"Sometimes you have to beat the sinfulness out of children what come from bad seed. When's the last time you saw the boy?"

"I don't rightly recollect, Barbara Ann Buchanon Buchanon. I get confused sometimes, especially when ..." Her hand moved toward her hearing aid.

"You promised!" Mrs. Jim Bob said a mite more shrilly than she'd intended.

Adele grudgingly lowered her hand. "It must have been a good ten years ago. After three days, I put him on the next bus home, and that was the end of him. Unless you count when he came two years, I guess."

"Matt Montana came to town two years ago?"

"I thought we were talking about little Moses Germander. He's what came and sat right there and visited for most of the afternoon. He was all growed up and filled out. He brought me some real pretty flowers and a box of candy. I had to give the candy to Iva on account of the pecans. Pecans have always given me gas. Everything gives her gas, so I figured it didn't matter either way."

"What did he want?"

"He didn't want nothing except to see how I was getting along. I'm old, you know. I've got my plot out by Mr. Wockermann and a paid-up burial policy that cost me three dollars a month for seventeen years."

Mrs. Jim Bob was not about to be distracted by Adele's approaching demise. She took a magazine from her purse and opened it to a photograph of a handsome young man in a rhinestone-studded suit. "Is this the boy?"

Adele frowned for a long time, sliding her tongue over her dentures and scratching her chin, letting the suspense build just to get even with her visitor. "Iva's better at faces than I am, but I don't think you should wake her. She's been asleep like that since last Thursday or Friday. She ain't dead, though. She grunts every time I poke her."

"Is this the boy who came in the summers?"

"This cain't be him. He wore ratty jeans and shirts with the sleeves chopped off. He was skinny as a rail, with red blistery pimples all over his face and back, and he wore his hair down to his shoulders like a girl. If Mr. Wockermann had been alive, he'd have dragged that boy down to the barber shop and held him in the chair while ol' Grubbins shaved his head."

"Is this who came two years ago to visit you?"

"I reckon it is."

Mrs. Jim Bob thought she heard a m.u.f.fled noise from out in the hallway, but she didn't hear anything else and she finally dismissed it as a manifestation of Iva's problem. When she looked back at Adele, she realized that her hearing aid had been turned on and the only responses from then on would concern the high jinx taking place on the far side of the moon.

Not that she cared. She had the story just as she'd promised Mr. Ripley Keswick in Nashville, Tennessee, and she had time to call him back and relate every word of it before she got dressed for prayer meeting.

The "real humdinger" of a wreck had made for a lively day, but the next day was less exciting than one of Brother Verber's h.e.l.l and-d.a.m.nation sermons. I ran a speed trap at the north end of town until I finished my book, and then followed the school bus to the county line, watching the children behind the dusty windows stick their little pink tongues at me. The older ones, and we're talking ten or eleven, preferred a more traditional hand gesture to express their contempt for the law. I figured we could discuss it in a year or so, when I caught them drinking beer, smoking pot, or drag racing out on the back roads. MagG.o.dy doesn't offer its youth much in the way of wholesome entertainment. Count the condoms and the whiskey bottles out by Boone Creek if you don't believe me.

It was close enough to dusk to call it a day, although not much of one. I drove back through town slowly, not sure if I wanted to go back to my one-room efficiency over Roy Stiver's antique store and drown my sorrows in chicken noodle soup, or suffer through the whiny songs on the jukebox in order to get a decent meal.

Chicken soup it would be, I decided as I pulled into the parking lot in front of the redbrick PD and went inside. My latest gift from the town council sat on the desk, blinking angrily at me. The town councilmen--there'll be a councilwoman right after the local ducks start quacking in French--don't give me things in order to express their deep and abiding respect for my dedication to duty. They're just too d.a.m.n cheap to pay a salary for a deputy.

The red eye was menacing, the blinking nearly hypnotic. I eased past it and went into the back room to put my radar gun away in the metal cabinet that also held my gun and a box with my last three bullets. If the Four Hors.e.m.e.n were to come thundering into town, I'd shoot Famine first and then start drawing straws.

