Read Online Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 03 by Much Ado in Maggody - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Much Ado in Maggody
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believe.
Mrs. Jim Bob was obliged to stop by the Kwik-Screw several times a day to pick up a few things, but no matter how long she stood by the cash register staring across the road, she sure couldn't figure out what they were up to in there. She went so far as to ask Brother Verber if he thought they might be forming a coven to practice witchcraft and sacrifice goats and dance around buck naked. He was so disturbed by the suggestion that he thudded to his knees like a load of topsoil and offered a prayer right then and there for the salvation of any souls in need of it at the moment or in the future while they were dancing. Mrs. Jim Bob thought he was being a might melodramatic over what she'd meant to be an idle question, but she didn't say anything and left as quick as she could.
The chief of police was aware of parts of the above, since she was being bombarded with questions about the situation. The PD could have used a revolving door those days, and the linoleum would never be the same. And said person had not one tiny theory about it.
Not that it was keeping me awake at night, mind you. In that Ruby Bee's was the sole nightspot in town, there wasn't much to do except sleep. I'd run by Sherman Oliver's the morning after the picket sign incident, and he'd assured me that he wasn't about to file a complaint. We smiled, shook hands, and left it at that. I called Johnna Mae to tell her the news, and Putter said he'd give her the message. The dreadful tragedy was thus averted, at least for the time being.
I will admit I was wondering about this mysterious gathering, however, and growing increasingly concerned about my nutritional requirements. Canned soup is fine in a pinch, but it doesn't hold a candle to pork chops and cobbler. And cool beer on a sizzling afternoon, even if one had to listen to witty dialogue about hawg prices at the sale barn and the inconvenience of having to go all the dadburned way to the co-op in Starley City to get layer grit (don't ask; it has something to do with chickens and that's all I know).
Therefore, out of nothing more than pure and unadulterated selfishness, I went so far as to wave down Kevin Buchanon one afternoon when he peddled by the PD on his bicycle. "How's it going at the bank?" I asked with incredible slyness, ready to manipulate the conversation at will.
"How's what going?"
"Your job, Kevin," I said patiently. "You do still work at the bank, don't you?"
"Yeah, sure, I still work at the bank. It's just great, Arly. How're things going with you?"
"Just great. Have you popped the question to Dahlia yet?"
"What question would that be?" he said, his Adam's apple bobbing like a salmon fighting its way upstream. "Like, how's it going at the bank or something like that? Dahlia doesn't work at the bank, you know. She's a barmaid at Ruby Bee's. She has been for a long time, and I don't recollect she ever worked at the bank."
I took a deep breath and reminded myself that my goal was information. "I know that. What I wanted to know is if you'd asked Dahlia if she wanted to get married."
He gave me the look of a faithful old hound that'd just been kicked across the room. His eyes began to water. In a ragged voice, he said, "I mentioned something to her about it, but do you know what she said?"
"I don't suppose she shrieked with joy."
"She said -- " He broke off to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "She said that marriage was like being chained up in a dungeon. She said she wasn't about to get herself chained up like that because she was a human being and ought to be treated like a man. I asked her why she wanted to be treated like a man, in that she ain't one to begin with and never was, and she just gave me a real mean look and walked off. I like to have cried."
"Oh," I murmured, touched by his emotionalism if not his eloquence. "Does this have something to do with whatever is happening at Ruby Bee's the last few days?"
"What's happening at Ruby Bee's?"
"That's what I was hoping
Mrs. Jim Bob was obliged to stop by the Kwik-Screw several times a day to pick up a few things, but no matter how long she stood by the cash register staring across the road, she sure couldn't figure out what they were up to in there. She went so far as to ask Brother Verber if he thought they might be forming a coven to practice witchcraft and sacrifice goats and dance around buck naked. He was so disturbed by the suggestion that he thudded to his knees like a load of topsoil and offered a prayer right then and there for the salvation of any souls in need of it at the moment or in the future while they were dancing. Mrs. Jim Bob thought he was being a might melodramatic over what she'd meant to be an idle question, but she didn't say anything and left as quick as she could.
The chief of police was aware of parts of the above, since she was being bombarded with questions about the situation. The PD could have used a revolving door those days, and the linoleum would never be the same. And said person had not one tiny theory about it.
Not that it was keeping me awake at night, mind you. In that Ruby Bee's was the sole nightspot in town, there wasn't much to do except sleep. I'd run by Sherman Oliver's the morning after the picket sign incident, and he'd assured me that he wasn't about to file a complaint. We smiled, shook hands, and left it at that. I called Johnna Mae to tell her the news, and Putter said he'd give her the message. The dreadful tragedy was thus averted, at least for the time being.
I will admit I was wondering about this mysterious gathering, however, and growing increasingly concerned about my nutritional requirements. Canned soup is fine in a pinch, but it doesn't hold a candle to pork chops and cobbler. And cool beer on a sizzling afternoon, even if one had to listen to witty dialogue about hawg prices at the sale barn and the inconvenience of having to go all the dadburned way to the co-op in Starley City to get layer grit (don't ask; it has something to do with chickens and that's all I know).
Therefore, out of nothing more than pure and unadulterated selfishness, I went so far as to wave down Kevin Buchanon one afternoon when he peddled by the PD on his bicycle. "How's it going at the bank?" I asked with incredible slyness, ready to manipulate the conversation at will.
"How's what going?"
"Your job, Kevin," I said patiently. "You do still work at the bank, don't you?"
"Yeah, sure, I still work at the bank. It's just great, Arly. How're things going with you?"
"Just great. Have you popped the question to Dahlia yet?"
"What question would that be?" he said, his Adam's apple bobbing like a salmon fighting its way upstream. "Like, how's it going at the bank or something like that? Dahlia doesn't work at the bank, you know. She's a barmaid at Ruby Bee's. She has been for a long time, and I don't recollect she ever worked at the bank."
I took a deep breath and reminded myself that my goal was information. "I know that. What I wanted to know is if you'd asked Dahlia if she wanted to get married."
He gave me the look of a faithful old hound that'd just been kicked across the room. His eyes began to water. In a ragged voice, he said, "I mentioned something to her about it, but do you know what she said?"
"I don't suppose she shrieked with joy."
"She said -- " He broke off to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "She said that marriage was like being chained up in a dungeon. She said she wasn't about to get herself chained up like that because she was a human being and ought to be treated like a man. I asked her why she wanted to be treated like a man, in that she ain't one to begin with and never was, and she just gave me a real mean look and walked off. I like to have cried."
"Oh," I murmured, touched by his emotionalism if not his eloquence. "Does this have something to do with whatever is happening at Ruby Bee's the last few days?"
"What's happening at Ruby Bee's?"
"That's what I was hoping
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