I abandoned my post long enough to get the box of cornflakes from my tent. Then, lecturing myself at ninety miles an hour, I returned to the post and stuffed said flakes into my mouth while keeping an eye on the pot patch. Just like it mattered. Ten-fifteen, if you're counting.
David Allen rapped again on the bedroom door. "Please come out, Mrs. Jim Bob. We've got to do something about the children."
"I don't care what you do with those filthy, satanic monsters. They've ruined my life. Let them rot in hell for all eternity."
"I realize they did a certain amount of damage downstairs, but-"
"Did you see the rip on the sofa?" she demanded shrilly. "The mud on the new beige carpet? The smears on the walls? Did you smell the guest bathroom? Did you?"
David Allen tried to remember a chapter that dealt with the impending hysteria of a client. He decided there probably wasn't one. "We can clean all that up, if you'll just unlock the door and come out of the bedroom. Please, Mrs. Jim Bob."
"He's going to kill me," she answered, shrillness replaced with flatness.
"I won't let Bubba or Hammet or any of the children near you," David Allen said. "I promise that they'll keep nice and quiet so we all can talk about their futures."
"He's going to kill me. He said so, plainer than day."
David Allen came to the conclusion that it wasn't doing any good to converse through the door, and it was clear she wasn't coming out anytime soon. He went downstairs, where he found the four Buchanon children hunkered on the floor in front of the refrigerator amid a clutter of bowls and bottles.
"Having a picnic?" he inquired in a jovial, hearty tone meant to win their trust and ensure their cooperation.
The intensity of the slurps and belches increased, but no one bothered with a reply. He opened cabinets until he found a bourbon bottle pushed way back in a corner, and poured himself several inches of courage. Only then did he squat down next to Hammet and give him a comradely wink.
"What do you think, buddy? Shall we talk about fathers?"
Hammet put a handful of cole slaw in his mouth. "Ain't none of us know anything about that," he said in a jovial, hearty tone that sounded suspiciously familiar to David Allen's professional ears. "You ain't going to find our fathers, so there ain't no point in harpin' any more about it. When's Arly coming back?"
Bubba growled through a piece of chicken. "Who gives a fuck when the policewoman comes back? She's just a damn whore anyways."
Hammet slung a handful of slaw across the little picnic area. "Take that back, you shit-faced sumbitch, or I'll stuff that chicken wing up your nose!"
"Sez who?" Bubba said, rising to his feet. He ignored the strands of slaw dripping off his chin as he crushed a Tupperware bowl under his foot. "Wanna make me?"
David Allen decided the time was not appropriate for a discussion of paternity. He went to his vehicle and lit a cigarette. He did not glance up as a curtain fluttered in an upstairs room. When the cigarette was finished, he drove down the driveway without once looking back.
"Isn't he a living doll?" Ruby Bee held up Baby so that the little legs dangled like a ballerina's.
"I do not have time to admire babies," Madam Celeste said through the screen. "I am studying the cards. Come back later."
"But this is right up your alley," Estelle said. "This is just like that case back in Las Vegas when you found the poor little boy's body out in the desert. This is a police investigation."
"So now you are police? How interesting. When did you change professions?"
Estelle shoved Ruby Bee closer to the door. "You remember how Ruby Bee's daughter is the chief of police, don't you? We're just helping Arly while she's gone on a trip."
Celeste shook her head. "I do not know what's happening, but I do know that I am not a babysitter or even the sort to make stupid noises over a baby. Go away and leave me alone."
Mason came out of the den. "Hi, Miss Oppers, Miz Hanks. Wherever did you get that adorable little baby?" Ignoring his sister's hiss, he went to the screen door and opened it. "Y'all come right in so I can get a better look at this baby of yours."
While he bent down to tweak toes and make stupid noises, Estelle gave Madam Celeste her most meaningful look. "This baby's mother is the woman who was found dead up in the woods somewhere."
"That's right," Ruby Bee added, not sure her look was quite as meaningful as Estelle's, especially since she wasn't sure what precisely it was supposed to mean.
"So?" Celeste shrugged, apparently not sure either.
Estelle came a few steps farther into the hall. "We want you to tell us who's the father of this baby. We figgered the identity might manifest itself if you had the baby here with you."
"Why? What difference does it make?"
Mason straightened up. "Well, if the mama's dead, the baby sure does need a daddy, doesn't he?"
Estelle bobbled her head. "And you're the only person who can help us, Madam Celeste."
The psychic moved farther back until her face was distorted by shadows. "I am not an adoption agent or a social worker. I do not like babies, and I cannot work when one is in my presence. Or in my house."
Estelle took Baby from Ruby Bee and tucked him under her arm. "Well, I'll just stash this little sweetums in the car while you get settled at the table in the solarium. It won't do a toad's hair of harm for Baby to sit outside by himself for a few minutes. Think how happy he'll be to learn who his daddy is!"
Celeste told Mason to bring an extra chair to the solarium, then wearily gestured for Ruby Bee to follow her through the living room. She and Ruby Bee were both at the table when Estelle joined them.
"Do you think Baby'll be okay in the station wagon?" Ruby Bee whispered to Estelle.
"Do you think I'd put him there if I didn't?" Estelle retorted, offended by the very idea. "Nobody ever comes down this road anymore except for a occasional chicken truck headed for Hasty. We don't have caravans of Gypsies going up and down the road, looking for babies to steal. Baby's as safe out front as he would be in your storage room."
"Hush!" Madam Celeste said as she closed her eyes. "You are worse than a squawling baby."
Estelle snorted, but very quietly. Beside her, Ruby Bee tried to keep her mind on the matter at hand and not worry about Baby out in front.
Brother Verber woke up with a groan. His back hurt something awful from the night on the couch, and his knees felt like they were gripped by rubber bands. On the television set across the room cartoon characters moved their lips like amateur ventriloquists as they discussed invasions and wicked princes. He looked at the clock.
"Holy Jesus," he muttered as he sat up. His foot knocked over the glass of sacrificial wine, sending an odorous splash of red all over the braided rug and the pile of study material. It was nearly eleven o'clock. There was something he was supposed to do, but he couldn't for the life of him think what it was. A bedside visit to some dyin' member of the flock? A meeting with the church elders to talk about the behavior of the newest Sunday-school teacher, who'd been seen coming out of a coed skating rink in Farberville? A counseling session with some of the sexually depraved parishioners?
He used his handkerchief to wipe off the study material, wishing it was the counseling session, now that he'd had the opportunity to engage in some right serious research into the possibilities of depravity. On the cover of one of the manuals was a photograph of a young man wearing a black mask, a studded leather collar, and not much else. Noticing the model's rippling thighs brought it all back.
Brother Verber looked at the telephone receiver, which still dangled at the end of the cord. Sister Barbara was expecting him to come by for a piece of pecan pie. Or she had been expecting him more than thirty-six hours ago, anyway. But he hadn't gone because…(Brother Verber tugged his earlobe)…he'd felt the need of atonement for…(he scratched his stubbly jowl)…the sin of…(he squirmed like a nightcrawler in a coffee can of dirt)…arrogance. Yeah, that's why he hadn't gone by to praise her for her Christian zeal in taking in those bastards and trying to instill in them a healthy dose of decency and morality and humility and eternal gratitude.