Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 11 (2 page)

This was not a topic I wished to explore. "Tell you what, Eileen, as soon as I finish some paperwork, I'll drive around town and look for her car. She might have gone to the county home to visit her granny, or be working her way through the menu at the Dairee Dee-Lishus."

"Thanks, Arly," Eileen said, sighing. "It's just ... well, you know how it is."

I replaced the receiver, but without feeling the typical stab of exasperation I seemed to be experiencing these days whenever a local resident intruded with yet another idiotic complaint. Raz Buchanon, for instance, believed he was entitled to police protection whenever the "revenooers" went after his moonshine operation somewhere up on Cotter's Ridge. The reasoning is hard to explain. Hizzoner the Moron wanted me to fix a speeding ticket with the state police. Elsie McMay felt as though her old license plate (circa 1987) made her car legal. Pathetica Buchanon could not understand why she shouldn't sell herbal remedies out of her basement; she did, after all, have a one hundred percent guaranteed cure for prostate cancer, eczema, and vaginal warts.

Take your choice.

Maggody was more than a fly splat on the map. It was a mind-set, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could survive on stimulation that peaked with running a speed trap out by the petrified remains of Purde's Esso station. An APB for Dahlia would not result in grand drama, since odds were excellent that she'd drag in with a lame story about a sale at Kmart or a two-for-one ice cream sundae special at a café in Farberville.

My efficiency apartment above the antiques store seemed more cramped and less efficient every day. My mother's most exciting idea to date was to take an Elvis bus tour. Harve had failed to proffer an investigation centering on a zillion-dollar Brink's robbery; most of the cases foisted on me involved stolen dogs, wrecks, and pitiful domestic disputes in which I wanted to shoot all parties concerned -- innocent, guilty, and the odd bystander -- on principle.

I needed a break.

"Honey, you know I go every year," Jim Bob Buchanon said as he scraped the last of the scalloped potatoes onto his plate. "The Municipal League meeting in Hot Springs always gives me ideas how best to oversee our community."

Mrs. Jim Bob slid her napkin into a plastic ring, then began to gather up dishes from the table. "So you say, but it seems to me there's more drinking and partying than workshops. When have you ever come home with anything more than a three-day hangover?"

There wasn't much of an answer to that, so Jim Bob took a final bite and put down his fork. "I was reckoning I'd leave Thursday and be home Sunday afternoon. I'm particularly looking forward to the session Saturday on bonds. Why, we could have us another stoplight in no time at all."

"Who else on the town council is going?"

"Roy's off in Florida, and I can't see him coming all the way back for this. Larry Joe sez he can't go on account of Joyce's mother coming to visit. Hobert ain't been back to town since he was let out on parole. It looks like I'll have to drive all that way by myself."

Mrs. Jim Bob considered suggesting she could accompany him just so she could watch his face turn as green as the solitary lima bean on his plate. However, it was not a charitable thought, so she put it aside.

"Brother Verber came by this morning," she said, raising her voice as she ran hot water in the sink. "He wants me to organize a rummage sale at the Assembly Hall. As reluctant as I am to shoulder the responsibility, I owe it to the congregation to make sure it's done properly. I shudder to think about what might happen if Eula Lemoy tries to do it. Her linen closet is a nightmare of mismatched sheets, and her medicine cabinet is overflowing with expired prescriptions, hairpins, bent tweezers, and gunky tubes of ointment. You'd never think from the way she prances around town that she has piles, would you?"

"I never would have thought that for a second," Jim Bob said sincerely. Holding in a belch so's not to give her an excuse to launch into a lecture about unseemly table manners, he stood up. "I think I'll run down to the SuperSaver and finish up some paperwork."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "Is that
all
you're planning to do?"

Despite the fact the oven had been off for quite a while, he felt a sudden dampness in his armpits. Her eyes weren't as yellowish as most of the Buchanons on her side of the family (her legal name being Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon), but they were real beady and, at the moment, real shrewd. There wasn't any way she could know about his plans for the weekend, he told himself as he forced a grin. "Someone's got to make sure the store doesn't run short on canned corn while I'm gone. The ladies in the Missionary Society'd whup me when I got back."