The front door opened and someone shuffled into the room. The accompanying odor swept through the office like a tidal wave, swelling into comers and b.u.t.ting against the ceiling. If it had color, it would have been bilious green. I recognized it as the unlovely emanation of Raz Buchanon, the local moonshiner. Tourists find him quaint. I find him a royal pain in the a.s.s.

"We're closed, Raz," I said as I glumly regarded his filthy overalls, stringy gray hair, bloated belly, food-encrusted whiskers, and the ominous bulge of his cheek. "No crimes allowed after five o'clock. And do your spitting outside, please."

I would have had equal luck communicating with a tree stump. "Now, Arly," he sniveled, "I got some right important bizness with you. Somebody dun went and broke the law, and you being the police, you're the one what ought to do something."

"Did Perkins steal another of your dogs?"

"If that sumb.i.t.c.h so much as looks cross-eyed at any of my dawgs, I'm gonna blow his G.o.dd.a.m.n head off." Raz sat down and began to scratch aimlessly. He comes from a particularly th.o.r.n.y branch of the Buchanon clan, one renowned for mindless retribution and infrequent displays of animal cunning. I doubted he'd ever been to a wedding or a funeral in which shotguns failed to outnumber guests. None of them differentiates among uncles, aunts, siblings, cousins, and parents. The consanguinity's too complex.

I sat down behind my desk and reminded myself to breathe through my mouth. "Okay, Raz, let's hear it."

"Well, the thing is, I was a-drivin' into town from over by Hasty, and out of the blue, Marjorie gits a funny look on her face like there's a flea in her ear."

"There probably was a flea in her ear, Raz," I said, not pointing out the obvious source of said flea.

"This ain't the time for jokes, Arly. Anyways, Marjorie's been acting odd lately, but this time she's acting so dadburned odd that I stop my truck, turn around, and go driving back to the low-water bridge, looking real careful like for whatever was puzzlin' her. Then I seen it, and I liked to run clean off the bridge."

I have to admit I was getting interested. "And?"

"Some low-down sumb.i.t.c.h moved the sign."

Here I'd been hoping to hear about aliens emerging from a silver saucer, or Mrs. Jim Bob and Brother Verber capering indiscreetly in a cornfield. "What sign?" I asked.

"The town limit sign." He creaked to his feet and stomped over to the front door to spit in the parking lot. To my regret, he stomped back and sat down. "That sign used to be right past Estelle's. Now any fool can see it's by the bridge. What are you gonna do about it?"

I stared at him. "Have you and Marjorie been lapping up too much moonshine?"

"I don't know nuthin' about any moonshine. Don't take to bein' accused, neither."

"Jesus H, Raz, every last person in town knows you have a still on Cotter's Ridge. I've been trying to find it for three years. Cut the c.r.a.p about not knowing 'nuthin' about any moonshine,' okay?"

"I don't know nuthin'," he muttered into his whiskers. "So what are you aimin' to do about the sign? n.o.body kin just up and move a sign like that."

"If the sign has been moved, what earthly difference does it make to you? You live out the opposite direction."

"It just ain't right," he said, then again creaked to his feet and went to the door to spit. "You better have a look fer yourself," he said over his shoulder, scratched his b.u.t.t, and ambled through the doorway. "And check your messages."

I did, but they were all from Ruby Bee and centered on how displeased she was to have to speak to an answering machine. It was getting dark and I was getting hungry, but I was curious enough to take a flashlight out of a drawer, hang the CLOSED sign on the door, and drive toward County 102. The obvious explanation was that Raz was confused, I thought, more than a little confused myself. He was sly enough to hide his still from the long arm of the law, but he was a Buchanon, after all. I would have had no problem if he reported the sign was shot full of holes or embellished with an obscene word. Vandalizing property is a popular hobby for young and old. But to move a sign fifty feet?

