"Her ridiculous stories served her well. They gave her an excuse to avoid civilized interaction with the other residents and cut short unwanted visits. Whenever her hearing aid was supposedly tuned in to this extraterrestrial radio station, she refused to join in a game of canasta or even partic.i.p.ate in the little crafts projects that Patty May arranged. Adele was the only resident who did not spend a pleasant afternoon making turkeys out of pinecones and construction paper for our Thanksgiving table decorations."

"Hard to believe she'd skip that," I said, "but we still have to find her."

Her pinfeathers bristled. "No, Chief Hanks, you still have to find her. I have to start filling out paperwork for the Department of Human Services. As far as I'm concerned, we have an unfilled bed."

A woman with wisps of yellow hair came to the doorway. "There's a cop car out front. They finally coming to take you away, Mrs. Twayblade?"

I went out to the porch. The officer opened the pa.s.senger door to let out a German shepherd of indeterminate rank, and they came up the steps.

"Thanks for coming," I said, squinting at her name tag. "Hope this isn't interrupting your dinner, Officer McNair. Yours and ...?"

"Larry's. No, he's always ready to go for a drive, and he knows we'll stop for a sundae on the way back if he does a good job."

McNair was brisk but not brusque. She asked a few questions, tugged Larry's leash, and we went down the corridor to the end room. Doors along the way popped open, and comments, some delighted and some apprehensive, wafted in our wake. I opened the closet door and gestured at the clothes. "These belong to Mrs. Wockermann."

McNair encouraged Larry to take the scent. The dog galloped out the door, his feet skidding and his toenails clicking on the vinyl floor. After a few circles, however, he sprawled on his haunches and looked expectantly at McNair, who looked at me and said, "He can't pick out the most recent trail."

"Let's try the exit," I said, holding open the metal door.

Larry seemed to think this was a splendid idea. Rumbling in his throat, he bounded into the parking lot, hesitated only a moment, and then took off like a canine backhoe. McNair and I smiled at each other as we followed along for fifteen feet. We frowned at each other as Larry tried a few different directions, stopped rumbling and wagging his tail, and sat down with an air of certainty that foreboded ill.

McNair shrugged. "She must have gotten in a vehicle. Let's be thankful she didn't leave a trail that led us to the woods. She wouldn't have survived long."

I thanked both of them, then went inside to find Mrs. Twayblade, who was attempting to put down a rebellion of sorts in the corridor. Once she persuaded all the women to close their doors, she led me to the lounge.

"Did that s...o...b..ring animal find anything?" she demanded.

I suppose I should have defended Larry's maligned salivary glands, but I let it go. "Mrs. Wockermann seems to have gone out the emergency exit and gotten into a car. Did you notice anyone parked out there between noon and two o'clock?"

"I was busy in the dining room, and once the meal was finished, I came out to the desk to do some paperwork. I can't see anything on that side of the house. Neither can any of the residents in that wing."

"What about Patty May and the other aide?"

"Their shift ended at four. Since we now know that Adele did not stagger off to drown herself in a pond, I see no reason to continue this investigation tonight. You may speak to the girls tomorrow morning. Shall we say ten o'clock, Chief Hanks?"

I could think of a lot of other things to say, but I needed her cooperation and she did have a valid point. I said, "Good night."

Chapter Six.

Mrs. Jim Bob came out to the porch of what had been the hardware store and inspected her husband's handiwork. "It's crooked. First it was tilted to the left, and now it's tilted to the right. I really don't have time to stand out here all afternoon while you play with the sign like it was a teeter-totter."

Jim Bob sat on the top of the ladder, slapping the hammer against the palm of his hand and doing his level best to keep his temper, even though he knew he looked like a d.a.m.n turkey buzzard perched on a rickety roost. For one thing, it never did one bit of good to argue with her when she was h.e.l.l-bent on some fool thing. For another, he had hopes that her venture would succeed so that he could hire an a.s.sistant manager at the SuperSaver and get in some serious deer hunting.

