Free Malpractice in Maggody by Joan Hess Page B

but nobody would get rip-roarin’ drunk until evening. We might not observe the cocktail hour, but happy hour on Friday was a sacred ritual.
    Lately, the water stain on the ceiling had taken to resembling a map of South America, and the spider was approaching the coastline of Brazil. I wondered if it was hoping to find its own species in the Amazon rain forest. I had just concluded it was more likely to end up in Colombia when the door opened and Dahlia thundered in.
    “You got to do something!” she said shrilly.
    “About the drug cartels? I wish I could, but it’s up to the DEA.”
    This stopped her, but only for a few seconds. “No, about my granny. She’s drivin’ me crazy, Arly. What are you aimin’ to do about it?”
    “What do you suggest? I can’t exactly arrest her, you know.”
    Dahlia flopped down on the chair across from me. “You got to make that nursing home in Starley City take her. I can have her packed up and waiting by the road in ten minutes. Go ahead and call ’em.”
    I waited a moment to see if the chair was going to collapse, then shook my head. “I don’t have any influence with them. Have you tried the county health department? Surely they have some kind of day-care program for the elderly.”
    “I took her there yesterday morning, but while I was filling out some forms in the office, she took off all her clothes and climbed onto the piano. Some of the old geezers liked to have had heart attacks right there on the spot. We was out on the curb in no time flat, and it was all I could do not to just leave her sittin’ there and drive off.” Her brow lowered ominously. “I would have, too, but I’d already told ’em my name and address. Mebbe I should put her in a gunnysack and dump her out in the woods.”
    “That’s against the law,” I said quickly. “You don’t want to deliver your baby in a prison hospital, do you?”
    She mulled this over for a moment. “I reckon not. When are you gonna do something about Eileen?”
    “She’s not back?”
    “Would I be askin’ if she was?” Dahlia struggled to her feet and trudged toward the door. “Earl ain’t heard from her, neither. He’s mopin’ around like a mangy dawg.”
    After she left, I did some highly intricate calculations and determined Eileen had been gone for at least thirty hours. It was premature to call in a posse or demand that Harve issue an APB, but it was worrisome. I considered calling Earl, then decided to drive over to his house and ask a few questions, some of which might be awkward.
    His pickup was parked in the yard. I went up onto the porch and knocked on the screen door. When there was no response, I opened the door and called his name. I continued into the living room, and then into the kitchen, where I found him sitting at the table, dressed in grubby trousers and a torn undershirt. He had not shaved in the last two days, and his eyes were red and glazed. An empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the table did much to explain his appearance.
    “Earl?” I said. “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah,” he muttered.
    I noticed there were no dirty dishes on the counter or in the sink. “Have you had anything to eat today?”
    “I don’t rightly recollect.”
    I opened the refrigerator and took out some leftover meatloaf. I made him a thick sandwich, set it in front of him, and sat down. “Dahlia said you haven’t heard from Eileen.”
    “Dahlia sez a lot of things. Just listening to her wears me out. I don’t know how Kevin puts up with her all the time jabbering like a magpie.”
    “But you haven’t heard from Eileen,” I said.
    “Nope.”
    “I know it’s none of my business, Earl, but did you and she have an argument the night before she left?”
    “She fixed supper, then went out to some fool meeting at the county extension office. Quilting, mebbe. Got home about nine, bitched at me for leaving cake crumbs on the counter, and went to bed. The next morning she was gone, slick as a whistle.”
    “And