Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything

by Nancy Martin

  The lot was lit by a pair of elegant gas lamps. A bunch of yucca plants ran around the perimeter, so I went poking through them, whispering for the dog.

  A few minutes into my search, I heard one of the funeral home’s doors open. Instinctively, I faded back to the bushes. That’s when I noticed a silver Cadillac parked in the building’s portico. It was the same vehicle I had seen Mr. Gamble driving the day he’d stopped to invite Honeybelle to lunch in Dallas. Tonight the car was empty.

  I saw a male figure step out of the doorway and move toward the Cadillac. He was lugging something bulky in one hand. With the chirp of a key fob, the Cadillac’s trunk popped open, and a light glowed from inside.

  The man hoisted his load into the trunk, and I saw it was a suitcase. He raised his hand to close the lid, but first glanced furtively around. A bank robber couldn’t have looked more guilty. He almost missed seeing me, but his head swiveled back, and he froze against the side of his car.

  It was Mr. Gamble himself. Not on vacation at all, but here in Mule Stop. He spotted me in the shadows. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see him.

  At my approach, he jumped in fright. Only when he caught sight of the empty leash in my hand did he stop himself from running back into the funeral home for safety. He sagged with relief and managed a smile for me. “Miss McKillip! For a second, I thought you had Miss Ruffles with you.” He made his voice sound friendly.

  “I’m so sorry to have startled you,” I said. “Miss Ruffles is … well, you’re safe.”

  “She makes me a little nervous. I could have been the one she bit, you know.”

  “She likes you. Well, tolerates you.” I took a careful look at his suitcase and decided Miss Ruffles couldn’t fit inside. It was a garment bag, too thin to hold a dog.

  Mr. Gamble had a penguinlike but surprisingly graceful figure that gave him the air of an aging ballroom dance instructor. I was surprised to see him wearing an improbable Hawaiian shirt printed with surfer girls and palm trees. His shorts showed bandy legs and hiking sandals.

  Seeing my glance, he self-consciously touched his shirt with one hand, and his fingers wandered nervously upward as if to check that all the buttons were fastened. “Uh, I’m going out of town for a few days. I need to get away. After Honeybelle, you see…”

  “It’s been a shock for everyone,” I agreed.

  “Yes, a shock. My nephew has come up from Amarillo to take over the business for a while. I’m going … I’m headed to a convention. About disaster preparation.”

  “Honeybelle mentioned you helped her with her storm shelter.”

  “She should keep more water,” he said, then corrected himself. “Should have kept more water. There’s nothing more important than having a substantial water supply in an emergency.”

  I should have been worried about Miss Ruffles. But here was the man who could answer the questions that had bothered me ever since Honeybelle passed away. “I’m puzzled about some things, Mr. Gamble.”

  “About emergency preparation?”

  “No, about Honeybelle’s death. It seems—I don’t know—odd that she died so suddenly of a heart attack. She seemed very healthy. She never mentioned any heart problem.”

  “Heart attacks can come out of nowhere,” he said, assuming his professional demeanor.

  “Well, yes, but she was simply sitting in the car, not chopping wood or running a marathon. It just doesn’t seem possible … I mean, I wonder if she might have been poisoned, and it just looked like a heart attack.”

  “I did not perform an autopsy, if that’s what you’re asking. That’s not my job. If something looks suspicious, I telephone the hospital in Lubbock, and they send an ambulance to transport her for a thorough autopsy. But Honeybelle’s passing was perfectly ordinary. She died of natural causes. We should all hope to go as quickly as Honeybelle. No suffering, just a quick end.” He seemed to realize he was babbling. “It was tragic, that’s all.”

  “Yes, but … Look, is there a chance she could have been—I mean, could there have been foul play?”

  “Foul play?’ He was astonished.

  “Could she have been … murdered?”

  “Murdered! Why would you say such a thing? What a terrible idea.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but—”

  “Not just crazy. Impossible. She … she had a simple, run-of-the-mill, everyday heart attack.”