"Lookin' mighty fine, Sister Barbara!" boomed Brother Verber from the edge of the road. He wore a pale blue suit, a pink-and-blue plaid shirt with silver-rimmed snaps, and high-heeled boots that the salesman had a.s.sured him looked exactly like real leather. His cowboy hat was adorned with medallions on the band and a spray of small feathers. It was all he could do not to preen in his fine new clothes, but he reminded himself of his Christian commitment to humility. "Mighty fine, indeed! The tourists are gonna be thrilled at the chance to come browse in 'The Official Matt Montana Montana Souvenir Shoppe.' Why, it's all I can do to bide my time until the grand opening!"

She nodded at Brother Verber, wondering why he was dressed up like the host of a cable cartoon show. "I trust you'll be on hand to offer the benediction," she called. "I'll take comfort in knowing the Good Lord has seen fit to bless my little shoppe and to guide me through the pitfalls of the retail business. I'll make sure to express my grat.i.tude in the offering plate."

"Praise the Lord!" replied Brother Verber, still booming away on this crisp and crackly November morning. "Everybody in town should be following your upstanding Christian example. Don't you agree, Brother Jim Bob? Wouldn't the world be a kinder and gentler place if we all followed Sister Barbara's example?"

Jim Bob suspected the world would be a d.a.m.n sight quieter place if he bounced the hammer off the preacher's forehead, but he figured he was in enough hot water as it was. "Listen, Mrs. Jim Bob, I can't tell from up here if the sign's straight or not. Why doncha move out that way and tell me when I got it right?"

"I'd have to move to Oklahoma before you got anything right," she muttered loudly enough for him to hear as she went out to the gravel parking lot, crossed her arms, and squinted up at the sign. "The right side needs to go up ... up, I said ... no, that's too far. No, that's too far the other way. I swear, I'd climb up on that ladder and do it myself if I didn't have more important things to do."

Jim Bob didn't point out that he had more important things to do hisself, one of them involving an hour at Malva's trailer on account of her husband being out of town. He was getting real fond of her rabbity little eyes, those and other parts of her anatomy. In the aftermath of l.u.s.tful abandon, he'd promised to promote her to a.s.sistant manager, but of course he wouldn't because she was a woman. This wasn't to say some woman didn't have a head for figures. Mrs. Jim Bob could say down to the last cent what the coffee mugs cost wholesale and how much sales tax to tack onto the dish towels featuring a sanitized depiction of the Wockermann homestead. She'd badgered the delivery company into cutting her a cheaper rate and talked the printer into doing the sing-along songbooks in record time.

She'd scheduled half the high school girls in town into parttime jobs to avoid workman's comp and payroll taxes.

And now she was b.i.t.c.hing at him. He wiggled the sign up and down until she jabbed her finger and told him not to let it move so much as an inch while he nailed it firm.

"Did you hear about Adele?" Brother Verber asked her.

"Yes, but from what I heard yesterday evening, she just got in somebody's car and left. My best guess is that some distant cousin popped up out of the blue and took Adele home for a cozy little visit before Christmas. Since she's not dead, I don't see why Arly can't have her back in plenty of time."

Brother Verber was relieved to learn everything was under control. "Me neither," he said emphatically.

She went back up to the porch and looked up at Jim Bob, grimly thinking to herself that she'd never once looked up to him and couldn't imagine doing so in the foreseeable future. "Put the ladder away and come inside to start on the shelves. I need to poke Perkins's eldest into getting off her lazy rear to help me a.s.semble and dress the mannequin that's going in the front window. Tourists will be standing in line to pay five dollars and have their photographs taken with--"

The door closed on whatever else she said. Jim Bob crawled down the ladder, tossed the hammer in his toolbox, and a.s.sessed his chances of just sort of fading away to his truck, where he had a nice bottle of bourbon under the seat and a heart-shaped box of candy in the glove compartment. His wife was safely out of sight, but for some fool reason Brother Verber was still standing by the road, twiddling his thumbs and grinning mindlessly at the facade of the souvenir shoppe. "How's it going?" Jim Bob said as he dropped the toolbox into the bed of the truck.

