Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 07 by O Little Town of Maggody

been crossed out with a notation that she passed away several years ago, as did a niece. They were the last two. In the event of Adele’s death, her house is to be sold and the proceeds turned over to her church. There’s a small policy to handle the funeral expenses. Is there anything else, Chief Hanks?”
    “I guess not, except for Patty May’s address and telephone number.”
    Amid comments about ingratitude and irresponsibility, Mrs. Twayblade found the information in a folder, copied it on a slip of paper, and thrust it at me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see to lunch.”
    I went back to my car and sat for a few minutes, idly watching squirrels scampering around in a last-ditch effort to hoard enough acorns for the winter. Three cars were parked in the lot, and in that there seemed to be at least three employees (TwaybIade, Tansy, and the unseen Deirdre, for those who’ve lost their scorecards), they did not merit consideration. A pickup truck at the back of the building was likely to belong to the cook. But someone must have waited near the emergency exit until Adele slipped outside and then driven her somewhere. Had she taken advantage of the plumbing crisis in the kitchen—or somehow caused it? In the former case, she must have made a telephone call. In the latter, she’d arranged the assignation in advance. But with whom?
    I decided to break for lunch, then come back and snoop around some more. Adele had left in the middle of the day, and not via alien space shuttle. There were houses along the road inhabited by the sort of people who stood behind the curtains and watched for their neighbors to do something worthy of excommunication from the church. The county home was not as busy as LaGuardia, but it wasn’t hopelessly remote and isolated. A bookmobile pulled into the lot to confirm my supposition.
    Vowing to return, I headed for the Dairee DeeLishus and another bout of indigestion brought on by Matt’s Special Secret Sauce.
     
    “I got the Maggody blues,” Matt sang, putting every ounce of his soul into it in case Katie had her ear pressed against the other side of her front door. He paused to take the last mouthful of whiskey from the pint bottle and started off again like a lovesick coyote on a mountaintop, or at least how he imagined a lovesick coyote would sound, having eschewed the hazardous badlands. “I got the raggedy … jaggedy … Maggody blues.”
    Rather than glued to the front door, Katie was in her bedroom, under the covers and with a pillow wrapped around her head. He’d been sitting in her hall for the better part of an hour, and she was as effectively trapped as a coal miner when the shaft collapsed. Lillian had warned her to stay away from him, and Pierce had ordered her to keep him happy till the tour started. Only Ripley knew what he himself preferred. She couldn’t call her mama. Folks were a sight more mannersome back home, and her mama’d probably take the next bus to Nashville to straighten out her daughter’s suitor. Her representative at the Figg Agency had resigned the week before to become an undertaker. She’d been fighting to build her career too hard to get to know much of anybody else.
    Out in the hallway, Matt was working on the second verse. “I went to my gray-haired mama, I went to my bald-headed pa, I begged ‘em both to show me the road to get out of Arkansas … ‘cause I got the Maggody blues.”

Chapter Seven
    Ripley Keswick drove by The Official Matt Montana Souvenir Shoppe. Seconds later, he passed Matt’s Billiard Parlor and Family Entertainment Center. He’d already been greeted at the edge of town by a sign welcoming him to the Birthplace of Matt Montana, noted Matt’s Parking Lot: $2.00 Hourly; $12.00 If-U-Stay-All-Day, and had braked to read the billboard with an arrow pointing down a county road to Matt Montana’s Birthplace & Boyhood Home (Guided Tours 9:00-5:00; Discounts for Children Under Twelve and Senior Citizens; Buses