by Alice Duncan
That line of thinking made me want to cry, so I stopped it and concentrated on a subject guaranteed to make any hint of tears evaporate: my brother Jack.
Okay. So Jack had been particularly beastly lately. I tried to envision him poisoning someone and couldn’t do it. Oh, I suppose he might have been doing some sort of idiotic experiment that went awry, but would he have experimented with arsenic? Where the heck would he have got hold of any arsenic? Sure, I’d read about people soaking flypapers in water and feeding people the liquid thereafter, and I knew that most of the rat poison we sold in the store contained arsenic, but Jack and I didn’t read the same books, and I couldn’t feature him reading the labels on cans, either. Jack didn’t like to bother with stuff that didn’t concern him directly.
Could he, in a childish rage, have struck someone with a baseball bat? Possibly, but I doubt that he’d have kept on battering that person until her head was mush. Also, I couldn’t imagine him hurting a female. I know he’d chased Hazel with his dumb bat, but our mother and father’s teachings were pretty darned strong and definitely hard to ignore, even when you wanted to. As much as Jack had been flaunting them recently, I doubted that deep down in his soul he could forget them so utterly that he’d actually murder a person.
It occurred to me that families of most murderers probably felt the same way about their lethal kin as I did about Jack. Normal, everyday people just didn’t expect their relatives to be vicious murderers.
I brightened slightly when I considered the possibility that Charles and Edward were the culprits. The good Lord knew they both looked the part, being sour and dour and grim. I don’t think I’d ever seen either one of them smile, even though they did sing well together. Maybe they believed it was their duty, as Esther Strickland’s guardians, to protect her from lecherous cowboys and unmitigated gossips. Perhaps they took their duties a little too seriously. Perhaps they’d taken the Reverend Strickland’s preaching too much to heart and had decided they’d been put on earth to carry out Strickland’s interpretation of God’s word.
Cut it out, Annabelle Blue, I commanded myself. Then I told myself to reign in my vivid imagination. Just because Charles and Edward were both stuffed shirts didn’t necessarily make them killers, although I wouldn’t have minded in particular if the law fingered either one of them. Or both of them, for that matter.
Nuts. Other than being annoyed at the sight of Phil and Esther sitting together—Phil holding a stack of pamphlets and Esther looking particularly innocent and virginal—surveying the congregation didn’t offer any hint of enlightenment.
Chapter Nine
Right after the revival meeting, my mother, father, slightly-less-bratty-than-usual brother Jack and I climbed into the Model T, and I drove us out to the Gundersons’ ranch. Ma had prepared a potluck favorite of mine: a salad made with peas and mayonnaise and little bits of chopped onion and cheese. It was safe to use mayonnaise that day, since the weather, which had turned chilly on Sunday, was still chilly that Monday.
It wasn’t unheard of for us to get snow in October. On that dismal Monday afternoon, the sky was full of lowering black clouds that hung over Rosedale as if the weather was mourning right along with us. It wouldn’t have surprised me if snow fell before the night was over. I only hoped it would hold off until after we’d all eaten our fill and said our final good-byes to Kenny and Hazel—and to the rodeo. For some reason, it seemed important to me that we bid the two deceased young people a proper good-bye.
Rodeo days were supposed to be jolly and carefree. This year’s rodeo days had been neither of those things, thanks to some very evil person, whom we all prayed would be caught and brought to justice soon. It may sound silly, but I resented the evildoer not only for killing two people I knew, but for doing so when the Gundersons, some of my favorite people, were acting as hosts for what was supposed to be a big party for the entire town.
Although the purpose of this evening’s gathering was to offer comfort to the families of the deceased, I have to admit to being kind of surprised when I drove up to the field where everybody was parking their cars and wagons and saw Mr. and Mrs. Fish and Hazel’s two sisters and her brother walking toward the ranch house. I felt awfully sorry for them all. Hazel might have been a pain in the neck, but she’d been their pain in the neck. Anyhow, she might have improved with age. Sometimes people did. Maybe even Jack would, although I often harbored doubts about that particular hoped-for transformation. But neither Hazel nor Kenny Sawyer would have the chance to evolve into better people. Some awful person had seen to that. It wasn’t fair.
