Chapter 5
WHEN MISSY arrived home after her expedition to New Orleans she found Dr. Fontenot sitting on her verandah.
"Hiya, you decrepit bag of bones. Tangi ain't give you a highball yet?"
"No. I consider Tangi a hazard even at my age and I didn't make a sound as I came in. I want a full report on your trip."
"Sure. Well, in a capsule it was a success. Fellow name of Barrett probably will be coming up soon. And we also may be visited by that old Luciferian bastard you sent me to. Where do you find such friends?"
Fontenot laughed. "We went to school together."
Missy sighed. "I'm not plumb sure a psychiatrist is enough to help us here. What we need is an epidemic of the plague that would miss the harmless and afflict the lunatics that infest this cussed county. Take that Ellison boy-he'll be a father three times in a few months and none of the girls are fifteen yet. He's even worse than that sprain-brained father of his. And take the Norton family. It's full of worms. Back a generation or so, two or three committed suicide. Practically all of them, male and female, have been rummies. They still are." She looked at him darkly. "Comes from inbreeding. Incest all over the county, too. Too many of our men are sick in the head and our women are just as sick. Consider that outsized bag of suet, Joyce Flemming, pushing the booze and her neuroses for all she's worth."
"I guess it's time to tell you," said the doctor quietly. "She's only the girl's stepmother. Not many people know it."
Missy almost choked. "Well, I sure didn't What about Melody?"
"No. Fred asked me not to talk about it."
"How did I miss something like that?" fumed Missy, annoyed with herself.
"It all took place during Ike's last illness, Missy," he told her softly. "You were all wrapped in your own troubles. Fred's first wife died in childbirth in New Orleans. Fred married Joyce six months later, one of the reasons being that Joyce was the nurse who took care of the child during that time. Remember people wondered why he remarried so soon?"
"Oh-sure. Yeah, when Ike was sick, bless his polished little Hebraic soul, I didn't know from nuthin'. Then for a year I was so upset I should have been put in a padded cell-would have been, I guess, except for you. You couldn't save Ike but you did a great job of saving me. You gave me my mind back. I haven't forgotten that."
"It was a bad time," Dr. Fontenot said. "But you worked yourself out of it. You're an intrinsically solid woman, Missy, in the head as well as the behind."
"Just lay off my behind," she advised. "You'd split a gusset watching me get into a foundation garment."
Thunder shook the panes of the ornate fanlight and wind began to kick leaves into the footraces across the broad lawn.
"Storm's overdue," he said absently, draining his glass.
"Yeah," she replied. "Need a good rain for the hay... " Lightning ripped over the shade trees accompanied by a mighty crash of thunder.
Missy jumped sharply and the doctor winced. "Close," he said, with a wry chuckle.
"Too damn close. Probably hit the lightning rod over the kitchen. Let's get off this gallery. I always thought it was sort of silly to get killed by lightning."
They went inside and had another drink. Then Lula, the colored maid, called them to supper. Dr. Fontenot had eaten at Missy's table before and knew he was in for an experience.
They ate from a gigantic, standing rib-roast embellished with fluffy creamed potatoes, buttered broccoli, garden-fresh pole beans cooked with care and attention, home-cured slabs of bacon. Hot cornbread and beaten buttermilk biscuits rounded out the lavish meal.
Later they sat in the small den that adjoined Missy's bedroom and had strong black coffee into which a noggin of aged rum had been poured. The doctor smoked his slender cheroot and Missy her long Russian cigarette in a jade holder.
"I," said Fontenot with a dry grin, "have a putter longer than that cigarette holder. But not by much."
"Shut up and let me tell you more about this psychiatrist. He's just finishing his residency and his plans haven't jelled yet, see? I asked that he come pay us a visit and look the situation over. As for Hackthorne, he impressed me. His clothes don't fit and he's all arms and legs. He puts on a great front of being hard and cynical, though really he's not. And he seems totally without the obfuscating smog that I've gathered is common among his colleagues."
"I," said Fontenot positively, "shudder to think of the times when some of these so-called psychiatrists get persons and diddle with them until no one can do them any good. The patients go to those seances and come away really wormy."