"Just fine, Brother Jim Bob. Sister Barbara has ordered the postcards and racks for the vestibule in exchange for a percentage of the profits, and she's working on a little booklet that explains the history of the church and has a letter from Brother Hucklebee telling all about the sunny Sabbath morning when he baptized baby Matt Montana. Well, it would have been from Brother Hucklebee if he hadn't upped and died a few years back." He wiped away a tear as he gazed reverently at the perfectly aligned sign above the door of the shoppe. "We all owe Sister Barbara our undyin' grat.i.tude for what she's done for MagG.o.dy."

"Okay with me," Jim Bob said as he eased into the front seat of the truck and closed the door as quietly as he could, his lips aching as he imagined Malva's kisses.

Brother Verber loomed in the window. "Our undyin' grat.i.tude, like I said. I may just put that on a portable sign in front of the a.s.sembly Hall. The week the tourists start coming, I thought I'd put up something along the lines of 'This Is It! Your First Stop on the Highway to Heaven.' Then I got to thinking about it and I wasn't so sure." He stuck his head into the truck, warming Jim Bob's face with exhalations of peppermint. "I don't want people to think they'll die because they visit the a.s.sembly Hall and purchase mementos of the occasion. Whatta you think, Brother Jim Bob?"

"I think you should pray over it," Jim Bob replied piously, "and it's not a minute too soon to start. I'm sure the Good Lord has advertising executives on retainer. Maybe not sitting on that heavenly throne in the sky, but there's gotta be at least one somewhere this side of the fiery furnaces of h.e.l.l."

Brother Verber indignantly withdrew his head. "That's edging toward blasphemy, and blasphemy's the first step down the path of wickedness." Despite his brand-new trousers, he fell to his knees in the dusty gravel and clasped his hands tightly. " 'Ye have heard the blasphemy: what think ye? And they all condemned him to be guilty of death.' Guilty of death! Is that what you want, Brother Jim Bob?"

Actually, Jim Bob wanted to drive away, so he did.

Things weren't so lighthearted at the old house out on County 102. Ruby Bee had cobwebs in her hair, black crescents under her fingernails, new blisters on top of old blisters, and a nagging pain in her lower back that even a hot, soak in the tub wouldn't ease. "I don't see why," she said as she loaded a sack with beer cans from the sink, "Mrs. Jim Bob's unpacking souvenirs and dressing up the mannequin while you and I are out here in this dump like a couple of cleaning women."

Estelle finished sweeping gla.s.s into the dustpan and dumped it into a box already overflowing with trash. "Because we're on the executive committee, and somehow or other you ended up volunteering to see to the house. Mind you, I don't recall that I ever volunteered to lift one finger, so I guess that means someone else volunteered my services on a day when I planned to give myself a henna rinse and a manicure." She examined her fingernails. "Looks like I went after them with a chain saw, thanks to Miz Happy Homemaker."

"We're all in this together," Ruby Bee said, catching her breath as a small black critter scuttled down the drain. "You didn't seem reluctant to be on the Matt Montana Homecoming Committee, if I recollect. You were about as twittery as a pom-pom girl." She dropped the last beer can into the sack, carried it to the back porch, and then went through the house and out to the front porch to see how the work was coming along.

Nicely, she thought. There were new panes in the windows, and the shutters had been retrieved and repaired. Now the facade was white, the shutters forest green, and the ceiling of the porch as blue as the sky. A porch swing squeaked in the wind. Paint was dribbled on the porch and there were some bare streaks, but the high school boys recruited to do the work had done well enough. She could hear them talking as they painted around the corner.