I was less surprised when we took our pea salad to the table reserved for salads and saw Kenny’s mother and two sisters standing with Sarah Molina, almost as if they had formed a reception line—which might have been the case, come to think of it. Sarah saw us coming, and hurried over to me.
“Oh, Annabelle, I’m so glad to see you. This was awfully kind of the Gundersons, but it sure is hard on all of us.” Naturally, her eyes were dripping. Poor Sarah. If I found life so miserable that I had to cry about it all the time, I might just jump off a cliff and get the whole thing over with. Except that there aren’t any cliffs around Rosedale. If you jumped off Mescalero Ridge, chances are good you’d only break your leg or something.
Nevertheless, I gave her a quick hug. “This is going to be a special occasion, Sarah. We’ll be celebrating Kenny’s life. And Hazel’s.” I’d heard such sentiments (celebrating deceased people’s lives, that is) before, and was kind of proud of myself for thinking of the idea then. If Sarah could think of this as a party for a couple of dear folks who weren’t there, maybe she’d feel better about it all. Fat chance. But I did try.
As far as feeling better about how things went, my own personal capacity for doing so suffered a severe check when I saw Phil Gunderson, Esther Strickland on his arm, walking slowly toward the food tables. Doing my best to act as though the sight didn’t make me want to hurl pea salad at the both of them and then stomp them both flat, I smiled. “Hi, there.” I peered over Phil’s shoulder and, sure enough, Miss Strickland’s keepers, Charles and Edward—or Edward and Charles (I never did figure out which was which)—were tagging along right behind them.
Oh, brother. I’d hate to be followed everywhere I went. On the other hand, maybe Miss Strickland needed them to keep her out of mischief. For a second or two I tried to think of what kind of mischief Miss Strickland might be tempted to get into, but I couldn’t do it. She was so . . . I don’t know. Sweet. Innocent. Pure. Good. Perfect, curse it.
That day Esther Strickland appeared particularly gorgeous. She had on a gorgeous black dress with black embroidery around the neckline and hem. Her black stockings looked as if they were silk, and her shoes seemed plain, but weren’t really. I’d seen shoes like that in a catalog, and they’d cost a fortune. Cynically, I thought that the revivalist business must be good. Esther looked pale and beautiful, and her blue eyes stood out like jewels against her white cheeks. The little black hat she wore on top of her pretty blonde curls was a creation of charm and elegance. I hated her. Which says a lot more about me than it does about her.
“Hey, Annabelle,” said Phil, giving me a sheepish smile. As well he might, the rotten traitor. He was in his Sunday best, too: dark gray sack suit and vest, white shirt, fresh white collar, silk four-in-hand with a muted red pattern on dark blue, and polished black shoes. His hair was brushed, and he carried a black derby hat, not his usual rancher’s Stetson. He looked, in short, quite the handsome gentleman—for her sake, no doubt. Oh, sure, I know we were ostensibly there to pay tribute to Kenny and Hazel, but I couldn’t shake the notion that Phil wouldn’t have dressed so grandly for Kenny Sawyer’s sake. Or Hazel Fish’s, either, even though he was invariably polite to women.
“How do you do, Miss Blue? My, isn’t that a charming frock.”
Before I could catch myself, I glanced down at my gray shirtwaist with a lowered waistline and black trim, made for me by my mother’s
very own hands with love and care. I’d worn it today out of respect for the dead, because we wouldn’t be climbing any fences, because it was pretty, and because I felt good when I wore it. Or I had. Until Esther Strickland spun her evil magic around me and made me feel like an ill-clad backwater hick. Darn it, I just hated that I fell into her traps every time I spoke the woman!
Of course, the true crux of the problem lay in the fact that Esther had merely complimented me on my dress. I’d added those interpretations to her comment all by myself, without any help from her. Talk about making mountains out of your basic old molehills. I was clearly a mistress of the art.
I only said, “Thank you,” and hoped I didn’t sound as furious and frustrated as I felt.
Phil’s brother Davy rushed up to the salad table and skidded to a halt before me. “Hey, Annabelle. Do you know where Jack is?”