"I diplomatically made the point that we'd rather not have the type," she replied.
They had more coffee and rum and smoked and talked while the storm vented its rage in torrents of rain. Then the muscular downpour began to slacken and the thunder moved off, finally died away.
Suddenly the phone rang. Missy went to answer it in the long hallway. The strident bellow of her voice suggested to the doctor that something was amiss. He was not wrong. She came back striding like a man, hard-heeled and belligerent. "What the hell do you think?"
He winced at the brassy volume of her voice. "About what? It might help if you told me."
"Melody Flemming has been raped and beaten. Come on."
He followed her out of the house and ran into her when she stopped short. "Oh, blast, the top of my car's down. We'll have to go in yours."
"That pleases me," he said. "I recall some rides with you that contributed to my white hairs."
But it took them only a short while to make the trip because the doctor drove faster than Missy had ever done.
Bridge Pilgrim met them on the front veranda of the Flemming home. "Sure glad to see you, folks. We need a better head than I have."
"Tell me," snapped Missy.
"I did, over the phone."
"Tell me again."
Bridge repeated what he knew, which almost was nothing. "I heard her scream when I ran to the barn... Lightning had struck it and set one corner afire. I was running to it when I heard Melody scream. I went in and there she was naked as a peeled egg, spread-eagled, tied hand and foot. Fellow made off through the window. Flames threw some light but he was in deep shadow and I couldn't make him out. I cut her loose and brought her to the house."
"What does she say?"
"Hasn't talked yet, to my knowledge. Seems dazed. Lora and Nola are with her now."
"Who," Missy wanted to know, "is Nola?"
"Oh... my sister. Got here a couple of days ago. Just out of nursing school."
Missy nodded. "Is Melody in her room?"
"Yes, ma'am. Sheriff's here, too."
"Then if I know Lora, she's got a pot of black on the stove."
"Yes. She made coffee."
"Good. You go in and have a cup. I'll see you in a few minutes. Let's go, Alcide."
Missy blew into the room with a little less notice than the storm had kicked up. Lora stood back. "Am I glad to see you!" she said, her sharp eyes snapping.
Dr. Fontenot bent over the naked girl. "Ah," he said softly.
"Don't give me any of your short lip, you sawed-off squirt. What's the verdict?" Missy went closer. "My God, he punched and clawed her. Honey-can you hear me?"
"Missy?" Melody's head came around and she held out her arms. "Oh, Missy... "
"Get out of my way," the woman blared at Fontenot. Sinking to the edge of the bed, she took the shaking girl in her embrace. Melody exploded into tears.
"Look, honey, who was it?" asked Missy softly.
The girl's face paled and her throat worked.
"Uh-oh," said Lora and thrust forward a basin she had ready for just such an emergency.
For five minutes Melody was actively ill. Later she leaned back and allowed Lora to put a cold towel to her throat.
"I'm gonna ask it again," said Missy harshly. "Who was it?"
"I don't know," wailed Melody.
"White, black, big, little? Dammit, you must know something about him."
"It was so dark," she said in a hoarse whisper. "It was such a nightmare. I don't know... I just can't tell you anything." A frenzied shudder shook her. "I just don't know."
"She'll recall more about it eventually," said Dr. Fontenot, stroking his spade beard and teetering on the balls of his feet. "Right now, she's emerging from shock. No time for questioning."
Missy got up from the bed. "Will she sleep now?"
"I'm giving her a shot," he said. "It would be smart if Miss Pilgrim, being a nurse, would remain with her the rest of the night."
"Who? Oh-" Missy turned and sucked in her breath. Nola Pilgrim was wearing a heavy silk robe because the nylon pajamas beneath it would have hardly been the thing in mixed company. But the robe did not disguise the fact that she was breathtakingly shaped for pleasure. And her face further shook Missy. It was beautiful, delicate with blushing color, engagingly vivacious. Her hair was a yellow gold and her enormous wide eyes a melting gray. Missy had never seen lips with such a satiny quality. But Nola, Missy saw, was recovering from what had been a classic black eye, greenish now, most of the swelling gone.