  “Could she have been poisoned? Or given some kind of drug that caused that sudden heart attack?”

  “Of course not!”

  “She was cremated so quickly. Maybe too quickly. It seems—”

  “What are you suggesting?” He stiffened with increasing anger. “Are you doubting my professional judgment?”

  “No, no.” I was too upset to realize my mistake until it was too late. I backpedaled as fast as I could. “You’re the only person I could think to ask, that’s all. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insulting.”

  “Well,” he said, agitated and sweating profusely. “Well. I have to be going.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you. I just—”

  He closed the trunk. “Good night, Miss McKillip.”

  “All right, yes. Enjoy your trip.” I stood back and watched Mr. Gamble climb into his car and start the engine.

  People are always getting warned about unscrupulous funeral directors who might try to coerce the grieving into spending extra money on a big casket. Mr. Gamble didn’t seem like the shady kind.

  Until tonight. As soon as he’d seen me, he’d broken into a sweat. And as Mr. Gamble drove out of his own parking lot—a parking lot he’d been exiting for decades—his front tire hit the curb and jumped onto the sidewalk. He accelerated with a squeal of tires.

  I had shaken him up with my questions about Honeybelle. And it wasn’t just a matter of doubting his professional opinion. Suddenly I wondered if he had owed money to Honeybelle like so many other local businesses. I didn’t remember seeing his name among the checks that came in the mail, but maybe Honeybelle had taken care of those herself.

  Tonight, Mr. Gamble sure looked like a man trying to get out of town fast.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Speak your mind, but ride a fast horse.

  —COWBOY STRATEGY

  My fear for Miss Ruffles doubling, I retraced my steps through the grove and past the church, just as a warbling tenor hit a sour note in praise of the spangled heavens. I reached the dark patch of sidewalk in front of the Tennyson and Tennyson office. The front door slammed, and I cursed myself for coming this direction. I was caught under the streetlamp.

  But it wasn’t Ten who came striding toward me on the sidewalk. Instead, I recognized Hannibal Cornfelter. He spotted me, and his confident step faltered.

  Then he put on his most professional smile and kept coming up the sidewalk. When he spotted the leash knotted up in my hand, he caught his toe on the walk.

  The manila folder he’d been carrying went flying and landed at my feet, its contents halfway spilling out onto the sidewalk.

  Instinctively, I bent to pick up the folder. It was full of legal-looking documents. The top of one sheet read: “How to fill out a Divorce Petition.”

  Without a word, Cornfelter snatched the folder out of my hands and stuffed the papers back inside.

  I said, “Nice to see you, President Cornfelter.”

  “Good evening, Miss…?”

  “McKillip.”

  “Yes.” He manufactured some camaraderie. “Another stranger wandering in a strange land. You’re from Chicago, as I recall?”

  “Ohio.”

  Same difference to him. He didn’t try to shake my hand but suddenly gathered the folder to his chest as if it were a treasure map he wanted to keep to himself.

  He was an attractive man if you went for the college professor type who maybe sang in a men’s chorus. Honeybelle told me he sometimes sang with a local barbershop group. He had wavy, Kennedy-esque brown hair and a patrician face that could quickly switch f
rom a cool, intellectual smile to a big country-boy grin that played well in Mule Stop. I first thought Honeybelle liked him because he had more polish than most of her gentleman callers. But now I wondered.

  He was smart and knew how to play the politics of college fund-raising. But my personal opinion was that if his life depended on it, President Cornfelter probably couldn’t change a tire.

  He went on the offensive. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “For?”

  “Honeybelle’s bequest. A million dollars is a lot of money for a young woman such as yourself.”

  I had assumed the details of Honeybelle’s will were confidential, but obviously the bulletin had gone around town faster than the Pony Express. The fact that even Cornfelter knew about the will made my heart thunk in my chest. Everybody else must know, too. But the “such as yourself” line irked me.