"Would they?" she murmured.

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the back door. "I may be there till midnight, checking stock and working on the payroll. No reason for you to wait up, what with your busy day tomorrow getting ready for the rummage sale. Asking you to be in charge is the only smart thing Brother Verber's done since ... "

Unable to finish the sentence, he shut the door and hurried out to his truck, where a half-pint of bourbon was tucked under the seat. It was the only antidote he knew for the indigestion that invariably accompanied a dose of his wife's self-righteousness.

C'Mon Tours had no walk-in trade, since it was situated in the kitchen of a house in one of the shabbier neighborhoods in Farberville. Pesky zoning regulations made it necessary to use a post office box as an address, and not so much as a discreet brass plaque hung beside the front door of the residence.

Miss Vetchling, who served as president, office manager, secretary, bookkeeper, and receptionist gloomily thumbed through the folder marked "Elvis." With only six pilgrims lined up, she would barely break even. Certainly there would be no profit after the van rolled back to Farberville and the driver submitted the invoices for gas, motel rooms, and his fee.

She pulled out a calculator and crunched figures. She'd determined the price of the tour based on eight paying customers, and even then would have netted less than five hundred dollars to cover office overhead and unanticipated expenses. The van had more than a hundred thousand miles on the odometer, and had broken down twice on the Gala Azalea Tour to Little Rock. The windshield wipers had quit working on the Cherokee Spree to Tahlequah the preceding summer; the turn signals had done the same midway to the Branson Bonanza Weekend.

Being self-employed had not proved to be quite as invigorating as Miss Vetchling had hoped. It had seemed so very promising when she came upon the idea of arranging tours for those with modest means yet a thirst to explore the world, to feast their weary, middle-class eyes on the wondrous and even the exotic. Giddy with her own sense of derring-do, she'd used her savings to purchase the van (surely the first of a veritable fleet of sleek silver buses) and placed a small ad in the local newspaper. She'd thumbtacked flyers on bulletin boards outside grocery stores and taped them on utility poles along Thurber Street.

She knew better than to expect to make a profit during the first several months, but it seemed to her that rather than building up a roster of satisfied customers clamoring for the next tour, she was spending entirely too much time writing letters in response to their complaints. It was ridiculous to presume one would be staying in a Hilton when one was paying a pittance. She had never knowingly booked rooms in a dangerous establishment or requested a breakfast buffet of stale muffins and tepid coffee. She'd simply relied on the integrity of her colleagues in the travel industry. It was not her fault that some of them had let her down. How could she have known about dirty sheets, cockroaches, and, in one instance, a thriving drug business conducted in the lobby of the motel? None of her customers had been wounded during the raid. In all honesty, she reflected testily, it might have been the most exciting thing that would ever take place in their pedestrian little lives.

Miss Vetchling shoved a strand of gray hair out of her eyes and studied her calculations, searching for ways to economize. The married couple would share a room, as would the two women from Maggody. This left the male professor and a woman, who dotted the i's in her name with little hearts, in single rooms, unless they perchance struck up a romance on the road to Memphis. Otherwise, they might object to being roommates. Her driver had made it clear that he wouldn't so much as start the engine without the promise of a room to himself.

Perhaps it would be best to cancel the tour, she thought. As loath as she was to acknowledge failure, she was even more loath to spend her last few dollars to subsidize the pilgrimage. She would be obliged to return their money, however, which meant she might not be able to pay the long distance bill at the end of the month. Without a telephone, C'Mon Tours would go nowhere and she'd be back in some dreary office, filing papers for executives who could scarcely recite the alphabet.

A rap on the back door startled her out of her dispirited reverie. She gave herself a second to resume her composure, then gestured at the man on the porch to come into the kitchen.