"I'm Missy Blumendahl," said the older woman, recovering quickly. She stuck out a square hand and Nola Pilgrim took it, her own hand slim and strong.
"Hello," she said softly in a voice that gave Missy the wriggles.
Missy chuckled. "You're lovely, child."
Nola's cheeks pinked more markedly. "Thank you."
"Where'd you get the black eye?"
"I ran into a door," she said evenly.
Missy took the hint and abandoned that line of questioning. "Well," she said, "guess I'd better wake Joyce."
Missy grinned with diabolical malevolence. "Lora, you crush that ice like I told you?"
"Yes'm. Enough to make ice cream."
"Good. Go get it and meet me in her room."
Missy found Joyce sprawled atop her sheet, draped in yards of old-fashioned nightgown. Her adiposity unrestrained was something to see. She seemed to flow in all directions, her breasts huge and pendulous, her body a great blob of protoplasm inside the gown. She snored with such wholehearted earnestness that Missy almost had a qualm of pity. Almost.
"Joyce," she said in a dulcet voice, shaking one fat shoulder gingerly.
Joyce snored the louder.
"Joyce!"
Even this leather-lunged cry broke the sleeper's rhythm only momentarily. Joyce gave a seismic grunt, heaved about a little and settled back, now snoring in real earnest.
At that moment Lora came in with a tureen full of crushed ice and water. "You gonna slosh her right there?"
"Right there," said Missy grimly. "The fat bitch."
"How come us don't drag her outa bed and prop her in the chair. Wettin' that bed's just gonna make more work for me."
"Oh, all right. Grab hold and let's get to heavin'."
By the time they had Joyce propped in the big bedside rocker, they were both spent and sweating.
"Would have been a lot easier to make the bed up fresh," complained Missy wiping her hot, red face and panting.
"Easier for you," said Lora, eyeing the sleeping beauty critically. "Look at 'er. All I got to do is pull that gown out and you got a straight shot right between them titties." Lora grinned expectantly, shivered a little. "Lord, Lord, but I'm glad it's you and not me."
"So stow the gab and yank the tent open."
Lora did so. With an accurate hand, Missy shot a gallon and a half of ice and freezing water straight for the goal. It bounced from Joyce's chest and cascaded downward, as Lora had anticipated, to collect in a frigid mass squarely over home base.
Joyce screamed like a wounded hippo. She heaved up from the chair so violently that she fell forward and crashed to the floor. This initiated fresh contact with the ice mush and again came a genuine and earnest scream. She floundered about for a moment then managed to get up on all fours. Somewhat clearer-headed now, she began to yowl...
"On your feet, dammit," bawled Missy just as vigorously. "You look like something the cat should drag out."
Joyce managed to struggle. "What is the meaning of this?" she yelled. "What in the name of all the saints in heaven do you mean coming in my room and dousing me with ice water? Answer me!"
"Because you couldn't be stopped sawing logs long enough to hear what happened tonight. The whole hod-tasseled place could have burnt down and you'd still have been blowing and going."
Joyce dissolved into an incoherent squall of rage and began to weep stormily. Missy promptly slapped her. "Now, listen to me or I'll slap you again." And Missy thereupon told the full story, making it as horrible as possible.
Her wet gown sticking to her like a second skin, Joyce was not a sight to attract when she collapsed into the chair and began to weep again. "Oh, dear God... my daughter... my daughter! What have I done to deserve this?"
"See?" said Missy to Lora, whose eyes were narrowed and wise as she watched her mistress. "She don't give a damn about the kid. All she's thinking about is herself. You wanted her wakened. There she is. As for me, I can't stand the smell in here." She whirled and marched out, a burst of curses from Joyce ringing deliriously in her ears.
Missy advanced noisily into the kitchen where a maid was serving buttered strawberry fritters to all hands, steaming hot to go with the coffee.
"What did you do?" asked Dr. Fontenot, "eviscerate her? We could hear the anguish all the way back here."
"The fat slob," snorted Missy, flopping down at the table. "It took all that ice to wake her." She grinned malignantly, took a sip of coffee and turned to eye the wispy little man who sat in the shadows of the big range. "Jess-durnit, I almost didn't see you. Hidin'?"
