"Yeah?" Jim Bob said into the receiver, not sounding real friendly. He held a towel around his waist, but he could feel the water dribbling onto the floor, which meant he'd catch hell unless he mopped it up hisself and that was a goddamn pain in the ass. He was on the verge of saying as much when he realized who was calling. As he listened, his hand turned numb and the towel slid down his body to form a beige puddle around his feet.

Even though it was a nice, warm day, he started shivering worse than a wet hound, and it was all he could do to keep from howling like one, too.

"So I'll just stick it in the mail," the female voice concluded, wished him a nice day, and hung up.

Jim Bob was well past worrying about some water on the hallway floor, but he made a swipe at it with the towel before returning to the bathroom and sinking down on the seat of the commode. It seemed like an appropriate place to sit, considering the deep shit he was in.

According to the cute lil' clerk, Mrs. Jim Bob had inadvertently left her credit card on the counter-when she'd decided to use the charge account. He'd gone to the trouble of drivin' all the way to Fort Smith to do his shopping, and damned if she hadn't waltzed into the exact same store. And learned all about the charge account.

She was a lot of things, but the one thing she wasn't was stupid. Naughty Nights wasn't easy to mistake for a bookstore or a drugstore (except, maybe, for the display of fruit-flavored condoms). To add to his bewilderment, the clerk had said Mrs. Jim Bob'd bought a damn armload of merchandise. Just what was she planning to do with a black peekaboo bra, fer chrissake? Wear it to Wednesday evening prayer meeting? Prance down the road to the SuperSaver and show it to the stock boys? Dance half-naked in the moonlight?

Something real peculiar must have come over her, he thought as he tossed the towel in the corner and walked to his bedroom, his pudgy white flesh glistening with a mixture of bath water and sweat. It wasn't like she would be caught dead in some sexy little nightie-not the saintly Barbara Anne Buchanon Buchanon. She was a sight too fond of reminding him of the sins of lust and fornication. She could reel off the thou-shalt-not's with out pausing for breath, even though she'd added about a dozen more of her own making, most of them involving booze, muddy boots, and bodily functions.

He tried to picture his wife in almost anything from Naughty Nights, but it was harder than picturing her snugglin' up with Raz or belching after a cold beer. Sweet Covita over in Emmet had looked right dandy in the little gift he'd given her the week before, and she'd expressed her gratitude with imagination and skill. Even Winona had been a knockout in her nightie, despite her buckteeth and fat ass and tendency to forget to shave under her arms, and she'd been generous to a fault. The padded dashboard had been the only thing saving 'em from a concussion.

He realized he was letting his mind wander from what was likely to be a fuckin' nightmare starting the minute Mrs. Jim Bob walked through the door. If he was there, that is. If he was long gone, she'd have some time to simmer down, and when he came back, she might not skin him alive.

It wasn't like he was afraid of her, he told himself as he began to stuff shirts and jeans into a suitcase. Hell, he was three inches taller and outweighed her by a good fifty pounds. Socks and jockey shorts went into the suitcase. He was the man of the house, the breadwinner, the provider and protector. A magazine from under his mattress followed the underwear. He sure as hell wasn't scared of any damn woman, and never would be. A handful of T-shirts and he was done.

He grabbed the suitcase and went out to the telephone in the hall. After a couple of fumbles that resulted in nasal admonishments that the call could not be placed, he managed to dial Larry Joe Lambertino's number.

"Listen up," he said, seeing no reason to waste time, we're gonna spend a couple of days at that fishin' camp on the county line just past Chowen. While you're throwing your crap in a bag, I'll call to get us a cabin and make sure we can use one of their boats if we're a mind to." He flinched as he heard a faint noise downstairs, then assured himself it was only the furnace kicking on. "And fer chrissake, don't go blabbing all over town about it. I got some reasons why I don't want one single person to know where we'll be. Once we get there and get started on the bourbon, I'll explain. Put your scrawny butt in gear, and be ready for me to pick you up in ten minutes."

He hung up and called the assistant manager to tell him to run the store and just this once to keep his greedy fingers out of the cash register and out of Winona's panties. The assistant manager choked out a promise (although he was lying through his teeth about one or both). The ol' boy at the fishing camp said he'd reserve the best cabin.

Jim Bob picked up his suitcase and went downstairs to the kitchen. He loaded a grocery sack with cans and what he could find in the refrigerator, including a goodsized hunk of meatloaf and half a strawberry pie, and took all of it to his car. After he'd fetched his fishing gear from the garage and stowed it in the trunk, he was feeling a sight more cheerful.

Only one last chore remained. He went to the kitchen and hunted up a pad of paper and a stumpy pencil. He laboriously wrote a note telling her he'd gone away on business for a few days and would see her when he got back. He signed it with his initials and, whistling, went out the door.

All the way across town, which wasn't even a fraction of the distance from the Bronx to the Battery, Joyce Lambertino was still frowning at the telephone. She didn't so much as look up when something crashed in the kitchen and Saralee began to screech bloody murder.

There were no police cars in front of the Chadwick, nor was there a doorman. Just inside the door, however, was a uniformed cop with a grim look. "Who're you?" he asked us.

I told him, and was told to go to the dining room and wait. Ruby Bee and Estelle were told to wait in their room, and they hurried toward the elevator without so much as a word of compassion for yours truly. I did as ordered and was sipping coffee as a middle-aged man in a brown suit came to the doorway. He had the jaw of a pitbull and the manners to match. "You Arly Hanks?" he demanded.

I wiggled my fingers and said, "I am."

"Where the hell have you been for the last hour and a half? Sightseeing? Shopping? Did it occur to you that you might have stayed around the hotel until we arrived? You may be some toad-suckin' hick from Arkansas, but surely you've seen enough cop shows on television to know you're supposed to wait for the police?"

This was not a good beginning for a deep and abiding friendship. I looked at him for a minute, then took a breath and in my twangiest voice, said, "Shit, Mr. Policeman, I dun reckon I was out there, just agawking and a-gaping 'cause I ain't never seen buildings higher than three stories. My eyeballs dun near popped out like a bullfrog's, and I was nigh onto swallowing my tongue, lemme tell you."

He harrumphed as he turned around to converse with a younger man in an equally drab suit. After papers were exchanged, he turned back and said, "I'm Lieutenant Henbit of the homicide division. If we could cut the crap, I'd like to know what you heard last night when you were skulking in the hall upstairs."

"Skulking, Lieutenant Henbit?"

"According to"-he consulted a paper-"Kyle Simmons, you told him that you overheard a conversation between the deceased and his wife, during which harsh words were exchanged."