Pecos Valley Revival

by Alice Duncan

  “I’d heard that Myrtle’s parents are putting a lock on their door. I suppose other people will be doing the same thing.”

  “Are your folks home, Annabelle?” asked Mrs. Gunderson. “George and I want to tell them about the plans for the day.”

  Mr. Gunderson added, “We thought that, even though we won’t have the demonstration events or promote a party atmosphere, we might could have a campfire and some songs and have some sort of . . . what do you call it?” He glanced at his wife, silently asking for clarification.

  Mrs. Gunderson helped him out. “A memorial service for the two young people whose lives were so tragically cut short. Not anything formal, or anything, but just a remembrance.” She shook her head, too. There’d been a whole lot of head-shaking going on in Rosedale during the past couple of days. “A prayer or two. Some songs. A potluck supper with the whole town contributing a dish or two in honor of the bereaved families. That sort of thing.”

  I was touched. “That would be very nice. I think everybody would appreciate it, and especially Mr. and Mrs. Fish and Mrs. Sawyer. Ma’s in the kitchen boiling jars, and Pa’s out back fixing the fence.”

  I lifted the counter, since I didn’t think a couple of old folks like the Gundersons would want to duck under it. Come to think of it, maybe they weren’t all that old. I was just used to thinking of my friends’ parents as old, I guess.

  “Say, Annabelle,” Phil said, giving me a shy smile. “Why don’t we go back to the ranch together after work?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know, Phil. I’m probably going to have to drive the family out there this evening.”

  He appeared disappointed, which was moderately encouraging.

  “Or you could go with us,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too eager.

  “Naw,” he said after a few seconds of contemplation. “I guess it was a dumb idea, come to think of it. I reckon I’ll be going out to the ranch with Pete and his family.”

  “Ah. Yes, I suppose so.” If anyone had come into the store and seen us, they’d probably have deduced we’d each lost our favorite aunt or something, we both looked so gloomy. Which was almost the case. Although neither of the deceased was a particular favorite of either of us, the circumstances were ghastly enough to give anyone the galloping glooms.

  We were both quiet for a moment or two. Then I said, “What a stupid rodeo this one’s been, huh?”

  Phil nodded and looked discouraged. “It sure has been.”

  “Usually the rodeo is the highlight of the year.”

  “Yeah. Not this time.” Phil jammed his hands into his back pockets.

  “But what’s going to happen now?”

  Leaning against the counter and still looking as if he’d just lost his favorite hound dog, Phil said, “What do you mean?”

  “Well. . . .” I shrugged, feeling helpless. “I mean, are the police and the sheriff going to let everyone just leave and go home? All the cowboys and ranchers and people who came to see and participate in the rodeo? Don’t they have to talk to them or something? Question them? In order to find the killer, I mean.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I see. No, Sheriff Greene said nobody’s supposed to leave town until his office has finished talking to anybody who might have seen anything.”

  “But that’s probably everybody in the whole town.”

  He shrugged. “I imagine so.”

  “Oh, boy, that’s not going to make people very happy.”

  “No, but it has to be done. I guess some of the cowboys were drinking and whooping it up at the wagon yard near our place last night. For all anyone knows, one of them might have done poor Hazel in.”

  Involuntarily, I grimaced, recalling the ghastly sight of Hazel’s bashed-in face. If I hadn’t recognized the clothes she’d been wearing, I’d not have known it was her. She. Whatever it’s supposed to be.

  “I guess that’s not impossible. Some guy gets drunk and sees Hazel and tries to . . . uh . . . you know.” Dang, I could get myself in more trouble just by opening my mouth than anyone else I knew.

  Phil blushed, an endearing trait of his when anything indelicate cropped up in a conversation. “Yeah.”

  “It’s terrible. First Kenny, now Hazel.” Those words were a recurring theme that day. For several days, in fact.

  Phil heaved himself away from the counter, took his hands out of his back pockets, and sighed. “Well, I’d better get going to Pete’s store. He’s got a lot of stuff to do, and he wants me there to sell people locks.” He shook his head. “It’s a crying shame our town has come to this. Locked doors in Rosedale. Wonder what’s next.” The theme of locked doors in Rosedale was also popular that day.

