Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 10 by The Maggody Militia

distance as I finished writing up a report for Harve about a motorcycle wreck out by what the high school kids called “Dead Man’s Swerve.” The driver hadn’t been wearing a helmet, but since he was a Buchanon, landing on his head had done no perceptible damage. I’d had to explain this to the paramedic, who was concerned when the cyclist couldn’t say for sure how many fingers the paramedic was holding up.
    Deer season had officially started. I put down my gnawed pencil and opened a drawer to ascertain I had enough blank forms to survive the next three weeks. The previous year there’d been two wrecks out by the low-water bridge, a half-dozen DWIs, three instances involving nonfatal shootings, and one fatal shooting. Harve and I had agreed the last was suspicious, since the victim had been dating his companion’s ex-wife, but there was no way to prove anything.
    Earlier in the day Harve had called with the scoop on Sterling Pitts, which amounted to zilch. No rap sheet, no outstanding warrants, no entanglements with the law more serious than parking violations. A year ago Pitts had complained to the police about a neighbor’s dog, and more recently about black teenagers loitering in his parking lot in the afternoons. All in all, he was a law-abiding citizen and a successful businessman, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to keep him out of Maggody.
    I was getting ready to take the accident report to the sheriff’s office (and maybe take myself to a matinee) when the door opened and in stalked Raz Buchanon, a successful businessman if not precisely a law-abiding citizen. As always, he was wearing bib overalls stained with tobacco juice and other unidentifiable substances. His whiskers were caked with the remnants of meals from the previous decade, and what remained of his gray hair glistened with grease.
    “I got to talk to you,” he said as he plopped down in the chair and scratched his chin.
    “And how are you today, Raz? Enjoying the last of the autumn foliage?”
    “That ain’t what I come here to talk about.”
    I rocked back in my chair, but there was no way short of going out the door to avoid his sour stench. “How’s Marjorie these days? Is she snuffling up tasty acorns and hickory nuts?”
    Raz let out a wheeze that engulfed me in a toxic haze. “Marjorie ain’t doin’ well. She’s a pedigreed sow, ye know, and has a delicate nature. Lately she’s taken to moping around the house, sprawled in the corner instead of in front of the television, turning up her snout at most ever’thing she used to gobble down. Why, yesterday evening she wouldn’t take one bite of turnip greens.”
    “Did you fix them with ham hocks?” I asked.
    He gave me a horrified look. “I’d never do something like that! That’d be like her eating kin. No, ma’am, I don’t even use lard anymore.” He resumed scratching his chin and sighing. “I reckon the problem she’s bein’ crumpy is on account of that dadburned cousin of mine. You know about Diesel livin’ up on the ridge?”
    “Actually, I do.”
    “Well, used to be Marjorie’d wander around while I was”-he hesitated, obviously not wanting to confess to a felony right there in the PD-“huntin’ Squirrels or pickin’ poke salet, but the other day she must’ve got too close to Diesel’s cave. The next thing I knew, she came trotting as hard as she could into the clearing, her eyes all round and her ears pasted back, and squealing somethin’ awful. Afore I could figure out what in tarnation was goin’ on, Diesel charged right into me and liked to knock me plumb out of my boots.”
    I clucked sympathetically. “I don’t know what to tell you, Raz. There aren’t a lot of veterinarians trained to deal with traumatized sows, pedigreed or otherwise. All I can suggest is that you leave Marjorie at home when you go fiddle with your still.”
    “Who sez I got a still?” he said, puffing up indignantly.
    “Get off it, Raz. Everybody in the damn