It was the first time in several years I’d been happy to see Davy Gunderson. But on that day, he provided a useful diversion from my seething emotions. “I imagine he went over to the campfire, Davy. I’m not sure.”
“Okay, thanks.” Davy paused, looked at his brother and Esther, then back at me. I got the feeling he wanted to say something.
“What is it, Davy?” I asked, aiming for a gentle tone in order to let Phil know he was losing a peach of a girl if he threw me over for Esther Strickland.
“I . . . I. . . .” He glanced again at his big brother, then dug the toe of his shoe into the dust at our feet. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about playing baseball and getting Jack into trouble. About the bat, you know.”
“I know. Thank you, Davy. I appreciate your apology and hope you and Jack will behave more responsibly from now on.”
Boy, I hadn’t realized I could sound so much like my mother. The knowledge was kind of daunting. Fortunately, Myrtle and her family showed up at that moment, so I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Was I ever relieved to see her! “Hey, Myrtle!”
One of Esther’s goons, the tall one, said, “Reverend Strickland needs you, Miss Strickland. He asked us to fetch you.”
Esther let out an aggrieved sigh, caught herself doing so, and smiled seraphically at the two fellows. “Thank you, Charles.”
I looked quickly at the men, but couldn’t tell which one she’d addressed. So I still didn’t know which was which.
Smiling sublimely at Phil, Esther said, “I’ll see you later, Phil, dear.”
Phil, dear? Good Lord, what next? Without looking at Phil, I spoke to Myrtle. “Come on, Myrtle. Let’s get a good seat around the fire. I guess this is supposed to be a kind of a memorial service for Kenny and Hazel. I brought a blanket to sit on, ’cause I don’t want to get my skirt dirty.” Even if it was homemade and I was wearing plain old cotton stockings.
“Good. I brought one too,” Myrtle said. “Remember what Reverend Strickland said at this afternoon’s service?”
No, actually, I didn’t, having done my best to ignore the good reverend’s entire sermon. I felt a little bad about that now, since it wasn’t his fault his sister was a conniving harpy. If she was. Maybe she really was as sweet and innocent as she acted, although I’d yet to meet anyone that pure. Nevertheless, I said, “Yes. It was a good sermon, wasn’t it?”
Myrtle looked at me as if she was surprised I’d said anything positive about one of the Stricklands. I’d have been surprised, too, in her place. And I felt a teeny bit guilty because the only reason I had for saying a nice thing was because I didn’t want Phil to think I cared in any way whatsoever that he’d fallen for the preacher’s sister. The preacher’s beautiful sister, who looked like an angel and sang like one, too, curse them both.
I didn’t mean that.
Oh, who am I trying to kid? I did mean it, but wished I didn’t.
So Myrtle and I strolled off in one direction, and Esther Strickland strolled off in another direction, between her two keepers. I didn’t know what Phil did and told myself I didn’t care, either, which was a big fat lie. Therefore, I jumped when I felt somebody grab my arm rather roughly. Wheeling about, I was surprised to find it had been Phil who’d done so. I lifted an eyebrow at him.
“Annabelle, I have to talk to you.”
I eyed him, deliberately forcing myself to appear indifferent. My innards were far from indifferent. They were screaming that they didn’t want to hear anything he had to say, since they didn’t want all my suspicions about him and Esther Strickland to be confirmed. Not only that, they couldn’t think of another reason he’d want to talk to me. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Phil shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. As well he might, the beast.
“Well. . . .” I debated with myself. Did I want to hear Phil tell me he was madly in love with another woman? Stupid question. Of course, I didn’t. However, among my many character traits, some of which really stink, I am practical and commonsensical. I figured it was better to know the truth than to keep guessing. After all, the sooner I heard the hateful words from Phil’s own mouth, the sooner I could get over it. “Okay. When and where?”
“Um. . . .” I guess he hadn’t thought that far ahead.
Myrtle tapped me gently on my arm. “I’ll save you a seat at the fire circle, Annabelle.”
“Thanks, Myrtle. Here. Please take my blanket with you.”
“Sure.”
“Save two seats, please,” said Phil.