  Phil left to go to Pete’s store, and I picked up my book once more. I didn’t get much reading done, though. It seemed as if the entire town of Rosedale paid the store a visit that afternoon. Sometimes people bought stuff, but most often they only came in to chat about the murders—and my stupid brother’s baseball bat.

  It was discouraging to know how many people believed my brother could have done Hazel in. Even people who’d known our family forever had their suspicions. I wished I could hide behind the potbellied stove when I saw Aunt Minnie and Miss Libby storming across the street toward the store.

  Jack was washing the west windows with Davy helping him and didn’t see Minnie and Libby advancing. It occurred to me to warn him there was trouble headed his way, but I held my tongue. Maybe such reticence on my part was unkind, but in my opinion, it was way past time he understood that his reckless behavior in recent months had given people an impression that he was capable of committing horrible crimes. And if there was anybody on earth who wouldn’t hesitate to tell him all about it, it was Miss Libby. That was one of the few times I’d considered Miss Libby to be of use to anyone. Normally, I could think of only one thing that made worthwhile the space Miss Libby took up on the world, and that was her cooking, which was superb.

  “Annabelle Blue, whatever is your family is coming to?”

  Miss Libby had a very loud voice. Everyone who was in the store at the time started and turned to look. Jack dropped his rag, and I distinctly heard him say, “Aw, shit.”

  It was definitely the wrong thing to say. Miss Libby bellowed, “Watch your filthy tongue, young man!”

  “My family?” My spine stiffened like cement setting, and I glared at the old bat. “I beg your pardon? What do you mean? My family isn’t coming to anything.”

  “You heard me, and it is so. What is your family coming to? How did your parents manage to rear such a despicable boy?”

  I couldn’t argue with her adjective, but her attitude was insufferable. I muttered, “Ask them yourself,” and turned to Minnie. While Libby muttered about how rude the younger generation was, I said, “How are you doing today, Minnie?”

  “Not so chipper. These terrible murders. Those poor young people. Oh, Annabelle, your uncle Joe is beside himself.”

  Now that would be something to see, considering Uncle Joe had been dead for almost fifteen years. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Miss Libby, paying no attention to Minnie, which was probably the best thing to do with her, roared, “You! Jack Blue. What the devil do you mean by bringing evil on your family?”

  Poor Jack. If I hadn’t been so angry with him myself, I might have felt sorry for him. He tried to stand up straight and look Libby in the eye, but she was a mountain of a woman, and I could tell he was scared. “I didn’t do anything,” he muttered.

  “You did do something, you insufferable boy! Your wickedness and carelessness led to that poor child’s murder! I hope you’re ashamed of yourself, because the family is ashamed of you!”

  I hoped like thunder Jack wouldn’t point out that Miss Libby wasn’t technically a member of the family because such a comment, while true, would only escalate the unpleasantness.

  He didn’t. I breathed a silent sigh of relief when he only repeated sullenly, “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You call
disobeying your parents nothing?” Miss Libby screeched. “And then leaving your cursed bat lying about for someone to use as a murder weapon? That’s nothing?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.” Jack sounded a trifle desperate.

  “You’d best talk to your Maker, Jack Blue, and ask Him to guide you onto a clean path, because the one you’ve been traveling lately will lead you only to wickedness and hell.” She shook her finger at him. “Your poor parents. I expect they both rue the day you were born. I’ve never known another member of your family to bring such shame to the name Blue, young man. Your father ought to take you out to the wood pile and teach you the meaning of respect.”

  Personally, I didn’t think walloping a child taught him much about respect, although the threat of it might discourage lousy behavior. I guess a smack or two might be worthwhile for the same reason.

  Davy patted Jack on the back. I could tell that Jack was holding something back, but I couldn’t tell if it was rage or tears.

  “I’m sure Jack already feels bad about the whole thing, Miss Libby,” I said, aiming for conciliation. I should have known better. Miss Libby doesn’t cotton to being pacified when she’s on a rampage.