More boys were on their way to the dump with the furniture, while others were hacking away at the weeds or dragging branches to the field for a bonfire. Their girlfriends were inside, washing windows, sweeping spiderwebs off the ceilings, wiping down walls, and waxing the pitted wooden floors. They were an industrious lot, considering they were making less than minimum wage, but Mrs. Jim Bob had laid it out plain and simple at a high school a.s.sembly. She'd started with a plea for civic pride, pointed out there would be money to be made from the influx of tourists, a.s.sured them that they would all have a chance to meet Matt in person and get his autograph and sit in the front row at the concert, and then ended with a few remarks about the possibility of a town meeting in which their parents would learn from the mayor hisself about the prevalence of drugs, liquor, and fornication--should no one sign up to work for the Homecoming Committee.

It had been a potent mixture, Ruby Bee thought as she looked across the road at the freshly painted sign in front of Estelle's house. She wasn't sure Matt Montana had hair fantasies, but she supposed he could. Estelle's new rates implied she was harboring some pretty wild ones of her own.

She shaded her eyes as Earl and Eilene Buchanon pulled into the driveway. In the back of Earl's truck was a mountain of furniture furniture secured by crisscrossed ropes and black rubber snakes. Ruby Bee thought Eilene looked a mite peevish, so she wasn't real surprised when Eilene jumped out of the truck the minute it stopped and slammed the door hard enough to bust Earl's eardrums.

"Any word on Adele?" Eilene demanded as she came up to the porch without so much as looking back to see if Earl was in pain. "There was a hard freeze last night. I could hardly sleep worrying about her."

"She's fine. She went off to visit a cousin, but she'll be back in a matter of days. How'd you do at the junk store?"

"We got most of the big pieces. The old crow gave me twenty percent off because we bought so much, but I still went over the budget by forty dollars. We're shy end tables, floor lamps, family pictures for the hall, a couple of braided rugs, and a quilt. I made a list."

Ruby Bee shrugged. "I reckon we can borrow some oddments from Roy's antique store, and if worse comes to worse, we can use some of our own furniture. Let me check how the girls are doing inside. If they're done with the floors, the boys can help Earl unload the truck."

"He can do it by himself." Eilene sat down on the porch swing and sighed.

Ruby Bee felt obliged to sit down next to her and pat her knee. The last thing the Homecoming Committee needed was more discord. At the meeting the fussing and fighting had gone on past midnight, what with everybody voicing opinions about what they should do and what they could do and how in heaven's name to pay for it. Now they were operating under a very uneasy truce of sorts that divided the territory and certain profits. The fees for touring the Wockermann house, for instance, would go into the committee coffers, along with what they charged tourists to go down to Boone Creek. The parking lot next to the ruins of the branch bank was deemed community property, since it belonged to folks who lived elsewhere and wouldn't know the difference. Joyce Lambertino had wondered out loud if that wasn't cheating the bankers, but she'd been hushed up real fast by her husband. There'd been a good hour of squabbling about the skeletal remains of Purtle's Esso station out at the edge of town, with half the room saying it could be fixed up as Matt's favorite hangout and the other half arguing that it'd take a miracle to fix it up in two weeks. Joyce and Larry Joe were on opposite sides of the room on that one, too. Now it looked like Eilene and Earl were b.u.mping heads over something, Ruby Bee thought as she glanced from Earl's snarly face to Eilene's teary one.

"You two have a spat?" she asked Eilene in a low voice so Earl wouldn't hear.

"You could call it that. While we were driving back from the store, I said we ought to consider setting up a campground in the field behind our house. Earl snickered and said it wasn't exactly convenient, as if I'd forgotten where we live. I said we could charge a lower fee and then haul the tourists over here. Earl started braying like a jacka.s.s. It was all I could do not to slap the smirk off his face."

"How would you haul them?" asked Ruby Bee, mindful of the cow pasture behind the Flamingo Motel. It didn't belong to her, but there was no way Obiwan Buchanon would find out as long as he stayed in Florida trying to earn money for the hormone therapy and operation.

Eilene perked up. "There was an old wagon at the flea market that could look right pretty with a coat of paint. We could hook it up to that little tractor Earl uses to mow the yard, and Kevin could be the driver. I was thinking we could call it the MagG.o.dy-Matt-Mobile."

