Merry Wives of Maggody Read Online Free Page B

herbal tea.”
    “Then you better skedaddle back to Manhattan and hook up with that slimy ex-husband of yours,” said Ruby Bee. “He can take you out to supper at those places that serve you two spears of asparagus and a peppercorn for fifty dollars.”
    Estelle shook her finger at me. “Ruby Bee and I were there, if you recall. I was madder’n a wet hen when I had to pay more than fifteen dollars for a bagel and coffee. Imagine calling that breakfast! It’s no wonder those people on the sidewalk look like zombies heading back to their cemeteries.”
    “A cheeseburger and fries,” I repeated.
    Ruby Bee rolled her eyes, then went into the kitchen. To my relief, Roy Stiver, my landlord, who graciously allows me to live in a seedy efficiency apartment above his antique shop, sat down next to me. He’s one of the few literates in town, as well as large enough to block Estelle’s stare. “What do you think about this golf tournament?” he asked me.
    “I’m doing my best not to think about it. From what I heard last week, there won’t be any problem with traffic or crowd control. If a handful of fools want to smack balls around Raz’s pasture, they’re welcome to have at it.”
    “Curious that Raz agreed to it. He’s a cantankerous old fart.”
    “Our illustrious mayor sent me to persuade him. The deal was that I’d overlook the still I found in a clearing not too far from Robin Buchanon’s old shack if Raz agreed to this so-called golf course on his property. I was as pissed off about it as he was, but I wasn’t in the mood to get fired.”
    “I suppose not,” Roy said, shaking his head. “Now Jim Bob’s in a particularly foul mood on account of the hole-in-one prize. Larry Joe’s niece swore Jim Bob tried to run her down out past the old New Age hardware store. When he had a flat at the foot of his driveway, he cussed so loudly I could hear him from my porch. He damn near bit Idalupino’s head off the other day because she was chewing gum at the checkout. All the employees are skirting around him like field mice.”
    “Because of a recycled trophy from a bowling tournament?”
    “No, that’s for the winner.” He went on to describe the boat in quite a bit more detail than I thought was necessary. “Jim Bob’s got a scheme, naturally. Don’t go telling anybody, but he’s been scrounging around flea markets and pawn shops, buying secondhand golf clubs. We’re supposed to meet up at my place later to night to watch videos about how to play. I used to play a little bit, so I’m the coach. Every afternoon until the tournament, we’re gonna haul ass to a driving range in Starley City and practice until dark. Jim Bob says the putting and all that doesn’t matter, as long as ever’body can whack the ball a goodly distance. Seems goofy to me, but you never know. One of ’em might get lucky.”
    “Or one of ’em might get struck by lightning,” I said.
    “The odds are about equal,” Roy acknowledged with a grin.
    Normally, Maggody is a hotbed of activity only from sunrise to sunset. Most of the residents eat supper at six o’clock, then settle in to watch television until they fall asleep on their sofas or in bulky faux leather recliners. Some stay awake long enough to watch the local news and get the weather forecast for the following day; others succumb to snoring during their favorite shows. The teenagers make furtive phone calls to each other or venture onto Internet chat rooms until someone yells at them to turn off the damn fool music and go to bed. Dogs howl. Raccoons root through garbage cans. Pink-eyed opossums waddle out of their burrows in search of a tasty meal of roadkill, often chancing upon the remains of their dearly beloveds.
    On this particular night, however, a goodly number of the husbands and bachelors of Maggody were squeezed into the backroom of Roy Stiver’s antiques shop. They were staring intently as a middle-aged man on a television screen stressed the importance