  “Don’t you talk back to me, young lady! Anyhow, you’re a fine one to talk, after the trouble you brought down on your aunt last summer!”

  Now that comment shocked me. I hadn’t brought a darned thing down on Aunt Minnie last summer. In point of fact, it had been Aunt Minnie who had made me come stay in her house out in the wilds of the southeastern desert, and I’d had nothing at all to do with the ensuing troubles, all of which centered around a bootlegging operation. Because I knew firsthand the futility of arguing with Libby, I sniffed to show her I thought she was a beastly old woman and again turned to Aunt Minnie. “What does Joe have to say about everything that’s gone on lately, Minnie?”

  As Libby stomped over to Jack and Davy, both of whom held up pretty well as she approached—I’m reminded of the mountain and Muhammad here—Minnie said, “Oh, he’s just so upset, Annabelle. You know, the Gundersons’ ranch is just down the Pine Lodge Road from us.”

  “I know.” How could I not?

  “And you know how violent death always upsets those on the Other Side.”

  Well, no, I actually hadn’t known that. I said, “Mmm.”

  “And to think that a poor young woman was so cruelly murdered. Joe could almost understand somebody killing Kenny Sawyer. Joe said Kenny was too full of himself—but that girl! Why, I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” And, naturally, Minnie shook her head.

  Libby had made her way to Jack by this time and was loudly haranguing him. I was kind of surprised that Jack just stood there and took it. I guess he’d been more intimidated by recent events than I’d thought.

  It didn’t surprise me when Ma showed up, wiping her hands on her apron. I expect she’d heard Libby and had come into the store to rescue her son—although she’d waited a good long while to do it. I got the feeling she, too, wasn’t awfully sorry that Jack had become the brunt of so much ill feeling. She smiled at Minnie, ducked under the counter, and gave her a hug. “It’s good to see you, Minnie. Do you need anything special from the store?”

  “I can use another sack of flour and one of sugar,” said Minnie. She glanced at the corner into which Libby had driven Jack and Davy. “Oh, dear, I hope Libby isn’t being too forceful with poor Jack.”

  Ma looked, too, and sighed. “I’m sure she’s only telling him what he needs to hear from people other than his parents. He’s been so wild lately. I don’t know what the world is coming to.” Which was yet another common sentiment expressed that day.

  And so it went. When Libby and Minnie left, others came to take their place. Sometimes someone would offer sympathy that our family, however remotely, had been involved in the demise of Hazel Fish, but most of the time, they only wondered: (1) what the world was coming to; (2) what Rosedale was coming to; and (3) who had killed first Kenny and now Hazel.

  I was very glad when we locked up early that afternoon. I was considerably less glad when Myrtle came to get me to go to another stupid revival meeting shortly after work.

  “It’s sort of a memorial service for Kenny and Hazel,” she explained eagerly. “Reverend Strickland says he felt called by God to put on a special service under the circumstances.”

  Oh, brother.

  However, my mother said, “What a wonderful thing to do. Go on, Annabelle. I’ll fix a covered dish to take to the Gundersons’ while you and Myrtle go to the revival.” She eyed my brother with disfavor. “Jack, you go, too. And this time, attend the meeting. You need it.”

  Looking sulky but chastened, Jack muttered, “Yes’m.” Miss Libby, not to mention everyone else, had evidently put the fear of God into him, so maybe the revival meeting actually would get through his thick skull, although I doubted it. Anyhow, Jack was bad enough the way he was. If he got religion and started trying to save everybody, I didn’t think I could stand it.

  In spite of Jack’s presence, which always casts a dark cloud over any event at which I was present, the revival meeting wasn’t too dreadfully bad. Reverend Strickland seemed honestly appalled by the two murders that had taken place in Rosedale. Charles and Edward sat in the row of chairs behind the pulpit and didn’t look any more glum than usual. They always looked as if they were either headed for or coming home from a funeral. Esther seemed pale and drawn, but she sang like an angel in heaven. Huh. Some angel.