  He must have thought he had bested me, because he went on, “I don’t know what Honeybelle was thinking. A woman of her means and values might have established an important scholarship or academic endowment. I suppose you’re going to buy yourself a shiny new car or whatever young people waste their money on these days. Exactly what did you do to convince Honeybelle you deserve the kind of cash she left to you?”

  Maybe I was too accustomed to the petty bickering that went on among snooty academics who had little common sense to be shaken by his quick attack. Calmly, I said, “I was more surprised than anyone by her gift.”

  “Were you?” He positively had a sneer on his face. “She was a delightfully unpredictable woman.” His tone insinuated something unpleasant.

  “Also thoughtful and generous.”

  He said, “Perhaps you didn’t know her long enough to understand her personality completely. Honeybelle was a strong woman. But she was easily flattered away from the most logical decisions. She made emotional choices that didn’t always make good long-term business sense.”

  “Depends on your business,” I said, giving him a taste of his own childish faculty-room behavior.

  I might as well have swatted him in the face with a rolled-up newspaper. He blinked and said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You must be disappointed about your stadium.” Suddenly I was reckless. “I know how much a football program means to the reputation of a university. If you don’t have football, students will choose to go elsewhere, and pretty soon the University of the Alamo dries up and blows away into the desert. Well, you may eventually get your stadium from Honeybelle, but can you wait that long?”

  His face turned ugly. “Long enough for a dog to die?”

  Shaken at last, I demanded, “Have you done something with Miss Ruffles?”

  “I reported that animal to the town police.” He lifted his head nobly, as if he’d committed an act of bravery. “I was lucky I didn’t contract an infection.”

  “Maybe we should get Miss Ruffles tested.”

  His eyes narrowed. “If she bit me, there’s no telling how quickly she might attack someone else—maybe even a child. She’s dangerous.”

  “She was dangerous only to people who threatened Honeybelle.”

  “You think I…?” He remembered himself, straightened his shoulders and gathered his composure. “Honeybelle’s death was a terrible loss. But I had nothing to do with what happened to her. She went far too young. It’s all very tragic.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I miss her.”

  I had the last word. I left President Cornfelter and hurried toward the busy part of town again. I had a black feeling of dread for Miss Ruffles as I jogged into town to find Gracie.

  At the corner, I encountered Crazy Mary, the street musician.

  She was carrying her violin in one hand, the battered guitar case in the other. Her backpack hung from a strap on one shoulder, and the full bag thumped against her side. Everything about her posture said she was tired.

  If anyone might have seen Miss Ruffles, it was the one person who had been out on the street all day long. A ray of hope penetrated my low spirits, and I planted myself in her path. I felt like a jerk for not speaking to Crazy Mary before this, but I brushed aside that regret. I was too worried for Miss Ruffles to care about social propriety now.

  “Mary? Hi, I’m Sunny.”

  She said, “I don’t give lessons anymore.”

  “I’m not—”

  “If you want to play the guitar, I can recommend someone who won’t rob you blind, but if you want violin lessons around here, it’s going to cost you. Banjo and mandolin, there are guys at the university who can help you.” She spoke quickly, by rote, as if she were asked the same questions over and over. “Nobody teaches rock and roll, so if that’s what you want, you’ll have to go to Austin.”

  “Actually, I’m not the least bit musical. I don’t suppose you’ve seen a dog tonight?”

  She eyed me. Now that I was standing close enough to notice, I realized that her blond dreadlocks were actually quite artistic. Her earrings were dangling bits of silver twisted into the shapes of musical notes and adorned with small stones. Her long skirt had been knotted up on one side to show off a delicate petticoat, and her blouse—with several layers of subtly colored tank tops beneath—was intricately embroidered. From a distance, she looked scruffy, but up close, she had a real artistic flair.

  Her face was expressionless. Or maybe slightly hostile, which I deserved. I could see nothing behind her granny-style sunglasses.