Estelle's house was on the right, and farther down the road, the Wockermann house loomed on the left. It was dark and deserted, just as it'd been since the last tenants moved away. The house had been in disrepair then; surely by now it deserved to be condemned.

I continued past the chicken houses, one charred and the other merely ramshackle, and parked by the low-water bridge, which, for the uninformed, is a concrete swath that allows water to flow across it. After a hard rain, it can make for an exciting minute or two. The sign was where Raz had claimed it was. It was pockmarked and rusted to the edge of indecipherability, but after a couple of years in MagG.o.dy, most everything and everybody is.

I'd never paid attention to its location, however, and I felt pretty d.a.m.n foolish standing in the dark and shining my flashlight at it. It finally occurred to me to direct the beam at the ground. The earth was fresh. Frowning, I walked along the road until I came to spot where I found a depression, the earth also freshly disturbed.

And to think I keep griping that nothing ever happens in MagG.o.dy. Tsk, tsk.

"No luck at the courthouse?" Ruby Bee asked solicitously. "You look as worn out as a cow's tail on a humid day. Let me get you a gla.s.s of sherry."

Estelle considered marching out the door, but reconsidered and perched on her stool. "I spent all morning looking through the birth certificates for the whole year, but all of 'em had home addresses that weren't in MagG.o.dy. There was one rural route that got me stiffed up. Then the clerk got out a county map and we tracked it down to a road out by Hamilton."

"All that work for nothing." Ruby Bee set down the gla.s.s of sherry and made sure the pretzel basket was filled. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you, but some of us had better things to do all day than to flip through dusty old books." She took a dishrag and began to wipe the bar, her expression perfectly innocent except for a bare trace of a smile. Just in case Estelle missed the message, she started humming Matt Montana's best-known song.

"I suppose I could call Patty May Partridge and ask her if she's heard anything new," Estelle said with a sigh.

"She got off work at noon today."

"Then maybe I'll call her tomorrow, although it probably ain't worth the effort."

Edging closer, Ruby Bee hummed louder and made sure she wiped in time with the music.

Estelle remained oblivious. "I saw a real pretty sweater at the K-Mart, and nearly bought it, but then I couldn't think what I'd wear it with, so I put it back. It was pink, with brown flowers and seed pearls."

Ruby Bee's eyes were bulging and her lips beginning to ache. She quit the humming and said, "Did I mention that Patty May got off work at noon?"

"I seem to recollect that you did." Estelle inspected a pretzel and stuck it in her mouth. After a moment of thoughtful mastication, she said, "These are a mite stale. You ought to throw 'em out tomorrow and open a fresh bag. I know they ain't the reason business is so bad, but you don't want to let your standards slip."

"Aren't you gonna ask why I happen to know the precise time that Patty May got off work?"

"I think I'll go home and heat up the lasagna I fixed last night." She slid off the stool and acted like she was leaving, although she wasn't about to until she heard whatever it was that was setting Ruby Bee to twitching like she had her finger in a light socket and her foot in a bucket of water. "Don't forget that we're going to that flea market on Sat.u.r.day morning. On the way, we may just have to run by the K-Mart so I can take another look at that sweater."

"Because she came here to tell me her big news," Ruby Bee blurted out in desperation. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up a piece of paper and flapped it. "I wrote down the details so I wouldn't forget anything."

"How'd you find time to do that during your busy day?"

"Do you want to know or not?"

It could have escalated into a fine Mexican standoff, but Estelle swallowed her pride (for the moment, anyway) and climbed back up on her stool.

"I don't know what's wrong with Kevvie," Dahlia wailed, rocking back and forth so wildly that Eilene was worried about the future of the swing, the porch, and even the second story of the house. "I ask him what's wrong, but he won't tell me. You're his ma. You got to make him tell me what's wrong!"