"Eilene," gasped Ruby Bee, so overcome with awe that she sank back into the swing and fanned herself with her hand, "that is absolutely brilliant. I can see Kevin in a white jacket and cowboy hat just like what Matt wears, hauling those tourists down the road and maybe even leading them in songs as they roll along. You can charge a fortune for a ride in the MagG.o.dy-Matt-Mobile."

"And do something to help Kevin and Dahlia, I guess you've heard the nonsense Dahlia's been spouting all over town. I couldn't talk any sense into her, so I told Kevin to come over before church so he and I could have a private talk. He insisted he was just working his b.u.t.t off selling those fancy vacuum cleaners and was exhausted by the time he dragged home. That's what he said, anyway. Being his mother, I know when he's avoiding the truth and I have to admit there may be something fishy going on." Earl was still out by the truck untying the furniture, but Ruby Bee dropped her voice even lower and said, "You mean Kevin really is having an affair with another woman?"

"I don't know what to think, Ruby Bee. I do know that if Earl catches wind of this supposed affair, he'll march right into their living room with a hickory stick. Earl has his faults--it'd take me a month of Sundays to list 'em--but he won't tolerate that sort of thing."

Ruby Bee clucked sympathetically, but she couldn't say anything because Earl was struggling up the steps with a sofa balanced on his back. He didn't look like he was in the mood to debate the likelihood of infidelity.

I'd planned to be at the county home at ten o'clock sharp, but Harve had called and I'd related everything that happened the previous evening. I didn't argue when he said he was pulling his deputies off the case, since there didn't seem to be much point in their tromping through the woods. Before he hung up, we agreed that Larry was a real dumb name for a dog.

When I got to the home, Mrs. Twayblade was seated at the desk in the foyer, her watch set next to her clipboard. Even upside down, I could read the time: half past late.

"I'd better have a look at Mrs. Wockermann's files while I'm here," I began pleasantly.

"That's out of the question. The files are sacrosanct. They contain confidential medical records, as well as financial information of a very delicate nature. We do have a budget, so we monitor the Social Security and Medicaid benefits. Some of our residents have savings accounts and pensions, too, not to mention relatives who're obliged to contribute to their upkeep."

"Relatives are what I'm after. If I knew the name of Adele's next of kin, I might get a lead on her whereabouts. Otherwise, after I talk to the aides, I'm going to have to question all the residents. This is an official investigation. If I have to, I'll get a warrant and come back with several deputies. We may even need the dog again." I curled my lips to expose my canine teeth.

"Are you threatening me, Chief Hanks?"

"Of course not. I'm trying to avoid any further disruption of the schedule."

We glared at each other. An old woman clutching an aluminum walker thumped past the desk, talking to herself in a querulous voice. Seconds later two white-haired men pa.s.sed by, talking to each other in querulous voices. A girl in an inst.i.tutional green smock intervened and led them away. From within the lounge at the front of the building, a game show contestant shrieked. Pans clattered in an unseen kitchen.

"Oh, all right," muttered Mrs. Twayblade. "You wait here while I have a quick look at Adele's file." She went into a room at the back of her office and slammed the door.

Smells escaped from the kitchen somewhere in the back of the building. Although I couldn't identify them with any accuracy, there was nothing on the menu that appealed. Matt Montana's Hometown Bar & Grill was closed for the day while its proprietress toiled at the Wockermann house. Unless I settled for a burrito from the SuperSaver deli, this would be the second day in a row I would be forced to swing by the Dairee Dee-Lishus and choose between a Montana Burger (adorned with "Matt's Special Secret Sauce") or a Matt's Combo (a chilidog, fries, and a small drink). Both had prices comparable to a Manhattan bistro. Over at Matt's Billiard Parlor and Family Entertainment Center, they were charging two bucks for the long-necked bottles of beer, and the big jars of pickled eggs and redhot sausages had been replaced with sterile packages of chips. At the rate things were going, Raz was going to be selling his moonshine in six-packs.