Hmm. Was that a promising statement, or was it not? Darned if I knew. As Myrtle walked away, I said, “Okay, Phil, what’s this about?”
“Let’s go find somewhere where we aren’t in the middle of things.”
Humph. If, as I suspected, he aimed to throw me down for another woman, I’d just as soon the whole town knew what kind of a cad he was.
Or did I?
No, I did not. I absolutely hated people feeling sorry for me.
Also, since I expected it would be difficult for me to keep from crying and I didn’t want anyone to witness my total humiliation, I went along with this plan. When he dumped me, I aimed to pretend to the world that it didn’t hurt, and that would be exceptionally difficult to do if I was bawling my eyes out. “How about behind the barn?”
“Good idea.” He took my hand and fairly towed me behind him.
Since I was wearing my Sunday shoes, pretty black pumps that I’d adorned this day with modest black bows, I protested. “Slow down, Phil. I can’t walk that fast.”
He stopped instantly, and turned, looking contrite. “I’m sorry, Annabelle. I guess I’ve been wanting to say this for a long time.”
Uh-oh. This didn’t bode well. My insides gave an enormous spasm. Wow, I hadn’t realized how much I cared for Phil. Or was it merely my pride aching? Honestly, I didn’t know.
I’d loved Phil from the time I was a little girl, but I’d always told myself that it was the kind of love you have for a dear, wonderful friend. I’d always told myself that I wanted adventure before I got married and settled down. That I wanted to meet more men—dashing men. Allan Quartermain–type men. Or men like Rudolf Rassendyll from The Prisoner of Zenda. Sydney Carton. Men who’d sacrifice for me. Honorable men who’d go to the guillotine to protect me from an evil fate. Who’d rescue me from the clutches of a wicked knight who’d fallen madly in love with me and kidnapped me because his clan and mine were mortal enemies and who’d taken me to his castle and locked me in a tower.
I know, I know. Romantic nonsense. But you try being nineteen years old and having lived nowhere but in Rosedale, New Mexico, and see how practical your heart is. I mean, I wouldn’t mind marrying Phil—eventually. But I’d like to get at least one African safari under my belt first. Or a trip to Europe. Something exciting. Anything exciting.
That evening, I wasn’t so sure anymore. Not that it mattered. If Phil had become tired of me and decided he’d rather go after the preacher’s spectacular sister, there wasn’t much I could do about it. Heck, for all I knew, Phil harbored a couple of romantic fancies of his own and had been longing to run into
a deathless beauty for years now.
Demoralizing thought, as I sure wasn’t deathlessly beautiful and never would be. I also couldn’t picture myself as a romantic heroine, except maybe by accident, in which case Allan or Rudolf or Sydney would, of course, come to my rescue.
Nuts.
“That’s all right,” I said. And we proceeded toward the barn more slowly. I felt as though I were marching to my execution. Anne Boleyn: that’s me all over.
We approached the barn with me feeling as if my life were about to be shattered. I didn’t have a clue as to what Phil was thinking, but I hated him for it all the same. When we turned the corner and went behind the barn, I wanted to hightail it out of there and never come back. I didn’t want to hear Phil tell me he no longer cared for me. However, what I wanted and what was about to happen had no correlation with each other.
As soon as we stopped walking, I sucked in a deep breath and tried to brace myself mentally for the blow that was about to fall. I wished then that I’d practiced this scene so that I’d be better prepared to handle it. I was flipping through possible reactions in my mind, trying to select an appropriate one and knowing it was too late, when Phil spoke.
“Annabelle, I’ve got a confession to make.”
Here it came. I braced myself some more. “Oh?”
“Yes. I . . . I haven’t been entirely honest with you lately.”
If I braced myself any further, my spine would snap. Instead, I allowed my temper to snap instead. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Phil, just spit it out.” Then I could have kicked myself, mainly because I didn’t want to hear it. Even though I knew I had to, and the sooner the better. Can you tell I was a quivering bundle of conflicting emotions just then? Well, I was.
“Darn it, Annabelle, how come you’re always picking on me?”
I stared at him, my quivering bundle forgotten for the nonce. “I beg your pardon?”