Eilene looked down at the moist mountain of misery. "All newlyweds have problems getting adjusted to married life," she said as warmly as she could, considering she'd said it--or other similar plat.i.tudes--for the best part of an hour. On the other hand, Dahlia hadn't offered much in the way of variations and it was beginning to wear thin. "Tell her to turn it down out there," Earl called from the living room, where he was leaning so close to the television screen that his nose hairs tingled with static electricity. "The ball game's in the last quarter. I can't hardly hear the announcer over all that racket she's making."

"He's changed," Dahlia continued. "Yesterday there was a woman doctor on Sally Jessy, talking about how to save your marriage. I listened to every word she said. Last night when Kevvie walked through the door, I was wearing a naughty black nightie. I'd pinned my hair up on top of my head, put on makeup, and splashed half a bottle of cologne behind my ears. He went right by me to the bedroom like I was invisible."

Eilene fought back a grimace as she imagined the scene.

"He was tired, honey. Going to all those houses, lugging that heavy suitcase--it's wearing him out."

"Something's wrong with Kevvie," she recommenced to wailing, making so much noise that dogs across town were howling and most of the neighbors on Finger Lane had come out on their porches to listen.

"Are folks going to remember you?" Ripley asked as he studied his notes.

Matt grinned. "It was a good ten years ago and I was just a runty kid trying to keep himself amused. If the same hick's running the pool hall, he'll remember kicking me out on my a.s.s for stealing field whiskey from his stash in the back room. Used to be an antique store across from that, and if it's still there, the old guy might tell the reporters about the time I tried to set fire to his cat. The preacher might remember how close I came to s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his daughter in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the church while the choir sang 'Come Unto the Bosom of Jesus' ten feet above us."

"What about your great-aunt?"

"She's the one what caught us in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

Ripley sighed as he imagined the reporters' collective glee (and ensuing articles) if they were privy to Matt's attempts to amuse himself. The tour would collapse, as would the opportunity to sell Country Connections, Inc. Pierce and Lillian refused to even meet with Whitey Breed, but Ripley'd had several clandestine conversations and had gone so far as to offer rosy financial projections based on the success of Matt's new alb.u.m.

d.a.m.n.

Chapter Four.

Mrs. Jim Bob settled her gloves in her lap, smoothed her skirt over her knees, and said, "Now, Brother Verber, I know you think it's sinful for a woman to work outside the home. You quoted a pa.s.sage from the Bible about how women are supposed to glean and reap in their husband's field. At the time, you said anything to the contrary was sinful and an abhorrence unto the Lord." She gave him a look of such unfathomable intensity that it sent a trickle of sweat down his back. "Do you still hold with that?"

"Has Jim Bob taken up farming?" he asked cagily.

"No, he hasn't taken up farming. Just how sinful is it for a woman to work outside the home?"

Brother Verber slithered to his knees and clasped his hands on the back of the pew. "Let us pray for help on this, Sister Barbara. Let us beseech the Lord to tell us if He's changed His mind in recent years. It ain't up to a lowly preacher like myself to speak on behalf of Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name."

"I don't have time to sit here while you beg the Lord for an update on His opinion of feminist propaganda. Just this morning I had another call from Ripley Keswick. He wanted to know if the same folks still own the pool hall and the antique store from ten years ago and if you were the preacher back then."

"What'd you say?" She struggled to keep a civil tongue. "That the pool hall changed hands last year, that Roy Stivers left last week for Florida, and that you came eight years ago. He seemed relieved, for some strange reason. Then he said for the benefit concert we're supposed to come up with someone to be benefited. What he wants is a little child in need of an organ transplant, but I couldn't think of a soul. Can you?"

"Can't think of anyone off the top of my head," he admitted. "We can hope for the best, but if no child starts ailing, we might have to settle for a family in dire straits. We've got a town full of them these days."

"Well, we're gonna have a town full of media folks and fans driving in from all across the country to have a look at the birthplace of Matt Montana. Thousands of people visit Graceland every year, and Elvis has been dead for years."

Brother Verber whistled under his breath. "Paying to tour the house, eating in restaurants ..."

"And more than likely eager to see the church where baby Matt was baptized."

"Where would that be, Sister Barbara?"