  Then I told myself not to be such a cat. Just because Esther Strickland was beautiful and made it a practice to bat her eyes at other women’s gentlemen friends didn’t make her a bad person. Heck, for all I knew, she hadn’t even known Phil was supposed to be my beau. Or Kenny, Sarah’s beau. Then I told myself I wouldn’t put anything underhanded past her. And then I told myself to shut up and listen to the sermon, because I needed it almost as much as Jack did.

  My charitable mood didn’t last long. Mind you, I agreed with everybody in town that Milo Strickland was a powerful speaker. But I still couldn’t force myself to believe that all the human beings in the world except for the people in that tent at that time were going to hell, which seemed to be the message he was trying to get across.

  Therefore, I squinted around the tent, looking at people and wondering if any of them could have committed two heartless murders in as many days. There were Armando and Josephine Contreras, who were holding hands. Did that mean that Armando had forgiven Kenny for flirting with his wife? Or Josephine for flirting with Kenny? Did it mean that Josephine and my brother-in-law Richard MacDougall weren’t having an illicit affair?

  Of course, it didn’t mean any of those things. On the other hand, it didn’t prove that Josephine and Richard were involved with each other, either. I sure couldn’t think of any other reason she and Richard should be so often, and so secretly, in each other’s company. I tried to convince myself that my suspicions only meant that I was a small-minded individual with a limited outlook on life, but I didn’t care much for that line of thinking, for obvious reasons.

  Giving up on Josephine and Richard for the nonce, I concentrated my attention on Armando. I could feature him knocking somebody’s block off, but I couldn’t imagine him poisoning an enemy. Nor, for that matter, could I see him battering a young woman to death with a baseball bat. Well, maybe in the heat of passion, he might, but he’d have to have a darned good reason, and I doubted that Hazel’s usual brand of gossip would qualify. For all I knew, Hazel and Mando never said two words to each other.

  Then I recalled Hazel’s excitement Saturday night, and her statement about knocking the socks off the city of Rosedale, and pondered. Could she have seen Armando doing something really bad? Worse than fighting with Kenny? What could it have been? Unless she’d seen him burying a bottle labeled “Arsenic—Poison,” and deduced that he’d killed Kenny Sawyer, I couldn’t think of a single other thing.

  But wait. What exactly had Hazel said to me? Since we were
supposed to be praying by that time, I shut my eyes and tried to filter out Reverend Strickland’s voice—not an easy task, since he apparently wanted God to hear him loud and clear—and concentrate.

  Hadn’t Hazel said something about Phil seeing the error of his ways? And hadn’t she said something about everybody in Rosedale knowing the truth? I think she had. But what truth had she been talking about? And why would any kind of truth make Phil see the error of his ways?

  It all beat me. And, that being the case, I decided to heck with thinking. After Reverend Strickland said his powerful “Amen,” I went back to surveying the congregation.

  Sarah Molina hadn’t come to the meeting today, which didn’t surprise me in the least. After all, the man she loved had been poisoned not four days since, and a woman who had done her best to take that man away from her was a big part of this revivalist business. I expected Sarah would prefer to see as little as possible of Esther Strickland.

  What about Sarah, anyhow? I guess I could feature her poisoning Kenny, although it was a stretch. But battering Hazel with a baseball bat? Sarah cried all the time. To the best of my knowledge, she’d break down in tears before she’d strike out in rage. I’d noticed before that people with open emotions either got sad or mad, but didn’t generally switch reactions.

  Still, there was that poison book at the library. But I wasn’t even sure the person who’d been looking at the book had been Sarah. Actually, I hadn’t really seen anyone looking at the poison book, which had been open on a table when I saw it. Nuts. That line of thinking was only serving to confuse me, so I moved on.

  One also had to consider the cowboys Kenny had fought with, over the course of the rodeo. I could see one of those guys bashing Kenny with the baseball bat, especially if he had a snootful of prohibition gin in him, but I could not fathom a cowboy killing Hazel. And I knew good and well that Phil wouldn’t poison or bash anybody. He was too darned nice. Heck, he seldom got mad at me, even when I was being stupid.