"Issuing tickets at the stoplight?"
"No," I sighed. I told him about the disappearance of Robin Buchanon and the subsequent problem, collectively known as Bubba, Sissie, Hammet, Sukie, and Baby. "I'm going to drive back up to the cabin and see if she, like a distaff General MacArthur, has returned. I'm not taking any bets on it, though. At the same time, it's hard to envision her deciding to head off across the mountains to points unknown. Her sideline's portable, but her major occupation isn't."
"Turning tricks and making moonshine," he said, nodding. "I'd been in town less than twenty minutes when one of the good ole boys in the subdivision dropped by with a mason jar of the vilest field whiskey I'd ever tasted. Not to say we didn't drink it, of course, but it left scars all the way down my throat. As for her sideline, the ole boy got all choked up when he tried to describe her talents in that arena. Only a couple of the boys have had the nerve to actually go through with it. One of them has never been seen again."
"I see you have no compunctions regarding prelunch fabrications. Actually, I'm worried about her. I'll hunt around for her still, but I doubt I can find it any more than I'll stumble across her family ginseng patch. And why would she be lurking for almost a week at either of those places, anyway?" I leaned back in the chair and propped my feet on my desk. "I can't come up with any theories to explain her disappearance. I wouldn't dream of trying to delve into her possible motives to pull this stunt; she's unlike anything I've ever met. All I know is that she left the cabin with a hoe and a gunnysack, and the children expected her back before dark. Nearly a week ago. She's a mountain woman, not the sort to twist an ankle or grab the wrong end of a copperhead. She probably fries up a mess of copperhead for Sunday brunch."
"I have an idea," David Allen said, perching on the corner of my desk and giving me an impish grin. "Why don't you consult Madam Celeste?"
"That's the stupidest thing I've heard all morning," I replied with an impish grin of my own.
Mrs. Jim Bob perched on the corner of her bed so as not to wrinkle the bedspread. She'd been there most of the night. Her best linen skirt was crumpled so badly, it looked as if an army tank had run across her lap. One of her nylons had come unclipped and hung around her ankle like dead skin. Her hair was uncombed. Her best blouse was splattered with something; she couldn't remember what. Her own blood, maybe, unless it was ketchup or mud or something even worse. She didn't care what it was.
The bedroom door was locked. She was pretty sure it was, but she continued to get up every fifteen minutes or so just to check. It came to about fifty times she'd checked thus far, but she didn't care. There was water in the master bathroom, and a grayish candy bar in Jim Bob's night-table drawer. It wasn't like she was going to die. On the contrary, she could barricade herself in the room for a long time, and those despicable creatures couldn't get their filthy hands on her no matter how hard they tried.
Downstairs, somewhere, she couldn't tell exactly, came the sound of shattering glass. For a while she'd tried to envision what each explosion was-the pseudo-Ming vase on the dining-room table, a window, the screen on the television. She hadn't thought to keep a list, and by now she couldn't recollect what all might still be intact. Not much, though.
She went over to the window and stared down at the driveway. Brother Verber hadn't come by for a piece of pie, but it was just as well, since the bastards had chanced upon the pie within a few minutes of storming the house. That was when she was still clinging to the premise that she was in control. Oh, she'd tried to be nice about it and not scold the little one too sharply about the smudge on the new beige carpet. A slap on the hand had stopped the whining. And, she'd told herself at the time, it was important to establish that they were there only out of the goodness of her heart, for which they should be deeply and eternally grateful.
It hadn't turned into a nightmare until she'd announced that the stink was unbearable and that it was bathtime, no ifs or buts. She'd ordered the oldest, a surly thing who was way too big for his filthy britches, into the mud room off the garage. Of course, by the time she'd hustled him there, the others had scuttled into hiding like cockroaches caught in the light. And every time she found one and started dragging it toward the bathroom, another one would leap on her back and claw at her and screech unspeakably vile things at her, as if she weren't engaged in doing her Christian duty to get them one inch closer to godliness.
Which got her back to Brother Verber and his no-show. He was the one who'd counseled her to bring the bastards into her home-or what was left of it. He'd been full of praise for her self-sacrificing, saintly, charitable generosity. Why, if he'd said not to do it, she might well have heeded his advice. But he'd been right enthusiastic. He didn't seem to think it was a sin to disobey her husband, even though she'd said "love, honor, and obey" in a clear, steady voice and had certainly meant every syllable of it at the time.
Which got her back to Jim Bob.
She retreated to the bed and sank down on the edge so as not to wrinkle the bedspread. At last she took the telephone book and looked up a number. She didn't much want to admit things weren't going real well, but she didn't see what else she could do-if she wanted to be the mayor's wife and live in a fine house on top of the hill, complete with professional landscaping and new beige carpet. Her finger was trembling so hard, it took her a long time to fit it in the little circles, but she did.
"That is the second stupidest thing I've heard all day," I said. "The only reason it's not the stupidest is that I've already heard it."
"But it makes perfickly good sense," Ruby Bee said. She plopped a spoonful of yellow goop into Baby's mouth, then wiped the little chin with a dishrag. "Madam Celeste has the ability to help you find Robin Buchanon, and you're downright mulish not to ask her to assist in the investigation. I told you how she advised Gladys Buchanon to look in her top dresser drawer for her glasses, and there they were. Now, you can't close your eyes to the significance of something like that."
"Watch me." I closed my eyes until it got boring. When I opened them, I saw Ruby Bee bent down in front of the high chair, shoveling in more goop. "It's out of the question, and I don't want to discuss it further. Madam Celeste is a quack, as in duck."
"She is not," Estelle said in a scandalized voice. She was sitting at the bar, smiling approval at each successful spoon of goop. "Wipe his chin, Ruby Bee; he's liable to chap. Now, Arly, I don't know where you get off saying that sort of thing. Did you hear the story behind Madam Celeste's move to Maggody?"
"Something about a lost boy," I said. "Right out of a book about flying children, pirates, and fairies. I just came by to check on Baby and let you know where I'll be for the next six hours of my life. I did not come by to argue about something that is out of the question."
Estelle held out her hand to inspect her scarlet fingernails. "Well," she said airily, "isn't it timely that you'll have the opportunity to tell Madam Celeste yourself."
"No, I won't. I'm going up to Cotter's Ridge to see how many chiggers and ticks I can find. I'm going to come back to my apartment and take a long, hot bath and read a trashy thriller until my toes shrivel up. If I see fit, I may go hog wild and open a can of chicken noodle soup." I did not add that I would then go over to David Allen's house for a rematch and a bottle of champagne. Nobody's business.