  “I’m looking for a dog.” I put my hand down to my knee. “She’s about this high. Mostly gray. With a spot over one eye that kinda looks like an eyebrow—”

  “You mean Miss Ruffles?” Crazy Mary’s voice was quiet but perfectly clear. Her accent was southernish, but not Texan. I recognized from her vowels that she wasn’t a Mule Stop native.

  “Yes,” I said eagerly. “Yes, Miss Ruffles. Have you seen her?”

  “No,” said Mary in a flat voice.

  She might as well have deflated me with a pin. “Oh.”

  “I’m pretty sure I heard her, though,” Mary said. “She was in a car. About an hour ago. She was yipping. She has a distinctive yip.”

  My heart leaped. “You heard her?” I almost seized Mary in a crushing hug.

  “I have a good ear. I hear things.”

  “What kind of car? What color? Did you see the license plate? Or—”

  “I don’t know what kind of car it was. I didn’t notice the color either. A woman was driving. Mrs. Hensley.”

  “Posie? You mean Posie Hensley?”

  “She drove by a while ago, that’s all, and I heard the dog yelping.”

  I sagged against a parking meter while the truth sank in. I had seen Posie in her car myself. But I hadn’t heard Miss Ruffles.

  “Miss Ruffles is missing?”

  “Y-yes. I have to get her back.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  I jumped. “Of course not.”

  She shrugged. “If you can’t take care of business yourself, go to the police.”

  “I … I can’t do that either.”

  “So you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

  My mother had preached peace and harmony and doing unto others. Maybe she had the wrong idea.

  I became aware of Mary watching me think, and I said, “I’ll figure out something.”

  “Good luck.” Mary squared her shoulders to redistribute the weight of her backpack, then cut around me to go on her way. She was a dozen steps away before she said over her shoulder, “You know, my name’s not Mary.”

  I should have chased her down to find out her real name at least, but instead I stood there and tried to make my whirling brain settle down to think.

  Miss Ruffles had definitely been kidnapped. It wasn’t a prank anymore. Not a mistake. Someone had taken her in a car. And not just anybody.

  Posie Hensley, the lizard.

  I needed to figure out how to get Miss Ruffles back, but my brain wasn’t functioning. Stumbling with dread, I put
one foot in front of the other. I finally found Gracie on the next block over. She was out of breath and looked disheveled. I had just enough room in my heart to feel guilty for making her run all over town.

  “Sorry,” she said as we almost collided in front of the art gallery. “No sign of Miss Ruffles anywhere.”

  I couldn’t do anything more than moan.

  Two police cars sat in the middle of the street, the officers talking to each other through their open windows. Their presence had chased most of the students into the bars. The cops stopped talking and instead began to watch us.

  Gracie didn’t notice. She tried to rake her hair back into order. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sunny. She’s not around here.”

  I managed to speak. “I think Posie Hensley has her. Mary heard a dog yipping in Posie’s car.”

  Gracie stared at me. “You sure? But—that’s good, right?”

  “Not really, no. Last I heard, Posie wanted to get rid of Miss Ruffles. She wanted to dump her at an animal shelter in Dallas.”

  “Well, unless she drives half the night, she’s not going to get rid of Miss Ruffles right away. And if I know Posie, she won’t leave her kids that long.”

  “I’ve got to go get Miss Ruffles from her.”

  “Do you need backup? Do you know where Posie lives?”

  “Yes, I helped Honeybelle deliver some flowers for a dinner party last month. I think I can find the house. It’s out by the interstate, in that new subdivision. I’ll go myself. It’ll be safer.”

  “Wait.” Gracie caught my arm as I turned to leave. “You’re going over there now? And do what? Knock on the door and confront Posie about kidnapping a dog?”

  “What else?” I asked. “Let something terrible happen to Miss Ruffles?”

  “What about talking to the cops first?”

  We both looked at the officers in the middle of the street. They looked back at us.

  The ransom note had been clear about not contacting the police. I said, “I can’t run that risk. Besides, I don’t want to get Posie into any trouble.”

  Gracie laughed in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? She snatched your dog! I say we saddle up and get in her face.”