He was not an imposing figure, but he was vital to her operation. He was several inches shorter than she and moved with an odd scuttle, as if he fancied himself to be a CIA operative approaching a snitch in a smoky Berlin nightclub. Liver spots and moles were sprinkled across his wrinkled brown face, and his eyes were disconcertingly cloudy for someone with a current chauffeur's license. Miss Vetchling was careful never to ride with him.

"Yes, Baggins?" she said.

"I changed the oil like you told me to," he said. "I suppose it'll make it over to Mississippi and back, but it sure as hell ain't going to pass no safety inspection when it's time to renew the plates."

"We'll worry about that at the appropriate time. At the moment, I'm trying to decide whether to cancel the tour. Only six people have signed up."

Baggins sat down across from her and looked at the figures she'd written on a pad. "Gas ain't gonna cost that much, and you're paying insurance even if the van's parked out back."

"That may be true," she conceded, not pleased to be corrected by an employee lacking a high school diploma, even one who was proficient in automotive repairs and maintenance -- skills that she suspected had been learned in prison. "That does not affect the cost of motel rooms, however. We require five rooms each night, and I've budgeted forty dollars for each. It comes out to six hundred dollars."

"I got a cousin what lives in Memphis. He might know of someplace cheaper than forty dollars."

She was pondering this when the telephone rang. "C'Mon Tours," she said into the receiver. After a moment, she continued, saying, "It does happen that we've had a cancellation for the Elvis Presley Pilgrimage, dearie. We will be able to accommodate you, but I'm afraid there's an additional charge because of last-minute adjustments. You do realize the price is per person, double occupancy, don't you?"

C'Mon Tours was back in business.

2

"I was under the impression this was to be an escorted tour," Estelle said as she climbed into the van and assessed her fellow travelers. It was a mixed bag, but everybody looked respectable -- for the most part, anyway. The two women who'd taken the first double seat were tacky, gussied up like they were planning to stop by church on their way to a beer bust. Estelle had never trusted women that wore fake fur coats, and she could see right off the bat that no critters on God's green earth had been sacrificed in the making of theirs.

Baggins stopped studying a map of Memphis long enough to put on his C'Mon Tours cap. "I'm the escort. My name's Hector Baggins, but don't go calling me by my first name."

"You're the one that's gonna lecture us about the important Elvis destinations and tell us fascinating facts about his life and times?"

"Hush, Estelle," said Ruby Bee as she sank down on the nearest torn vinyl seat. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll be back."

"She's absolutely correct about the escort," chimed in a man on the seat in the back. Ruby Bee swiveled her head to glare at him, but she couldn't make out much, since he was wearing a floppy cloth hat and darkly tinted sunglasses. His lips were on the thin side, like Mrs. Jim Bob's. What hair that was visible was jet black and came close to brushing the collar of his khaki jacket, but his voice was not that of some kid fresh out of high school. He sounded more like a politician, although it'd be hard to explain why he'd be traveling in a battered van if he was. She concluded he wasn't.

"Furthermore," he continued, "I have a copy of the brochure, and it implies that an expert in Elvisian folklore will be available to offer insights into -- "

"That'd be me," Baggins said, folding the map with professional expertise. "Anything you want to know, you just ask."

"In what year did Colonel Parker buy a controlling interest in Elvis's management contract and for how much?"

Baggins tucked the map behind the sun visor. "The next thing, you'll be asking me about his bowel habits. Sure sounds like somebody could use a laxative."

"I asked a straightforward question," the man retorted.

Baggins grinned. "You ever tried Ex-Lax? May do the trick."

"I beg your pardon!"

"Are we gonna talk about poop for the next four days?" said the woman clad in molting orange fur. "How icky"

There might have been a rebellion in the making had Miss Vetchling not arrived on the scene with a clipboard. She ascertained Ruby Bee's and Estelle's names, asked the man in the back if he was Rex Malanac, and looked at the two women. "Ms. Crate? Yes, thank you. Ms. Zimmerman? Oh dear, if that is a cigarette I see in your hand, you must put it out immediately. Out of concern for others, there will be no smoking permitted on the van. Also, alcoholic beverages are specifically forbidden, as well as the use of vulgar language."