Jess Townley, the sheriff, took a stubby pipe from between his thin lips. His pale amber eyes were slitted with amusement. "I thought it best," he said in his habitually gentle voice, "the minute I heard you coming. How're you this evening?"
"Never mind me. What about the crime?"
"Haven't any thoughts about it yet. Nothing to go on. I went over the ground but you know how that rain was. Not a sign of anything. Of course, I haven't spoken to the girl yet-" Missy grunted and sipped coffee. "She claims it was too dark to make him out." She turned her head and looked at Bridge Pilgrim. "Bridge, what about her clothes?"
"I told you, she didn't have on any."
"I know that. But do you suppose she was parading around in the raw at night during a rainstorm?"
Millicent, the maid, cat-footed and the color of good molasses, made a sound. "She's done it before."
"Done what?" asked Missy.
"Well, Miss Melody likes to get stripped and let it rain on her. I seen her do it before."
"Well, I'll be a suck-egg mule," croaked Missy. "Imagine that."
"Oh, I think it's a rather mild eccentricity," said Jess Townley. "When I was a kid, I used to like to do that myself-in private, of course."
"I guess," said Millicent reasonably, "she thought she was in private."
Townley nodded. "You know, an attempt was also made tonight on a colored woman-over near the Nortons."
"Did you ask about Barry?" asked Missy ominously.
"I did. His mother swore he had been in the house from suppertime on. He was there when I called."
Missy made an ugly sound. "She was as drunk as a coot, I'LL bet. Probably didn't even know what she was saying."
Townley shrugged. "I'll admit she seemed a little, er, befuddled."
"If it was Barry," said Missy, "surely Melody will remember his beard."
Townley blinked. "He wears a beard?"
"Where men and cats have chin whiskers, Barry has a blob of pale fuzz you could stretch to call a beard."
Townley examined the cap of his left shoe. "I wouldn't place a lot of hope on her remembering anything like that. She must have been in a state of blind panic. I'll query her on it, though, soon as she's feeling better."
Townley got up and held out his cup, which Millicent filled again. He had a look of imperishability despite his slight but wiry build. His hair and eyes were the same peculiar amber color and his face was all planes and angles. Strapped about his waist he wore a .22 target pistol. No one Wears a small-bore target pistol for protection unless very good with it or very foolish. Townley had been sheriff for twenty years and there were three men whose demise at the other end of the little gun spoke well of his marksmanship.
He tasted his coffee. "I'm as disturbed about this as anyone," he said. "And I'm on the spot. Everyone looks to me for action but I have nothing upon which to base action. Until I do my hands are tied."
"Barry Norton," said Missy stubbornly.
"A likely candidate," he admitted. "I've heard a lot of peculiar things about him. But that isn't enough to pick him up on."
Missy spun about. "Bridge, how did Nola get that black eye?"
Bridge was silent for a moment. "Said she ran into a door."
Dr. Fontenot laughed. "Yes. She told Missy that. And I must say, it squelched the old girl."
"You shut up," snapped Missy, smiting her right thigh with her gloves. "Bridge, she said she ran into a door but you sound as if you have reason to doubt it."
"I do," he said shortly. "But I've nothing further to say."
She looked at him sharply. "All right, have it your own way. But if I was sheriff I'd take you to jail and hose it out of you. It might make interesting listening."
Bridge shook his head, causing a hank of dark hair to fall over his high forehead. "It's not like that, Missy. Thing is, I don't really know anything. She turned up with that black eye and wouldn't give me a straight answer when I questioned her about it."
"Have you noticed any change in her?"
"Yes. She's quiet. She never has been very talkative, but she's even less so now."
Missy nodded. "Bridge, y'all come see me some night with her. Come to supper."
A look of relief came over Bridge's tanned face. "Yes, ma'am. First chance we get."
Missy stood up. "Well, looks like we've done all we can here. How about driving me back to my shack, Alcide?"
"Sure thing," the doctor said. "I'll drop by here early tomorrow. Melody will hold until then."