a truly fanciful narrative, I said, "Bonita and I are leaving. I'll be back in the morning. Les is going to stay here."
"Then you don't think it's safe?" demanded Estelle, getting so agitated her beehive hair wobbled and several bobby pins clattered on the floor. "We still could be murdered in our beds? Mercy me, Arly! I didn't like the looks of this place since we first laid eyes on it, but I never in all my born days thought-"
"Feel free to sleep in the living room with ten teenagers, Les, Larry Joe, and Mrs. Jim Bob. Sleep with Brother Verber if you prefer, or out on the dock so you can enjoy the moonlight."
Ruby Bee caught my arm. "And just where are you planning to sleep?"
"I'll be at the PD. Les has the telephone number if you need me." I snatched up two squares of hot pizza and left before she could pepper (or even pepperoni) me with more questions, most of which I couldn't answer.
Bonita was in the station wagon. This time not even Jarvis looked up as we drove away. I tried to count up how many times I'd driven from the Camp Pearly Gates lodge to Dunkicker and back again since our arrival. The gas gauge indicated I could not continue to do so too many more times, but I had no cash to speak of.
"Do you have a county credit card?" I asked as I braked for a rabbit.
"What do you think?" muttered Bonita, sounding as though her stitches and bruises were catching up with her. "You want the rest of the pizza?"
"Toss it out the window. Do you want to lie down on the backseat?"
"And vomit? I don't think so, Chief Hanks."
"I told you to call me Arly."
"When we were interrogating the Beamers. You've made it real clear who's in charge." She leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes.
As we went into the PD, I heard clattering and curses from the hallway in back. "Call the sheriff's office about the license plates," I said to Bonita, then went to see what was happening. Duluth's cell door was open, but he was having a hard time dragging out the iron bunk. "What do you think you're doing?" I said, exasperated. "Should I add attempted theft to the charges? Get back in there! I don't even want to talk about it."
"This looks like the kind of town that could rally a lynch mob. I ain't about to-"
"Just shut up." I waited until he was back inside the cell, slammed the door, and locked it. "I'll keep the keys with me. If you're sitting there quietly when I get back, you can have something to eat. If you're not, I'm going to deputize Crank Nickle and issue him a license to kill. You want to end up as catfish food, Duluth?"
Tears filled his eyes. "I wanna go home."
Bonita was on the phone when I returned to the office. She glanced up, nodded, and resumed scribbling in her notebook. Although I was dying to peer over her shoulder at her notes, I started a fresh pot of coffee and kept a civil distance until she hung up.
"Got it?" I asked.
"All four of them, but I can't see how it's going to do much good. One of the cars was registered to Norella Buchanon. The other three are just names and addresses. Some guy in Cave Springs, another in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and a woman in Springfield, Missouri. You want me to try to send deputies to question whoever might be home?"
"Do your best," I said. "I'm going to take a look at the cars, then stop by the café and get Duluth something to eat."
"You don't think I could read license plates?"
"Bonita," I said warningly, "don't make me hold you down and cram half a dozen pain pills in your mouth. I worked for a vet one summer, and I know how to coerce unwilling patients into taking medicine."
She picked up the receiver.
I drove to the body shop. The building itself was dark, as was to be expected, but I was surprised when my headlights shone on a ten-foot chainlink fence that prevented me from continuing around back. I parked and got out, glumly noted the padlock on the gate, and then walked along the perimeter, avoiding foul-smelling batteries, rusty cans, and other obscure automotive debris. A utility pole cast enough light for me to see the four pertinent cars parked along the back of the building. Examining them more closely was a problem, however.