The smells grew stronger, cabbage competing with fish and scorched milk, and I became aware of the strains of "The Little Drummer Boy" being played from behind a closed door. I was contemplating how best to smuggle in arms to the residents when the girl in the smock came back. "You're Arly Hanks, right?" she asked, watching the hallway behind me. "I'm Tansy. Have you found Miz Wockermann?"

"Not yet, but I'm still looking. Did you see any unfamiliar cars parked out on the east side yesterday, say, late morning onward?"

She widened her eyes, but the effect was minimalized by the heavy caking of mascara and midnight blue eyeliner. "Was she kidnapped?"

"Right now I'm a.s.suming she walked out the emergency exit at the end of the hall and got into a car. Did you see anything or anybody anybody out there that was the slightest bit out of the ordinary?"

"I wish I had, but I didn't. Miz Twayblade thinks it's real important to get all the residents in a festive mood for the holidays so they won't be too lonesome for their families. Earlier in the week we taped up stuff out here and sprayed snowflake stencils on the windows, and yesterday we were in the lounge all morning, decorating the Christmas tree. Patty May had everybody gluing red-and-green paper chains and singing 'Jingle Bells' till we went to the dining room to set the tables."

For the first time I noticed the halls had been decked. "Was Mrs. Wockermann in a festive mood?"

"She did come to the lounge and stuff her pockets full of divinity, but I don't remember how long she stayed. I wasn't paying much attention to anybody in particular. The ladder's wobbly, and folks kept b.u.mping into it while they griped at me about the lights and the tinsel. They were drifting in and out the way they do. Sorry."

"I understand."

Tansy was not ready for absolution. "Golly, I feel really bad. Miz Wockermann's sharper than a lot of folks give her credit, but I can't stop worrying about her." She shook her head sadly, then looked up with a much brighter expression. "Besides, if she really is Matt Montana's great-aunt, then it's likely that he'd come here to visit her again. I'll faint if I come around a corner and see him standing here. He's so incredibly good-looking."

"Matt Montana was here?" I asked, surprised. Ruby Bee and Estelle had pored over every bit of printed matter concerning Matt and related it to me in mind-drubbing detail, as in "then when he was in eighth grade, he played the trombone and ..." This isn't to say that I'd made an effort to retain the information for one second longer than it took to flow in one ear and out the other, but I probably would have at least chewed briefly on this. "He came to MagG.o.dy to visit Mrs. Wockermann?"

"Two years ago, according to what Miz Wockermann told Miz Jim Bob. Patty May and me happened to overhear the other day."

"I need to talk to her, too. Where is she?"

"Gone," Tansy said nervously. "Deirdre's coming in on a temporary basis until Miz Twayblade can find someone."

"Gone where?" I demanded, not sure if she meant "gone to the store" or "gone to live with the angels." Or "gone off her rocker," which is what I was afraid I was about to do.

"Gone to work in Farberville. She called this morning and told Miz Twayblade that she was quitting and wouldn't be in anymore. She found a super job taking care of a crippled gentleman in one of those big old houses by the park. She's making almost twice as much as she did here. She said that last night she got a call from an agency over there wanting her to start right away. Miz Twayblade was mad about not getting proper notice, but--"

"I notice," Mrs. Twayblade said from behind me, "that it's time to set the tables for lunch, Tansy. Do you think you could do that instead of engaging in gossip?"

"Yes, ma'am." Tansy fled. Mrs. Twayblade smiled thinly. "I studied Adele's file carefully. She has no living relatives. Her sister's name has been crossed out with a notation that she pa.s.sed 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 ingrat.i.tude 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 h.o.a.rd 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 a.s.signation 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 s.p.a.ce 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 Dee-Lishus and another bout of indigestion brought on by Matt's Special Secret Sauce.

"I got the MagG.o.dy 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 ... MagG.o.dy 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 MagG.o.dy blues."