Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 09 Read Online Free

a starter on the Coffeyville varsity team twenty-five years ago. Nobody except parents had ever come to the games, girls’ athletics being a joke back then, but the team always played as if the bleachers were packed and a championship was at stake.
    Thinking about that was enough to keep her entertained as she sat down at the kitchen table and waited for the casserole to burn.

2
    Dust was hanging in the soupy heat as I drove past the Grappers’ house, bounced up a lane to a pasture, and parked behind the bus. Two dozen men in jeans and sweaty shirts were unloading the trucks. As I climbed out of my car, I was treated to wolf whistles that brought to mind a Manhattan construction site. It was not a warm memory.
    “It’s a cop,” one of them said as he paused to stare. “Can I spend the night in your cell, honey? I’ll bet you got the hottest little cell in town.”
    “Hey, cop,” said another, “want to charge me with exposing myself in public?”
    “If she saw your prick, all she’d give you is a ticket for loitering.”
    “I’d sure like to have the long arms of the law wrapped around me tonight.”
    “Enough of this,” said an older man as he appeared from behind one of the trucks. “This is a pasture, gentlemen. It’s going to be dark in two hours, and you will be unable to see what you’re stepping in.”
    “Bullshit,” said one of my admirers.
    “Precisely.” The man approached me with an apologetic smile. Despite the temperature, he wore a tweedy jacket and a dark tie; he looked so straitlaced that he might have been the headmaster of a prep school on Parents’ Day. He was tall; expensive tailoring minimized his bulk. His face was benignly wrinkled and worn, but his eyes, alert behind wire-rimmed bifocals, focused on my badge.
    “May I help you?” he asked with a trace of wariness.
    “I’m Arly Hanks, the chief of police down the road in Maggody. Are you Malachi Hope?”
    “No, I am not. Are you here in your official capacity, Miss Hanks? Has there been a violation of a local ordinance?”
    “I’m not aware of any violations. I just dropped by to see what’s going on.” I stepped back as two men carried by a massive bundle of canvas. “If you’re not Hope, who are you?”
    “The drive from Little Rock was so tiresome that I have forgotten my manners. I am Thomas Fratelleon, the business manager of Hope Is Here, Incorporated. I handle all the paperwork, including whatever we might require in terms of local permits and variances. It’s my understanding that we are outside the city limits, but we certainly desire to cooperate with the authorities in every way we can.”
    “Oh, really,” I said, unimpressed. “I was told you’re staging a tent revival out here. Where do you and all these gentlemen plan to stay for the next ten days?”
    “Once they get the site prepared, they’ll be at a motel in Farberville except when we need them here. Some of them will undoubtedly have encounters with the local police, obliging me to hire others others of their ilk, but that should not concern your department. Our special-effects man and I will set up cots in an area behind the stage in order to discourage trespassing.”
    “And Malachi Hope?”
    “He and his family will stay here, too, but in the RV until we can arrange for something more permanent. Once we get it hooked up to the generator, it’s self-contained and more spacious than you’d suspect. It has a small bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room with a kitchen area. The sofa converts into a bed.” He gestured at the residence under discussion. “Would you like to meet Malachi and Seraphina?”
    I considered his question while I moved out of the way to allow another large bundle of canvas to be carried by. “Maybe at another time,” I said. “Why don’t you give me a tour of the site, Mr. Fratelleon? How big is this tent they’re putting up?”
    “Quite large,” he said as he took my elbow and guided me between the trucks.