"I saw him in the casino," I said to Japonica. "It was just for a second, and I didn't notice if he was with someone."

"Okay, then," she said, closing her notebook. "I need to track down a couple more folks, then we're done. Give me your addresses and telephone numbers in case we have any more questions. Can't see why we would, though."

I poked Estelle. "Tell her about the bald man."

"There ain't nothing to tell."

Japonica's heavy-lidded eyelids opened a tad wider. "Who's this mysterious bald man?"

Estelle reluctantly repeated what she'd told me, minimalizing it to the point that it sounded thoroughly inane. "I was just imagining things," she concluded. "That's not to say I believe Jim Bob Buchanon is responsible for Stormy's death. She was nervous from the minute we left Farberville. It could be because she'd decided to kill herself when we got here. That's reason to be nervous, isn't it? The idea of throwing myself off a balcony makes me so trembly I could almost throw up. No wonder she smoked so much and was saying all those rude things about Elvis like he was nothing but a Las Vegas celebrity. He was known as the Hillbilly Cat before he got famous, you know. He was always faithful to his roots, which is more than I can say for some folks who move up North and think they're hoity-toity."

One of the folks got a hard stare.

"Anything else?" I asked Japonica, who was looking rather bored by this time.

"No," she said. "Chief Sanderson's convinced he got drunk and assaulted the victim. We'll get it sorted out one way or another. Thanks for your cooperation." She smiled at each of us, then left.

"A lot of help you were," Estelle began belligerently.

"You planning to gripe much longer?" I said as I picked up my purse and made sure I had a key to the room.

"I'm coming."

We arrived at the hospital without further debate concerning Jim Bob's heretofore unacknowledged virtues or Elvis's fidelity. A woman in a pink jacket was seated at a desk just inside the lobby, resolutely defending the inner sanctum from light-fingered trespassers and misguided tourists.

"Are you looking for someone?" she demanded, making it clear she could see that we fell into one of the above-mentioned categories.

"We're here to see Ruby Bee Hanks," I said.

She looked at her watch. "Visiting hours begin at two o'clock. You're fourteen minutes early."

This was not Southern hospitality at its finest. "Okay," I said, "then I'd like a word with Dr. Deweese, her attending physician."

"Dr. Deweese is out on a house call. One of those trashy Claypitt girls insisted on giving birth at home. The midwife called an hour ago to say the baby was upside down and refusing to come out. Dr. Deweese had to set aside his lunch and go racing over to help. Claypitts are too miserly to come to the hospital like proper folks." She consulted her watch. "You've still got twelve minutes. Sit over there and I'll tell you when it's time."

Estelle may have wanted to argue, but I persuaded her to sit down on a molded plastic chair. After eleven minutes, we were told we could proceed to the ward where we would find our patient.

"At least Ruby Bee's no longer in ICU," I said as we walked down the hallway.

"I'm beginning to think this is some kind of prison camp," Estelle said, glaring at everybody we passed as if each was involved in sinister medical experiments. "What happens if you decide to die when it's not visiting hours? Is your family obliged to wait until the clock chimes before they can boohoo at your bedside?"

"Nobody's dying," I said evenly. "If you can't get that through your head, why don't you sit in the lobby?"

"Oh, Arly," she said, spinning around to squash me in a hug, "I never meant to imply that Ruby Bee was gonna do anything like that. I know you're worried. So am I, but we both have to believe that she'll be just fine. I don't know what else we can do." She released me and turned around, doing her best to square her shoulders and sound resolute. "After all, she's got a business to run, doesn't she? Where would all those truckers have lunch if not at Ruby Bee's Bar & Grill?"

"Yeah," I said as we went into the room.

Our topic of discussion was asleep. She still had an IV needle in her hand and an oxygen tube across her nose, but her color was better. I closed the drapes, pulled the blanket over her shoulders, and gestured for Estelle to follow me back into the hallway.

"What do you want to do?" I said.

"What do you want to do? We can stay here, or go back to the waiting room and hope the doctor delivers that baby and shows up, or even go on to the hotel and wait there. I can't think straight anymore."

"Neither can I," I said as we walked through the lobby. "Let's both go watch that movie on cable and relax."

I doubted I was going to be able to concentrate on a movie, but I knew I would crack if I didn't try to turn off my mind for an hour or two. I drove back to the hotel, found a parking spot, and shook Estelle, who'd dozed off.

"We're here," I said as I opened the car door.

"And ain't we lucky?" She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothed her eyeshadow (purple despite her childhood trauma), and patted me on the shoulder. "It's gonna be okay, Arly. Ruby Bee will wake up feeling fine and demand to go home. The police will realize Stormy killed herself and release Jim Bob. Taylor and Todd will live happily ever after. As for the rest of them, I don't give a rat's ass. Do you think I could have room service send up a glass of sherry?"

"Sure," I said, wishing I shared her optimism.

We were walking toward the hotel entrance when Estelle grabbed my arm. "Would you look over there?" she said in a stunned voice.

Expecting to see Elvis in sequinned finery, I did as ordered. "At what?"

"That's the C'mon Tours van. The man in the cap is Baggins." She dropped my arm. "You stay and find out what Baggins knows. I'll meet you upstairs."

Before I could react, she darted between two cars, came damn close to sideswiping a bellman, and disappeared into the lobby.

11

I walked over to the man Estelle had identified in her typically theatrical fashion, as if Charlton Heston-as opposed to Moses-had descended on the scene with a matching pair of tablets.

"Mr. Baggins?" I said. "I'm Arly Hanks."

"I know who you are. Don't go thinking C'Mon Tours is taking any responsibility for this. Everybody signed a disclaimer that said whatever happens ain't our fault. There's no way we can be held liable if people get sick."

"Nobody's blaming you," I said.

"Nobody better be," he muttered. "I ain't never seen a group more cantankerous than this. The bickerin' started before we ever left Farberville. The professor wasn't making it any easier, I'll admit, but all of them were fussing every mile of the way to Memphis."

"At which time they discovered they'd be staying in a dump in the sleaziest part of town. My mother forgot to pack her bulletproof vest and sidearm. What kind of company puts clients in that kind of danger?"

Baggins looked away. "Elvis slept there. I told 'em that."

"And the overnight stay in Tupelo? Did he forget to sleep there?"

"Things changed. Say, how's your mama doing? I sure am gonna be sorry if she can't go back with us in the morning. She's a fine lady."

"I doubt she'll be allowed to leave for a few days, and Estelle will want to stay here with her. You know about Stormy, of course?"

"The police told me. It's real sad, her being so young and all, and C'Mon Tours will be sending a condolence card soon as we get an address. Listen, miss, I need to find an auto-parts store before we drive home tomorrow. You tell your mama how sorry I am about her ailment."