She began to tug on her gloves. "Adele attended the a.s.sembly Hall three times a week for seventy years before she had to go into the old folks home. I can't see her lugging a baby down the road to the Methodist church."

"But according to your story, Adele didn't want anyone to know that her niece had given birth to a bushcolt, so she wouldn't have announced it to everyone in town by having a public baptism, would she?"

"Mr. Keswick doesn't want any mention of Matt's illegitimacy. I told him I'd speak to Adele about remembering how the girl's husband was killed early on, maybe in a war. If she'd been married, then the baby wouldn't have been a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Therefore, this is where he'd have been baptized, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," he said, bewildered by her logic but willing to go along with it if she was.

"And if there was a bra.s.s plaque in the vestibule that said as much, n.o.body'd dare argue. It's in everybody's best interest to give those tourists places to see so they feel like they're getting their money's worth. You know what those tourists are going to need? A map showing all the important places. I'll call the shop in Farberville and see what kind of deal they'll give me."

"What shop might that be, Sister Barbara?" Brother Verber asked meekly, embarra.s.sed by a growing sense of his own ignorance in such matters as Matt's baptism and maps of MagG.o.dy and whatever else she had in mind.

"The shop that's doing the T-shirts, coffee mugs, place mats, coasters, and other high-cla.s.s items. Didn't I already explain I've taken a lease on the hardware store and am aiming to open a souvenir shoppe? I've always known I have a keen head for business and was just waiting for the perfect moment to share my G.o.d-given talent with the less fortunate. You get to work on that plaque, Brother Verber, and consider some sort of table with an offering plate and a little sign requesting contributions to maintain the church. You can put it next to the postcard racks I ordered for you."

"Twenty-five years ago Brother Hucklebee was baptizing folks in Boone Creek," he felt obliged to say. "Up until four years ago, so was I. 'Member how everybody agreed to chip in on an indoors facility after the water moccasins chased the choir half a mile downstream? I still can see Eula Lemoy, her robe hitched up to her waist, skedaddling across the gravel bar. I laughed so hard I liked to split my britches."

"Then what we'll have to do is find the place alongside the creek and put out some sort of historical marker. I'll just add it to the map." She took out a pad and wrote a note to herself to stock snakebite kits in the store. "I've got to track down Merle Hardc.o.c.k and finalize the lease agreement. You get busy on what we've discussed, and do try to think of some child in need of a new liver."

Brother Verber sat for a few minutes, lost in thought not of a bilious child but of bushy-tailed tourists lined up outside the Voice of the Almighty Lord a.s.sembly Hall. When he finally got to his feet, it wasn't to go find a church directory and see if any of the names jogged his memory. Instead, he went back to the rectory and started making calls to learn what was involved in being able to accept all major credit cards.

I was sitting at the desk, the remains of a cheeseburger and onion rings sprinkled in front of me. I'd been forced to seek sustenance from the Dairee Dee-Lishus because Ruby Bee had called earlier and announced she and Estelle were heading for a flea market outside Starley City and wouldn't be back until midafternoon. Why she'd bothered to call the likes of me was the only interesting element in the story, but I'd given up musing about it and reconciled myself to lunch as described above.

The case of the transient sign was the only thing on my agenda. I could go fingerprint the pole, but then I'd have to fingerprint the entire local population (we lacked "the usual suspects") and that sounded like a lot of trouble. I could keep it under surveillance all night from the derelict chicken house. That also sounded like a lot of trouble. No motives came to mind, and Raz Buchanon was the only person in an uproar over this particularly heinous crime. Everybody else was too concerned with rent and grocery money to volunteer for a stakeout.

No, I thought as I leaned back and propped my feet on the corner of the desk, the case would remain a mystery, and somewhere down the road, perhaps it would qualify as a local legend, replete with sinister overtones. Rather than dating every event as before-or-after Hiram's barn burned, we'd use before-or-after the city limits sign came to life one dark and stormy night and went for a stalk down County 102.